by Dan Proops
‘Hello, Adam.’
‘Hi, Cassandra. I came because I felt so terrible about that awful night. I wanted to make amends. I’m sorry I left like that.’
‘Adam, there’s nothing to make amends about. I still feel strongly about you. I don’t care about the past.’
She went on to say that she hadn’t seen Nigel in a month, and wouldn’t again, after his self-confessed infidelity with two other women. Hope rose in Adam after hearing this. He sat back in his chair as afternoon sunshine poured through the twisted circles in the panes of the Georgian windows.
‘Maybe there’s a chance for us,’ he said. ‘I want there to be. My life’s such a mess. I have to live with that madman you went out with. And I can’t work. I can’t do anything or offer much, apart from my love for you.’
‘You’re a good person, Adam. I put you through a difficult time. I should have kept it all quiet, the Nigel nonsense. I really should.’
‘Doesn’t matter now. You’re rid of him, which is great. Remember when we used to come here when we first met, and our walks through Richmond Park? They were the happiest days of my life, Cassandra.’
She looked out into the bright afternoon with plaintive eyes, as if she were looking back to the same past, when everything was excitement, plans, new kisses and new love.
‘We can’t re-live those days, Adam.’
‘I know. But there are the days to come.’
‘You’ll find someone with a kind heart, instead of an adulterous bitch like me.’
‘Don’t talk about yourself like that—it doesn’t suit you. You’re everything to me. And I’ve spent the last weeks trying to blot you out, with no success. The only thing of note is that I studied chess for a month.’
‘Chess?’
‘It’s a long story.’
He spoke of Nigel and his arrogance and power. Adam spoke of his intentions to beat him at chess and then he told her some more about Edmund, the kindest priest on earth who chain-smoked roll-ups. Adam told her about his lacklustre attempts to work and the pain of not being able to be creative as he’d once been. He told her everything, everything apart from Sarah. And she spoke of her life in the library, buried in books to escape, and her nights alone in the great house with the palm tree and the lonely bed. Adam thought their future had possibilities with these hints of loneliness, and he was certain something could be done; he unfurled his hands and laid one on hers.
‘Let’s try again. Please give me another chance. I won’t speak of Sarah.’
‘No, Adam. There’s no future for us.’
‘How do you know if we don’t try?’
‘There’s no hope, Adam. I’ve got cancer.’
He recoiled as if it were infectious, as if that terrible word was a threat in and of itself. Then he saw the wet rims of her eyes and a look of sadness, as if she’d hurt him before and was hurting him now. And he couldn’t bear to bring himself to ask her about it, because of the fear, the fear she wouldn’t recover. And she looked so well, a picture of health. It had been such a beautiful afternoon. Then she spoke of God.
‘They don’t know how bad it is yet. Ovaries—not good. Things may not work out, Adam. But I’ve been praying again and have found my belief.’
‘They can do so much these days. Miracles! I’m always hearing about what they can do.’
‘They’re not sure. When you left that night I didn’t know about my illness, but I knew I’d hurt you. And things weren’t good were they? I doubt they’d be good even if I was well.’
‘We can beat this thing together, Cassandra. I know how strong you are. Don’t let it win. Please don’t let it win.’
His tears came, first welling, then falling from his face. And his shoulders shook. He couldn’t stand another loss; it would kill him. He’d lived with it all his life: his mother, his sister, and now this. His entire existence had been spent in grieving, trying to come to terms with the most important things that had been taken from him. And now he had to face it again, or the fear of it, which was worse than the wound of actuality that would eventually heal. Then he had to ask:
‘They haven’t given you a time or anything?’
‘No, not yet. I could be around for a good while, or not. They’ll know more next week.’
