If Ever I Fall

by S. D. Robertson

  It was mainly photos he had of her, plus a few short video clips. It wasn’t nearly enough. Why hadn’t he taken more while he’d had the chance? Still, at least there were some. Something to hold on to. He cherished the videos in particular, which had the power to bring his daughter back to life in those precious captured moments. Seeing her running along the beach, chasing Ruby; pulling the cap from her younger sister’s head and then racing towards the sea; pretending she was going to throw it in as Ruby fought to catch up with her. Dan had watched those three minutes and thirty-two seconds over and over again, as he had all the other clips.

  Sam as a fairy in the school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  Sam diving into an outdoor pool in a green and black swimming costume.

  Sam getting a make-up lesson from Maria – all pink lips and blue eyeshadow.

  Sam dressed in her navy blazer and red tie on her first day at secondary school.

  Sam giving Ruby a piggyback on the beach.

  Watching them was like experiencing a terrible pain and a warm pleasure all at once. He loved hearing his daughter’s voice again: something he was terrified he might forget without the videos. He adored seeing her. But he hated the fact that this was all he had left.

  His elder daughter, gone forever; the whole family torn to shreds in the process.

  Sitting there in the dark room, the only light coming from the monitor, Dan upped the pace on the drinking, numbing himself the only way he knew how.

  When he came to, slumped on the desk chair, the monitor had gone into standby, although the computer was still whirring away. He felt a sudden sense of panic, remembering the idiotic thing he’d done. He’d permanently deleted it, hadn’t he? The whole folder – all those precious memories – gone in a moment of drunken madness.

  Shit. He had to get the folder back. Had to retrieve it. Why the hell would he do that? Why would he delete the only links he had to her?

  He shook the mouse to wake the screen. The light was enough to see the keyboard but not his address book. He switched on the desk lamp and flicked through the pages with clammy fingers. Until he found him: Ant, the IT guy who used to cover his office before the centralisation. He’d been one of the casualties of the cutbacks. Now he worked for himself as a mobile tech repairman. Dan had used him a couple of times before to fix problems on his home PC.

  He glanced at his watch before calling: 11.55 p.m. Far too late, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to do something.

  He used the landline, not sure where he’d left his mobile. It rang for ages. He dreaded hearing voicemail; then Ant picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  He didn’t sound happy. Dan reeled off the words, trying not to sound drunk.

  ‘Sorry to call so late. It’s an emergency. I’ve deleted some files by accident. Not into the recycle bin: properly deleted. I need to retrieve them. There are no other copies. I’ve never done this before. Is it even possible?’

  ‘Whoa. Slow down. Who is this?’

  ‘It’s, um—’

  As he was talking, Dan had been clicking his way through to where the deleted folder should have been on the computer. The thing was, he’d just realised that it was still there, as were all the pictures and video clips, at least as far as he could see. Nothing looked to be missing at all.

  What was going on? A minute ago he’d been certain he’d deleted the lot. Unless …

  It dawned on him that it must have been a dream, an alcohol-fuelled nightmare. And yet it had felt so real. What an idiot. Why on earth hadn’t he checked before phoning Ant, rather than being led by panic?

  ‘Hello? Are you going to tell me who you are? Or is this some kind of prank call?’

  Dan’s mind was whirring. He had a withheld number on his landline. Short of recognising his voice, there was no way Ant could know it was him. So although he felt bad about it, he did the only thing that made sense at that moment: he hung up.

  Before going to bed he checked through the computer folder, which – to his considerable relief – definitely appeared intact. He found a USB stick and copied everything across to it, as he’d intended to do ages ago.

  The last file he copied was a photo taken in summer 2013. It was one of his favourites: so beautiful. All four of them together – him, Maria, Sam and Ruby – on a North Wales clifftop, framed by a glorious deep blue of merging sea and sky.

  He’d been meaning to order decent prints of that and some of the other pictures to put up around the flat. At least he had the freedom to do so now. At the house, Maria still insisted on keeping all the photos of Sam shut away in her old bedroom. She’d had a wobbler one day and removed them from the lounge and so on. It was something to do with them getting in the way of her accepting Sam’s death. Dan hadn’t been happy about it, but there was no arguing with her when she got like that.

  He took one last lingering look at that beautiful image before shutting down the computer.

  The four of them all looked so happy then. If only he could go back to that moment. If only it had never ended.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The girl’s words snap me out of my daze. I realise I can’t keep on standing here in the doorway of the shop, gawping at her. I look down at the ten-pound note in my hand, which Miles gave me for a reason.

  ‘Um, sorry, yes,’ I reply, easing off my grip on the handle and hearing the door swing shut behind me. ‘I, er, I’m just after some milk and bread.’

  She points towards the far corner of the store. ‘Over there.’

  ‘Lovely. Thanks.’

  She gives me a lethargic nod and returns to a magazine she’s reading. Apparently I’m no longer of interest.

  I wander in the direction she’s indicated and find a good selection of both items. I pick up the largest carton of milk I see. Then I choose two medium-sliced wholemeal loaves – a brand I’ve seen in the kitchen before. People can be picky about bread, I think. Best stick to what I know Miles likes.

