If Ever I Fall

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘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.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Miles asks, clocking my discomfort. ‘Stay calm and don’t panic. Everything’s going to be fine. You’re in safe hands. I want you to take slow, deep breaths through your nose, into your abdomen, and hold. Then breathe out through your mouth.’

  He demonstrates and gets me to breathe in time with him. We do this for several minutes and, gradually, the panic dissipates.

  ‘Calmer?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘Thank you.’

  Gingerly, I shift myself into a seated position on the side of the bed. The varnished floorboards feel cool under my feet. Miles stands at my side, ready to help if necessary, but I’m keen to do this alone. I rise gradually, testing my legs as I go. They’re a little shaky to start, but it soon passes and they strengthen up. My head throbs a little and I feel somewhat dizzy at first, but once I’m fully upright, with an arm on the wall to steady myself, the sensations ease.

  ‘Okay?’ Miles asks.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  I need him to tell me where the bathroom is. It turns out to be right next door, but I manage to get there by myself, which is a relief. There is still a dull pain in my head when I make certain movements. The rest of my body feels fine, albeit a little stiff.

  There’s not much to see outside the bedroom: a small corridor with more varnished floorboards, bare cream walls and three other doors. I open the one to the right of me and enter a glistening, modern bathroom with dark tiles floor to ceiling, a walk-in shower and a separate bath. It’s much nicer than I expected. There’s a neat pile of white towels under the sink and a shower gel dispenser on the wall, like something out of a five-star hotel. That starts me wondering whether I’ve spent a lot of time in posh hotels. Or perhaps I’ve never been in one and that’s why I’m so impressed by it. It’s awful not knowing myself, my own experiences up to this point. What kind of life have I had?

  The drops of water lingering on the shower screen are the only giveaway that the room has been used. It’s not until I have a nose around the cabinet under the sink that I find things like a toothbrush and razor.

  I stand at the toilet and do my best impression of a racehorse. Then, as I wash my hands and slap cold water on my face, I pause. Above me is a mirror. I’ve deliberately avoided looking in it so far. What will it feel like to see my reflection? Will it send my memories flooding back? Or will it be like looking at a stranger? I take a deep breath and straighten up.

  None of the above, as it turns out. I recognise myself – tired eyes, thick stubble and ears that stick out more than I’d like – but that’s it. I don’t know how I know it’s me; I just do. No name, no age, no identity, but a face I accept as my own. The same goes for my body. I’m tall, probably a little over s
ix foot, and in decent shape. I’m not gym-toned, but I’m about the right place between fat and thin and I seem fit enough. I look to be in my early forties, although I feel younger. There’s no obvious sign of my head injury, but it feels tender to the touch in places.

  ‘Better?’ Miles asks when I return to the bedroom, noting that the door isn’t even fitted with a lock. He’s wearing a navy polo shirt today, with jeans again, but I’m guessing a fresh pair. It’s the fact that he’s tucked the shirt into them that gives me this impression. Too neat to wear something for more than one day, I’d wager.

  ‘Yes, much better.’

  I perch myself on the edge of the bed so we’re eye to eye. I’m still not sure I trust him. I’m not sure about anything. But he helped me just now and it feels like I need to build bridges between us. ‘Sorry for what I said yesterday: you know, suggesting that you might have attacked me and—’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘It’s hard when I can’t remember anything. I feel so confused.’

  ‘Seriously, I understand. There’s no need to explain. What did you think of the bathroom, by the way?’

  ‘Um, yeah. It was really nice. Very modern.’

  ‘Ring any bells?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He stands up. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I say, also rising to my feet. ‘Do you know where my mobile is?’

  Miles hesitates for a moment before replying. ‘Um, I do. Yes.’

  ‘Great. Where is it?’

  ‘In the sea.’

  ‘Sorry? I don’t understand. What do you mean, in the sea?’

  ‘You dropped it just after you arrived here, lad.’

  ‘Hang on. What sea?’

  Miles nods towards the window. I look outside for the first time and there, sure enough, is the blue-green swell of the sea.

  ‘Right,’ I reply, my head swimming. ‘I didn’t realise. And I haven’t bought a replacement phone?’

  ‘No.’

  He starts to head out of the room again, mumbling something about making us a cup of tea.

  I grab hold of his arm. ‘Wait. You told me you’d give me some answers today if I needed them – and I do, especially now I don’t have my phone to consult.’

  Miles lets out a gentle sigh and sits back down on the chair. ‘Very well, although I still think you’ll remember everything by yourself soon enough.’

  ‘So what’s my name?’

  ‘It’s Jack.’

  ‘Jack what?’

  ‘Um, I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  He smiles at me. ‘Because you haven’t told me. The truth is, Jack, I know very little about you.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, more confused than ever. ‘I don’t get it. I thought we knew each other. I thought we were maybe even family. I didn’t have you pegged as my dad, but perhaps an uncle or something.’

  Miles shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Who are you, then? What am I doing here? How about you tell me what you do know?’

  ‘You’re my lodger. I bought this place after I retired and I’m in the middle of doing it up. You’re helping me in return for bed and board. The reason I thought the bathroom might ring a bell is that we fitted it together. Not long ago.’

  I stare at him for a moment. That wasn’t what I expected. ‘How long have I been here?’

  He explains that I’ve been staying with him for a couple of months. Apparently we met one night in a local pub and got talking. He was looking for a hand with the renovation and I needed somewhere discreet to stay – a place where I wouldn’t face too many questions.

  ‘Questions like my surname?’

  ‘Exactly. You never told me and I never asked.’

  ‘Didn’t you think you ought to know?’

