Sarah

By David Sartof

To overcome the grief of losing her twin brother, the director-husband of a talented but naïve and head-strong young actress persuades her to appear in a one-person show he has written for her, at an old, disused theatre in a small East-coast town.

The show bombs on the first night, after she fails to take heed of the advice offered by an unseen, enigmatic member of her audience. As she opts to stick with the direction of her writer-director husband, she puts her sanity and their lives in jeopardy. After her husband suffers a tragic accident, she has only two nights to turn her show into an overnight sensation and avoid further tragedy.

As the, now imprisoned, actress recalls her story to a visiting psychologist, the dark and far-reaching consequences of her final night's performance are revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Sartof
• Release date: Feb 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301289608

David Sartof

I was born in a small caravan in a field in the north of Scotland. After such an inauspicious yet somehow romantic introduction to life, I have gone on to do many things. I have served in the merchant marine, been a professional engineer, a military officer and an entrepreneur. I also have a PhD in management philosophy and can research the backside off most things! I now live, in North Yorkshire, England, with my wife and young son. Throughout my eclectic career, I have always written, believing fervently in the power of the written word, and I have previously published a non-fiction work with Palgrave Macmillan. I now bring together a set of rich experiences, a creative research-based outlook to plot construction, and a dash of essential seasoning, to bring you fiction such as River of Judgement, Gloria and now, Sarah! The latter two short stories being inspired by the writings of Anton Chekhov.

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SARAH

by David Sartof

Demeter Publishing

Demeter Publishing

First published in Great Britain in 2013

by Demeter Publishing,

a division of AM (Northern) Ltd.

This electronic edition published in 2013

at Smashwords

by Demeter Publishing

Copyright © David M Atkinson writing as David Sartof 2013

The author asserts his moral rights.

This is a work of fiction.

All characters and events in this publication, other than

those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to

real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All companies

and locations are either the product of the author’s

imagination or, if real, used fictitiously.

All rights reserved.

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without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise

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Originally typeset in Garamond by

Demeter Management Services,

a division of AM (Northern) Ltd.

Demeter Publishing,

a division of AM (Northern) Ltd.

Registered in England No. 05080874

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SARAH

by David Sartof

I

It seems moments ago I checked into this diminutive hotel in the small East-coast town of Deanswater: a motley collection of houses, shops, pubs, the hotel in which I find myself, a couple of churches and, of course, the subject of my visit – an undersized and disused theatre. Everything here feels small, except the sea beyond.

Deanswater, itself, lies at the mouth of the river Dean, where the tepid, fresh, peat-laden water, drawn from the moorland above the town, falls to meet with the colder, more turbulent North Sea. It is a town, I find, almost as forgotten as its theatre. And, the moment I arrived, reinforcing a foreboding sense of having set foot on some far distant, foreign land and in a time long since passed, a dense hoar fog – a sea fret in these parts – rolled in from the water's edge. The atmosphere lay thick and ominous about me. The fog spread its tentacles through the narrow streets, creeping up the steep rises either side of the estuary, obliterating most visible landmarks, rendering even the bright-lit street lamps less effective than the dull glow of a single, near-exhausted, candle.

With the door to my room closing behind me, onto a room set a mere two floors above street-level, overlooking the seafront, I became conscious of my lungs drawing breath for what felt like the first time this day. I dropped my bag onto the bed and crossed to the gabled window. Except for my knowledge of the time – almost midnight – looking out, it might have been either day or night. …And the silhouette I thought I saw below me, at street level? …No mind. I took another deep breath and turned back from the window. From within my coat I withdrew various contents from its pockets, casting them to the bed, my wallet falling open. For some moments, I stood unmoving; it was all I could do to stare down upon the photograph inside – happier times, me and my last girlfriend. …Not Sarah, but it might well have been. It brought alive the memory of my visit to the prison, concluded less than twelve hours ago.

But now I have work to do. And, before the next twenty-fours pass, I remain unable to foretell what will befall me. …All I know? I have set in motion a dark process from which I am sure only bad will ensue.

My name is Nate Black – Nathanial, if you prefer. I am a psychologist. Rather, I aspire to be one, a practicing one – unlike the academic variety I find myself, in all honesty, to be.