If Ever I Fall

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘I keep telling myself that she didn’t mean to,’ Dan said. ‘That it was a cry for help and if only I’d—’

  ‘Don’t.’ To Dan’s surprise, Maria took back his hand and squeezed it. ‘We can’t think like that.’

  ‘But if she’d meant to go through with it, she’d have left a note, right? Then at least we’d have understood what was going through her mind. The not knowing is tearing me apart. She must have felt like that for some time. She must have been depressed, but I didn’t have a clue. I thought she was just being a normal teenager. Did she ever seem depressed to you?’

  Maria shook her head. ‘I can’t do this now, Dan. I have to sleep. We buried our daughter today. I’ve nothing left.’

  ‘Okay, love,’ Dan whispered in her ear, kissing her wet cheek. ‘I understand.’

  After retreating to his own side of the bed, Dan lay there in the dark, trying to keep still, for what seemed like ages. Maria settled into the slow, measured breathing of sleep, but as much as he would have liked to do the same, it evaded him. His mind wouldn’t stop. He knew his wife’s question about whether he cared had just been the grief talking, but it had still hurt. He was grieving too. And he’d bent over backwards to keep her happy, doing things the way she wanted.

  He hadn’t wanted a church service. He hadn’t wanted a big do at all. The crematorium chapel would have been enough for him, but he’d gone along with her wishes. It had also been Maria’s idea to hold the wake at the house, while his preference would have been to hire a room: somewhere easy to escape from. But again he’d given in and let her have her way. He knew how important it was to their relationship not to start falling out so early in the grieving process; he’d sacrificed his own beliefs and desires for what he’d believed to be the greater good. He was desperately trying to hold things together – to be the strong one for everyone else – but it was so damn hard.

  Eventually, careful not to disturb Maria, he crept out of bed and put on his dressing gown.

  The cigarette Maurice had rolled for him was where he’d left it, tucked away on the shelf above the coat rack. He let himself out of the back door, still in his dressing gown, and lit up. It was harsher than he was used to, but he relished every bitter gasp and the resulting head rush.

  He was about halfway through when someone switched the downstairs lights on. He assumed it to be Maria. Then he saw his mother-in-law staring out of the window, brandishing a wooden spoon.

  ‘What on earth?’ she said after taking forever to open the window.

  ‘Is there a problem, Helen?’ he replied.

  ‘I thought there was a burglar.’

  ‘And you were going to use the wooden spoon to stop them, I suppose.’

  ‘I grabbed the first thing I could lay my hands on. What are you doing out there in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I’m having a cigarette.’

  ‘Goodness me. You look ridiculous.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I thought you gave that dirty habit up years ago. Why on earth have you started again?’

  ‘Because my daughter’s dead.’

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to be with your wife right now, instead of out there?’

  Dan almost told her to go to hell, but in the name of family relations, he employed the last piece of restraint he had left. ‘Let’s not do this now, Helen. Go back to bed. There’s no burglar; nothing to worry about.’

  She opened her mouth, as if about to retaliate, only to shake her head, close the window and disappear back into the house, turning the lights off behind her.

  Dan finished what little was left of the cigarette. He stared wistfully at the moonlit sky as the toilet flushed upstairs. He waited a little longer, to make sure the coast was clear, before going back inside.

  He shut himself in the study downstairs and turned on the computer. Then, for the umpteenth time, he found himself trawling through the various social media sites where Sam had accounts. Multiple images of his beautiful daughter slid across the screen, blurring into one another. They were joined already by fresh images and comments from the funeral. So many of them. But he couldn’t bear to look at these yet and scrolled past, back to the older stuff he now knew only too well.

  Dan and Maria had searched these websites together at the start, as a way to try to work out what had happened. Maria had found her answer in the few nasty messages they’d uncovered from so-called friends – girls Sam had known since primary school. But as he’d just explained, Dan didn’t buy into them being the cause. Certainly not the sole cause. The messages they’d found were mean, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary for teenagers. Sam was a sensible girl, wasn’t she? Surely she could see past a couple of girls making fun of the way she dressed. The comments about her smelling of body odour and the nickname they’d given her, Sweaty Sam, had been more offensive. These had made him feel angry. He could understand her being upset, but surely not enough to want to end it all. Dan had been called worse during his own school days.

  It didn’t make sense. If she was upset, why hadn’t she talked to them about it? Why was she so damn closed? She’d told them all sorts as a young child; by the time she was a teenager, she always seemed to keep things to herself. There was no convincing her that a problem shared was a problem halved.

  As for the nasty messages, it wasn’t like there’d been a catalogue of them. They’d only found a handful. If they hadn’t been so recent, no one would have thought anything of them. But they were enough to convince Maria that Sam had been the victim of bullying. Her theory, expounded to Mrs Forester and anyone else who’d listen, was that it must have started before the holidays and continued online over the summer. She believed Sam had been dreading the start of term and became desperate for a way out. There was no evidence of this other than the nasty messages, though. And unless the school’s internal investigation turned up something unexpected, Dan couldn’t imagine it going any further.

