S.D. ROBERTSON
IF EVER I FALL

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © S.D. Robertson 2017

Cover design by Caroline Young © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Mark Owen/Arcangel (main image), Shutterstock.com (sky)

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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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 © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008100704

Version 2020-03-16

Dedication

For Mum and Dad

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.

‘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 six 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.

‘Dan? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, sorry. Put him through.’

He’d always hated dealing with complaints: the one thing that had risen in number – unlike ad revenues and circulation – since the centralisation two and a half years earlier. It was only to be expected when you considered the cull of experienced journalists that had taken place.

Dan was lucky to still be there. He was one of only a few senior staff from the group’s weekly papers who were still standing. He didn’t feel lucky, though; in fact lucky was a million miles from how he would describe his life right now. He was waiting for the roof to come crashing down on his career as it had on everything else.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Doyle?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘This is Daniel Evans, the editor.’

‘So I’ve finally reached the organ grinder, have I?’

Not really, Dan thought. Not any more. ‘How can I help you, Mr Doyle?’

‘It’s a bit bloody late for that. The damage is done.’

‘Could you be a little more specific?’

‘You called me a paedophile, Mr Evans. Used the wrong photo – my photo – with a story about some sick kiddie fiddler. I’m going to sue you for every last penny your poxy rag is worth.’

Shit. Dan’s mind raced back to the only article about a paedophile in that week’s Herald. It was a court case on page seven. Jane, one of the few original reporters still working for the paper, had been to court and emailed the piece over. So how the hell could the wrong picture have been run alongside it? He doubted it was her fault. She was one of the good ones – always so thorough.

He opened his copy of the paper and flicked to page seven, his fingers catching on the pages as he rushed to find the article. There it was, with a photo of a suited bald man standing on the court steps.

‘Hello? Are you there?’ Mr Doyle asked.

‘Yes. Sorry, I—’

‘You can shove your apologies. I want to know how the hell this happened and what you’re going to do to fix it.’

Dan racked his brains. There were so many ways things could go wrong these days. He’d not had any direct involvement in placing the story or picture. He’d never even seen Jane’s email: only the finished story on the page. Not that any of this would protect him. He’d be the one held to account, blamed for not picking up on it while reviewing the pages.

The paedophile’s name, captioned underneath the photo, was Steven Ross. How on earth had that got confused with Mr Doyle? And why was his picture on the photo system in the first place?

‘Hello? How are you going to fix this? There could be a lynch mob outside my house tonight!’

His tone was pure aggression. Understandable in the circumstances, Dan thought, doing his utmost to stay calm in response. But he could feel himself starting to sweat. What a bloody mess.

‘Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. The picture on page seven is of you and you’re not Steven Ross.’

‘Are you some kind of idiot? Of course I’m not him. I’ve never met this freak in my life.’

‘Have you any idea why your photo is on our system?’

‘You tell me. It’s never been used before, to my knowledge. It must have been taken by one of your lot without my permission.’

‘You were at court yesterday?’

‘No, it was months ago. I was appealing against a drink-driving charge.’

‘And you’ve no connection whatsoever with Steven Ross?’

Mr Doyle let out a loud sigh. ‘Obviously not. I’m a respected businessman. Your article is the first I’ve heard of this nonce. As far as I know, the only thing we have in common is the name Ross.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Ross – his surname – is my first name.’

Dan’s heart sank. That must have been it: a wrongly selected picture due to a similar filename. A schoolboy error. The kind of thing that would never have slipped through in the old days. How was he expected to spot such mistakes when he was juggling three papers; in and out of meetings all day; constantly bombarded by emails and phone calls?

Something snapped inside. It was as though a switch had flipped in his brain, and in that instant Dan decided he just couldn’t handle this any more. He couldn’t take it. Not on top of everything else in his personal life, which had spiralled from bad to really bloody awful over the past month. It was too much. He was done.

Without saying another word, Dan hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the stairs. As he moved, he felt as though his legs were disconnected from his body, making their way out of the room while his insides fought to dislodge the panic in his chest.

Maurice, another surviving editor, was leaving the lift as he reached reception.

