If Ever I Fall: A gripping, emotional story with a heart-breaking twist
S.D. ROBERTSON
IF EVER I FALL
Copyright
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017.
Copyright © S. D. Robertson 2017.
S. D. Robertson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008100698
Ebook Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008100704
Version 2017-12-21
Dedication
For Mum and Dad
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by S.D. Robertson
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
I come round in stages, struggling to shed the cocoon of my dreams. They seem so real, so urgent, until the tug of daylight on my eyelids takes charge and one world blends into another. As my knuckles rub this place into focus, the harsh reality of a moment ago fades, filed away into a dark drawer.
‘You’re awake.’
The man’s voice startles me. I move to sit up, only for a sharp pain to explode in my head, forcing me back down.
‘Easy now. You need to take things slowly, lad. Doctor’s orders.’
‘What happened?’ I whisper, wary not to bait the throbbing.
‘You’ve suffered a head trauma. I don’t know exactly how you did it. I wasn’t there, but it looks like you fell off a ladder. I found you unconscious in a pile of soil. That cushioned your fall, but your head wasn’t as lucky as the rest of your body …’
The voice continues, but I’ve stopped listening. My mind is on something more important. Something I’ve just realised. Something that makes my blood run cold.
I’ve no idea where I am.
The part of the room I can see from my horizontal position on the single bed is unfamiliar: mint green paint; a pine wardrobe and a matching bookcase busy with spine-creased paperbacks; varnished floorboards and a cream rug.
But that’s not what’s really worrying me. Neither is the fact I don’t recognise the voice muttering away in the background. It’s far worse than that.
‘I don’t know who I am,’ I say. My voice echoes in the room.
Then there is silence.
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday, 4 April 2017
Dear Sam,
I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. It’s something I need to do. I have so many thoughts racing around my head all the time. They need to be channelled. This is my attempt to do that – and to avoid going loopy – so please bear with me.
I miss you so much. You’re in my mind all the time. No matter what else I’m doing, there’s a part of me wishing you were there too. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened. I’m miserable without you. We all are. But I’m not going to keep on with these depressing thoughts. If I do, I’ll end up crying all over this paper and having to start again. And why would you want to read that kind of thing? No, I’m not doing this to dwell on the past. There’s been plenty of that already. I can’t promise it won’t creep in here and there, but I’ll do my best to avoid it.
So what am I going to tell you? Whatever’s going on in my life, I suppose, and my reaction to it. Let’s be clear: for this to work, I’m going to have to think of you differently. I need to be able to confide in you, to tell you anything and everything, and that won’t be the case as things stand. So, to make that easier, I’m imagining writing to a future version of you, as if nothing bad ever happened. I know it’s a bit weird, but I’ve given it a lot of thought and it’s the best I can come up with. On the plus side, I think it will also make it easier to steer clear of the sadness: the black hole that threatens to swallow me if I think about it too much.
I want to tell you about what happened in the schoolyard today. I was standing apart from the other mums, as usual. I’ll never be part of their little club and I’ve no desire to be. I’m pretty sure they all either despise me or pity me and, to be honest, I feel pretty much the same about them. The ringleaders – the overdressed, overconfident Queen Bitches, as I call them – make me want to scream. They’re so damn snooty. And I feel sorry for the more timid, frumpy underlings for being at the Queen Bs’ beck and call.
I missed my chance to join ‘the gang’ when Ruby started in reception and I was too busy working to do the school run. That already marked me out as a bad mum in their eyes. They’ll always think so now, even though the new me is in the playground five days a week. It’ll never make a difference. I’ll forever be an outsider: someone talked about in hushed voices behind her back. That’s small town life for you, I suppose. We made the decision to buy this house – in a semirural spot within commuting distance of the city – and with that comes a specific type of people, people who have, shall we say, certain attitudes. I imagine it would be much the same anywhere in the country as it is here in the north of England. City folk are less judgmental in my experience, or at least better at minding their own business.
In the early days I made the mistake of trying to talk to a couple of them: a pair I later christened Horsey and WAG, not knowing their real names. I walked up to them and said something innocuous. ‘Lovely weather today,’ I think it was. Their response was simply to look down their noses at me for a horrified moment and then to continue chatting with each other as if I didn’t exist. I shuffled away, turned back to watch them giggle. I couldn’t believe it. I felt like I was back at school myself, but at least I knew to steer clear of them in future.
