by Dan Proops
Twenty - Eight
Adam was on his way back to Earl’s Court. The visit to the studio had been a disaster. He’d managed to create a man’s face, but it was a poor attempt as his abilities to work had been compromised by three months of inactivity. The chisel had not done as it was told. In a rage, Adam had struck the wood with a violent blow. He’d been thinking of Nigel and his creation had been destroyed. Thou Shalt Not Kill. Pity, thought Adam, a great pity.
With apprehension, he unlocked his front door and there he was: good, kind, vulnerable Nigel lying on the sofa reading the newspaper, in great need of compassion.
‘You look well. It’s good to see you. How’ve you been?’ Adam said in a calm voice devoid of irony or sarcasm.
Nigel Hawthorne looked surprised at this: it was the first affection Adam had shown him and it came across in his tone of voice. Nigel folded the newspaper and laid it across his stomach. He looked at Adam with suspicion.
‘Is it good to see me?’
‘Yes, Nigel, it is. We’re always at loggerheads and I thought we should try and get on a little better.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you play chess?’
‘Yes. Won a competition when I was at school. Why do you ask?’
‘Let’s have a game then. I have an old chess set in my room.’
Without waiting for an answer, Adam fetched the board and pieces and returned to the front room. He asked his opponent if he wanted coffee, then asked what colour he’d like to be. Nigel looked at him with bemusement. This strange friendliness was out of character. He said he’d play black as white had a slight advantage. Adam nodded, already irritated by Nigel’s insinuation that allowing him to play white was an act of charity.
As casually as he could, Adam said, ‘I’ll play black.’
‘Whatever.’
Adam set up the board and struggled to remember which piece went where.
‘Queen’s on the wrong spot. Look, she should be here.’
Nigel put the queen in her correct place. He tightened the cord on his dressing gown and with the speed of a swift, moved a white pawn. Adam stared blankly at the board; it had been a decade since he’d played.
‘Your turn. It’s a basic move.’
Adam looked at his line of pieces with exasperation. He knew there was a pawn that should be played in response to white’s aggression, but was unsure which one. His fingers hovered above his pawns, touching the top of one, then another. Nigel sighed, a deprecating sigh. Without thinking, Adam pushed a random pawn into play, then, within seconds, Nigel swung his bishop into the centre of the board, which was followed by a knowing smile. Adam was not happy; in fact he was distressed. He had no knowledge of chess, but thought a friendly spar over a board game would bring him closer to the man who stole his toothpaste, and made love to his girlfriend. Then Nigel’s smile, the smile of the victor, of the strong, of the man who knows his chess. Adam took hold of a random pawn and pushed it forward. Nigel shook his head.
‘Thought you’d have some knowledge of the game as you challenged me. Oh dear.’
Adam’s Christian feelings towards Nigel were now non-existent. He saw him for what he was: a bully, a man of cruelty and a man who enjoyed tormenting him; he was a master of doing this with the utmost subtlety. Oh dear: two words that went to the core. Adam could stand most things, and had to when it came to the man opposite, but pity and oh dears were not on the list. A few moves later, Nigel said, ‘Checkmate. You need to read a beginner’s book. What on earth happened there?’ Adam’s initial urge was to throw the board across the room, and his second was to get a knife from the kitchen. He did neither.
‘Well played. Looks like I need some lessons.’
‘I’d say a lot of lessons. Anyway, cheers for the game.’
Adam left the board as it was, his king trapped in a corner, and went to his room. He’d never manage it; he was a man with black blood flowing through constricted veins; he’d never believe in God. It was impossible. He had nothing, no success, or money, or a woman, or the ability to play a decent game of chess.
In the years after Sarah went missing, he’d imagined a thousand scenarios where she’d be discovered. It was all he’d wanted. And now she had been found, and they were exchanging letters. So why was he so miserable, and why wouldn’t Sarah see him? There were no answers to these questions, only confusion. All he had to look forward to were Friday or Saturday mornings when her letters arrived. His mind turned to her last letter and to Travis, who’d been abusive to Oliver. Travis appeared vividly in his mind. Then came images of the woods, with the sharp blade shining white in the sunlight as he held the knife above her face.