‘Coming for a smoke, mate?’ he asked Dan.

‘Sure,’ Dan replied, using him as cover to stay out of Susan’s view, certain Mr Doyle would call back at any moment if he hadn’t already. He dodged behind Maurice, shoving his hands into his pockets to disguise the way they were shaking.

‘Good excuse to get out in the sunshine. It’s supposed to be baking today. Not that you’d know it with the air-con in here.’

‘Right.’

‘Did you see the email from Trent?’ Maurice asked, referring to the boss of their boss.

‘No.’

‘Looks bad. There’s an urgent meeting at three thirty. Everyone has to attend. Rumour has it there’s going to be another round of job cuts. Are you all right, mate? You look a bit peaky.’

‘I’m fine,’ Dan lied. Job cuts? Maurice’s words felt like the final nail in the coffin. As they walked through the door, the heat hit him. It reminded him of exiting a plane at the start of a holiday in the sun. He had to get out of there. ‘I’ve not got any fags. I’m going to nip to the shop for a pack.’

‘You can crash off me, if you like. I’ve got some for once.’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Dan barely knew what he was saying. The words tumbled out, but all he could think about was getting away from the office.

Maurice started saying something about the weather, but Dan had already tuned out.

Instead of walking to the shop he went to his car, a battered silver Ford Focus with an ugly dent in the nearside front door that he’d still not got around to fixing. He sat down in the driver’s seat, switched his mobile off and took deep breaths. His head was swimming; pulse racing. What was he doing? Was he really going to go through with it? Had the moment arrived?

The ground floor flat where he’d been living these past few months was a simple two-bedroom affair in one of the city’s bland outer suburbs – a reasonable but not especially sought-after neighbourhood. Apart from the fact it was conveniently located just a ten-minute drive from work and a quarter of an hour from his real home, Dan hated everything about the flat. It was poky and damp with a mouldy brown bathroom and a kitchen barely big enough to cook a microwave meal. He didn’t even have the freedom to improve things – to occupy his mind with DIY – thanks to an unpleasant landlord who was only interested in getting his rent on time. Dan felt too old to be renting again. He’d never get used to spending so much time alone.

He let himself into the hallway, which he shared with the occupants of five other flats. He hoped not to bump into any of them, as he doubted himself capable of small talk at that moment. The muffled sound of daytime TV was coming from the flat opposite, but the woman who lived there was in her nineties, partially deaf and walked with a frame. The chances of her coming to the door were minimal.

Dan hovered for a moment above the letterbox but didn’t bother checking it. He let himself inside the flat, grabbed the two items he needed from the bedroom wardrobe plus a half bottle of vodka from the kitchen. Then he left without looking back.

There were things he’d miss, but the flat wasn’t one of them. It represented everything he hated about his life. It was a daily reminder of how badly things had turned out.

He thought back to what Maurice had said about more cutbacks. Would they have got rid of him this time? It was possible. The photo cock-up and the legal action that was bound to follow wouldn’t help.

Who knew?

Who cared?

He was done.

He got into the car and pulled the vodka bottle out of the inside pocket of his jacket, taking a long swig. Then he put the key in the ignition and did a six-point turn in the road.

‘Goodbye, flat from hell,’ Dan said, flicking the V-sign as he pulled the car away and headed for the sea. He considered calling in to see to his mum on the way, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. What would be the point?

He’d decided on his destination during one of his lowest moments: alone late at night, drunk and maudlin, looking through old photos on his computer. There was one particular picture that had caught his eye, from about four years earlier. It had been taken on a family holiday on the North Wales coast: a last-minute booking in a gem of a cottage and a rare week of scorching temperatures. Similar weather to today in fact.

They were pictured on a clifftop, framed by a glorious deep blue of merging sea and sky. It must have been taken by a passer-by, as they were all together in the shot. That was one of the reasons he liked it so much. The other thing was how happy each of them looked, all blissfully unaware of the heartache and pain biding time in the shadows, waiting to ravage them.

