by Dan Proops
‘Adam, I’ve been having an affair. There, now you know. I’m so sorry.’
‘Are you done with him? I love you so much and can forgive you anything. Just tell me it’s over.’
‘It’s not over. I haven’t slept with you for six weeks and I’ve been weak. I feel bad about it as I still love you Adam, but your obsession with Sarah has been driving me nuts. I can’t take it anymore: your nightmarish visions, or turns, or whatever you call them; and the relentless obsession. I feel I’m on the periphery of your life with Sarah at the centre.’
‘Who is it? Anyone I know?’
‘I’ve been having an affair with Nigel.’
Twenty - Two
Questions formed quickly in Adam’s mind. Why would she sleep with a numbskull like Nigel Hawthorne and why had she told him about it? It would have been easier if he knew nothing of her infidelity. He wanted to ask her about these things as conflicting thoughts fought for air. His throat was constricted. He said nothing; he just gazed at her pleading look, at the guilt in her eyes, the tension in her pursed lips and the shadow of sadness across her face.
‘Adam I’m so sorry, I—’
Without words or feelings or intent, Adam stood up and left the restaurant. He went to a nearby off-licence and bought a bottle of whisky. This was a special occasion so he treated himself to a single malt, a bottle of Glenfiddich, close to thirty pounds. He drank from the bottle, the whisky pouring down his chin, and then he set off along the high street.
He was glad for the warmth of the whisky and the balmy evening. This was odd weather for this time of year, very strange: anything could happen on a day like this, anything. It was nearing dusk and red clouds faded to purple on the horizon. He decided a walk to Earl’s Court was too far for him, especially with whisky in his stomach, so he took the Underground. He was drunk; he knew he was drunk because he couldn’t walk in a straight line.
Then he thought of Nigel reading the paper on his sofa in his house. He didn’t want to go back there, not yet, so he kept walking, pausing every now and again to take swigs from the whisky. He wandered down some back streets, and was aware he’d lost a shoe. He knew he’d lost it as the pavement was cold underfoot. He wouldn’t go home tonight. He couldn’t face seeing a man he wanted dead. He didn’t have the energy for that, so he wandered in the direction of High Street Kensington, finally found it, and pushed his way through the crowds, and ended up in Kensington Gardens sitting on the grass, his back against a tree, his right hand playing with the loose soil. He wiped his face and his forehead and shirt were smeared with dirt.
He looked out to the round pond and saw swans and other birds he couldn’t name, and the pond looked beautiful in the dwindling twilight.
Thoughts of Nigel and Cassandra erupted in an imagination that had led him into a hundred forests, an imagination that now took him to Cassandra’s bedroom and Nigel’s pale body above hers, and the ecstasy on her face. He tried to think of the woods, of being frightened there, but it wasn’t working: the image of them making love on Cassandra’s bed was too strong. He laughed at this. He’d spent months trying to prevent his mind from wandering into the woods and now he wanted to be there. He’d rather be frightened in the woods than here thinking of them together. His mind ruled him, and as the last of the evening sunlight was shimmering on the plumage of a passing swan, he realised how little control he had over his own cognitions.
Adam left the park, went to the high street and walked towards Knightsbridge on a wide noisy road, with the park to his left, behind iron railings. He wandered aimlessly for an hour, and walked past Harrods, limping as the pavement had drawn blood, rasping at his bare foot. He’d not go back tonight; he’d deal with the enemy in the morning when he was strong. Everything would be all right tomorrow.
The bottle was almost finished and Adam dropped it into a can of rubbish. He walked across a junction to a dark alley, and sat in a shadowed doorway on some concrete steps edged with steel. He pulled his knees up to his chest and his thoughts turned to Sarah, darling Sarah. She was alive: that’s what mattered. She was out there somewhere in Brooklyn dealing with Oliver, looking after him. Adam’s arms were resting on his knees, his head bowed, and he ran a finger over the lines and ridges of the paving stones below the steps. He pulled up the lapel of his leather jacket and felt the cold metal of a zip against his neck, and then he tried to scrape some of the dirt from his trousers, without success.
