by Dan Proops
He walked in the rain through the crowds. He huddled under shop awnings as he made his way to a café opposite Kensington Gardens, where Darius had taken them as children. The Chinese restaurant was still there, a few doors down was the café.
Cassandra was wearing her black hat. She was reading a book near a window, and she smiled and removed her glasses as Adam approached.
‘Adam, you’re soaked. Get an umbrella and give me a kiss.’
He leant down and kissed her and smelt her perfume. He ordered a double espresso, then took out the wooden box.
‘Cassandra, I’m going to New York. I’m going to find her. I’m worried about her. She’s become friends with a man she doesn’t know. She met him in the park.’
‘You look worried. Something wrong with making friends with someone in a park?’
‘I don’t like the sound of this guy. He’s a tramp, a loner. God knows what he’s capable of. And he appears in my visions. He’s the one who murders her.’
Cassandra put on her glasses and adjusted them, pushing them a little higher up her nose. There were the beginnings of a frown, her lips thin, and she asked about ‘the man’. Adam told her he’d been the one who’d been there with a knife, who’d written notes saying he’d killed her. He was speaking quickly, some broken sentences, as he rushed through his monologue. Cassandra told him to slow down and said she was lost. Was this Travis real or just part of his nightmare visions?
‘I’ve told you—she meets him in the park; and since she’s been talking about him, he’s been the one … the one who hurts her. I’m frightened, Cassandra. I’m worried something bad’s going to happen.’
‘Has she said anything bad about him?’
‘Not really. He gets into rages—tempers. Oliver’s getting worse, and her husband’s left her. She’s alone and I’m going over there.’
‘Adam, you’re mixing fantasy with reality. This man has become a fearful presence because he’s become part of your, well, your turns, these terrible apparitions. You should respect her wishes to be left alone.’
‘I want to go. I have to go.’
‘If you insist. It’s your call. I’ll give you the money for the flights.’
‘Thanks a lot Cassandra. I’ll pay you back some day. You’re good to me.’
‘Forget about it. Let’s order.’
Over lunch, Cassandra asked if Adam had been to the studio. He said he’d been a few times, but was unable to work due to the worry over Sarah. He’d tried to make some artwork but ended up with nothing but some broken blocks of wood. His creativity had become barren due to Sarah and her life, partially revealed. He could think of nothing but his sister and the obsession was pushing him to the edge of sanity: his inability to respond to the letters, Darius’s refusal to believe in them, and the visions of finding her dead in the woods. Then he said something that caught Cassandra by surprise: he was going to venture into the woods of Prospect Park. He would go there at night with a torch; he said if he faced his phobia, the terrifying visions of the fallen tree, of finding her, would stop.
‘I want to be alone in the trees when it’s dark.’
‘Adam, you’re sounding like a lunatic. You’re going to wander around a park at night in the middle of winter?’
‘Yes, I am. And in the evening I’m going to take a photo of her and go to the places she’s spoken about, and ask if anyone’s seen her. I don’t want something bad happening to her.’
‘Well, take some warm clothing. I’m not sure I like the idea of you wandering around a wood in the middle of the night.’
‘I need to do it.’
Cassandra was in a position to offer the money due to an inheritance she’d received from her mother, who’d died when she was young. She rarely spoke of her wealth and there was some embarrassment and awkwardness when she did. She gave a great deal to charity, but her affluence was in some ways a burden, as others had nothing and she had a great deal.
After offering Adam the money for the trip, she said her faith had dwindled further: not a complete loss of belief, but her love of God was faltering. She continued to pray, usually late at night, before bed. Sometimes it was as if she were speaking to someone who’d stopped listening, and her faltering belief soured her requests sent out to the Creator of All Things.
‘I kneel when I pray. Did you know that—I actually kneel?’
‘I thought most people knelt when they pray.’
‘It’s a position of subservience. I want to believe in Him again, Adam. I want it so much. I’ve always had God on my side and now I feel He’s deserted me.’
