by Dan Proops
He was safer out of the forest. Tired from running, he followed the path as it tumbled down towards a round pool like a lake, with the backs of swans bright in the moonlight.
He saw the lights of the city rise up, and followed them down one of the gravel paths to the railings, to the safe cool railings, and he heard the cars rushing past. He climbed the gate, almost fell backwards, but steadied himself and landed hard on the paving. He kept his balance and was relieved to be in the city again. But which way to turn? Maybe left, past the statue of the horseman. Maybe that was the best way for the moment. There were many cars with lights flashing past. He walked past some buildings rising high to his right.
Now his feet were aching and cold, but the city was a comfort to him as he found a junction near a great wide arch. The cars were wild and swerving as he walked across the road, and one whipped by so close to him that he felt a rush of wind as it passed.
He remembered a man who’d been kind to him here. So he walked along the pavement alongside a wide road and passed many great buildings, until tiredness found him and gravity pulled him to the curb, and the strength was lost from his limbs. Then he walked to a nearby cobbled alley. It was dark and shadowed. He sat on a crumbling wall on a corner near a main road. The light from the streetlamps cast triangles of light near the entrance of the alley. He slumped down, his knees brought up to his chest, his back leaning against the wall. The night was mild, the sky overcast, a dull black. A breeze whispered through the alley. Exhausted, he fell asleep to the rush of the cars until they became the sound of an ocean.
He was woken by dawn’s first light behind crested purple clouds. The faint sunshine reached out from behind the cloud, and the road was a pinkish grey in shadow, and gold in sunshine.
He smelt the urine in the alley and his nose wrinkled. He stood in a doorway as the first cars came, and now he was cold, shivering in his shirt. An old man was nearby, sitting on some cardboard, covered in some blankets and soiled sheets; and there was the pungent reek of the man and the smell of alcohol. He smiled and waved at Adam, trying to get his attention.
‘You all right, son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Want some wine?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
The old man had a bottle of white wine with no label on the bottle; he offered it to Adam, and he drank. The wine was strong and tasted foul so he handed it back, and the man put it in a trolley full of old bags and blankets. He beckoned Adam to come closer, so he did, and sat next to him; his beard was a saffron colour from nicotine. The man took a plastic bag from his trolley, full of twisted stubs he’d collected.
‘Got some matches somewhere. Here, got ’em. Have a fag.’
‘Thank you.’
The old man lit a stub and gave it to Adam, who inhaled, enjoying the smoke filling his lungs. The coal end shimmered like embers in the morning sunlight and Adam smoked until the stub burnt his fingers. He dropped it to the ground.
And that’s when the policemen approached.
Forty - Four
Adam woke in a warm bed in a pretty room with yellow walls and pictures of fruit in dishes. The room smelt sweet, like perfume. He rubbed his eyes and saw a bouquet of white and blue flowers on a table in a vase next to the bed. He was woozy, as if he was drunk. He tried to get out of the bed, but was too tired so he lay back and slumbered, and then a woman in white with a bright smile came in.
‘How we doing this morning?’
‘Sleepy.’
‘It’s good to be sleepy. Hungry?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good. Your breakfast is coming soon. You slept like a log. That’s good too. You wait here and I’ll bring you in some lovely breakfast.’
The woman, short, stout with a friendly face, came back into the room with a tray of coffee, toast, marmalade, croissants and some milk. She was wearing a white tunic. She told Adam to sit up, and then placed the tray across his lap. He ate ravenously while the woman watched, and she looked happy that he was eating.
‘Where’s Sarah? I want to see her.’
‘How’s the breakfast?’
‘Very nice.’
‘Good. Someone’s here to see you.’
Another woman was standing in the doorway; she was in a pale-blue coat, was wearing a wig and had bandages wrapped round her fingers. The woman in the tunic said: ‘Hi, Cassandra. He’s doing very well.’ Then she took the tray and the woman with the bandages sat near the bed and gave Adam a bag of grapes.