He remembered the day he’d first met Cassandra, at the library, when he was waiting for her to serve him, when she smiled at him, when she was beautiful and nameless.
She would usually ask about the books he was borrowing: British fiction from the forties and fifties. She’d always ask about his books. And he remembered an afternoon when there was a queue of four or five people behind him, and she’d asked about his book again. He recalled the sighs of the people waiting, and was beguiled by this modest girl in glasses who was obsessed with the literature he was interested in. And then, as casually as he could, he asked her out for coffee.
Night had fallen but it was still mild, with no hint of a breeze. Adam saw the lights from windows in some tall buildings opposite and heard the cars whirling past. His hair was matted to his face, and the smear of dirt was drying on his forehead.
‘Oi tramp—you low-life. My mum calls you filth.’
‘Why don’t you get a job? You only got one shoe.’
‘Cause he’s filth; filthy useless tramp.’
Two boys, teenagers, were standing in front of him, both in grey tracksuits, both hooded. Adam saw a bronze knuckle-duster. One of the boys leant down and whispered in his ear.
‘You piss in your pants, don’t you.’
‘Hit him John—go on, use it.’
The metal struck the side of Adam’s face, and he fell to his left and the blood trickled down his neck. One of the boys pulled him upright.
‘Hit him again. Kill him, John—go on. No one’s gonna miss him. Kill him!’
The boy smiled as he ran his hand over the metal very slowly, like a caress, and there was a malevolent smile, then he raised his hand as if to strike. The boy kissed the knuckle-duster, and said the weapon was his best friend. And his accomplice was urging him on, with squeals of joy and taunts that his friend lacked courage. Adam covered his head with his hands. He felt them being tugged at and heard:
‘Kill him, go on, or are you too chicken?’
‘Give me a sec, then I will. I’m starved though. I need a burger.’
‘Kill him. Go on. Do it now!’
‘Time for you to die, tramp.’
Adam felt the knuckle-duster strike at his hands and arms, and he was pleading with them to stop. The tears flowed as the fear gathered momentum, as the danger took shape, as the boy raised his weapon again.
‘I wanna make him wait to die; I like him beggin’ me. Go on filth—beg me to live.’
‘Please don’t hurt me.’
‘I ain’t gonna hurt you—I’m gonna kill you. I killed another tramp last week.’
‘I’m not a tramp.’
Adam looked up at the boys and could barely make out their faces, shadowed by the hoods; but he saw a flash of white in the eyes of the boy with the weapon.
‘I’m getting cold. Let’s kill him or grab a hamburger.’
‘Okay, I’m gonna kill him.’
The boy wiped blood off the knuckle-duster with a sleeve, and his accomplice stood watching. When he raised his fist again a man approached. He was burly and tall and wore an old tweed coat, the right sleeve coming loose from the stitching on his shoulder.
‘Oi you brats, leave that bloke alone.’
‘You want some of this?’ said the boy as he turned to the man. He raised the knuckle-duster.
The man in the coat was standing near the two boys; he swiped one of them with the back of his hand, and he fell to the pavement. The boy picked himself up and they walked away laughing, the boy rubbing his face. The man in the coat leant down o
n one knee, asked if Adam was all right, if he needed a doctor. Adam ran a hand over the wound in his cheek, and saw cuts and bruises on his forearms.
‘I’m okay.’
‘I think you should come with me—they may come back.’
‘Thanks for being kind to me.’
‘No problem. Kids—they were just kids. You should get yourself home. Are you hurt?’
‘Just a cut on my cheek. I’ll be fine. I’ll go home. But not now. Tomorrow.’
Adam curled up in a foetal position, resting his head on a wall in the doorway, his arms wrapped around him. He closed his eyes, exhausted. He felt a dull pain from the cuts on his hands and arms.
‘You sleep then,’ said the man. ‘It’s warm—I’ll stay here to protect you.’
