Dan Proops [Proops - A Letter from Sarah

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

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 HindObserver columnist

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

Rick SkyJournalist and commentator

For Robert Joseph

One

Shed been missing for seven years. They werent looking for her anymore. Thered been the occasional sighting which gave rise to hope, but theyd been mistaken happenings, and hed 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 shed 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 hed 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. Shed been a good sister, kind, thoughtful, always aware of his moods, whether sullen or optimistic. Shed 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.

Wheres 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, dont just stand there. Id 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.

Im feeling ill. Colds getting worse. Now wheres 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 hed 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 Im 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 hed seen his sister and how much pleasure shed 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 caf 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. Shed 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 youre good. Dont doubt yourself, Adam. Anyway, off I go to paint the town red.

Hed been haunted by that moment for seven years, and her face had appeared in his thoughts on summer days and winter nights. And one was always vivid in his mind: the swirl of her red coat when shed 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 Earls Court through a square of mansion blocks leading to the Earls Court Road. He was to meet an old friend from university he hadnt 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 didnt 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?