  But what I’m really thinking about is the girl and what I might say to her. It leads me to wonder again about my suspicions that I might be a father and to curse my damn memory loss for keeping me in the dark. Wouldn’t having a daughter of my own mean I’d find it easier to talk to this girl? Not necessarily, I tell myself, in a bid to shelve my ongoing frustration. Not if they were totally different ages. And teenagers are supposed to be tricky anyway, aren’t they? Do any parents really know how to talk to adolescent kids?

  As I make my way back to the counter, she continues reading the magazine. Her long black hair is tied in a side plait, which hangs down the front of her right shoulder. She’s wearing a navy polo shirt with a green apron on top. Fresh-faced and make-up free, she looks around fourteen or fifteen years old. How am I so sure that it’s her – the girl in red – when I’ve only ever seen her from a distance? My certainty starts to wane and then, as I put my items on the counter, she flicks her emerald eyes up to look at me and I’m confident again that it’s her. It’s not the striking colour: I’ve never been close enough to notice that before. It’s something deeper. I can’t put my finger on it.

  What about her voice? I wonder. I try to recall the sound of the girl I heard on the clifftop. Was it the same as the voice that spoke to me a moment ago? Possibly, but I can’t say with any degree of certainty. Perhaps talking to her some more will help.

  ‘Hello,’ I say with a grin, hoping it comes across as friendly rather than creepy. I’m aware of the need to tread carefully talking to a girl of her age, especially after the staring incident when I first entered the shop. I have to find a way to engage with her without coming across as a weirdo.

  ‘Is that everything?’ she asks, the shadow of an enforced smile crossing her lips, her eyes looking to the door.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  I pass her Miles’s ten-pound note and scour her face for some sign that she recognises me. It doesn’t come. She places my change on the counter and
looks back down at her magazine.

  ‘Perk of the job?’ I ask.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Magazines: you must get to read them for free.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yeah.’

  ‘Helps pass the time?’

  ‘Sure.’

  This couldn’t be going worse. She’s willing me to leave. I can see it in the strain on her face. I must be wrong. I’ve got my wires crossed. It’s hardly a surprise, considering the state of my memory. My mind must be playing tricks on me. It can’t be the same girl.

  And yet I find myself looking behind the counter, wondering if I might see a knee-length red coat hanging somewhere.

  What’s wrong with me? Apart from the obvious. Forcing myself to be normal, I pick up the bread and milk and start to walk towards the door. But before I reach it, I can’t resist turning back to her and opening my mouth again, just one more time.

  ‘Did I see you walking along the clifftop earlier?’

  She looks up again from her magazine, eyebrows and forehead clenched in a frown. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m staying up there – in the big old house. I’m sure I’ve seen you pass by. This might sound weird, but I had a fall this morning. Someone helped me and, well, I’m keen to say thank you to whoever it was. I wondered if, er, it might have been you.’

  ‘I’ve been working here since eight o’clock this morning.’

  ‘Really? That’s odd. I could have sworn—’

  The sound of the door being thrust open behind me grabs my attention. I turn and see Miles.

  ‘Oh, there you are, lad,’ he says. ‘I’m done. I was wondering where you’d got to. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, I’m coming.’ I hold up the two loaves of bread and the milk carton. ‘Is this enough?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  I glance back at the shop assistant, who’s now picked up a mobile phone and is tapping the touch screen.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I say, doing my best to throw my voice in her direction. ‘Must have confused you with someone else. Goodbye now.’

  ‘Bye,’ she replies, without looking up.

  I follow Miles outside, feeling confused and stupid.

  ‘What was that all about?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was trying to make conversation, that’s all. I don’t know why I bothered. You know what teenagers are like.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Miles replies. ‘I remember going through all that with Alison. Once was enough. I don’t know how people with several kids manage. Must be a nightmare.’

  Once we’re in the car and heading back to the house, I can’t stop myself from asking Miles whether or not he knows the girl.

  ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘I might have seen her in there before, but I couldn’t say for sure. They seem to have several young people on their books. Cheap labour probably.’ There’s a pause. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘She seems familiar. I wondered if I knew her from, you know, before my accident.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘She’s not a neighbour: someone I might have seen at the house?’

  Miles shakes his head. ‘We don’t really have any neighbours. You get the odd rambler passing by, but they’re usually closer to my age than hers.’

  I’m not getting anywhere. I change the subject. ‘So you got the nails you needed?’

  ‘In a flash. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Good. Do you want to head straight back or are you up for a detour?’

  ‘A detour? That sounds intriguing. What did you have in mind?’

  I’m looking out of the window as I ask this, scanning the side of the road for something I might remember. When Miles doesn’t answer, I turn to look at him only to see – to my horror and utter confusion – that he’s no longer there. The driver’s seat is empty.

  ‘What the hell?’ I shout, diving over to grab the steering wheel as instinct kicks in.

  Words and rational thoughts escape me as I try to get my head around this impossible situation. The road is on a downward slope and there’s a sharp corner coming up, from which – as if things weren’t bad enough already – an angry red truck emerges at speed.

  I gasp.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You seem a bit lost.’