Not everyone is that way. There are people I could speak to if I so desired. I could always make small talk with the other outsiders: the grandmas and grandpas; the working parents on a rare day off; even the girls in the hi-vis vests from the nearby after-school club. I do occasionally, if I’m feeling chatty, but mostly I keep myself to myself. It’s easier that way.
So there I was, standing alone in my usual spot near the dustbin, avoiding eye contact with everyone around me, and willing Ruby to be the first out. Then someone spoke to me.
‘What’s your secret?’ a deep male voice asked.
There was no doubt he was talking to me, since his mouth was so close to my ear that he could have whispered the question. And as if that wasn’t enough, he touched my shoulder at the same time. I almost jumped out of my skin.
‘Sorry?’ I said, fighting not to look too shocked as I turned around to see a gorgeous man – six foot, athletic, with dreamy chestnut eyes – beaming a perfect grin at me. Then came this deep, infectious laugh.
‘Don’t look so startled,’ he said. ‘You were behind me on the road. Black Golf, right? I was wondering how you were able to park so quickly. One minute you were there; the next you weren’t. It took me ages to find a space. Do you have a secret spot?’
It feels strange talking to you about a man this way, considering … well, you know. Honesty’s essential, though. I wouldn’t be confiding in you if I held that kind of thing back.
Once I realised what this guy was talking about, I relaxed. To be honest, I could hardly believe that such a handsome stranger had noticed me, never mind started a conversation. He looked in his late thirties, well dressed in a light-grey suit and tie; clean-shaven with cropped hair. I decided to enjoy it, not least because I could see the Queen Bs staring at us, wondering why he was talking to me and not them.
‘Um, there is a spot a few streets away that I tend to use.’
‘I knew it,’ he replied. ‘And let me guess, you’re not going to tell me in case I nick it in future.’
I smiled. ‘It’s not that secret. There’s room for more than one car. Did you see me turn left on to Meadow Street?’
I gave him the directions and, next thing I knew, we were shaking hands.
‘I’m Rick,’ he said.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Maria.’
I wondered how he’d been able to recognise me just from seeing my car behind his. When I asked him this, he laughed.
‘You stopped for petrol on the way, right? Don’t worry, Maria. I’m not stalking you or anything. I just happened to be doing the same thing. I noticed you at the pump and then you followed me out afterwards.’
Rick explained that he and his daughter, Anna, had recently moved to the area because his job had been relocated. He’s a finance manager for a large retail firm, apparently. I didn’t ask, but there was no mention of any wife or girlfriend. Today was Anna’s first day at her new school, he explained, adding that she was eight, the same age as Ruby. The weird thing was when the school doors opened and Ruby ran out into the playground with Anna in tow, begging me for her new friend to come to play at the house. Coincidence or what?
Before I go on, I must say how much Ruby misses you. Please don’t think for a second that she’s forgotten you and moved on. I could list countless examples of how that’s not the case; they’d break your heart. But again, that’s not why I’m writing to you.
Where was I? Oh yes, Ruby and Anna coming out of school together, all smiles. They were both buzzing about having a new playmate, as kids do. It was lovely to see.
‘Pleeease can she come, Mummy?’ Ruby asked, arms squeezed tight around my legs and puppy-dog eyes peering through her long blonde curls.
I looked over at Rick. He was being accosted in a similar way by his own daughter, who was a little taller than Ruby, with shoulder-length dark hair in neat plaits. ‘What do you think? I’m fine with it if you are.’
‘Sure,’ he replied, flashing his pearly whites at me. ‘When were you thinking?’
‘How about tomorrow?’
I could have invited them there and then, to be honest, but I knew the house was a mess and I didn’t want that to be his or Anna’s first impression of where we lived.
‘Fine with me. Am I invited too?’
‘Of course.’ I smiled. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to entrust your daughter to someone you’d just met.’
He beamed back at me in a way that felt like we might be flirting with each other. ‘I don’t know. You look like a pretty safe bet. And you did share your parking secret with me. We’ll look forward to it, won’t we, Anna?’
She replied with an excited nod.
‘Great. See you here tomorrow, then?’
‘Fantastic.’
And that was it: play date arranged. I’ve been cleaning the house ever since. Tidying up is my way of dealing with the nerves.
