A Letter from Sarah Read online

  First published in Great Britain in 2019

  by Urbane Publications Ltd

  Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleaming Wood Drive,

  Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ

  Copyright © Dan Proops, 2019

  The moral right of Dan Proops to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-912666-21-8

  MOBI 978-1-912666-22-5

  Design and Typeset by Michelle Morgan

  Cover by Michelle Morgan

  Printed and bound by 4edge Limited, UK

  urbanepublications.com

  urbanepublications.com

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  ‘Dan Proops’ novel is a psychological white knuckle ride through the hopes and despairs of a man wrestling with truths, mirages, lies and visions. It is an exciting, heart-breaking, infuriating, teasing and disturbing read.’

  John Hind – Observer columnist

  ‘A Letter from Sarah, is an intriguing and addictive read. The writing is superb, as is his cast of beautifully drawn characters. I’d recommend this book to anyone.’

  Rick Sky – Journalist and commentator

  For Robert Joseph

  One

  She’d been missing for seven years. They weren’t looking for her anymore. There’d been the occasional sighting which gave rise to hope, but they’d been mistaken happenings, and he’d wished one of them had come to fruition; the hardship of maybe, and might be, was hard to take. He preferred nothing. And wanted to be left alone with grief untainted by the glimmers produced by sightings in this country and others. He was nearing the anniversary of her disappearance, when she’d been missing for a week, then a month, then a year. He remembered the early articles, short pieces at first, then half a page. The press had been indifferent in the beginning, but as time passed there was a torrent of reporting from journalists.

  He walked across the room to the mantelpiece, reached for a wooden box and opened it. The monochrome photograph was white at the edges as he’d held it so many times; it was the only one he could bring himself to look at. Her face was lit on one side, the other eclipsed in shadow. He sat in an old armchair holding the photo. She’d been a good sister, kind, thoughtful, always aware of his moods, whether sullen or optimistic. She’d lifted him when he was morose or lacked creativity, and had offered suggestions to help him overcome the times when inspiration was hard to come by.

  There was a noise above him, a moaning wail, crying out for help, and a thudding sound on the ceiling. The voice was wheezy and there was some anger to it, so he put the photograph back in the box.

  He trudged up to the first floor and stood for a moment, then reached for the bronze handle. It was almost dark in the room. The curtains were drawn, and he could make out his father, a silhouette, apart from some light slanting through the curtains that caught the side of his face. He had white hair, a beak of a nose and a white beard, greying at the edges. With impatience he turned to his son.

  ‘Where’s the tea?’

  ‘I thought you had some.’

  ‘I drank it. I could do with some more.’

  His father shifted his weight so his back was against the wall. Holding a walking stick, he prodded the floor as if he was searching for something.

  ‘Adam, don’t just stand there. I’d love a tea.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  He closed the door and could hear his father coughing. He walked downstairs and put a kettle on the gas hob. The kitchen was cramped and smelt of grease. Adam heard the rumbling as the water boiled, made a pot of tea, found three digestives, and then heard the sound of the stick on the ceiling. Adam returned to his father whose face was softer when he entered the room.

  ‘I’m feeling ill. Cold’s getting worse. Now where’s the tea?’

  ‘Here.’

  Darius sighed and waved his stick in the direction of a side table. His face was grim with deep lines. Adam placed the tray next to his father who looked at it and shook his head, then bashed the stick against the table. Adam took a step backwards. Darius turned to his son.

  ‘Three digestives? I wanted two.’

  ‘You asked for three yesterday.’

  His father looked perplexed for a moment, as if he’d forgotten something. He ran the stick in slow movements across the carpet, and Adam took one of the biscuits from the tray. His father asked about lunch. The discussions about the meal were difficult, as his father would sometimes change his mind after it was prepared and served. Today, Darius wanted fish, some trout, with lemon. He spoke in great detail about the meal, how it should be cooked, and was particular about the wedges of lemon.

  ‘Dad, are you sure you want the fish today?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Are we clear on the food front? Get me some more tea. My lungs are aching and my back hurts.’

  Adam walked downstairs and sat in the armchair and his thoughts turned to Sarah. He held his cup of coffee, taking small sips, and looked across the room to some grey net curtains. He recalled the last time he’d seen his sister and how much pleasure she’d brought him in that last hour, in those last minutes.

  Adam was sitting with Sarah in a bar on a side street near Trafalgar Square, and she was preparing to go out for the evening. They were at the back of the café drinking wine.

  Sarah flicked her hair back, laughed, took some lipstick from her handbag and looking in a mirror, applied some. She smiled, a gentle smile, gazing at herself with a serene demeanour. She frowned after she put her lipstick away, and adjusted her hair. She’d always been preoccupied with her hair, whether to let it grow, to cut it back, or to add highlights.

