by Dan Proops
If it were possible for Adam to commit murder, now would be the time. He’d casually go to a drawer in the kitchen and just as casually stand behind Nigel and plunge a knife into his back. And he’d twist it; he’d make sure of that. But he wasn’t capable of murder—he was hardly capable of dressing himself, of eating, of anything. Adam thought of the book Cassandra had bought: the one about the Holocaust. Since childhood, he’d avoided anything about the premeditated mass murder of millions. But standing in front of Nigel, it was all very clear to him how it had happened. Because there were men capable of anything, of any crime to benefit themselves, men with no guilt or compassion. Nigel was enjoying this, the power he had over him, living in his house, eating his marmalade and making love to his girlfriend.
‘You lack style, Nigel. You’ve nothing to offer the world but your indolence.’
Adam caught a glint in Nigel’s eyes as he left the house and made his way to the Soldier’s Arms where there was some refuge from the Neverworld, from the fears and loathing. He walked through some squares with gardens cordoned off with railings, then down a side street to the Earl’s Court Road. It was a bright, cold morning, the sun struggling though a film of cloud. He saw the pub on a corner and a few blocks beyond it was a church. Adam entered the hallowed space, dark and sepulchral. There were candles burning and a gilded Christ was crucified, caught in slanting sunshine. A priest was sweeping the floor near the Saviour of All Men. Adam approached him. ‘Nice morning, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘It is good weather for this time of year. Are you all right? You look a little down.’
‘Can you make me believe in God? I want to believe and don’t know where to start.’
‘Sometimes it’s hard to believe in anything, isn’t it? Especially when life’s difficult.’
The priest was old, with deep wrinkles and wisps of white hair. And there was a peaceful air to him, as if everything was all right, as if everything in his life were settled and predictable. He leant the broom against the table holding the cross.
‘I want to believe in something, because I have nothing but pain. And millions of people believe in your Christian God. I want to join them.’
‘When you’re ready, you will. But you can’t force yourself into belief.’
The priest smiled benevolently and reached out to Adam, laying a hand on his shoulder. The kind smile and the warmth of his hand were comforting. He seemed like a good man. Adam wished he were like him, with an all-seeing, all-powerful being who was on the lookout for him. The priest carried on with his sweeping, and Adam walked towards him and said:
‘He died to save us, didn’t He? Well, He forgot me. Does He forget things?’
‘You have forgotten Him—not the other way round.’
‘I hate the world. I hate mankind. How can I believe in God if I don’t believe in people?’
‘You’re a troubled man, and I hope one day you’ll see the world differently.’
Adam thanked the priest for his kindness, left the church and made his way to the pub. It was empty apart from Mr and Mrs Smith. They were drinking brandies. They asked how he was and he said everything was fine, and that all was well. Mrs Smith said she hadn’t been to the pound shops and had nothing to give him, and Adam said he didn’t need anything, but he thanked them, bought a whisky and went to his table with a book. Finding it hard to concentrate, his mind wandered to the last day he’d spent with Sarah. Before going to the bar, before life had taken her.
They’d spent the day in Trafalgar Square after a trip to the National Gallery and were having lunch in a restaurant, and she was excited about going out later that night. She was meeting a friend and they were going dancing in London’s clubland.
‘Adam, what d’you think of this place—groovy isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. How’s it going with your teaching? You don’t talk about it much.’
‘I struggle with it sometimes.’
‘I’d struggle with a load of eleven-year-olds.’
‘It’s an interesting job, but it’s a challenge, that’s for sure.’
Sarah was wearing a white shirt under her long red coat. She rolled up her sleeve to reveal the bracelet, and showed him the inscription and said she hadn’t removed it in years. She said he was a special person, with a great talent. She talked of Van Gogh’s letters, and one in particular where he said a man is still an artist even if he can’t produce, even if he hadn’t worked in an age.
‘You’re a good brother Adam, and a good son. I don’t know how you live with that bastard. He’s been treating me like shit.’