There were two days to wait until Sarah’s next letter.
Twenty - Nine
Friday came, but no letter. Then Saturday and, again, nothing. This was the first week he hadn’t heard from her. He’d wait till Monday; it would be there by then. But Monday came and went, as did Tuesday and Wednesday, and Adam was buried in a well of distress. His imagination was fertile for the dreaded walks through the woods.
He spent three days in bed succumbing to depression without fighting it, allowing himself to drift into the abyss, and the noises on the ceiling went unanswered. His father had Nigel. Darius didn’t need him anymore. No one needed him and now Sarah’s silence pervaded his thoughts both in and out of sleep. The days blended together and, when the dim light of dawn was seen from under the curtains, he’d look for sleep and depression would supply it. On the third day, the hunger he’d managed to overlook became too much for him, so he drew on a jumper full of holes and went to the kitchen. Nigel was wearing his dressing gown and Adam wondered if he ever dressed.
‘You’re alive. That’s a relief. Been a bit down?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘No point in misery. There are so many great things in life. You’re missing out, Adam. Depression, it’s just self-indulgence.’
‘I’m not depressed.’
‘Well, you’ve been in bed for three days. That’s either illness or depression and you look as fit as a fiddle, apart from the dark circles.’
Ignoring this, Adam made toast and coffee and walked briskly past Nigel to avoid any more glib sentiments about depression. He crawled back into the safety of his bed, ate the toast and drank coffee. Then his mobile rang; it was a foreign number.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hi. I don’t know whether you remember me, but my name’s Eva and we met in Brooklyn a few months ago. You gave me your card.’
Through the shadows of his malaise Adam took a moment or two to take this in. Eva. Brooklyn. Some months ago. Then it came to him—the night they’d met.
‘Hi Eva, how are you?’
‘I’m good. I’m coming to London for a few months and wondered if you wanted to meet. I don’t know many people there.’
‘Sounds good. When are you getting in?’
‘Tomorrow. Wanna meet in a few days? The jet lag’ll be awful.’
They arranged a time, and Adam was lifted by the call, by hearing a female voice and receiving the invitation to meet. This gave him the energy to dress, leave the house, visit the library and withdraw eight books on the game of chess. He took them to the Soldier’s Arms. Luckily the Smiths weren’t there. He opened the first book, a beginners’ guide.
It was hard to concentrate as Sarah’s lack of communication pestered him as he tried to learn some opening moves. Adam had three intentions: to find out about Sarah, to meet Eva, and to become an expert chess player. All were possible. The latter would be the most challenging as he was finding it hard to come to terms with the moves described in the beginners’ book. Not a good sign. He was struggling with various strategies and he wanted, no, needed, to beat Nigel at chess. This was a form of war, no insults or putdowns, just the desperate urge to win. He didn’t want to become a chess player because he was interested in learning, he wanted to crush his opponent. And he imagined the look on Nigel’s face when he lost
, and that look, that response, was something he hungered for.
Adam drank a few whiskies and struggled to a later section of the beginners’ guide, and emboldened with this knowledge and the upcoming meeting with Eva, he entered his front room with gusto. He made sure the chess books were well hidden, packed at the bottom of his rucksack. And there was Nigel, dressed for once, reading a newspaper at the table. Adam leant down and lowered his voice.
‘I guess you’ve given up looking for a job.’
‘Yeah, resting for a while. Guess I’ll look for work soon. Why’d you ask?’
‘No reason. You might be happier with a job.’
‘Who’s to say I’m not happy.’
‘I’m sure you are, Nigel. I’m sure you are.’
Thirty
Darius had been complaining of chest pains and Adam said he always had chest pains, but when he heard the cries of anguish, Adam went to him, calmed him, and insisted the doctor visit.