‘I think it’s something that’ll either happen or it won’t. You can’t force yourself to believe in something. What do you pray for?’
‘For you to meet Sarah … for her to come back to you in flesh and blood; not these letters. I know how much she means to you.’
‘And I love you, my darling Cassandra. I love you more than ever.’
‘When do you plan to leave?’
‘A few weeks—something like that.’
Adam was woken by a knock on his door. Nigel was there, holding a mug of coffee, wearing his paisley dressing gown. He apologised for waking him, then said there was something he wanted to discuss. Nigel stood awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘So you’re off to New York. Fantastic place. Great museums there.’
‘You wanted to ask me something.’
‘It’s a small thing. It’s about the beds.’
‘The beds? What beds?’
‘Well, the bed in my room sags a bit. It’s no good for my back.’
‘I see.’
‘You told me to ask, so I’m asking.’
‘Get to the point, Nigel.’
‘Could I sleep in your bed when you’re away? I’ve felt it. You’ve got a good firm mattress.’
Adam sat up and looked at him in disbelief. He didn’t want Nigel Hawthorne sleeping in his damn bed. But how could he refuse? He couldn’t think of a reason why Nigel couldn’t sleep in his bedroom. Adam crossed his arms, and Nigel was sipping his coffee, a look of defiance to him, as if he’d already received an agreement. There was a long silence.
‘You’re welcome to stay in my bed when I’m in New York.’
‘You’re a diamond. My back’s killing me.’
‘I wish you better. Got to get on—things to do.’
‘I’ll wash the sheets and give your room a good clean. Bit of a mess isn’t it?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Fine? There are stains on the floor. And the windows are appalling, but don’t worry, I’ll clean them.’
Nigel licked a forefinger and ran it down the window; he turned his hand and showed Adam a film of brown on his fingertip. Nigel shook his head while tutting; there was a brief frown, and then he rubbed his finger on the bedding.
‘Gross mate, gross. Filthy, those windows, but no need to stress. Uncle Nigel’ll sort it. See you later.’
Adam spent the morning packing a rucksack, doing his best to ignore Nigel’s comments about his room. He almost forgot to pack his torch, but remembered it at the last moment. He went to his father to say goodbye. Darius had been angry about the trip, and then asked Adam if he’d lost his senses.
‘Love you Dad.’
‘You’re a nutter Adam—going off to look for her. How long will you be away?’
‘My visa allows three months, but it’ll probably be a few weeks. I’ve arranged everything with Nigel. He’ll look after you.’
‘Good luck with it. Hope you find something.’
‘Dad, I’m going to find her. I’m going to find Sarah.’
Fourteen
Adam woke in the small cramped apartment he’d rented in Brooklyn. The heating was broken and he’d called the owner, and she’d said someone would be around to fix it. The flat was on a narrow road off President Street, near the docks. Opposite was an abandoned industrial block, an old factory, the brick wa
lls covered in graffiti.
Adam put his coat on and left. It had snowed a week previously and rained since, and the road was shining with patches of ice caught in winter sunshine, and black slush hugged the curb. He walked in the direction of Prospect Park. President Street ran up a sloping hill that led to a sprawling junction with an entrance to the park just beyond it. He pulled his collar around his neck and tied a woollen scarf but could still feel the cold; after walking for a while his face was numb. He made his way up the hill, his head down as he struggled into an easterly wind. Adam didn’t know what to expect from it all, but he’d look for her in the many bars and restaurants that lined Smith Street: a road she’d mentioned in her letters.
Adam arrived at Prospect Park, and took the scarf from his neck. The park was deserted, and the frost-covered hills and bluffs rose up to clusters of trees and a pagoda, made from wood, painted white with a relief of flowers. Clumps of snow clung to branches that were pink in the sunshine, resembling cherry blossom.