  He’d spoken to her two closest friends, Olivia and Amy, neither of whom had been involved in the messages. They’d been inconsolable at the funeral, but both seemed shocked by the suggestion of Sam being bullied. On the other hand, they did say she’d been quieter and more withdrawn of late. They hadn’t seen as much of her as usual over the holidays.

  So why did she do it? The question continued to haunt him. It was why he kept checking these web pages of hers, scouring them for some kind of answer. The police had ruled out foul play in her death. They’d not found any evidence of drugs or alcohol in her system. And she wasn’t pregnant, thank God.

  They’d not found any references whatsoever to committing suicide in her accounts. Initially, Dan had wondered how she knew what to do, but getting information was so easy these days. There was no trace of any such searches on the home computer or on her mobile phone, but that didn’t mean much. You could access the Internet from almost anywhere. Free public Wi-Fi was readily available – and deleting your browsing history was as simple as a couple of clicks. Sam was tech-savvy enough to have covered her tracks.

  One thing he had discovered was that the lead singer of a band Sam liked had killed herself. It had happened a month or so earlier, although Sam had never mentioned it to him or Maria. Since the group was fairly obscure outside teenage circles, they hadn’t heard about it. Sam had mentioned the news in a couple of social media comments, but only to say that the singer, Kat Landon, would be missed and it was a tragic loss. Nothing to ring alarm bells. Dan hadn’t even picked up on what she was referring to until reading an article in a music magazine from her bedroom. He’d put two and two together after recognising the band name, Thirteen, from a poster on her wall. That and the fact the circumstances of the musician’s death were remarkably similar to her own, which he struggled to find a coincidence.

  But it didn’t explain why on earth Sam would want to copy her. How had she reached such a low point without him or anyone else noticing?

  What had he missed?

  Was it somethi
ng he and Maria had done wrong in raising her?

  Had she actually meant to do it? Or was it a cry for help; an experiment gone wrong?

  If only he’d got there sooner. He might have saved her.

  CHAPTER 32

  ‘You need to get out of there.’ The voice on the phone sounds tinny.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Are you listening to me? You need to get out of there. Now. He’s on his way back.’

  ‘Miles? I know. I heard the car, but where can I go? I’m in the middle of nowhere.’

  There’s no answer. I panic that the phone’s gone dead again or she’s hung up, but when I look at the screen the call is still connected.

  ‘Hello?’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Sam, I get the feeling you’re somewhere nearby. If you want me to get out, you need to help me. You need to tell me where to go.’

  ‘Hide.’

  ‘That’s it? Some help you are.’

  The car noise is really close now. It rises up and then stops, which I take to mean Miles has parked. I still can’t see the car from where I’m standing, beneath his smashed bedroom window, but I know it’ll be a matter of seconds until he comes around the side of the building; until he finds the ladder and sees the mess I’ve made.

  I make a dash for the house. I don’t know why exactly, as that’s bound to be the first place he’ll look. But the ground out here is so open and flat, there aren’t many other options.

  ‘Hang on,’ I whisper into the mobile. I’ve no intention of trying to run with it against my ear, but I keep it clamped in my right hand as I tear through the front door.

  I stare at the bare staircase curving up towards the first floor and make a snap decision to stay on the ground level. It should be easier to escape from here. I don’t fancy trying to climb out of one of the upstairs windows. So I run past the stairs, heading for the kitchen. That leads to the back door, although I’ve never seen it used in all the time I’ve been here. I know it’s locked and I’ve no clue where the key might be.

  The kitchen is also likely to be the first place Miles will look for me.

  Hold on, what am I doing? I think. Why am I running away from Miles? I might have smashed his bedroom window with the ladder, but what’s the worst he’s going to do about it? Why am I scared of him all of a sudden? Surely I can come up with an explanation that doesn’t involve me trying to look inside his bedroom.

  My gut tells me to keep on going, so I move along the downstairs hallway. It’s as dilapidated and dirty as upstairs: the same musty mix of forlorn floorboards, part-stripped walls and inhospitable emptiness. I make my way into a large room at the back with an open fireplace and bay window. Miles once told me he intended this to be the main living room. For now it’s an empty space. The only furniture, if you can call it that, is a shabby wooden stool standing underneath a bare light bulb in the centre of the room.

  I shut the door behind me and put the mobile phone back to my ear. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why am I running away from Miles?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Inside the house.’

  ‘Has he seen you?’

  ‘No, I think he’s still outside.’

  ‘Good. You need to try to get to the car. Is there a way out of the back of the house?’

  ‘The car? Listen, what’s going on? Why am I hiding from him?’

  ‘You need to get out of there. You need to get away from him.’

  ‘Yes, I get that. I understand what you’re saying. But you’re not explaining why.’

  ‘Do you trust him? Do you believe everything he’s told you? What led you to the car before, when you found this phone?’

  ‘I’m not sure. How do I know I can trust you? You’re a voice. You seem to be nearby, but you won’t tell me where. I don’t even know who you are, Sam.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  I pause for a moment before replying. ‘I think I do. But how can that be? Listen, where are you? Can we meet face to face?’