Dr Lane was a short man with a round puffy face and thick-lensed glasses, and he said that Darius spent too much time in bed and was ‘indulging himself ’ by not going out. The illness was caused by a bad cold combined with bouts of indigestion.
‘Darius, wait a day or two, then for God’s sake go for some walks—at least half an hour. You shouldn’t be in bed.’
‘I’m ill. That’s why I’m in bed.’
‘You’ve been ill for a week. Apart from your cold, you’re in good health, but you must get out.’
Darius replied with a disgruntled ‘uh huh’, as if he had no intention of venturing out into the streets of Earl’s Court. Dr Lane took Adam aside, just out of earshot, and said his father should get out at least three times a week. Adam said if he could get his father out it would be a miracle. Dr Lane’s face brightened as if he’d had a great idea.
‘Darius, you’re risking your health by staying in bed too much. Firstly, there are the pressure sores and luckily you only have two and they’re not infected. And secondly, you risk pneumonia, heart problems and all sorts of nasty stuff.’
‘Okay. Received and understood. I’ll go for a walk three times a week.’
‘Good, that’s the spirit. Here’s some stuff for the cold.’
When the day came, Adam went to Darius with the intention of getting him out of the house. He spoke about literature for a while to put his father in a good mood, then slipped in the suggestion of a walk. This was met with a grunt and another ‘uh huh’. Darius declared he was still ill and in no fit state to go walking in the streets of Earl’s Court.
‘Dad, Dr Lane said you were well enough to walk a marathon.’
‘Adam, I’ve got a confession. I’ve become a bit agoraphobic. I’m frightened of leaving the house.’
‘There’s only one way to beat that: to give it a try. I’ll be with you the whole time.’
To his amazement, Darius agreed. He pushed his legs out of bed, pulled on a pullover, then another, then a moth-eaten coat. ’Well then?’ he asked. He walked with pigeon steps, leaning on Adam for support, but there was some trouble at the door when Darius said he ‘couldn’t face it’, then he could, then he couldn’t. But after some grumbling they took small slow steps out into the side street that led to the Earl’s Court Road. Then the complaining ensued. Darius said Earl’s Court was a dreary place, that there was nothing to see, and went on about the cold. This was unwarranted as the weather was growing milder, and Adam said his father should have worn more clothes. After making as many complaints as he could, Darius said he wanted to turn back and Adam agreed, so they returned to the house.
‘Dad, I bet you feel better after that.’
‘I feel horrendous. It’s miserable out there.’
The next day was a Saturday and Sarah’s letter arrived.
After rifling through leaflets from various food delivery places and an offer for drain clearage, he found it. He slipped the letter in a pocket of his dressing gown and after saying hello to Nigel in the kindest voice he could muster, he made coffee and went to his room. Sitting in bed with his back against the wall, he opened the envelope with his letter opener.
Dear Adam,
Firstly, I’m sorry for not writing. The illness returned and I was not well enough to write. I’m feeling a lot better now and the doctors were bewildered by the illness and one suggested it was psychosomatic, as some tests were carried out, but nothing could be found.
They wanted to know if anything was causing me distress and I told them about Oliver. They said it might be that. But it’s odd: Oliver is doing very well with his therapist, and has been nicer to Maddie. I haven’t told you much about their relationship, but it’s never been good. They’re always at each other’s throats, and I don’t think Maddie understands her brother’s moods. I tried to explain that he was having troubles emotionally, but she just looked at me blankly, then asked what ‘emotionally’ meant.
When I recovered, we took some walks in Prospect Park as Oliver loves it there and says he’s always happy sitting at a pagoda that overlooks a lake. I’ve only bumped into Travis once and I asked how he was doing, but he ignored me. I thought we could become friends again, but that seems unlikely now. I think he’s got a grudge or something, which is a pity, as he used to get on with the kids before Oliver was rude to him that day.