He’d worn the wrong shoes and his feet slipped now and again as he made his way to some low hills. As he walked, the rain came down in blustery sheets. Adam huddled near a wooden table under the pagoda as the rain turned to sleet, blowing in great whorls and obscuring the view of the white ridges and slanting inclines that rose and fell with gentle undulations. He rubbed the tops of his ears as he looked across to the misted silhouettes of some distant trees. The park seemed silent, its sounds quietened by the blanket of cold and whirling sleet. There was a flutter of wings. Adam noticed a pigeon nestled in a nearby oak, the branches black against the white winter sky.
He waited for an hour, and then the wind picked up. An old man, barely visible through the haze of sleet, made his way at an agonisingly slow pace, walking into the wind.
Maybe Sarah had been here at this table, with her children. Maybe he was sitting at the very table she’d been to, and maybe Travis had been here. The desolate vista of the park echoed the emptiness within him; hope was there but was weak, a dying flame, deep in the blazing fire of desperation.
He’d had no specific intentions when setting out for the park, and doubted he’d catch her in this weather. It started to snow, lightly at first, the flakes melting as they landed; then it became heavier, and Adam watched as it settled. He walked down the side of the hill and stood in the beauty and cold, the snow falling around him; he could barely see a few feet in front of him. He walked to the centre of the white plains and cupped his hands around his mouth.
‘Sarah! Sarah, where are you my darling sister? I want to see you! Sarah, Sarah, Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!’
And he didn’t stop shouting her name, until his throat was sore, until he had no voice, until his hands ached from the cold, until he was exhausted. Then he stood very still and watched the snow falling.
The following morning Adam went to a different pagoda atop a slanting ridge; it was similar to the one he’d visited the previous day. It was painted white, but was larger, with five tables. There was no sleet or snow and the cloudless sky arched to a deep blue. It was bitterly cold.
A man in a black coat was reading a newspaper at a table a few feet away. He was a man of considerable bulk, with large hands in fingerless gloves; he turned the pages and his back rose to a hump at the back of his neck. An old woman walked past pushing a stroller followed by two children in gloves and orange puffer jackets. Adam saw the woman and her family disappear behind some oaks. He looked back to the man opposite.
Maybe it was him. Maybe Travis was sitting four feet away: the man who’d haunted him for months. He fitted the description to perfection. His face was mottled with pockmarks, his skin pale and uneven, his stubble peppered on a wide chin. The man grunted, then coughed, a sound like rocks being pulled across gravel. He should speak to him; he should ask if he was called Travis; he should ask him about Sarah.
A pigeon flew from a branch and pecked at some old food on the table and it seemed fearless as it searched for food. With a flutter of wings, another pigeon landed. Adam looked up towards the table opposite. The man in black had gone.
He’d lost his chance! He’d seen someone who might know his sister and her whereabouts and he’d done nothing. Idiot! Why hadn’t he acted? He looked around the frozen park, but there was no sign of him. It was as if he’d disappeared. A lost opportunity. He’d had a stroke of luck and had not taken advantage of it. Adam sighed and berated himself for his procrastination. He took out the photo of Sarah: an old monochrome print. She was smiling. Darling Sarah. He’d find her. He’d search her out. If it took forever he’d find her.
Adam spent a few hours at the table, the cold reaching to the core of him. He sat shivering, as winter sunshine was blinding on the sheets of ice, as the freezing wind swirled around his neck.
He thought back to the day she’d punched Bennett, when she’d stood up for him. It had been the hottest summer for three decades. Adam recalled the look of shock on Bennetts’s face after receiving Sarah’s considerable blow; she’d winded him.
‘If you want some more punishment, go ahead and bully my brother, you stupid coward.’
Bennett had not harassed him again. After this display of strength and loyalty they went to a nearby café for some ice cream. Sarah was wearing a pretty white dress and her red shoes, and her face was roseate from the heat, some dirt in her blonde curls.
‘Adam, I showed that fucker, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you’re a tough sister. I couldn’t stand up to him.’
