A Letter from Sarah

by Dan Proops

  Fifteen

  In the apartment, Adam rested for a while and, as the room darkened, he phoned Cassandra. He told her he’d met Travis, and she told him to be careful and not risk danger. He asked her if she was still praying and she was. God had been distant as He’d been before, but Cassandra said she found solace in her prayers whether she was speaking to a non-existent deity or one listening with interest. Adam said, ’I love you, darling.’ And she said he should come home. He asked her what she was praying for, and she said: ‘Us, Adam. I’m praying for us.’

  Outside, it was dark in Brooklyn and very cold. Adam made his way to the bars on Smith Street, the photograph of Sarah in his pocket. As he walked, the fallen tree came to him; he’d found it in the same woods, in the same darkness.

  He was determined to approach it devoid of fear. He went to the fallen tree, rested a palm on its side and felt the rough edges of the bark, cold to the touch. Then he stood in the clearing. Sarah’s naked body was tied to the tree; and her skin was flayed from her skull.

  He felt unsteady and lightheaded, so he entered one of the bars, pushed through the crowd of Brooklynites to a handsome barman and ordered a double whisky. He sat at the bar with the drink; it warmed his stomach as he stole sips from the glass, but Sarah’s decaying face was alive in his mind.

  A girl with ebony hair was sitting next to him. She was pretty, with lips painted a dark red. She was holding a mojito and was wearing a long winter coat. Adam decided to speak to her.

  ‘Nice drink?’

  ‘Yep, you okay? You look a bit out of it. You’re British?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Beautiful place, England. I went there a year ago. Are you here for a while?’

  ‘Just a few weeks. I’m looking for someone.’

  Adam took the photo of Sarah from an envelope and showed it to the girl. He asked if she’d seen her, and she shook her head. He thanked her, then called to the barman, who sauntered over, and Adam showed him the photo and asked if he recognised her. The barman looked at the photo for a while and said, ‘No, I’m sorry. She’s real pretty though.’ Adam thanked him, ordered another whisky and asked the girl if she wanted a drink. She declined.

  ‘I’ve gotta meet someone. I hope you find your friend. Here’s my business card. Maybe we could meet sometime.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name’s Eva.’

  Adam laughed, then quickly apologised. The girl looked hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry I laughed.’

  ‘It’s a pretty normal name. What’s yours?’

  ‘Adam, believe it or not.’

  ‘Ah, that is odd. I wonder if we’re going to get kicked out of the Garden of Eden.’

  ‘Nah—we’re too cool.’

  Eva smiled, said goodbye and left the bar. He was pleased to have met someone so friendly, as this was the evening he was to explore the forests in Prospect Park. A curve of anxiety rose within him as he contemplated the night ahead. He drank another whisky, and then made his way back to the apartment.

  Sixteen

  Adam packed a small rucksack with some warm jumpers, three bars of chocolate, a torch and a small flick knife; he’d owned it as a child and it had remained untouched for decades until now. He checked the torch was working before placing it into the rucksack alongside the knife. It was midnight. Adam waited until one and then made his way through the deserted streets to the park. He arrived at the entrance near the junction. It was closed. He walked down a wide empty street with railings rising high to his left and went to another entrance; it was chained with a padlock, the gate slightly lower than the railings. He made sure the rucksack was tight against his back, then hauled himself up, and gripping the frigid metal. He teetered at the top of the gate as he kept his balance, then dropped down to the ground, crouching as he landed.

  The moon was full in a starless sky. Adam saw a dim silhouette of a pagoda on a far hill and made his way towards it. The ground was hard underfoot. He continued up an incline leading to some trees. Behind them were the woods. He was surprisingly relaxed, just a slight knot of tension in his stomach. He’d expected fear and apprehension, but there was none of it. He’d not be bothered by the fallen tree after this; he was sure of it. Strands of white cloud moved across the moon and the park darkened. Adam switched on the torch and followed the pool of orange light as he made his way towards a pagoda. He struggled up a sharp incline leading to it, lost his footing and fell to the lush grass. The fall brought an edge of agitation, previously unfelt, and the left side of his coat was wet from the fall. The light from the torch led him to one of the tables. He removed his left glove that was wet through and placed it in the rucksack. His left trouser leg was heavy and wet.