Then the rage came, rich and visceral: the anger towards luck, whether it was sent from an unknown source or from her God. He was supposed to believe in this monster who’d taken so much from him? Well, he did believe in Him, with full hatred, with full commitment and loathing, because God was the Devil. They were one and the same: a filthy glutton who fed on the things that meant the most to him. He was well trained in loss; from an early age life had taught him through experience—when his mother had the same disease, when he saw her decaying in a hospital ward, her limbs atrophied, her face like a skull. Life had been a good teacher, but he was sick of learning. And looking at Cassandra, with her kind heart and spirit, he anticipated there would be more theft, that God was on the lookout for something new to take.
All he had were lumps of wood waiting to be turned into objects of worth, his love for a sister and his love for Cassandra; he had nothing but that to offer them. And he didn’t know if it was enough, if his love was worth anything, because he had no way to measure it. He could only offer it to those who found him worthy, as he was worthless to himself.
They sat for a while in silence, then she said she was hungry, so a menu was provided. Adam said he didn’t feel like eating. He looked out to the dying sun, now a pale orange, iridescent, falling behind the silhouette of distant trees. Cassandra said it was wonderful her belief had been restored, and it had come just after the diagnosis.
Two thousand years had passed, and if He was on the lookout for mankind, He was myopic or unseeing, as it seemed He didn’t have the time to look in on all the suffering that makes up so much of our ravishing happy world, where everything was fair and everything equal. Because, of course, all men are equal in God’s eyes.
‘We’re all the same, aren’t we?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your God’s been pretty fair all round, I’d say.’
‘Adam, what are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about God and the wonderful world He’s created, with his diseases and thefts. And I wanted to believe. Can you imagine that? A God-fearing Adam, a lover of all things; especially the cripples who drag themselves along freezing roads with broken nails and broken spirits. I’m sick of it all. Sorry. Ranting. Angry—angry that you’re not well.’
‘You’ll always be a good friend. Don’t do the nihilist-Adam thing. I know what you think of the world.’
‘Sorry. But I’ve been in the wars and Nigel won’t give me a game of chess.’
Then she laughed, and looked at him with her eyes, all inquisitiveness.
‘Where did the chess thing come from?’
‘My madness. Nigel beat me at chess and was his normal arrogant self, so I read up about it. Got eight chess books from the library.’
‘Eight?’
‘I studied for a month and thought I was pretty good. Then he refused to play. He said I’d read up on it. Guy doesn’t like losing.’
Cassandra lowered her voice:
‘There are better ways to get at Nigel.’
Thirty - Two
Adam woke to the sound of an argument, over some writer. He could just make out Nigel’s voice, loud and impatient, then his father’s in response. As life came into focus his first thoughts were of Cassandra, her illness and her generosity in offering him money to return to New York. Adam wanted to get to know his uncle a little better and escape the horrors of Cassandra’s illness and the limpet-like growth that had infected his flat.
The row upstairs was a jovial one, as he heard his father saying something about the cadence of someone’s writing style and some other things about a writer, dead a hundred years.
Firstly, he thought he’d dreamt it, her illness, but then it was very r
eal to him, and he wished they’d stop their argument because he needed quiet to take things in, to look at his situation with some rationale, some reason. Luckily, the altercation faded. He lay for an hour, maybe more, thinking of Cassandra. He stood near the window, where sunshine cast its light on a hundred thousand rooftops receding into the heart of London.
Regarding Nigel, Cassandra had given him some useful information. Adam was now armed with powerful weaponry. He had little control of his life and the people around him, but now he had all he needed regarding Mr Hawthorne. He was looking forward to confronting him. Was it a crime to taunt one’s own tormentors? Edmund would not be impressed, but to hell with him, and all the believers. Adam looked at himself in the mirror. There are better ways to get at Nigel. Adam relished the words as he picked up the chess set.
He couldn’t measure how good a person he was or had been, but thought he’d treated people fairly. He’d stood a girl up when he was fourteen; he’d arranged to meet her outside a cinema, but had been too anxious to go. She must have waited for him in the cold for an age. And there was the time he’d stolen a book. These were some of the events born out of poor judgement; there were probably others lost to memory.
Armed with the knowledge Cassandra had given him, Adam ran a hand over his hair, straightening it; then, with the chess set under his arm, he went down to breakfast to see Nigel.