‘You’ve never believed in God, have you?’
‘Adam, I’m not an idiot. What a strange question.’
The pub had become crowded. Adam looked up from his book. He’d been on page twenty-one for an hour, gazing at the book, the words and sentences a blur. He saw Mr Smith raise his glass and Adam did the same. He wondered if Mr Smith had a God; he doubted a man like that would take off for church every Sunday. Adam couldn’t sit in the pub all day. He had to act; he had to do something about the nightmare he’d found himself in. He had to get away from Nigel. He’d have to sign on, beg money from the government, then maybe he could get some housing benefit and he’d have his own place and be independent. But he’d have to face dole queues and the unfortunates that frequented the benefits centre; and he could imagine the place they’d have for him: some horrendous council place with an old carpet and a used mattress. Maybe living with Nigel, however intolerable it was, would be preferable to a lonely council flat. But the thought of the monster who used the royal ‘we’ turned his stomach.
Adam was one of the damned, one of the lost, a forgotten victim of life struggling though every pointless minute. He was nothing to the world, took nothing and offered less. He may as well not be alive. He wasn’t really living in the strict sense: he was just existing in a world where people were working, building relationships, creating great things, and discovering cures for diseases. They were important and had a part to play in life.
Enough self-pity. He was an artist. He was a creator of special things; and, after all, he was now a brother, a brother who was needed.
Adam bought another whisky and wondered when he’d be so poor he wouldn’t be able to buy a drink. Out of nowhere came an urge for nicotine. He hadn’t smoked in eight months and had given up for Cassandra’s sake. He’d sacrificed one of life’s simple pleasures for her. He’d sacrificed a great deal for her. Adam didn’t have the money to start smoking. Only eight hundred in the bank. Eight hundred wouldn’t last long if he smoked. But he didn’t care, didn’t care whether he lived or died.
He said goodbye to the Smiths and crossed the Earl’s Court Road to a shop and bought twenty cigarettes. He thanked the newsagent and stood on a sunny corner, then looked over to the church, and then back to the packet, glistening in the morning light. He ran a thumbnail down the side of the packaging and the plastic covering fell to the pavement. Eight months down the drain. Eight months of abstinence was about to be ruined. Then the words: ‘We’re not peasants, are we?’
Adam drew out a cigarette and, with shaking hands, lit one and inhaled the foul stench of four thousand chemicals. He smoked for a while, then flicked the stub into the road and made his way home; there was another letter from Sarah to look forward to.
Twenty - Four
Good. He’d had a cigarette. If he smoked enough, maybe he’d get cancer; if he could afford to kill himself with two hundred cigarettes a day, he would. If he could afford two bottles of whisky a day, he’d do it. He’d drink himself to death and no one would miss him. Not even Sarah, because he had no way to speak with her. And Cassandra wouldn’t care as she suckled on Satan’s penis, as she cavorted with the Devil incarnate; she wouldn’t even notice. As he walked back to the flat, the day was growing cold, the buildings dim silhouettes.
He was in the woods again, in the forest in Prospect Park. Adam passed the pagodas and it was a torrid summer’s
day as he walked through the trees looking for her, calling her name, calling for his sister, the one person who’d care if he were dead.
He was full of confidence as he walked, full of the hatred of life and these trees and this cool summer breeze and the birds with their disgusting summer song. He wasn’t even worried about the fallen tree, because he was enjoying the hatred of life; they were at one, life and Adam. Life hated him and he returned the sentiment. There it was, the fallen tree; he could just make it out, the threads of torn wood bright orange in the glorious sunshine, on this wonderful gift of a day. How happy he was in the woods; he had all he wanted, the fresh summer air and the cool shade from the trees and his contempt for himself and everything that had ever existed. He was glad of that, happy with his unadulterated disgust with all things past and present.
Then he came to the fallen tree and nothing, nothing, but a single parakeet looking up to him, its eyes blinking furiously in the burning sunshine.
