If Ever I Fall

by S. D. Robertson

  He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing much. I saw it and couldn’t resist.’

  ‘But I haven’t got you a present.’

  ‘That’s fine. I wasn’t expecting anything. Being here and sharing the day with the two of you is more than enough.’

  She opened it and Dan thought he glimpsed a flash of appreciation on her face. But it was gone before he could be sure. A moment later, she shut the box without trying on the bracelet and placed it on the arm of her seat. She turned to him and said: ‘Thank you, Dan. That’s lovely.’ But her steely eyes told another story.

  Later, when Ruby went to the toilet, she scowled at him. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘I do, but we’re supposed to be having a break from each other, Dan. This is the kind of gift a man buys his wife.’

  ‘You are my wife.’

  ‘But we’re not together. I invited you today for Ruby’s sake, not as a reconciliation. A gift like this comes with expectations.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. My only expectation was that you might like the bracelet and wear it together with the necklace. I’m sorry I bothered.’

  ‘Why are you sorry, Dad?’ Ruby said, walking back into the lounge.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, darling. I was talking about work.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Nothing interesting.’

  ‘You never tell me anything.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. How about we all play a board game?’

  A little while later, when Dan could no longer bear Maria’s frostiness – even for Ruby’s sake – he announced that it was time for him to leave.

  ‘Not yet,’ Ruby said. ‘Why can’t you stay a bit longer? We don’t want him to leave now, do we, Mummy?’

  ‘Your dad’s got things to do, love,’ Maria replied.

  ‘On Christmas Day? Like what?’

  ‘I, um, arranged to meet up with a friend from work. He was going to be spending Christmas alone otherwise.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Maurice. You’ve probably heard me mention him.’

  ‘Why don’t you invite him here?’

  ‘Come on now, Ruby,’ Maria said. ‘Stop giving your dad a hard time. We’ve had a nice day, but he has to leave.’

  After saying his goodbyes and heading outside into the chilly evening air, Dan reached into his coat pocket for his keys and found the boxed bracelet he’d given Maria. There was a handwritten sticky note attached.

  Dan,

  Sorry, but please return.

  Maria

  He couldn’t believe it. Who the hell did that: rejected a present on Christmas Day? He was torn between rage and sorrow. So he couldn’t even give his wife a gift any more? What hope was there for them?

  He opened the door of the car, sat down, threw his chocolates into the passenger seat and thumped the steering wheel three times. He fired the Focus up and reversed it out of the drive at speed, causing it to skid on a patch of ice and connect with the garden wall. Wincing at the scraping sound, he put the handbrake on, got out and walked around to the passenger side to survey the damage. There was an ugly dent in the front door from where it had connected with the sharp corner of a concrete pillar cap.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said under his breath.

  Other than a couple of paint marks, which he was able to brush away by hand, there was at least no damage to the wall, so no need to tell Maria.

  He got into the car and headed back to the flat. The line he’d spun to Ruby about meeting up with Maurice was pure fiction. He’d be seeing out the rest of the night alone. His only plan was to drink himself into a happier place.

  CHAPTER 17

  Fingers click.

  A voice calling down an empty corridor. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

  Fingers click again. The voice is closer. ‘Sir?’

  Silence.

  Then the world rushes back to life with a gasp. Bright lights and noise and movement all around. There’s a woman’s face about an inch in front of my own: a pungent whiff of coffee on her warm breath. ‘Sir? Do you recognise me? My name’s Diane. We spoke a few moments ago.’

  I glance down at her hi-vis vest and ID pass. I nod and try to speak, only for a croak to come out. I clear my throat and try again. ‘Diane. Yes, I remember.’

  I’m sitting on the floor at the top of the airport escalator, my back against a barrier. Diane’s kneeling in front of me, but she’s moved back a little now. Passengers spit out one after another from the moving staircase, glancing at me with a perplexed look before continuing on their way.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Diane asks.

  ‘Stupid.’

  ‘You banged your head. I’ve called for help. Someone should be here any minute.’

  I check myself as best I can from my position on the floor. My head does hurt, as well as my knees and right elbow, but everything still seems to work. ‘I think I’m all right.’

  ‘I saw what happened,’ Diane says. ‘I was watching you from the foot of the escalator and I couldn’t believe it when that big idiot in the leather coat barged his way past and knocked you to the floor. He didn’t even stop. I’m sure we’ll be able to track him down. His details will be on the computer and there are cameras everywhere. He should be made to apologise, at the very least.’

  I think back to the giant in the leather trench coat who ran over my foot with his case earlier. It must be the same guy. No wonder he sent me sprawling. He looked at least six foot six and chunky with it.

  A lad with a green first-aid kit appears. I can’t be doing with the hassle of being checked over by him. He looks like a teenager with his blond hair and Tintin quiff. His only medical qualification is probably a two-hour course in an airport conference room.

  ‘Hello,’ he says in a voice too deep for his body. He flashes a nervous smile at me and then looks to Diane for direction.

  ‘He banged his head,’ she says. ‘Someone pushed him over. He was out of it for a minute.’