Adam woke, and the blood had dried on the side of his face. His hands still ached and the bruises were a livid purple and orange. The man in the tweed coat was asleep next to him, sitting upright, propped against a wall on the other side of the alley, his head bowed down to his chest. He’d looked after him, and Adam was grateful for his kindness. He found a stub of a pencil in his pocket and wrote a note to the man, thanking him.
He dragged an unwilling body towards High Street Kensington and after an hour’s trudging he arrived in Earl’s Court. As he walked through the back streets that led to his house he was preparing himself for Nigel Hawthorne.
Twenty - Three
When he entered his flat, it was around seven in the morning. Adam went to his room, drew the curtains, and within a few minutes he was asleep. He was woken by a knock at the door; Nigel was in his dressing gown, holding a tray with two cups of coffee.
‘Looks like you had a rough night, mate. You okay? You’ve cut your cheek.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone.’
‘What’s up, Adam?’
‘Got a new girlfriend?’
‘Nope.’
‘Why’d you do it? I was your friend. I was kind to you. And then you take what’s precious to me. You’re despicable.’
Nigel placed a mug on a side table and sipped his coffee. He told Adam how it had happened, how Cassandra had asked him out for a drink, then dinner, and then she’d invited him back to her place in Chelsea. Adam doubted this version of events and wanted Nigel to leave, so he just looked at him. Nigel hovered for a moment near the bed. He sighed, and Adam asked:
‘No apologies then? No remorse?’
‘Your window’s still full of dirt. I gave it a go when you were away. You should do something about it.’
‘I want to be alone.’
‘Course. Before I go, here’s a letter for you.’
Nigel left the room, and Adam fell in and out of sleep, malaise deep at the core of him. There was no solace. He heard the stick on the ceiling; his father wanted to see him, but he’d have to wait. The stick thundered on the ceiling. ‘I’ll be up later.’ The noise of the stick stopped, and Adam reached for the letter.
Dearest Adam,
I’ve fallen into the worst depression and sleep for a good deal of the day. They may take Oliver away and I don’t want them to. I’m sick, Adam. I’ve been to the doctor with headaches and an upset stomach. They want me to come in for some tests. I don’t want to lose Oliver but he assaulted another boy, hitting him in the face. He’s out of control, Adam, and I can’t deal with him as I’ve been feeling so ill. I’m frightened, really I am.
I hope you still love me, and I can’t wait to meet when I’m better—when I know what’s wrong with me. I must sign off now as I’m tired. I hope I haven’t burdened you with my troubles. I love you and will forever, my darling brother.
Sarah
Adam folded the letter and there was a combination of sorrow and relief; sorrow because she was ill, and relief because now the error in her last letter had been explained: she’d been unwell, and had made the mistake about the river rescue because of that. He put the letter in an envelope.
Sarah had deserted him, and had returned to his life at a time he was facing more potential loss, the loss of the woman he loved, who bought books on the Holocaust, who doubted her faith, who’d been so kind.
Adam sipped at the tepid coffee Nigel had brought. Sarah’s words had diluted some of the anger, but not the fear of losing the woman he’d loved for years. The coffee tasted awful.
His head hurt, his back ached, and there was a strain in his neck. He was in trouble. And it wasn’t the kind of trouble he could walk away from, or solve through thinking things through. Cassandra’s betrayal had come at a time he needed her most. He wouldn’t see her for a while; he wouldn’t do anything about it now. And the campaign to rid himself of Nigel would have to wait as there were other problems. He was broke. He’d wandered into the sordid world of poverty. Cassandra had always been there for him when it came to money; sometimes he’d infer he was struggling and she’d provide for him without resistance or derision. His one escape plan, to live with her for a while, was now blocked. He’d always kept that in his back pocket, if his father became too difficult and if he could overcome the guilt for leaving him. Now he was imprisoned, incarcerated by a lack of money and a lack of options. The reality of his confinement compounded the pain he held towards Cassandra, but if she brought the affair to an end, he’d forgive her, and he’d change, and not talk about Sarah. He’d make Cassandra the centre of attention. Whatever madness had driven her to this absurd infidelity could be forgiven.