  ‘I’m close, but there’s no time to meet right now. You’re asking the wrong questions. It’s where you are that matters.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m in the house.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘What? I—’

  I’m interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming shut. A moment later Miles’s voice echoes through the hollow shell of the house. ‘Jack, where are you? What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Shit,’ I whisper. ‘He’s here.’

  I shove the handset into the back pocket of my jeans without waiting for Sam’s response. There’s no time.

  I can hear the thudding of Miles’s feet as he looks for me. A change in the sound signals that he’s moved from the bare floorboards of the hall to the tiled floor of the kitchen. ‘Jack, where are you? I’m getting worried.’

  Is that genuine concern I can hear in his voice? The sound is muffled through the walls. I don’t know what to believe any more. Part of me wants to face him; tell him the truth, or at least something he might believe that doesn’t sound so weird. I could say I was going to wash the windows for him. They’re always dirty because of the sea spray. I could say I was starting with his bedroom window to give him a nice surprise when he got home. There’s no bucket of water or cleaning materials to back up my story, but I could claim I was placing the ladder first when the wind caught it. It’s not that unbelievable. I reckon I could make it sound convincing.

  But that gut feeling still holds me back. I slip off my shoes and, carrying them in one hand, tiptoe to the window.

  More footsteps. He’s back on the floorboards now. Is he coming this way? I freeze by the window as he calls my name. The footsteps stop. So does my heart. There’s a long, excruciating moment of silence. Finally they start up again: thud, thud, thud. Moving away this time, thank goodness. Back towards the front door and up the stairs.

  He must be going to my bedroom, which gives me a chance to get out of here. I could use the front door, but I don’t want to risk that. I can see the Land Rover – Gigi, Miles’s so-called Green Goddess – out of the window and I’m drawn to it. But if I’m going to try and get away in it, I need as much time as possible. The last thing I want is for him to see me crossing the front of the house out of one of the windows and to come after me.

  So I go with my initial plan to climb out of this window, which will hopefully buy me more time. I examine it, glad to see no sign of any locks. There are two sections that should open, both old sashes like the one in my bedroom I couldn’t shift.

  Stay calm, I tell myself.

  I slide open the fastener on the one in front of me and give it a shove. Nothing. Dammit. In the glass I see the reflection of my face, twisted in frustration, and then for a moment I’m somewhere else.

  Darkness.

  Burning chemicals.

  Spider’s web.

  Glowing clocks.

  ‘Can you hear me? Try to stay with us. You’ve been in—’

  It’s over as quickly as it began. I’m startled by the sudden brightness all around me and my reflection in the window. What the hell was that?

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  I can, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. So quiet.

  I remember the phone in my back pocket. How could I have forgotten? I pull it out and hold it back up to my ear. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Finally! I was getting worried. What’s going on? Where are you?’

  ‘Still in the house.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Downstairs. A room at the back. I was hoping to climb out of one of the windows, but—’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Upstairs. Looking for me.’

  ‘You need to get to the car.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to do. Hang on.’

  I shove the phone back in my pocket so I can try
the other window. I can hear footsteps above me. It’s only a matter of time until Miles checks down here. I need to get out now.

  The fastener on this one is stuck, but after some frantic wiggling, I free it. ‘Please,’ I say under my breath before trying the sash. It slides up a couple of inches, enough to let the cold air rush in, and stops.

  ‘No, no, no.’ I grab the base of the part-open window with both hands and shove again with all my might. Paint and rotten bits of wood come off in my palms, but the pane shifts upwards several inches. Finally there’s a gap just about big enough for me to squeeze through.

  ‘Where the hell are you, Jack?’ Miles’s voice, sounding far too close for comfort, makes me jump. I take it as my cue to climb on to the window ledge and push my feet out of the gap into the fresh air. It’s a tight fit, but with some twisting around, bending and breathing in, I make it outside. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I run straight for the Land Rover. It’s only a short distance and I don’t look back. If he’s there at one of the windows or, worse still, already coming after me, I’d rather not know.

  Swinging open the driver’s door, I reach into my back pocket for the phone; it’s not there. I pat myself down in panic, praying it’s in one of the other pockets but finding nothing. Damn. It must have slipped out when I was climbing through the window. Looking round for the first time, I see no sign of Miles and decide to risk going back. But as I’m about to shut the door, I hear a voice. ‘Don’t bother. You don’t need it.’

  ‘What?’ I scan the inside of the car, which remains empty, and spin around to check the vicinity. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘I thought we’d been through that.’

  ‘Sam? Where are you?’

  ‘Get in the car. He’s not seen you yet, but it won’t be long until he does.’

  I lean inside.

  ‘Sit down, for goodness’ sake,’ she says, as the penny drops that her voice is coming through the speakers of the car stereo.

  ‘How are you doing that?’ I ask, closing the door. My hands are shaking and sweat is forming on my palms.

  ‘Later. Do you have the key?’