‘I am tough. I don’t let anyone mess with me. Have you read The Old Man and the Sea yet?’
‘I started it the other day. You really love that book, don’t you, Sarah.’
‘It’s brilliant!’
‘Why do you like the old man book so much?’
‘Because he’s tough, that old man, as tough as nails. And he’s determined. You have to be determined in life, Adam.’
Sarah went to order more ice cream and sunlight streamed into the café. Adam was in awe of his sister: she’d become something great someday, like a prime minister or something, and he wished he was like her, and had a shred of her confidence. At the age of ten Sarah was well read, knew more about history than girls twice her age and had strong views on politics. She was always talking about the government and had been on many protest marches, barely able to hold the heavy placards.
She returned with the ice cream and started on a tall glass of chocolate and vanilla, topped with cream and cherries. She loved ice cream.
‘Adam, I’m going to be a writer or a politician when I grow up. I’m going to be someone special. Or maybe I’ll be both. What will you be?’
‘I want to be an artist. I’m no good at anything else.’
‘Adam, you could be anything you want. You just have to want it real bad. That’s what Dad says. If you want something badly enough, you can get it. I think you’d be a great artist Adam, like da Vinci or Picasso. Think big.’
‘I don’t have much talent.’
‘You’ve loads of talent. We’re going to be friends forever, Adam. Forever. I wear the bracelet you gave me. I love it. I wear it every day. Do you love me loads?’
‘Yes, Sarah, I do.’
Adam’s face and nose were hurting from the cold. An hour had passed. The man in the black coat had not returned, and the cold had become too much, so with reluctance he decided to return to the apartment. He’d come another day and look for the man in black.
As he walked, keeping his eyes on the pavement to avoid a fall, he thought of that blazing afternoon when Sarah had looked after him, her love of Hemingway, her pretty blonde curls and her articulate political views. As he entered the apartment, the man in black, reading the newspaper, was vivid in his mind.
Over the next few days, he returned to Prospect Park, but the man had not appeared. One afternoon Adam went to one of the pagodas and ran his hand across a layer of ice on the slatted wooden table. And then he saw the man in black approach. He walked to a table a few f
eet away. Adam kept his eyes on the man, but something was holding him back, an invisible force, keeping him trapped on the bench. The man took a newspaper from his coat, opened it and read. Adam didn’t want to lose his chance, and willed himself to move—but what was he to say and how should he approach him? The man in black closed the newspaper, dropped it on the table, leant a heavy hand upon it, then stood up, looking around the park. Move! Do it now! Before he goes. Don’t lose your chance. You may not get another. The man buttoned his coat. Adam forced himself to move, walked towards him and stood a few feet in front of him.
‘Nice morning,’ he said.
‘Is it?’
He pulled at his fingerless gloves and scrutinised Adam with black eyes squinting though misted glasses. He removed them, rubbed them with the side of his palm, then replaced them. Adam took a step closer.
‘Your name’s Travis, isn’t it?’
‘Who wants to know?’
The man’s voice was gruff and impatient. He shot Adam a look of disdain, took out a cigarette, then he coughed, a phlegmy broken cough. The smoke rose and was quickly lost to the wind.
‘Do you know someone called Sarah?’
‘Look, Limey, let me read my paper in peace. What’s with all dem questions? I got nothing to tell you, so go play with the traffic.’
‘I just want to find her.’
‘If you don’t go fuck yourself, I’ll come over there and slap you.’
‘Where’s Sarah?’
‘Didn’t you hear me, you deaf or something? You’re a lunatic.’
Travis flicked the butt of his cigarette on the ground, then spat. Adam retreated back to his table. He was just as Adam had imagined him to be, in the way he looked, with a gruff face and a black coat. But why the aggression? Sarah had described him as a compassionate man. He kept his eyes on the man in black and realised that there was little he could find out due to Travis’s caustic attitude. With some frustration, Adam watched him leave the park and then he returned to his apartment.