Surprisingly, he was dressed in a suit. Adam asked if he had an appointment, and he nodded, saying it was something important, somebody in the City he was to meet.
‘You like it here, don’t you, Nigel?’
‘Yes, I do. Your father’s a good friend.’
‘Want a game of chess?’
‘No, I told you—I’m into backgammon at the moment.’
‘You’re hiding, Nigel. That’s why you came here. To avoid them.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about embezzlement. I’m talking about fraud. They’re after you, aren’t they?’
Nigel’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He shifted uneasily in his seat, taking sips from his coffee. The shock was poorly disguised with a bland smile.
‘I’m not hiding. Some other guy’s been done for it. I’m in the clear. Whoever your source is, they’re mistaken. And I wonder what your father would think of these accusations. He wouldn’t be happy about it.’
‘I’m not going to call anyone, Nigel, so don’t worry. You’re safe here, as long as you behave. I just want a game of chess.’
Nigel sat back in his chair and crossed his arms and his attempt at defiance was combined with a hint of suspicion, but his natural air of confidence had left him. Adam sat opposite his nemesis, the chess set in his lap, then stretched, yawned, and opened the box.
‘Just one game,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you can manage that.’
‘Course, mate. I’ll play anytime you want. You’re a good bloke, Adam. You wouldn’t let old Nigel down, would you?’
‘Of course not. You’re as safe as houses. Well, as safe as I want them to be.’
Adam put the board on the table, and, taking his time, laid out the pieces. He said he’d play black and looked up at his opponent expectantly, waiting for his first move. Nigel’s shoulders had dropped and his right hand was shaking slightly. Adam almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Nigel pushed a pawn forward. The game was a long one, with Adam taking his time, sacrificing pieces to lengthen the experience of watching Nigel suffer. At one stage, Adam made an error that could have led to defeat, but he recovered and, after a while, there were only a few pieces on the board. Nigel’s king retreated, then retreated again. Then the final move. Adam looked up at his opponent and said:
‘Guess that’s checkmate. Looks like you need to work on your endgame.’
‘Well played. You’ve improved. Look, I hope we’re still friends. Remember when we met on the steps at university? I’ve always seen you as a good friend, Adam.’
‘I enjoyed the game. Have a relaxing day.’
Adam replaced the pieces in the wooden box, folded the board and tapped his opponent on the shoulder. ’Be a good boy, Nigel.’ He took the chess set to his room and for a moment he basked in the glory of victory thinking of Nigel down there, defeated. He’d never phone the police; the crime Nigel had become involved with was nothing to do with him. If he shopped him, there would be no more games of chess and no more victories. He was enjoying the feelings of supremacy. It was all very un-Christian because he’d taken pleasure in inflicting pain. He was relaxing with the knowledge he could rid himself of Nigel any time he wanted, but for now he’d let him stay. Darius was fond of him and if the police were called and Nigel was dragged off to the courts there’d be no one to bully. This was a situation that both empowered and belittled him. The only way to enhance his self-esteem was to lower another’s. He wondered what Edmund would think of it all and didn’t think his friend would think much of his weak moral stance.
But Fate held the cards, not he; Fate held Cassandra’s future in its unpredictable hands. Adam looked at his watch and realised he was late for Eva.
He hurried out of the house and walked at speed to the Soldier’s Arms. Mr and Mrs Smith were outside, locked in an argument over long-life light bulbs. Mr Smith was in a rage over the lack of light in his house and his wife was ranting on about the money they’d wasted on the regular ones. Mrs Smith waved at him.
‘Hi, Adam. We’ve been chatting about light bulbs. Do you use long-life ones?’
‘I’m late for someone.’
‘Of course, I wouldn’t want to keep you, but my husband is being difficult over this and it would be good to get your opinion.’
‘I’m sorry, we’ll talk about it later.’
‘Well, have a think about it. How’s the sheep?’
‘Good. I love the sheep.’