  ‘Why? What’s the difference?’

  He says it was obvious I was in some kind of trouble, but he didn’t need or want to know the details. Considering himself a good judge of character, he decided it was worth taking a chance on me, particularly since I seemed to know a thing or two about DIY.

  ‘Turns out I was right. You’ve been a big help. I wouldn’t be anywhere near as far on without you. There’s still a long way to go, mind.’

  ‘Oh? This all seems finished.’

  Miles chuckles. ‘You really don’t remember, do you? Wait until you see the rest.’

  He’s not kidding. I find that out soon enough when I follow him to breakfast. I want to see as much as I can of my surroundings, hopeful that they’ll trigger some memories.

  We pass through the door opposite my bedroom and I’m stunned by what’s on the other side. ‘Wow. This place is huge.’

  ‘A huge wreck, for the most part. Careful where you walk. Follow my lead or you might find yourself knee-deep in the ceiling below.’

  He guides me along a broad landing, lined on each side by door after door, until we reach an imposing curved staircase wide enough for the two of us to descend together. As grand as the place is – or once was – it’s dilapidated: a dirty, mildew-flecked, musty mess of ramshackle floorboards and part-stripped walls.

  I spot the sea again through a grimy window with a rotten frame I could poke my finger through. ‘Where exactly are we? By the beach?’

  Miles glances back at me as he swings away from the bottom of the stairs and heads for the belly of the building. ‘I’m not going to tell you everything, lad. I want you to try to remember things by yourself. Seriously, it’s no good me feeding it all to you. How are you to know it’s not a pack of lies? Tell me, where do you think we are?’

  I’m tempted to say ‘in the kitchen’ as we reach our destination and he offers me a seat at a large oak dining table, pouring me a glass of orange juice from a jug. But I bite my tongue. This room has been renovated to a similarly high spec as the upstairs bathroom: granite surfaces, floor tiles and fancy appliances. There’s even a built-in coffee machine above the oven.

  ‘Well?’ Miles asks again. ‘Any ideas?’

  I shake my head, taking a big swig of the juice in a bid to calm my anxiety.

  ‘Okay, I’ll help you out a little, lad. We’re on the North Wales coast.’

  ‘Really?’

  He nods. ‘Does that sound familiar?’

  ‘Um, I’m not sure. Maybe. I guess it wasn’t what I was expecting because, well, you don’t sound Welsh. Come to think of it, I can’t put my finger on where your accent is from.’

  Miles laughs. ‘I’m from Yorkshire originally, but I’ve not lived there for a very long time. I spent most of my working life in Cheshire and moved here after I retired.’

  ‘What about me? What accent do I have?’

  ‘I don’t know where you’re from, if that’s what you’re asking. You never told me. Somewhere in Northern England, I’d say, but it’s not a strong accent. The answer is locked away in your head somewhere, which is why I want you to try to remember things yourself. That’s all I’m telling you for now.’

  Before I can argue, Miles changes the subject and starts talking about the kitchen.

  ‘This was my first project,’ he says. ‘Did it before I even moved in. A man can’t live without a good kitchen – not me, anyhow. You should have seen the state it was in before, John. Shocking. Made the rest look delightful.’

  I pause. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That the original kitchen was in a shocking state.’

  ‘No, after that. What did you call me?’

  ‘What do you think I called you?’

  ‘You called me John.’

  He raises one eyebrow. ‘And?’

  ‘My name’s Jack. At least that’s what you said before.’

  ‘Good. You see now why I need you to remember things for yourself. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  The panic bubbles over again. As I stare at him, Miles’s face begins to look strange. Kind of warped, as though I�
�m seeing it through a fairground mirror. I can’t tell if he’s leering at me or smiling; his features are morphing before my eyes. He reminds me of a wolf: a snarling, smiling wolf. ‘What if it is John? Or maybe it’s Nigel, or Sam, or Rick, or Ross. What is it? Tell me. Be sure. What is it?’ His face moves closer to mine.

  ‘What are you …’ A fog descends and the room starts to spin. I try to get up from the table, only to stumble.

  The world around me disappears.

  CHAPTER 3

  Thursday, 4 May 2017

  The phone on Dan’s desk rang.

  He looked at the clock; ten past two already. Shit.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello, Dan. It’s Susan on reception. I’ve got a bit of an angry man on the phone: a Mr Doyle. He’s demanding to speak to you. I tried to put him through to one of the reporters, but he was having none of it. He insisted it had to be you.’

  ‘Right. What’s it regarding?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I did ask him, but all he would say was that it was about a serious mistake in this week’s Herald.’

  A complaint, as he’d feared. They always came through about this time on a Thursday. Dan paused, thinking back through the many pages he’d checked the previous day. The name Doyle didn’t ring any bells.

  ‘Can I put him through?’

  Dan thought back to the good old days when he had a deputy and a news editor to filter out complaint calls. When he had the peace and quiet of a private office to deal with awkward issues, rather than the noisy open-plan space in which he now found himself. He’d been captain of his own ship. He’d been a somebody, at least to his readers in the Northern England towns and villages where the paper was distributed. He’d deliberately avoided living in the Herald’s reporting patch in order to escape work during his free time. But now the office wasn’t even based there, having been centralised to a hunk of concrete fifteen miles down the motorway, on the edge of the city. It was a ridiculous situation, but one he’d had to accept.

  Technically he’d been promoted after the move: made editor of two other titles on top of the Herald, his original newspaper. But in reality he’d become a glorified middle manager, a cog in the wheel. The title of editor had only been retained to appease the public. To pretend their beloved local papers were the same as ever, which couldn’t be further from the truth.