Ha! Stupid fallen tree! Idiot tree! Ha! Nothing at all, except a useless stump, its branches lost to the carpet of the forest. He sat on the decaying trunk and opposite, on a diseased elm, was Sarah, crucified, blood pouring from the wounds in her hands and feet. And she was laughing at him, guttural laughs like a man’s. Then she was screaming for help, to be rescued, for the nails to be removed. But he had no tools and pulled at the nails with his fingers as the rivulets of blood poured over his hands and her screams were louder and more desperate as she pleaded with him.
It had happened again, and it had been a long time since he’d been to the woods; he thought he’d never go back but, stupidly and without fearing the consequences, he’d returned.
Adam was outside the church. He went inside and fell to his knees. The tears were streaming and his heart was aching for a new life, an ache close to a prayer. He couldn’t stop crying. The priest watched for a while. Adam stood and wiped down his knees, then his tears with the back of his sleeve. The man of God sat on a pew next to him and said:
‘You’re not feeling any better. Pity.’
‘I’m in your Christian Hell and I can’t get out. I’m trapped. Please help me. Help me. I think I’m going mad. I know it. I want to die.’
‘You dropped your cigarettes. Want to go outside for a smoke?’
The question surprised Adam. He’d not been expecting that. Some great philosophical statement or something about faith or God was what he’d expected. The priest smiled and repeated the question. Adam nodded and they left the church and stood out in the sunshine.
‘I didn’t think you guys were allowed to smoke.’
‘There are many rules we must follow. Abstaining from smoking is not one of them.’
Adam offered the priest a cigarette and he said he’d have one of his own. He watched as God’s disciple took some rolling papers from inside his cassock. They stood silently together smoking on the Earl’s Court Road as the traffic passed, as the sun shone, as the people went about their business. Adam saw the pleasure in the priest’s face as he inhaled.
‘You’ve cheered me up a bit,’ said Adam. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to ask me to go for a smoke.’
‘We’re all human, aren’t we? I’m glad I brought you something.’
‘You did and I’m grateful because I’m losing my way in this life. And you’re like a friend.’
‘You can come and talk to me any time you want. I may not be able to give you the belief you’re searching for, but we can always have a cigarette together, and that’s something, isn’t it?’
‘It’s more than something. I wish there was something I could give in return.’
‘I made you feel better and, for me, that’s a gift.’
‘Did you enjoy the smoke?’
‘Loved it. I’m trying to get myself up to twenty a day—only managing ten at the mo.’
Adam laughed at this. The tears and despair had turned to affection for a man with a white collar who enjoyed his smoking. The priest stamped out his cigarette and retrieved the stub to avoid littering the pavement. He offered his hand and Adam shook it. Then the priest said he had some work to do and, before saying goodbye, said Adam could come to the church any time and they could chat together and smoke. He said goodbye.
Adam walked down some side roads and as he approached his house, he took out his key. Nigel was in his position on the sofa reading the paper and Adam’s hatred toward him had softened, until Nigel spoke. Without looking up from his paper, he said:
‘We feeling any better?’
‘I have no idea how we are feeling. But I’m feeling pretty good.’
‘I’m glad. Sometimes we need to see some good in the world. Being unpleasant won’t help.’
‘You’re right, Nigel. I’m sorry.’
‘Apology accepted.’
‘Good. Now go fuck yourself.’
And with that Adam went to his room; he didn’t need to see Nigel’s reaction because he could imagine it. If Satan was going to stay in his house, all-out war would be declared and, as Adam had no ambitions in life, he could invest his time in making Nigel Hawthorne’s life hell. And as he was so well acquainted with Hades he thought this would be a fun project, very un-Christian, but very enjoyable. Satisfied with his new idea, Adam relaxed on his bed and opened Sarah’s recent letter.
Twenty - Five
Dearest Adam,
I’m feeling better and I think I’m getting over this illness which luckily was only an appalling bout of flu. The tests came back and they were fine, so I’ve been out walking, out in Prospect Park on some days and Central Park on others. It’s beautiful here this winter, just like a picture postcard; the frosted trees look beautiful in the sunshine.