  ‘I, er—’ I look around and can’t understand what’s going on. There are people everywhere. Travellers wheeling cases, studying information screens, queuing, using their phones.

  The woman who spoke to me is wearing a hi-vis vest over a navy jacket and a sky-blue blouse; a photo ID pass around her neck says her name is Diane and she’s a customer service assistant.

  I’m in an airport? I think, perplexed. Wasn’t I …? But whatever it was I was questioning slips from my mind before I have a chance to grab on to it.

  ‘Sir, have you already checked in? Do you have a boarding card I could look at? That way I can point you in the right direction.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I reply, patting the pockets of my suit trousers and then my jacket.

  ‘What about your bag?’ she offers, eyes pointing at my feet where I notice for the first time a small shoulder bag – the kind that usually holds a laptop.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, pulling a folded piece of paper and a passport out of the inside pocket of my jacket, ‘I think this must be it.’

  ‘Where are you headed today?’ she asks as I open it up.

  I hand her the sheet and reply at the same time. ‘Eindhoven.’ I can’t work out whether I knew that before reading it or not. Now that I’ve said it, I feel like I’ve always known that to be my destination, although a moment ago I could have sworn … well, I’m not exactly sure. I was a bit confused. It’s like there was a mist obscuring my thoughts, but now it’s lifting.

  ‘Very nice,’ she replies. ‘I love Holland. We’re not supposed to call it that any more, though, are we? The proper name is the Netherlands. My daughter-in-law is Dutch; she’s lived here for years now. She’d tell me off if she heard me calling it Holland. I think that’s only a small part of the country – a couple of provinces or something. She has told me, but I don’t remember exactly. Anyhow, now we know where you’re going, let’s have a look how your flight’s doing.’

  She gestures for me to follow her and heads towards a nearby information screen. I pick up my bag, throw it over one shoulder and walk at her heel like an obedient dog.

  Once we’re within viewing distance, Diane stops. I do the same and wait as she squints up at the large monitor. I probably should be looking at it too, but instead I find myself watching all the people around me, wondering where they’ve come from and what their destinations might be.

  After a long few seconds, she turns back to me with a practised smile. ‘Well, the good news is that you’ve still got plenty of time until you need to be at the gate for boarding. Unfortunately, there is a delay to your flight. It’s only showing as forty minutes, so hopefully that’ll be it, but I can make an enquiry for you; check if it’s likely to change.’

  ‘That would be great. Thanks.’

  ‘Bear with me. I won’t be two ticks.’

  Diane trots to a desk in the nearest check-in zone and, after a quick word with a colleague, she picks up a phone.

  As I’m waiting for her, a huge man in a leather trench coat rushes by, running over my foot with the wheels of his case. I notice that – bizarrely – he’s holding one of those retractable dog leads in his left hand. It stands out because of its fluorescent yellow colour. ‘Hey!’ I shout after him. ‘Watch where you’re going.’ But he continues without a backward glance, like an articulated truck that has just flattened a mouse.

  Why does the word truck make me feel so strange?

  I picture it in my mind’s eye as a blood-red mechanical beast, racing around a sharp corner, engine roaring. And then—

  A tap on my shoulder. Diane again.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Did I startle you?’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes. I mean no. It’s fine. I was lost in my thoughts for a moment.’

  She frowns at me. ‘Are you sure that’s all? You look pale. Would you like to sit down? Or perhaps I could get you some water.’

  ‘No, thank you. Please could I have my boarding pass back?’

  ‘Of course.’ She hands me the piece of paper. ‘The flight’s fine, by the way. I mean, it’s still late, but the delay isn’t expected to increase. The departure lounge is straight up the escalator.’

  I thank her and head on my way. Eindhoven, here I come.

  I travel up the escalator feeling relaxed and happy. Not a care in the world. I enjoy spending time in airports. There’s always something to do, even if it’s just people watching. My favourite part is once you’ve passed through all the security checks. Then you’re in the bubble: the restricted no-man’s-land that’s neither one place nor another. There’s something special about that.

  I’m almost at the top of the escalator when my eyes wander across the crowd below and something – or I should say someone – catches my attention. It’s a slender figure in jeans and a knee-length red coat. A girl, maybe a teenager. It’s hard to tell at this distance. She seems to be looking straight at me, mouthing something I can’t work out, and waving. I look around to see if she could be signalling at someone else, but there’s no one nearby. Then I reach the summit, slide on to static ground again and she’s out of view.

  Who is she? There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t put my finger on what.

  I’m standing at the top of the escalator, pondering this and wondering what to do about it, when something heavy crashes into me from behind and sends me tumbling.

  CHAPTER 15

  Monday, 10 April 2017

  Dear Sam,

  How my life has changed since the days when I worked all the time. Do you remember the crazy amount of hours I used to spend in the office? Sorry, that’s a stupid question. Of course you do. You wouldn’t believe how much I regret that. All that time we could have spent together instead.

  As a young woman I remember going around telling people that I had no regrets about anything. ‘What’s the point?’ I used to say. ‘The past is done. Move forward. It’s not like you can go back and change anything. Regrets feed misery.’