  Her eyes were blue, oceanic and inquisitive. Adam was depressed about his work. Sarah had various strategies for making him feel better about his ambitions as a sculptor. And then the words, her last words: ‘You know you’re good. Don’t doubt yourself, Adam. Anyway, off I go to paint the town red.’

  He’d been haunted by that moment for seven years, and her face had appeared in hi
s thoughts on summer days and winter nights. And one was always vivid in his mind: the swirl of her red coat when she’d left through the door, and the flash of blonde when the night took her.

  Adam left his flat and walked through the back streets of Earl’s Court through a square of mansion blocks leading to the Earl’s Court Road. He was to meet an old friend from university he hadn’t seen for three years. He went to a pub and took a whisky to a table. Nigel Hawthorne was late. Adam was impatient as he drank the whisky. He didn’t want to sit there waiting. The pub was quiet and a short, dark-haired girl was serving two old men; and then Nigel was there, standing in front of him.

  ‘Hi, Adam, long time. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Good to see you. Want a drink?’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll have a whisky.’

  Adam went to the bar and waited for the girl to serve him. He was worn out that morning, as he was most mornings, and was tired from a lack of sleep. He was in no mood to speak to Nigel. He was in no mood to speak to anyone. He brought the whisky back to the table.

  ‘How’s the art world, Adam?’

  ‘Still struggling. I sold a small thing to a friend a month ago, so that’s something.’

  ‘Tricky life making money as an artist. Tough, real tough.’

  Nigel had already become tiresome; every time they met he’d make a vague comment on the hardship of a sculptor’s life, how hard it was to succeed, and his comments came with the shadow of derision. Adam explained, as he’d done on countless occasions, that he wasn’t in the arts to make money. This seemed to bewilder Nigel, as money was the yardstick every man was measured with.

  Then the dreaded question.

  ‘How’re you bearing up?’

  Adam knew what he meant, as Nigel had said this during the many phone calls and the occasional meetings they’d had over the previous few years. He was referring to Sarah, and he’d ask this question to avoid mentioning her name, as if saying her name would make things worse. There was an indifferent tone to the inquiry, and he’d ask the question as if Adam wasn’t bearing up, as if he never would.

  ‘Fine, really. All’s good.’

  ‘She was so lovely wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re very strong—the way you deal with it.’

  Adam didn’t want encouragement from friends, old or newly found, or from anyone who knew she’d been taken. They were trying to help, but their pity compounded the pain of the loss. Why couldn’t they stop with how awful it must be, how difficult it all was, and if he was ‘bearing up’.

  Adam’s fingers fluttered around the top of the glass as he faced Nigel, the successful banker who was bearing up very well. He lived in Hampstead and had a large garden. Nigel leant back in his chair, sighed and crossed his arms, his eyes listless.

  ‘Been fired. Lost everything,’ he said.

  ‘That’s terrible. What happened?’

  Nigel smiled a glib smile. He told Adam the bank had let him go some months ago, and he’d made a poor investment and had not only lost his job but any hope of finding a new one. Nigel was wearing a tailored blue suit and was tall with blond hair combed over to one side. If a stranger laid eyes on him they’d think he was successful, moneyed and settled. Adam took a sip of whisky.

  ‘It’s a bitch about the job,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I’m lost. Got nothing.’

  Adam was in an unusual situation. He was usually the one burdened with encouragement: that there were many things to life, that he had his health and many things to live for. They’d usually mention he had a roof over his head when trying to lift his spirits, then reel off a list of other things he was blessed with that made up for the loss of his sister.

  ‘You must have some savings, Nigel. You were making a fortune last time we met.’

  ‘Got nothing. Bank took all of it.’

  Adam was unsure how to respond to this as he’d been expecting to meet the man he’d known, the man of means with a sports car upgraded to a new model every two years. Nigel finished his whisky and then placed the glass on the table with care, as if it might crack.

  ‘Got nowhere to live. I’m broke. I was wondering if I could crash at your place for a few nights? Give it a think. It’s my round.’

  ‘I’ll have a Becks.’

  ‘Good choice, mate, good choice.’

  While Nigel was buying the drinks Adam thought of the spare room in his house, on the ground floor next to the kitchen. He had a clear picture of it. Sarah’s bedroom hadn’t seen paint in years and the wallpaper came away in furls in a far corner. It used to be pink, shocking pink, and he remembered the day their father prepared to paint it and his sister’s words: ‘Oh Daddy, pink. It’s got to be pink! It’s feminine.’ Sarah, at the age of five, knew the word ‘feminine’. She read voraciously. When she turned six she read Hemingway for days on end and was obsessed with The Old Man and the Sea; she read it until the book fell apart and needed Sellotape to keep the pages in place.