That night, Dan had stared at the photograph for hours, until the dark moment eventually passed. He’d seen things differently in the sober light of the next morning. And yet the location had stayed with him, rising to prominence again in recent times as his outlook grew increasingly bleak. Even so, he’d been hanging on, hoping against hope that something would change. That a chink of sunshine would break through the black cloud enveloping his world and offer some hint of a silver lining.

But it had never come.

He’d been teetering on the edge for the last few days. Now he was free-falling. The phone complaint had done it, but the prospect of yet more cutbacks had sealed the deal.

The journey would only take a couple of hours or so, as long as the traffic wasn’t too heavy. That was one of the reasons they’d chosen it back then for a holiday: no long car journey, no airports, and yet still a change of country. Goodbye Northern England; hello bilingual road signs, beautiful beaches and cheery Welsh folk. It couldn’t have been easier. And it hadn’t felt close to home at all once they were in that blissful holiday bubble of beaches, picnics, ice creams and meals out. Flying kites. Laughing at in-jokes. Enjoying being a family.

There must have been rows. What family holiday didn’t include at least one or two? And yet there were none that Dan could recall. In his mind, it was perfect.

Now he was returning to relive the highlights. He’d do a whistle-stop solo tour, soaking in the memories. When daylight started to fade, he would head up to the clifftop where that photo was taken. He’d find a secluded spot overlooking the sea to park and watch one final sunset. He’d wait until no one was around before rigging up the car with the items he’d taken from the flat: duct tape and a length of garden hose bought days earlier in anticipation of this moment. Then it would be time to slip away.

It was selfish. He knew that. Especially when you considered the family he still had. But he couldn’t do it any longer. He couldn’t keep going; fighting the awful pain at his core, the unrelenting agony. No, he’d reached the end. It wasn’t like they wanted him around, anyway. They were already doing fine on their own. They’d be better off without him.

And yet he felt like he ought to call. To say goodbye at least.

Dan looked over at the glovebox, where he’d put his mobile after turning it off. He thought about it for a few minutes as he made his way on to the motorway. He kept on thinking about it for the rest of the journey, unable to decide.

What if hearing one of their voices made him change his mind? What if he broke down while speaking to them and they realised something was wrong? Also, if he turned his phone on, there were bound to be loads of messages from work. Mind you, those he could ignore.

He decided to call the house once and let fate decide. If they answered, then so be it. He’d speak to them and see where that led him. But if they didn’t answer, he’d take that as a signal to carry on without hesitation.

It was 4.45 p.m. when he parked in a lay-by. He was already well over the border into Wales. After three more gulps of vodka, Dan made the call.

Sweating in the heat now the car’s air-con was off, he let it ring for more than a minute.

No answer.

He lit a cigarette, smoked it to the butt and, despite what he’d told himself, tried again.

Still no one there.

‘That’s that, then,’ he said aloud. Not even an answerphone to leave a message on.

He switched the phone off, ignoring the eight voicemails and six texts from the office, and dumped it in a rubbish bin before getting back into the car and starting the engine.

He was nearly there. The agony was almost over. He’d been living with it for the best part of two years now. But his ability to cope, or at least to carry on despite the pain, had been eroded by the events of the last few months. He could have done so many things differently. He wished that he had, but there was no going back. The past was the past, whatever his regrets. And yet that didn’t stop everything that had led him to this moment churning around and around in his thoughts.

CHAPTER 4
Thursday, 6 April 2017

Dear Sam,

Here we are: letter number two. I really wanted to write this yesterday, believe me, but it didn’t happen. Things got hectic. There were a couple of incidents, as I’ll explain later. There just wasn’t time.

Getting going with that first letter was hard, but once I got into the process, it felt good. By the end I had a real sense of achievement. You probably think that’s silly: to be patting myself on the back about something as simple as writing a letter. But it wasn’t simple. Not for me. Nothing’s been simple for a while. Not since, well, you know what.

I said I wasn’t going to dwell on the past, so I’m not. Writing to you is supposed to be a way of moving forward. But in order for me to properly confide in you, I need you to be able to understand where I’m coming from. I’m not the same person I used to be. I’ve changed a lot since you last saw me.

You could say I’ve had a breakdown.