I could have imagined the flirting thing; it’s been so long, I’m not sure I even know how to do it any more. Luckily I stopped short of saying: ‘It’s a date.’
I’ll tell you what: I can’t wait to see the look on the Queen Bs’ faces when we leave together. It’ll be priceless.
Time to go now. It’s late and my empty bed awaits. I’ll write again soon.
Love as always,
M
Xx
CHAPTER 2
Roof tiles clatter, boards creak and the window rattles in its frame as an angry wind gusts outside. The sound distracts me for a moment. From my pillow I scan the bare ceiling above me as if it might contain clues to answer the questions swirling around my mind. Then I flick my eyes back to the expectant face, still glued on my own, scrutinising me.
The man, a wiry chap in his late fifties or early sixties, scratches the top of his head, his white hair so short it barely moves. He’s dressed in smart navy jeans and a pressed white shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up.
Miles: that’s what he says he’s called, although it rings no bells with me. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve never met before and this room I’m in – this bed – is unfamiliar.
He claims to be a doctor: a retired GP. What he won’t tell me is anything about myself. He wants me to try to remember first, although I know there’s no point. The cupboard is bare.
‘Nothing at all?’ he asks, finally breaking the silence.
‘No.’
Panic grabs a hold of my throat and thumps me in the chest.
Where the hell am I?
Who is this guy?
Why can’t I remember anything?
I try to sit up in bed, but doing so makes my head pound like before and I flop straight back down again.
‘Take it easy, lad,’ Miles says. ‘Here, let me help. We’ll do it slowly.’
He disappears from view for a moment and returns with a second pillow. Then, supporting my shoulders, he eases me up into position. Thankfully, the pain is more manageable this way and it settles again once I stay still for a few seconds.
‘How’s that?’
‘Good,’ I whisper, breathing out a long sigh of relief.
He hands me a glass of water. I take a couple of grateful sips to sprinkle the desert that is my mouth and throat, licking my swollen, crusty lips a few times to try to moisten them.
I take a deep breath, try to speak. My voice fails a few times and I cough, my throat hurting with the effort.
‘So you’re surprised my memory hasn’t come back yet?’
‘Hmm.’
‘What does that mean?’
He paces the room before answering. ‘This kind of memory loss, which we call retrograde amnesia, might happen a lot in films and soap operas, but it’s rare in real life. A blow to the head is more likely to affect the forming of new memories. Even then, it would have to be a serious whack and, honestly, I don’t think yours was that bad. I’d have taken you to the hospital if so.’
The word hospital sets off the panic again. I feel it rising in my chest. ‘Isn’t that where I need to be? What if my brain’s swollen, or I have a blood clot or something? It’s agony every time I move. And I don’t know who I am. That’s not normal – you said so yourself.’
‘Calm down. Getting all riled up is only going to make things worse. I’m a qualified doctor. I have many years of experience and I’ve checked you over with the utmost care. If I had the slightest suspicion you were in any immediate danger, I most certainly wouldn’t be dealing with this here. Trust me, you’re far better resting in bed than being jostled around in a car or an ambulance.’
‘How can I trust you, though? I have no memory of you. You claim to be a qualified doctor, but how do I know that’s true? You also said yourself that you’re retired.’
‘That’s right. I am retired, but I’ve kept up my registration with the GMC so I can do locum work once in a while. I still have a licence to practise. Would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, please, I would actually.’
‘Fine.’
Miles leaves the room. He’s obviously annoyed that I don’t believe him, but what am I supposed to do? I don’t know him from Adam.
He returns a few moments later and hands me a framed certificate. It hurts my head to read it, but it looks official enough. I pass it back to him. ‘Thanks.’
‘I thought you might like to see this too,’ Miles adds, handing me a smaller picture frame containing a local newspaper cutting. ‘Popular GP hangs up his stethoscope,’ reads the headline. Underneath is a photo of Miles surrounded by a bunch of his former colleagues outside the medical centre where he apparently used to work.
I read the first few lines of the article, which confirm what he’s already told me, and it’s all I can manage.
‘I’m sorry for doubting you,’ I say, handing the frame back to him, ‘but put yourself in my shoes. I don’t remember anything at all and it’s pretty damn terrifying. Plus my head hurts like hell.’