It was great to get your letter, but I was a bit confused regarding your last request: to stay out of the woods. That’s weird, because Oliver loves going on adventures in the trees, with me in hot pursuit.
Write to me soon and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
I love you Adam.
Sarah
Adam folded the letter, but the relief that she was in good health was sullied by her mention of Travis, which brought on the familiar fears for her. He decided on another trip to New York, but money was a problem. His fortune of eight hundred pounds had dwindled to four hundred and twenty. Hardly enough for a flight, let alone the cost of renting a place. He pondered this for a while, then thought Uncle Harold might allow him to stay in his four-storey brownstone in Brooklyn.
And Adam was at a loss as to why Sarah didn’t want to meet. It was a mystery and there seemed to be no reason for it; as he searched himself for an answer he was left with no possible explanation. Anyway, there were more important things to deal with: a chess game with Nigel.
Thirty - One
Adam had read all the books he’d taken out of the library, and then some more books on expert play, and he’d been playing chess with himself in the secrecy of his bedroom. He was now ready as he had a good grasp of the game; he had insights into the complexities of various situations that might come up, mid-game and late. He dressed, looked in the mirror for as short a time as possible then went to make breakfast.
Nigel was sitting at the dining table eating toast, drinking coffee and indulging in his favourite activity: indolence. Adam brought his coffee to the table, and Nigel looked up from his paper, then said how important it was to follow current events.
‘You don’t read the papers much, Adam. Do you know the name of the Foreign Secretary?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m not interested in politics.’
‘That’s sad. Not knowing what’s going on in the world. You have a responsibility to follow our politicians and their actions. You vote I suppose.’
‘No, I don’t. How would you like a game of chess? I’ve brought the set and pieces.’
‘Games bore me on the whole, but there’s a backgammon set over there.’
‘I’d prefer chess. No good with backgammon.’
‘No point. You didn’t know what you were doing last time we played.’
‘I wasn’t feeling well that day. I think I’d do better now.’
‘Not in the mood.’
‘C’mon, Nigel, I am. Let’s give it a go.’
‘Who’s been a naughty boy? You’ve been studying.’
Nigel shot him a knowing smile, as if he’d witnessed Adam’s new obsession. What was he to sa
y to this? Nigel was no idiot; he’d obviously sensed he’d been working on his game. Nigel went back to his paper and Adam waited for a few minutes, then asked again as casually as he could for a game. Nigel peered over the top of his paper, scrutinising, analysing, thinking, then after a moment, said:
‘I’m in the mood for backgammon. Want to try that?’
Adam said he had no interest in backgammon, left Nigel with his paper, went to his room and threw the chess set across the room, and there were pawns and bishops all over the place. Days of poring over the books had been wasted. Wounded, and in desperation, he called Cassandra. She spoke in a weak voice, as if she were frightened or tired. He did his best to avoid discussing their last meeting and spoke of other things including Edmund and his visits to the church. After some persuasion she agreed to meet him in Richmond for lunch.
Adam walked down Richmond High Street from the station and found a narrow cobbled road that led to the river; the weather was bright and warm and new green leaves flashed like emeralds on the bank opposite. The river was a thread of gold reflecting the midday sun. And the onset of summer was in the air.
He didn’t know what to expect or what to ask and had no conception of the potential shape of their conversation. He would lead the discussion towards them, to their future, if one existed.
Adam emerged from the lane that ran down to the plains of concrete next to the river and found the restaurant where they’d last met. He ordered a double Jack Daniels and took it to a table. He relished the serenity of the afternoon, and surprisingly had no apprehension of meeting her. He saw two magpies in gilded branches leaning low over the Thames, just touching the water, the leaves dragging in the currents.
His intuition was that the situation with Cassandra was untenable. After their experience a few weeks previously, he didn’t hold out much hope, which in a way calmed him. She appeared at the door, in black, her blonde hair tied back with a simple sliver clip.