There, I’ve said it. It wasn’t as hard as I expected. It’s been my big secret, you see. It’s not been a breakdown in the traditional sense. I’ve done it quietly, behind closed doors, keeping up a front in public; looking strong on the outside when I’m going to pieces inside.

You hear about functional alcoholics: people who maintain their jobs, homes and families despite a huge dependence on drink. I’m a bit like that. A functional fruitcake, you might say. I don’t have my job any more – I’m not that functional – but most people I know haven’t got a clue how messed up I am inside.

The official reason I stopped working was to be a full-time mum to Ruby. No one questioned that after what we’d been through. But actually I couldn’t hack it any more. I tried going back for a few days after the dust had settled and realised that if I stayed, I’d end up having a very public meltdown. At that point I could barely handle the commute to and from the city, never mind the job itself. So I handed in my notice. Thankfully, they let me go straight away.

The rest was manageable. I had enough time to make it look that way, at least. I fell apart in private and stood tall in public. Mainly for Ruby, if I’m honest. She needed me to be okay. Without her, I’d have probably been sectioned.

I never sought any help. Not until recently. That’s what led to these letters. But I’ll save that story for another day.

I’m worried that learning about this will make you feel bad, which is definitely not my intention. I don’t blame you for what happened, nor for the repercussions. It’s important you know that. But if I don’t give you the full picture, you’ll never understand. You won’t grasp how a basic task like writing a letter could be difficult for someone like me.

It’s safe to say I’m not the high-flyer I used to be. Far from it. Simple tasks have the power to confound me nowadays. My overactive brain, once the key to my success, has become my Achilles heel.

Anyway, Sam, on to other topics. I bet you’re wondering what happened with Rick, my new friend from Ruby’s school. That was what I promised last time.

Things went well to start with. We bumped into each other at the parking spot that had sparked our first conversation. He was looking every bit as handsome as I remembered, dressed in a navy suit and an open-collar sky-blue shirt. He said he’d come straight from work, but you’d never have guessed it. He looked as fresh and unruffled as if he’d dressed moments earlier.

I’d only settled on an outfit ten minutes before leaving the house: black slim leg trousers with a cream tunic top; smart casual, with my hair tied back and a dash of make-up. I wanted to look like I’d made an effort, but not as though I’d spent ages in front of the mirror. I had done, but that wasn’t something he needed to know.

The conversation flowed as we walked together to the schoolyard. He was quite the chatterbox, but in a good way. He wasn’t one of those guys who rabbit on about themselves. He seemed genuinely interested in me and my opinions, but without being intrusive. I know what you’re thinking, Sam: too good to be true. What’s the catch? Well, I was wondering the same. But every time he smiled at me with that perfect grin, daring me not to imagine his lips on mine, my wariness fizzled away.

And, yes, it felt great to see the Queen Bs’ eyes on us again. Were they as green with envy as I imagined or was I too busy enjoying the unique situation of getting one up on them? It’s hard to say.

It’s not that unusual for a dad to be at the school gates. You see quite a few, but they’re not normally as good-looking as Rick. He also happens to be new to the school and potentially single, which makes him hot property. Certainly not the kind of person the Queen Bs would expect to talk to a pariah like me. Seeing them sneering at me while muttering to one another was nothing new, but this time I felt like sticking my tongue out at them. Hardly a sure-fire way to impress Rick, though, so I settled for a smug grin or two in their direction, particularly towards Horsey and WAG. Then the girls came out of school and we all headed off together.

I must stop there, although there’s plenty still to tell you, believe me. I’ve not even got to the incidents I mentioned at the start yet. I’ll write again later today. That way I’ll make up for not writing yesterday and allow myself enough time to tell you what happened.

Love as always,

M

Xx

CHAPTER 5

‘Jack? Are you still with me? Come on, lad.’

I open my eyes and see Miles’s face hanging a couple of inches above me. We’re both on the floor in the kitchen. He’s sitting against the wall and I’m slumped against him. The tiles feel cold and hard under my legs. My head’s throbbing again.

‘Wha—’

I try to speak but only a croak comes out. I clear my throat, causing my head to spin even more, before trying again.

‘What happened?’