  Adam took a bar of chocolate from his rucksack, making sure the torch was safe on the side of the table. He took his time, eating small chunks, and then put the wrapper in his pocket. He walked towards the woods, with care, to prevent another fall.

  The clouds had thickened and the park was very dark, the moon hidden. He could just make out the black silhouette of some trees, and was glad for the torch and its meagre light. He clambered over the twisted roots of an oak and walked slowly into the woods.

  A rush of wind shook the branches above him, and he felt it against his face and it was cold against his drenched trouser leg. He considered turning back. When he’d set out, there’d been a cloudless sky, but now, with no moon, he was virtually blind, and his left hand, now gloveless, was numb from the cold. The circle of orange light flickered across the bank of trees, the thicket and the weave of brambles. He followed the light as the torch moved from one tree to the next, as he pushed on, deeper into the woods. The wind was loud all about him, in the bracken, in the dense foliage, and the undergrowth. He heard a sharp crack as a branch fell next to him.

  And then the terror rose like an untamed spirit and he started to run through the trees, the thorns of twisted brambles tearing at his calves. He’d find a way out; if he ran in one direction he’d find his way out of the woods. The wind was strong, the foliage thunderous above him, then he fell, caught by a low branch. An exquisite river of pain ran from his ankle up the side of his leg. The torch had fallen and produced no light, and he saw a loose battery glinting in the remnants of moonlight a few feet from where he’d fallen. He was lying on his side, but when he tried to stand the pain was sharp and he fell back onto a bed of bracken.

  He kept his eye on the edge of the lost battery and the black silhouette of the torch. He’d landed on a flat rock jutting out from the undergrowth; he was lying on his side and was concerned about the cold, and could no longer feel his hands.

  He had to get the battery; he needed the light from the torch, more for solace than the light it would produce; but every movement, however slight, angered the pain in his ankle. The wind in the trees roared about him, the wind sweeping though unseen canopies as he tried to reach for the silver tube. His face and chest became tangled in the undergrowth and with a numb hand he tried to push the leaves and bracken from his face. He did this slowly as the movement of his arms agitated his ankle, and he could see very little but the blur of leaves and fronds of sweeping plants in front of his eyes. With effort, he freed himself and could now make out the dark hollows in the shadows between the trees without the bracken impeding his vision. His face was burning from the cold, and his eyes hurt as if they were being forced back into their sockets. He was shivering violently, and he encouraged it, as the movement of his body staved off the cold.

  A sharp pain from a stone was between his hip and the ground, so he reached underneath himself and tried to feel for it, but couldn’t find it. He shifted his weight and the stone fell away. He’d exhausted all strength and lay unmoving, twisted on his side. He heard his own breath. He had to move. He had to force himself, but his body was aching from the cold, the bracken and the frigid undergrowth beneath him. He lay shivering, unable to shift his weight, unable to lift his arms.

  Adam saw th
e battery and the white-grey shadows across it. His arms and shoulders were shaking and his hands were raw as if razors were tearing at the flesh. He saw moving shadows flickering across some trees beyond the battery, then the wind pushed it further away from him; it was wedged in a crevice at the edge of a flat rock with fallen branches covering the end of the battery. Above the sound of the wind, he heard another branch fall, a few feet away.

  With effort drawn from the desperate need to escape, he pushed his hand a little further towards the silver-grey cylinder and could almost reach it. A few more inches and he’d have it; he forced an unwilling body a little closer. His fingers could just feel the edge of the metal; just an inch more, just an inch and he’d reach it. He was so close now his fingertips were just able to touch it. As black dirty fingers pushed a little farther, as he clawed at the edges, he heard the sound of a man’s voice, low and guttural.