  Adam saw Nigel return from the bar. He was walking slowly, carrying the drinks, making sure no beer was spilt.

  ‘So what do you think, can I stay a night or two? Must be a bit lonely there with your old man.’

  ‘I’ll try. He can be difficult, so I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘I’ve got nowhere. Give it a go mate.’

  Nigel asked if he could borrow ten pounds, so Adam took a note from his wallet and laid it beside his friend, who folded it and put it in his top pocket.

  ‘Thanks for the cash. Give it some thought. I’d only stay a couple of nights. I know your dad rules the roost, but I’m desperate—desperate.’

  Nigel stayed for a while, ruminating over his lost job and the threat of bankruptcy. And then he stood, tapped Adam on the shoulder, said he was a diamond, and left.

  Adam thought of his childhood with Sarah, her happiness when Darius agreed to her wishes, and her excitement with her new pink room.

  He willed the memories to leave him alone. Afterwards, there was the rush through time from the halcyon past to the tedium of the present, with her gone, with the mystery unsolved. All the imaginings: that she was alive, lying under a tropical sun on white sands, or laughing with a friend at a café. Or he’d find her in dark woods, her body twisted and bloodied, flesh lesioned, bruises about her face and arms; and the moonless nights when he found her, and the screams as he ran from her.

  Two

  Adam walked through misted streets to his ramshackle house, where the hallway had the musty reek of old books and a dark carpet. It was a ground-floor flat and he entered the front room directly. To the left was a rectangular window. Through an arch was a dining room with a table covered in a tablecloth with a red and white chequered pattern.

  He put his key on a side table, then heard the stick on the ceiling. And he could tell from the frequency of the sounds that his father was irritable, so he walked up the stairwell. The last stair creaked, announcing his presence.

  ‘Dad, why don’t you come for a walk with me tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m sick, Adam. You know that. Why’d you torture me with your pleasant walks?’

  ‘I know you’re depressed. I am too, but you should leave the house more often.’

  ‘I’m not depressed. I’m ill, okay?’

  His hand tightened around his stick; spittle was in his beard and he looked at his son with disdain. There was silence. Darius pushed his cane in the direction of the chair next to his bed, and Adam sat down. Darius had been unwell since Sarah had gone missing and had become bedridden. Adam had tried many times as he had a need to make his father feel better, because he knew the pain so well. He laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. With a swift movement Darius pushed it away.

  ‘Don’t tell me I’m depressed. You talk about these walks to make me miserable.’

  ‘Dad, I love you so much.’

  Adam left and went to his bedroom and cried. The tears flowe
d onto white sheets, and he cried until there were no tears, as he didn’t need tears to cry. He lay very still on the bed. Twilight drifted in through the curtains. He woke and sat with his back against the wooden bars of the bed. He switched on a sidelight and thought of Nigel and how he’d ask Darius about the possibility of a new guest. Adam wanted Nigel to come. He wanted it very much. He considered various strategies, each met with the same predictable reaction, but he wouldn’t put up with anger, or histrionics, or rage. He’d announce Nigel’s arrival as if it were a subject foreclosed, as if the decision had been made. He went to make some tea, and holding a tray he made his way upstairs to his father.

  Darius sighed, put his book on the side table and, with the stick, gestured for Adam to enter. His father kept his eyes on Adam as he was handed the tea. There was a bemused look to Darius, as if he’d noticed a change in his son.

  ‘Dad, I want to discuss something.’

  ‘I’m lucky to have you. I’d be at a loss without you. I’m proud of you, I—’

  ‘I’ve a friend coming over. It’s Nigel.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He’s in trouble. He’s going to stay for a few days in the spare room. Remember how kind he was when Sarah went missing?’

  Darius reached for his stick, prodded the floor a few times, and then turned to his son with black eyes, shining behind thick-lensed glasses. They were intense, blazing with the fury of a mute trying to speak.

  Adam stood up, his hands behind his back.

  ‘He’s only staying a few nights, so don’t worry. It’s nothing permanent.’

  ‘And I have no say in this? It’s my house, Adam. I love you and want you to be happy, but I’m not well. I’m frail and the chest pains have been getting worse.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but my friend’s in trouble and I want to help him.’

  ‘You want to make me ill, don’t you. You know stress makes me worse.’

  Over the years, the doctors had come and gone. And Darius had been critical of all of them. They were all useless; they were charlatans. Now he had Dr Lane, who looked in on him every now and again and was called when Darius thought he was dying or near to death. Dr Lane was a kind man and had comforting words for his patient, and after the visits he’d take Adam aside. There was nothing wrong with his father; he was suffering from depression, punctuated with bouts of anxiety that produced a myriad of complaints compounding his hypochondria.