‘Remember me?’
‘Yes, you’re my Guardian Angel. You must be high up in Heaven, because the other angel looks up to you.’
‘You’re in a private hospital. You’re here to get better.’
‘Is God here?’
‘No, Adam, God isn’t here. Why don’t we go for a walk in the gardens?’
The woman with the bandages asked if they could go out, and the woman in white said yes, as long as Adam wasn’t too tired from the drugs. She asked him if he was tired and he said he didn’t feel sleepy anymore.
So they left the room and were led out into some beautiful gardens with beds of flowers; magenta, pink and yellow. Hovering above them was a white butterfly chasing the flowers as they were caught in the morning breeze. Bees were dancing in and out of the flowers, then the butterfly took flight. Adam saw low rectangular hedging lining gravel paths that weaved around it. There was a white marble statue of a man with a shield and a trident, and beneath it were pots of lavender overflowing onto a freshly watered lawn.
Fir trees stood tall and proud in a line where the gravel path widened. The morning was warm and Adam sat next to the woman with the bandaged fingers; he smiled into the sunshine.
‘Heaven’s pretty, isn’t it? God must be proud of his wonderful creation. He made all this, all these lovely plants, and the bees. He’s clever, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, Adam, but we’re in a garden, not Heaven.’
‘God created everything, and me. I’m pleased he made me so I can see this wonderful garden and the scent of these flowers. Do you love God?’
‘Yes, I do. I want you to get better. That’s why I paid for you to be here. And hopefully in time you will, because I want the old Adam back.’
‘Am I the new Adam? I’m the first one aren’t I?’
As the sun was rising he raised a forearm to cover his eyes. He looked all about him, thought the world was majestic and felt privileged to be such an important part of it. God was a master craftsman, creating the kind woman next to him, the bees and the little butterfly he’d seen. God must have a diverse imagination to make so many things.
‘God looks after us, and I need to keep good care of his garden in return.’
‘I hope you get better soon, Adam.’
A man in a long white coat, with white receding hair, came out and said something to the woman with the bandaged fingers. They spoke in hushed tones. The man smiled and wrote something on some papers he had with him, and then spoke again to the woman with the bandages. Adam was led back to his room after taking some pills. He was tired again, and slept.
The next day the woman with the strange hair was there again. It was another warm morning and they walked in the gardens. Adam said he wanted to come every day and the lady in the white tunic didn’t seem to mind, and said a walk was good for mind and spirit. He and the woman with the bandaged fingers sat on a bench for a while and she was talking about a large house in Chelsea. He closed his eyes and the sun warmed his eyelids, his face and arms. He enjoyed the sensation of the sun on his skin, and the sound of the woman’s comforting voice; it drifted over him like music.
‘Your big house sounds lovely. But I bet it’s not as big as this house; look over to those high white walls and battlements.’
‘No, Adam, it’s not as big as this place.’
‘Let’s walk over to the trees. I have something to show you.’
They walked down the gravel paths and Adam took them to some flowerbeds near the fir trees
. He knelt down and examined the flowers. He found one, a large yellow rose with dew, like jewels in the petals.
‘I’m not going to pick it as I don’t want to hurt one of God’s creations. Kneel down with me.’
His friend knelt and adjusted her wig, then saw to the bandages on her fingers. She put her arm round his shoulders, and he felt the sun on his back. He held the stem of the flower gently in between two fingers, and his eyes were soft and admiring as he looked at it.
‘Isn’t it pretty? He has the hands of a master, doesn’t He? Look at the shape of the petal. It’s been designed perfectly. And these parts where the bees go. The flower’s scent is very important—it attracts the bees; God had to think of a lot of things when he made this.’
‘The flowers are very pretty. Shall we go back now?’
With great care, Adam let the flower fall from his fingers to avoid damaging it. He stroked a petal, then stood up. They walked back down the path to his room, and he said he was tired but was glad she’d seen the flower.