  Seventeen

  He heard the man struggling through the undergrowth. Images of Travis with a knife fled though his mind; he’d followed him and had found him. If he moved a little further, the battery would be his. But even though he could touch the edge of the metal he couldn’t prise it from the crack in the rock. Ignoring the stabbing in his ankle, and his freezing body, he forced himself forward and managed to curl his hand over the side of the metal. The sounds of the man faded, then were louder and he heard a stick beating through the bracken. The wind had softened and Travis’s movements were closer.

  His fingers struggled with the battery and he tried to push it into the cavity, then with more urgency tried jamming it into the torch. If he could make it work, he could find his knife buried under clothes in his rucksack. But his fingers became tremulous and he could hardly hold the torch, and Travis’s footsteps were growing louder; he had to get the torch working. He managed to push the battery into place, but it fell again and rolled away from him, deep into the undergrowth.

  He’d have to find the knife, but with no light it would be useless; now desperate, his mind as frozen as his body, he had to find it. He reached into the rucksack for it. With no light, and with numb fingers, his hands fumbled over folds of clothing and the sides of unknown objects. With urgent movements his hands reached to the bottom of the rucksack. He couldn’t find the knife. Travis was barely a few feet away.

  Adam forced himself to stand and the fear was an anaesthetic for the pain in his ankle. He saw a flash of white flickering round the trees and undergrowth, and he tried to run, but with the first step, his ankle collapsed. Moonlight flowed into the woods and he saw a hollow in the undergrowth deep in the bracken. He crawled inside and watched the white light of the man’s torch flash from tree to tree, and the footsteps were very close, so close he could hear breathing, short raspy breaths. Adam sat very still, his knees brought up to his stomach.

  The wind was now a gentle whisper and the leaves rustled above him, but his body was racked with the cold; it felt as if the freezing air had reached his internal organs, as if the cold was tearing at the flesh between his ribs. He could feel nothing but his heart, beating with fury, buried inside a chilled body.

  He heard two faint voices; there was someone else with Travis. The voices were rising and falling, eclipsed by the sound of the wind. He tried to make out some semblance of speech, but heard no distinct words. And he tried to make the shivering stop as if it might alert the men. He pulled his arms closer around his knees. Their light flashed from trees to the bracken, to the fallen battery, then along the undergrowth, then back along the sides of the trees.

  He saw the stick swinging rhythmically backwards and forwards. Then it stopped. The white light blinded him and he recoiled. He couldn’t see them, just the light. A policeman in uniform leant down, and another was with him.

  ‘You’re in a bad way. Why you wandering round here? You look hurt.’

  Adam opened his mouth but was unable to speak. The officer was talking to his colleague in a hushed voice, then he heard one talking on a crackling radio, and then he turned to Adam.

  ‘Are you injured?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where? Can you walk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a road fifty feet from here. We’ll take your weight. Let’s go—my car’s there.’

  The policemen lifted him to his feet and took him to the safety of the road, away from the woods to the warmth of the car, where they gave him some coffee from a thermos flask. Adam held the cup and the warmth brought the feeling back to his fingers. The coffee warmed his stomach. One of the officers sat next to him; he was wearing a cap and a coat with a woollen collar. He told Adam they were looking for an escaped convict: a man that had eluded them for months; and he said the man they were looking for had been spotted in the woods of Prospect Park. They said Adam should go to a hospital, to check on his ankle.

  ‘Not now, maybe tomorrow. I want to go home.’

  ‘How’s your leg? Is it still hurting?’

  ‘It feels a little better now. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Could be broken. Can you stand on it?’

  Adam rose, managed to bear the pain, and was able to walk a few steps. The policeman doubted if it was broken as Adam was able to put weight on it.

  ‘Probably just a bad sprain. But if it’s bad, go to the hospital tomorrow. And for God’s sake, don’t wander around in the woods at night. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was being an idiot. I’m sorry if I wasted your time.’