‘You fainted. Luckily I managed to catch you before you went banging your head again. Floor tiles aren’t exactly a forgiving surface to fall on.’

The last thing I can recall is Miles leering at me like a wolf. Was that real or did I imagine it? I search for an answer in the creases running across his forehead; I probe the depths of his eyes. But all I find there is concern. I see nothing to fear.

‘Why were you trying to confuse me about my name?’ I ask.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Trying to trick me by calling me John. Reeling off all those other names at me.’

He frowns. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Perhaps it might be wise for you to get some more rest.’

I’m confused. Is he playing games with me? I consider having it out with him, a full-blown row if necessary, but I don’t have the energy. I decide that either I had some kind of hallucination – a genuine possibility with my mind in such poor shape – or that Miles is using some textbook technique geared towards triggering my memories. I do hope it’s the latter. I’d give anything to get them back.

‘Why did I faint?’

‘You didn’t take it easy enough; we need to get some food down you. You’d have been better staying in bed rather than coming down here.’

I try to get up and he helps me back on to a chair at the kitchen table. ‘How’s that?’

I nod. ‘Better. I think I’m all right now. Thanks for catching me.’

‘No problem. Tell me if you start feeling faint again. Scrambled eggs?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Coming up.’

He hands me a pint glass of water, telling me to drink it all, and busies himself making breakfast.

When it arrives it’s delicious. The eggs are luscious and buttery, served on two lightly-toasted wedges of white farmhouse loaf. There’s orange juice to drink, plus freshly ground coffee from the fancy machine I spotted earlier.

‘Thank you. This is great,’ I say, in between mouthfuls.

Miles, who’s sitting opposite me, nods in response but continues to eat in silence.

When we’ve both finished the food and are sipping our coffees, he asks if I’d like some more toast.

‘That would be great.’

‘I need to feed you up. Get you back to health. I’ll never get anywhere with these renovations on my own.’

He goes to the fridge, pulls out a glass jar and places it on the table. ‘Try this if you like. Homemade marmalade. I picked it up in the village the other day. There was a fete on at the church hall. Raising money for roof repairs or something. I’ve no idea how it will taste.’

My eyes fall on the pot and I’m transported back to my youth.

I’m eight years old in a cool larder with my grandmother. She’s tiny – only a little taller than I am – standing on tiptoes on a footstool, stretching up to a high shelf.

‘Careful, Gangy,’ I say, worried she might fall.

She turns and hands me the jar. Orange Marmalade, her neat handwriting reads on a small white label. There’s no metal lid, like you get in the shops, but a special waxy disc and some see-through stuff held on with an elastic band.

‘Isn’t all marmalade made of oranges?’ I ask her in my high-pitched little boy’s voice.

‘Sometimes I put ginger in it too,’ she says, beaming that huge smile of hers at me like I’m the most important person in the world. ‘I’ve even made it with lemon and lime,’ she adds. ‘But I’m not sure you’d like that.’

‘I don’t like any marmalade apart from yours,’ I tell her.

She winks at me. ‘That’s my boy.’

Miles is on his feet. He looks concerned. ‘What happened?’

I’m breathing fast. ‘A memory. Something from my childhood. It was the marmalade. It looks like the stuff my grandmother used to make. Gangy, I called her. That’s how I said it when I was tiny and it kind of stuck.’

‘That all came back to you?’

I nod.

He looks pleased. ‘Fantastic. That’s a great sign. How much do you recall about her? Anything else about your childhood?’

‘I can only remember her as she was in that moment. Nothing else, I’m afraid, although I do have a feeling she died.’

‘A feeling? No actual memories of that?’

‘No. I can’t remember a funeral or anything. She looked so fit and healthy in that memory, and it felt nice to see her that way, as if I knew it wasn’t going to last. The memory was so vivid, like I was actually there. Is that normal?’

Miles shrugged. ‘Memory is complicated.’

A wave of tiredness washes over me. It makes no sense when the main thing I’ve done, for as far back as I can remember, is sleep. Must be to do with the head injury, although the throbbing has subsided again now.

‘How are you feeling?’ Miles asks.

‘A bit tired, to be honest. Is that normal?’