Time passed. The angels became nurses and the woman with bandages became Cassandra. And Heaven became the world. The garden was just a garden. As everything found its former shape, Adam found himself in an alienating place. As he recovered, the magic was lost as rational thought found him. He began to make sense of the things around him and anger found its place, as did fear, as the memories came to him in fragments and then formed together to recreate his mind. He struggled to keep hold of Heaven, but could no longer do so. He was not somebody special or chosen. And he fought this too, but failed as the drugs were decreased and the tedium of the old world reappeared. Life lifted its head and spoke to him, and he listened to new words: words he’d rather not hear. And he tried to be deaf to the voice of reason and blind to the eyes of rationale.
Eva visited when he’d recovered. And her first kiss provoked memories of the hotel room. One morning she came with her flute and played for him. Adam remembered her teacher. And then he remembered the papers and letters hidden in the alcove behind his father’s wardrobe.
Forty - Five
Darius hadn’t visited him in hospital and Adam wondered why. As his new life was discovered, with it came the rage at the deception. All he wanted to know was why. Why had his father created a world populated with fictional inhabitants like Travis?
During the last morning in the hospital, as he prepared to face life again, Darius came. He wore an old coat, and his beard was tangled and long. He was shown into Adam’s room.
‘Hello, son.’
‘I’m leaving today, and I’m going to leave home. I’ve been very
ill.’ ‘I know. I’m so sorry about that.’
‘All I want to know is why. That’s all.’
‘I wanted to bring Sarah back for you. I wanted you to have a sister again. That’s all, just so you could have her back.’
‘And what happens when you die? What would have happened to the letters?’
‘I don’t intend to die any time soon. I’m so sorry if I hurt you. I wanted to make you happy, to bring her back so you had her in your life again. Sometimes it felt as if she was really alive, to me.’
Tears welled in Darius’s eyes, then fell freely, his head in his hands as he wept. He kept saying sorry, and that he’d meant well, and that he’d done it out of love. Without saying goodbye and without speaking to his father, Adam left the hospital.
He moved into a council flat, claimed money from the government and accepted housing benefit. It was seventeen floors up and had an old patterned carpet, the floor showing through in places. No central heating, just a gas fire. He’d refused Cassandra’s offer of a place she’d buy for him.
For a few weeks he read books, newspapers, and would sip coffee, standing near a window while looking out at the great vista of London. He spent some nights with Eva, and sometimes she’d stay in the council flat, and they spent many evenings making love and talking into the early hours. She had a serene attitude toward what had happened, and with it, infinite understanding. Her support and presence both in body and mind centred him and was the catalyst for his recovery. The process was slow to begin with, as most mornings he couldn’t get up. The dawn would come, and with it the realisations and memories, so he’d fall asleep with no dreams and wake in the early afternoon, sunk in the abyss he was unable to escape.
One morning they were lying in bed, both smoking, both drinking coffee. It was a dull day, the rain running down the windows in rivulets.
‘I know you don’t like thinking about this,’ she said, ‘but you should forgive Darius.’
‘He’s a bastard. I hate him for what he did.’
‘I don’t think he meant to hurt you; he apologised and explained why he did it when he came to visit you.’
‘I’m not forgiving anyone right now. I just can’t believe he’d do that to me: to make her come alive, to deceive me, to play with me as if I was a puppet.’
‘Just take things slowly. I think in time you may be able to forgive him. You’re a good person, Adam.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Looks like you don’t want to talk about him now, so let’s change the subject. I wondered if you, well, you know … love me, and all that?’
Adam took his coffee to the window and saw the yellow silhouettes of London fading to a hazy horizon. He could just make out the London Eye.
‘Yes, Eva, I love you.’
‘Fab. Just what I wanted to hear. Now come back to bed.’
Adam went to her and their bodies intertwined, and Eva was smiling up at him.