Adam heard the stick on the ceiling again. He went up to Darius. There was a yellowish tint to his father’s skin that he’d noticed when he’d last seen him.
‘Adam, you look like you’ve been fighting. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Are you all right?’
‘I’m great. I’ve been feeling pretty good since I heard the news about Sarah. I’ve been feeling on top of the world. The world’s a beautiful place, isn’t it?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘C’mon, Adam. She’s been found. I’ve never been happier.’
‘You seem on good form Dad. What’s brought this about?’
‘Nothing really. Just life. It’s good to be alive and I’m reading a great book.’
‘Seems like you’re a changed man.’
‘Of course I’m not. I’m still a cantankerous old bastard, but one with a sense of humour. I love you, son.’
Adam told Darius that Sarah was unwell and was struggling with her son. He told him about Nigel’s activities with Cassandra and repeated his request for him to be evicted. Darius was silent throughout the monologue, nodding every now and again, as if he understood, as if he understood everything. Adam waited for a response. There was a distant look to his father. He turned to his son.
‘I can hardly just ask him to leave. He’s got nowhere to go.’
‘I’ve got nowhere to go. Dad, please get rid of him.’
‘Nigel should be made homeless because of some idiotic thing he’s done?’
‘Dad, open your eyes. You need to see what’s going on here. Nigel’s hurt me.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose. He’s been very good to me. I’ve been much happier since he’s been here.’
Adam’s disbelief forced him into silence. He had no words for his father’s love affair with Nigel. Darius was being unreasonable. He’d been unreasonable since he’d lost his wife; he’d been in denial about her cancer. For years, he thought the doctors were lying and that she’d be all right. Darius had a talent for thinking everything would turn out fine. It was as if now he was living in a world of dreams, where everything was fine, just fine. And it wasn’t. He was being stubborn, refusing to face the severity of Nigel’s actions. Adam was considering how to argue with a man who was living in a self-made utopia where everything was as it should be.
He sighed, a long drawn out sigh, and then said he’d make his father’s lunch.
‘Nigel looks after me now. Why don’t you try and do some work? I’m happy for you though. I know how much you love
Sarah.’
Adam left his father. He thought he knew Darius, thought he knew him better than anyone, and now this, a complete lack of concern for him.
There’d been something strange about his father’s mood, his angry demeanour transformed to open optimism. It was as if life had gone mad, all of it, like a conspiracy, as if there was a God, as if Cassandra’s God was orchestrating the lunacy of his life. He couldn’t reply to Sarah’s letters and was living with a man who was having wild sex with his girlfriend. Maybe there was some higher being controlling all this and that he was playing a minor part in a play the Great Creator had written. Adam had little control over his situation; he was broke, a failed artist living in conditions that would drive others to their death.
Cassandra had given him a semblance of self-esteem and made him feel wanted and needed. She was the person he’d respected more than anyone in the world and she was in cahoots with the person he hated the most. Was this all pure coincidence? Maybe there was some higher power; maybe Cassandra’s lost belief was erroneous; maybe she should believe and maybe he should find God, because he needed something to believe in now. He needed it more than ever.
Adam decided on a walk to the Soldier’s Arms. He hadn’t been in ages, and maybe he could think there, make sense of his senseless life. He drew on his leather jacket and walked downstairs. Nigel was eating toast and marmalade, reading a book at the table in the front room. Adam was surprised not to find him in his position on the sofa.
‘Good book, this. You learn a lot from reading. You get to know about things.’
‘I know plenty. I know there’re people in this world who have no compassion. Men like you, Nigel.’
‘Oh dear, can’t we come up with something a little better than that? Weak insults, Adam. Weak.’
‘Well, you’re a cunt then—that weak too?’
Nigel raised an eyebrow, cupped his hand round his coffee, and folded down a corner of his book. He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed.
‘Now, now, Adam. Language like that is for peasants and we’re not peasants, are we?’