I wonder what the winter in London’s like. I hope it’s not too dreadful. It gets dark at three over there—terrible. Makes everyone depressed.
I’ve had some trouble with Oliver and Travis. Oliver has been doing a bit better and is finally talking to his therapist, but there was a bit of awkwardness in the park.
Travis was at a table near some trees. Did you know there are woods and lakes in Prospect Park? Well, there are. Anyway, there was a nasty incident with Travis. He was minding his own business when Oliver was rude to him and called him a useless old fool. I was embarrassed, but I thought Travis would take it as a joke. But he didn’t. He was very angry, shouting, everything, real abuse towards Oliver, nasty and unnecessary, so my friendship with Travis is at an end, and I was pretty rude to him myself—called him a thoughtless fucker. I don’t swear much as you know, but if anyone’s rude to my son I don’t take it Adam. You know how tough I can be.
So from now on we’re going to avoid him. Speaking to a kid like that—inexcusable. I hope I don’t bump into him again. Looks like the man’s got a screw loose or something. There’s something a bit off about him; he’d been so kind previously, really nice, then he turns nasty, so we’ll be avoiding him. And I think—
The sound of the stick on the ceiling was unusually loud. Adam sighed and, thinking of Travis, he trod the winding staircase to his father’s room, then stood for a moment, braced himself, and opened the door. Darius was unhappy about something; he looked at Adam with disdain.
‘Take a seat.’
‘How’re you Dad? I’m reading one of Sarah’s letters and—’
‘Adam, I’ve been getting reports, reports from Nigel.’
‘And?’
‘I want you to treat him as a guest. He’s a good man; he cleans the place and makes delicious food and he’s become a friend. As you know, I have no friends. So quit the abuse—calling him a cunt? That’s appalling. Just stop it.’
Adam felt about four years old, being reprimanded by his father for being naughty, after Darius’s new friend, the wonderful Nigel, had informed on him. Adam’s self-esteem, almost non-existent, dropped a couple of notches and he had no idea how to react. They were a strong unity, Nigel and his father, like allies in a great war, and here was pathetic little Adam, a country, isolated,
under the oppression of its neighbours.
‘Dad, I can’t believe this, you do realise he slept with my girlfriend? You’re defending a monster. He betrayed me.’
‘We all make mistakes. I have no interest in people’s private lives, but I do care what goes on in this house. Now go and apologise for being abusive.’
Apologise! To Nigel? Impossible, ridiculous, absurd, and unthinkable; he’d rather cut one of his arms off rather than stoop to apologies. Darius’s face was grim, stern and serious; his white hair was a dishevelled mess and there were crumbs in his beard that gave him the appearance of a tramp or a god or both. He looked like a caricature of himself.
‘Dad, I have some reading to do. I’m in the middle of one of Sarah’s letters. You’ve never asked to see one. Why’s that?’
‘Don’t change the subject. And watch what you say to Nigel.’
Adam left the room and allowed the rage to drain from him, but his father’s words left him feeling powerless, and usurped the last of his strength. He dragged himself to his bedroom and flopped down on his bed. He had to make up with Cassandra. It had been three weeks since he’d spoken to her, but he needed her more than ever, both for emotional support and a place to go: her mansion house on the embankment overlooking the river.
He was just about to call her when he had an idea. Men cornered are often able to delve deep, when trapped, when they have few options.
Twenty - Six
Adam picked up the phone and called Uncle Harold. The phone rang for a while and a moment before he hung up, Harold, answered.
‘Yeah, hello?’
‘It’s me, Adam.’
‘Adam! Great to hear from you. Just had a row with the chick over refrigerators.’
‘Sorry if I interrupted.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I wondered if I could send you a letter that you could pass onto Sarah.’
There was a pause and Adam heard Harold’s rusty breathing.
‘Lemme have a think about it. Can I call you in a few hours?’