  ‘Unconscious?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m fine. No need for a fuss.’

  I plant my palms on the cool, smooth floor beneath me and start to get to my feet.

  ‘Wait,’ Diane says, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. ‘You need to take it easy.’

  I scowl at her, jerk her hand away and continue to push myself upwards, doing my best to ignore the shooting pains from my joints. ‘I said I’m fine.’

  Once I’m standing again, head pounding, I grab hold of the barrier behind me and wait for the dizziness to pass. Then I look Diane in the eye.

  ‘Thank you for helping me. I appreciate it. But I’ll be all right from here.’ I turn my gaze to Tintin, whose face is knotted with anxiety. ‘Relax. I’m sorry you had to come out. It’s a false alarm.’

  He takes a step towards me, his green box held out like a peace offering. ‘It’s no trouble. I’m trained—’

  ‘I said no.’

  He jerks back in response, his wide eyes looking again to Diane for instruction. But she’s equally confused.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to them both. ‘I don’t mean to sound aggressive or ungrateful. I just want to get on my way.’

  I look down at my bag, which is on the floor near to Diane. Maintaining eye contact with her, I lean forward to grab the strap and lift it on to my shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to continue on my way now,’ I say, wondering how this has ended up feeling like that point in a film when the hero has pulled a gun and is backing away from his enemies.

  Am I the hero, though, or am I the bad guy? Diane and Tintin are only trying to help. Why don’t I let them? What am I afraid of?

  Diane opens her mouth to speak, but no words emerge. She stops. Literally freezes. And everything – everyone else – does the same. The escalator has halted. The information screens are frozen. The hubbub in the background has become a deafening silence.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ I say, my voice echoing like I’m in
an empty cavern.

  I click my fingers in front of Diane’s face, like she did to me a few moments ago, but she doesn’t react. Gingerly, I reach forward again and prod her shoulder, but I might as well be touching a lead statue. The same goes for Tintin and every other person I approach. They’re all frozen to the spot, exactly as they were when this – whatever it is – happened.

  I spot a skinny businessman down on one knee, tying a shoelace. I walk up to his side and push with all my might, keen to see if I can knock him over. He doesn’t shift a millimetre. I kick his small wheeled case, thinking that at least will move, but it’s as solid as a wall and I yelp in pain.

  ‘What is this?’ I shout. ‘Hello? Can anyone hear me?’

  There’s no answer, so I bellow it out over and over again as I weave in between frozen people and luggage. I only stop shouting when my throat starts to hurt. Then I feel the silence closing in on me. It’s oppressive – more than I can bear – and I find myself starting to vocalise my thoughts so there’s at least some noise.

  ‘Better the sound of a crazy man talking to himself than nothing at all,’ I say.

  After a few minutes of aimless wandering, I decide to continue on my original course towards the departure lounge. ‘I might as well,’ I tell a little girl frozen in the act of picking her nose.

  ‘This can’t be real, can it?’ I ask the next frozen figure I pass. ‘I must be dreaming. What other logical explanation is there? I bet I’m still sprawled on the floor at the top of the escalator and my mind’s making this up.’

  I pinch a small piece of skin on my neck and slap both cheeks.

  ‘The crazy man’s hitting himself now,’ I say to a frozen official.

  I walk past him, skipping the queue of people lined up in front of his podium. Rounding the corner, I enter a large security control area where there’s a long line of frozen folk waiting to go through the scanners. But it’s neither the sight of them nor the halted machinery that stops me in my tracks. It’s the large shape I can see making his way awkwardly through them: my friend in the leather trench coat.

  ‘Hey,’ I shout in his direction. He has shoulder-length grey hair tied back in a ponytail, which flaps about as he turns his head in response.

  I wave, in case it’s not clear that I’m the person who called out. ‘Over here. I thought I was the only one. What the hell is happening?’

  He stares at me for a moment, stony-faced, before continuing on his way. Inexplicably, he’s still holding that fluorescent dog lead in his left hand.

  ‘Hey,’ I shout again, starting after him. ‘Why are you ignoring me? First you run over my foot with your case. Then you knock me over by the escalator. Now you’re pretending I’m not here, despite all this freakiness going on. Wait!’

  It’s hard to catch up to him with all the queuing people and their hand luggage in the way. Especially as he’s so far ahead.

  ‘Hold up,’ I call. ‘Please wait. I don’t understand what’s going on. You’re the only other person I’ve seen who’s not affected by this. Plea—’

  He’s at the front now. Standing before one of those gateway-type body scanners, he turns to face me, still way behind.

  ‘At last,’ I say. ‘Please wait for me. I need to know what’s going on.’

  He frowns. Scratches his nose. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name? It’s …’

  I don’t understand. My mind’s blank. I can’t think of it – my own name. How’s that possible?

  The man shakes his head and turns to leave.

  ‘No, don’t go,’ I plead. ‘Wait.’

  I have an idea. I halt my struggle forward and reach into my pocket. My boarding card is the first thing I find, but when I pull it out and look to the section where my name should be, it’s blank. I’m even more confused now. How can it be blank? Diane would have noticed if that was the case when I handed it to her. She would have said something.