‘You look bored. My sex boring you?’
‘No, it isn’t. Sometimes Sarah invades my thoughts. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you with it all. I don’t care what you think about—the love thing’s really cool though.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Eva, smiling and with a serene air, walked to a chair, removed her flute and played. Adam said he was going out to buy some cigarettes. He left Eva playing her flute and the music hovered in his ears as he left the estate and walked quickly, his hands in his pockets, thinking of his father and the betrayal. And he considered Eva’s words on forgiveness; and he wondered if he could manage it regarding the conspiracy he’d been drawn into. Adam turned down a side street and the sun was fighting hard behind a canopy of translucent sky. The day was pleasant with the sound of birdsong in some tall oaks; and this contradicted the ugly morass of hatred that had collected within him. And then, as the sun and light breeze ran over his face, he was choking on the repulsion towards his father; he allowed the rage to find its way through black arteries.
He had an image of tying his father to a chair with a flex of rope, and then beating him around his head with closed fists until the blood streamed in rivulets down his face, until his father’s screams faded as the breath of life left him.
Adam passed a corner, bought some cigarettes and with fingers that shook like leaves on a tree managed to light one. Did these innocent internal organs deserve the punishment he was inflicting? They’d committed no crime and neither had he; but he’d been thrown into the jail of despair by a man he’d looked after, nursed and loved for years. And now the love and respect he’d had for his father was sullied by the injustice he’d been subjected to. He looked back to all the conversations he’d had with Edmund and his subtle encouragement to forgive. And he’d managed it with Nigel, and felt better for it. But now, to give freedom to his father seemed as far away as an Arctic plain. And if he could describe the emotions in greater depth, they would be as cold and arid as that Arctic plain: his ability to exonerate was frozen inside him. He’d need more than conversations with a kindly priest to thaw the endless winter of indifference he held for his father. He didn’t care if his father suffered.
Adam tried to imagine forgiveness, it’s possible shape, colour and texture, to try and bring his emotions closer to it, but he couldn’t manage anything. Now, smoking under the shade of a tree, opposite a news
agent, he was blind to the feelings he had for his father, and his eyes were open and he saw him as a satanic creator of illusions, a cunning craftsman; and a man who’d created his black landscapes with skill and a boundless imagination.
He’d need a meeting with Edmund. Adam walked back to his flat, and told Eva he wanted to visit his ecclesiastical friend at the church. She demanded a quick kiss before he left, and one was provided; he felt the soft texture of her lips. They were like the lustrous shimmer of a red apple in strong sunlight, and he caught the scent of her lily perfume. He stroked her hair and drew a strand from her eyes, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She wished him luck and he left to see Edmund.
He had a whisky at the Soldier’s Arms, drinking it slowly, as he prepared himself for the meeting with his friend and what he’d say to him. After draining the glass, he left the pub and then made his way to the church. Adam arrived and entered the dark hallowed space. Some candles were lit in front of the small gold crucifix, and his favourite priest was seeing to some flowers in a glass vase. Adam called to him, and Edmund turned, his face all lit up.
Adam told him what had happened: he’d found the letters in the alcove and had been a victim of his father’s elaborate scheme. He spoke of family members in New York that had been accomplices in the conspiracy, and how he felt when he’d read the initial notes initiating the beginnings of the fiction. He’d been the main character alongside Sarah, with minor roles for her children and Travis, the man in black that had been perfectly drawn by his father. And then he spoke of his breakdown in the hospital with the pretty garden.
‘You look really down about it, Adam.’
‘The anger towards my father is tormenting me. I know we’ve discussed this forgiveness stuff before and I managed it with Nigel. But this is different, and I have no idea how to stop hating him.’
‘Well, we’ve got a good start. At least there’s something in you that wants to make amends with him, however small. Why don’t you try and think of the good things he’s done? You told me you and your father looked after each other when Sarah first went missing. Maybe there’s something there.’