‘Even though it’s only got one eye?’
Adam nodded, and thought a reply would lead to more questions so he just smiled and walked into the pub. Eva was sitting at a table near the bar. She was alluring, more so than Adam had remembered. Her skin was pale and flawless, and her eyes were blue, oceanic and liquid. She looked up from her book. There was a pang of guilt as he thought of Cassandra. Maybe this was another crime, meeting an attractive girl. Maybe this would lead to more punishment. Adam asked about Brooklyn and Eva was all flirtation and coy smiles as she spoke about how hot it was getting in New York. She was planning to stay in London for three months, to study the flute. She’d come to meet an esteemed teacher and said how lucky she was to have been taken on by him. Adam spoke about his studio, untouched and abandoned.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Eva. ‘You look distracted.’
‘I have had some tough things to deal with.’
‘Maybe I could help.’
‘You’re sweet.’
‘I’m not sweet. I’m a little devil. Always up to no good, like meeting up with gorgeous British men in pubs.’
Adam had no idea how to respond to this. She was pulling at chords that were tied to urges he was trying to keep hidden. But she was beautiful: her smooth Brooklyn accent, her dancing eyes, her elegant neck and her lips, painted dark red. She was the anaesthetic for all sadness, all maladies. He wondered if she’d go to a hotel with him. He thought she probably would and was tempted to ask, but didn’t. He imagined wild kisses from that extraordinary mouth, the urgent pulling at clothing, feeling the warmth of her skin and his mouth caressing her body, animal lust fulfilled.
‘You Brits have such cool accents. You all sound so intelligent.’
‘My accent’s pretty normal.’
‘Nope. There’s something about the way you talk.’
‘I talk like an idiot mostly.’
‘You’re no idiot. Why don’t I treat you to a dinner somewhere special, Mr Modest Brit?’
Her smile was knowing and opulent and her lips parted showing teeth that flashed white like sun on mountain ice. He agreed to dinner, but wanted to be in bed wit
h her, now, not later, not next week, now. Adam saw them in a soft bed lost in the carnage of flesh. He noticed her blood-red nails and her fingers playing with the stem of her glass.
Eva arranged a dinner date and Adam agreed, then watched as she left. He needed a meeting with his new therapist: a priest called Edmund.
Thirty - Three
Adam was drenched in summer sunshine as he made his way to the newsagent to buy cigarettes and then he entered the cool space of the church. A ray of sunshine slanted though the coloured glass and was bright on the body of the gold Christ, and some candles were on a table that held a smaller cross. A short plump man bursting out of his cassock was polishing a ceramic bowl. He smiled warmly and Adam asked if Edmund was around.
‘Yes, he is. I’ll go get him.’
Edmund appeared and his face came alive at the sight of his friend. He asked if he wanted some tea or a smoke. Adam said tea sounded good, so Edmund took him up to his cloister.
‘Want to try some Earl Grey?’
‘Yes, that sounds good. I like it.’
‘Good. I do too. So what’s up? Are you any better?’
‘Some good, some bad. I’ve tried to act like a Christian, but failed.’
‘I’ll pour you a cup. Tell me all about it.’
Adam took a sip of tea and told Edmund he’d been a bully, had demeaned Nigel and had met a girl he fancied. Edmund folded his cassock around him and showed his benevolent smile. He asked about the bullying. Adam sighed and said he’d beaten Nigel at chess. Edmund looked confused, his brow raised in surprise, his brown eyes glinting like wet agate.
‘I was cruel to him. He’s been in some kind of trouble; I think he’s committed a fraud. I threatened him, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed tormenting him. That’s bad isn’t it?’
‘Sounds like he asked for it. He hasn’t behaved well. We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of. But beating someone at chess isn’t one of them.’
‘I have no control over anything. I want to go to bed with this girl.’
‘Your judgement is yours alone, Adam.’
‘I wish there was a huge encyclopedia of books with all the rules concerning morals, then I could look it up, if I’m making good decisions.’