  I pull out my passport next, only to find the same thing: no name, not even a photo.

  I look back in the man’s direction, more desperate than ever for answers, only to discover he’s gone.

  ‘You can’t leave me here,’ I shout. ‘Come back! I need your help.’

  The only reply I get is a fresh echo of my own voice, but before I can call after him again, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  I turn and see Miles in the driver’s seat – a concerned look on his face. He’s pulled the Land Rover over into a stopping place at the side of the road.

  ‘Jack?’ he says. ‘Is everything all right?’

  I blink. Confused. ‘Um. Yeah. Sure. Why? I didn’t black out again, did I?’

  ‘Is that what it felt like?’

  ‘What? No, I don’t think so. What did I do?’

  ‘Nothing as such. You stopped responding for a minute. You seemed to be looking out of the window into the distance. I suggested a detour and then, well, you didn’t answer. I thought you hadn’t heard me at first, but I asked you several times and still nothing. It was very strange. I stopped the car as soon as I could.’

  An angry red truck races by in the opposite direction, causing the Land Rover to rock from side to side as it passes.

  Miles shakes his head. ‘Someone’s in a rush. He should take it easy before he causes an accident.’

  ‘I think I, um, must have slipped into some kind of daydream.’

  ‘Was it another memory?’

  I rack my brains, but I can’t recall for the life of me what it was. ‘It sounds weird, but I don’t know. I could have sworn I did a moment ago, when you first asked. Now it’s gone. Sorry.’

  Miles appears sceptical. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’m not making it up.’

  ‘No, no. I wasn’t suggesting you were. I’m puzzled, that’s all. We could really do with getting hold of your medical history. That might shed some light on what’s going on.’

  ‘How do we go about that without knowing who I am?’

  He stares at me for a second longer and then shrugs. ‘That’s the problem.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Friday, 14 April 2017

  Dear Sam,

  I know it’s been a little while since my last letter. Each morning for the past few days I’ve been waking up full of good intentions and then one thing or another has stopped me from putting pen to paper. At least I’m writing now.

  I’m always talking about myself and it seems wrong that I don’t put questions to you. I know I won’t get an answer. I’m not delusional. But I have to believe that you’re still out there somewhere, Sam. You grew inside me. If I still exist, how can you not?

  So where are you? I hope it’s somewhere wonderful, where you wake up each day looking forward to what’s ahead; where you are surrounded by people you love and who love you back.

  Have you changed in the time since we were last together? Do you still look as I remember? Or have you continued to age like the rest of us? I’m not sure which I’d prefer. Whatever suits you best, I suppose. That’s what matters.

  It’s Good Friday today: one of the holiest days in the Christian calendar. You know I’m not a church person, although I often used to go as a child with Mum and Dad. They’ve always been regular Church of England worshippers, as you’ll remember. I stopped after leaving home. That’s not to say I don’t believe in some kind of God and an afterlife. I just don’t feel a desire to express it in public every Sunday. I don’t like to be told that certain days, like this one, are more important than others. I agree with the core morality of Christianity, but not with the archaic rules and regulations that ignore the realities of our modern world. I prefer to go my own way.

  It’s part of the reason why your father and I didn’t have you or Ruby christened. I didn’t want to be hypocritical. I thought it was important for you to be able to choose for yourselves once you were old enough to do so. There’s also the fact that Dan is an atheist, but I know he’d have let me christen you if I’d insisted. Like he let me have your
funeral in a church, which somehow felt like the only option to me. I had to make the choice for you that time and, despite my usual stance, nothing else felt right.

  It may surprise you to know that I pray most nights. That was one habit I developed as a child that I didn’t grow out of as an adult. Mainly because it was the part of religion I got on with: the private part, carried out on my own terms. I don’t kneel at the end of the bed or anything. It’s far less formal than that: more of an internal monologue followed by a period of silent reflection. It’s often the last thing I do before falling asleep.

  I believe in something – some greater being or purpose behind our existence – but I don’t see the need to explain it any further than that. Why do I believe? I can’t imagine how all of this could exist otherwise. But the rest is pure speculation. The fact is there’s no way to know the truth until you die, which is fine with me. I’m happy to wait for my time to find out.

  This leads me on to my next question, Sam.

  Was it really your time to go when you did?

  I struggled to believe so when it happened. It’s such an awful thing as a parent to outlive your child. I stopped praying for a long time, until I could no longer bear the hopelessness. And when I did eventually start up a new dialogue, it was that question I asked over and over again.

  I thought I’d almost come to accept that it was your time, but now I can’t stop myself asking you the question. You were so young. You still had so much ahead of you.

  Have you accepted it? Or do you wish you were still here with us? I pray that you’re happy and in a better place: somewhere that makes this old world of ours look dull and lifeless.

  I have to believe that. It’s why I returned to praying. The idea of you not existing any more – of us never meeting again one day – is unbearable. That’s what belief is all about. It’s comforting.