‘I understand,’ he says, although his folded arms and curt reply tell another story.
‘So what now? Do I need to see some kind of specialist? What do you think?’
Miles screws up his face, emphasising the wrinkles around his sea green eyes. ‘Um, no, I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s most likely a bad concussion. Take it easy for a few days and you’ll soon be back to normal. I can keep an eye on you.’
‘Whatever you think is best,’ I say, keen to avoid riling him any further.
He nods and throws me a pursed smile, although I’m sure I spot a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. After pouring more water into my glass and leaving me some ginger nut biscuits to nibble, he tells me to try to sleep.
‘Can’t you tell me my name and something about myself?’ I ask. ‘Are we related? Is this my home?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snap, loud enough to provoke my headache. ‘That’s the bloody problem.’
His voice is placid. ‘I’ll tell you if you still can’t remember by tomorrow, but I’m confident you will. Please try to keep calm. I know what I’m doing. Studies have shown that it’s preferable for a patient to be given the chance to recover lost memories for themselves.’
He shuffles out of the room, pausing before closing the door behind him. ‘For the record, it’s not locked,’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘You’re free to leave here any time you like, but I definitely wouldn’t recommend that in your condition.’
I have a better view of my surroundings now that I’m sitting up in bed. I see a single-glazed sash window with curtains to match the green walls; a high ceiling, white with Victorian-style coving and a light bulb on a bare ceiling rose; a wooden chair with jeans and a black T-shirt draped over it. There’s also a pine bedside table that matches the wardrobe and bookcase, plus a brushed steel reading light. None of it looks familiar.
I’m tempted to get up and peer out of the window. From my current position, I can only see the overcast sky and I wonder whether a full view of the outside world might jog my memory. However, a jerk forward and another dagger between the temples puts paid to that idea. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut. I wait for a few moments until the pain has subsided
My phone! I think suddenly. Where’s my mobile? There must be some answers on there. There will be numbers to call, photos, videos, all sorts. I’ll be able to work out the last person I spoke to and see who I dial regularly. Someone will be able to tell me who I am. I feel a rush of relief at the thought of this solution and look wildly around the room. My gaze falls on blank surfaces; I can’t see a mobile anywhere. There’s not even a charger in any of the plug sockets. I sit forward, slowly this time, and consider getting out of bed to look for it, but as I try the pain kicks in again and, reluctantly, I accept that it’s not going to happen.
‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Miles, are you there?’
I try a few more times, but he doesn’t reply, so I scour the room again from the bed, in the vague hope I might have missed it. All I manage to do is wear myself out.
I close my eyes.
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
I ask myself this simplest of questions over and over, scouring the darkness of my mind for an answer. But it’s not there. All I can picture is the room on the other side of my eyelids. There is nothing else. It terrifies me. I’m seized by a gut feeling that Miles is wrong and my memory won’t come back any time soon, if ever. The tears start flowing down my cheeks. I feel pathetic but can’t stop them coming. I cry myself to sleep.
‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ a girl’s voice whispers into my ear, so close that it tickles; makes me shiver. The voice is familiar and fills me with happiness. I snap open my eyes.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Morning. Expecting someone else?’
Miles has pulled the wooden chair up to the foot of the bed. His eyes are fixed on mine, which are gungy with sleep, although it feels like barely any time has passed since we last spoke.
Whoever it was I thought had woken me, whatever brief memory I had of them, is gone. And yet something – a feeling that I should be somewhere else, with someone else – lingers. ‘I, um. I’m not sure. Morning? What do you mean? How long was I out?’
‘You slept right through after we spoke yesterday. That was late afternoon. I looked in on you a couple of times before I went to bed and you were out for the count.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I groan. ‘That would explain why my bladder feels ready to explode.’
I lever myself upright, ready for a fresh burst of pain that turns out to be much less than yesterday.
‘How’s the head?’
‘Better, thanks.’
‘Do you remember my name?’
‘Miles, right?’
‘Good. And the rest?’
I pause to think and then shake my head. ‘Only what we discussed yesterday.’
‘You remember that?’
‘Yes.’
‘But nothing else?’
‘No.’
The void – the absence of crucial memories I know should be there – triggers a bout of anxiety. I feel my heart start to pound; there’s a tightening in my chest and my throat feels like it’s closing up.