  ‘No problem. Let’s get you home. Brit, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Nice place. Okay, I’ll drive you back to your apartment.’

  Adam nodded and sat in the back of the car as the policeman drove him back. He crawled into the safety of his bed and managed to sleep.

  Eighteen

  Adam was woken by winter sunshine. Everything hurt, his back, his legs and the pain in his ankle. He reached for some tweezers he’d brought in a bag with his soap and things. His left calf was red and torn from the thorns. He pulled them out, and one was difficult to remove, was deep in the flesh, but with some persistence he was able to remove it. Then he tried to stand. The pain had softened and he managed to put his full weight on his leg.

  The night had beaten him and the woods had beaten him, but New York hadn’t. He’d take her photograph and search the districts for Sarah. But not today; today he needed rest. He spent the afternoon reclining on the bed, the pain in his ankle rising, then falling away. He read until late, then fell asleep with a book still in his hands.

  The following morning he was fully recovered and there was just a gentle throb in his ankle. He waited until twilight, reading, deep in contemplation. He took a map of Brooklyn from his suitcase and spent an hour breaking down an area between the streets Sarah had spoken about in her letters. Using a pencil, he drew rectangles around the blocks and avenues that covered a small area of Brooklyn. He folded the map and placed it in his rucksack. Before leaving for the bars and restaurants, he called Cassandra. Her voice was wavering and lacked its usual commanding air.

  ‘Hi Adam.’

  ‘Are you okay? You sound a little down.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. Just a bit distracted.’

  ‘Distracted? Distracted with what?’

  ‘Things. Just things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Nothing much. Nothing to speak of.’

  Adam detected something strange about her; she sounded remote and unhappy, and he wondered what ‘distracted’ meant. She seemed distant, as if something was wrong, but offered no explanation; she mumbled something about someone being rude to her at the library, and when pressed further, spoke about God, or the lack of Him. It had finally happened: she’d stopped praying and went to bed with guilt because of this. All in all, it was a difficult conversation and, as Adam was prone to anxiety, he was left with a great deal of it when she hung up. What was wrong? What was troubling her? And why hadn’t she told him about it? It was as if she d
idn’t want to confide in him, as she’d done during the four years of their relationship.

  Adam spent an hour pondering the conversation. The stress of the discussion and the way it made him feel was compounded by the horror-night in the woods. And there’d been no sight of Sarah. He was in a world of shadows where threats hid in every corner.

  He left the apartment and made his way to the bars on Smith Street, grateful for the warmth of a whisky and to be around other people. He asked a few of them if they’d seen Sarah, then asked the barman. No luck. Adam spent six hours going from bars to restaurants and back to the bars, bringing out her photo, asking as many people as possible if they recognised her. No results. The next night he tried again, buying a whisky at each place and becoming drunk as the night wore on. One evening he spotted Eva in a corner of a loud bar, reading a magazine. He was glad to see a familiar face and went to talk to her.

  As Adam approached she ran a hand over her raven hair. Her lipstick was a shocking red and she had a flawless complexion, just a slight darkness around her eyes.

  ‘Hi Eva, it’s me. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, but my sleep’s not been great.’

  ‘Bad sleep. Not nice.’

  ‘No, it’s not, but there are worse things. You’ve got nice eyes, Adam.’

  He found her to be an intriguing mix of confidence and anxiety, and felt just like her, without the confidence. As she’d opened herself up with transparent honesty, he decided to do the same, and told her of the fallen tree and his imagined walks though unknown woods and the horrors he found there.

  ‘Sounds nasty, that stuff about finding your sister. Intrusive thoughts are a bitch. Mind you, I like a person who’s got trouble. People with no troubles bore me. And yours are particularly interesting.’

  ‘They’re driving me nuts.’

  There was a discussion on who was more fucked up. Eva declared she was the outright winner and that Adam was a close second. He laughed, took a sip of whisky, and thought she had the most beautiful eyes he’d seen. She ran a finger over her lips, and then leant in towards him.