‘Yes. You still need lots of rest. You should go back to bed for a while.’

‘Will it bring back my memories?’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘You don’t sound confident. You’re surprised they’ve not come back already, aren’t you?’

His face remains blank, unreadable. ‘You just had a memory.’

‘Sure, but only a fragment: one moment from years ago. It’s useless without the rest. And who knows if it was even real? Maybe I was remembering something I once saw rather than a memory of my own.’

‘Is that how it felt?’ Miles asks.

‘No, I don’t think so. But who am I to say? I can tell you what a film is, but I can’t remember an occasion when I actually watched one. None of this makes any sense.’

‘Like I said, memory is complicated.’

‘Can’t you at least tell me exactly where we are?’ I ask him. ‘I’d really like to know.’

Miles hesitates for a moment and then his face softens, like he’s taking pity on me. ‘Fine.’ He walks over to a drawer and pulls out a map of Wales. He unfolds it on the kitchen table and shows me our exact location.

The information doesn’t help like I hoped it would, though. It means nothing to me at all.

I’m trapped. I was walking through a tunnel when there was some kind of earthquake and the ceiling collapsed. I’m pinned to the ground, covered in pieces of rubble. I can’t see them because it’s pitch black, but I can feel their rough edges all around me, digging into my skin, holding me down. There’s sensation in my arms, but I’m unable to shift them. They’re wedged into place. I can’t feel my legs at all.

‘Help,’ I shout, but it’s pitiful. The sound dies as it leaves my lips, the rocks all around me sucking it in like sponges. Then I feel water creeping along my back; rising from below. Terror rips through me. I’m going to die here: alone in the dark.

I wake with a start and throw the quilt off me in disgust. It’s soaking wet, as is the sheet below. My whole body is drenched in sweat. I jump out of the bed, shivering, only for a jolt of pain to run through my head, stopping me in my tracks. I stand as still as I can, my right hand squeezing my temples, and gradually the sensation fades.

The cave, the rocks: a dream, thank God. A nightmare.

I still feel so anxious, though. I have that feeling again that I should be somewhere else – somewhere I’m needed – rather than here. Someone somewhere needs me. The problem is, I don’t know who. I take deep breaths, like Miles showed me, trying to calm myself down.

I’m Jack. This is Miles’s house. I have a head injury.

The green curtains are closed, but it’s clearly still light outside. I remember Miles leading me back upstairs after breakfast; advising me to rest. I must have dozed off straight away. Goodness knows for how long. There’s no clock in here.

The cold sweat is still clinging to me, so I head next door to the bathroom for a shower. It’s pleasant: hot and powerful. It seems Miles and I have done a good job with this part of the renovation. Afterwards, helping myself to one of the white towels under the sink, I look around the steam-filled room and try to picture myself in here fitting all the bits and pieces. It’s useless. I can’t remember that at all. And yet the idea of fitting a bathroom doesn’t seem entirely alien to me. It’s not that I suddenly recall the correct technique for plumbing in a toilet, but I get the feeling I’d be able to work my way through it.

Back in the bedroom, I put on the clothes I wore earlier – jeans and T-shirt, sweater and trainers – and look in the wardrobe at the rest of my belongings. There’s not much to see: a couple more pairs of jeans; a few shirts, T-shirts and jumpers; a well-worn black leather jacket; a week’s supply of boxer shorts and socks; a pair of black leather shoes. None of it looks new, but it all seems in reasonable condition. The quality is decent, but there are no designer brands. There’s an empty medium-sized navy rucksack shoved underneath the wardrobe, which is presumably how I carried everything here.

Apparently I’m a man of few possessions, although it strikes me as odd that I don’t at least have a watch or a wallet. Maybe I do and I’ve left them somewhere else. The whole “dropping my mobile in the sea” thing is weird too. I make a mental note to bring up all of this with Miles later on.

I pull open the curtains and look out through the salt-flecked sash window. I like being able to see the sea from here. There’s something captivating about it. Not that it looks very appealing. It’s dull and drizzly outside; the choppy water looks more grey than blue. It’s close to the house but some way down. We’re on a cliff: an isolated one by the looks of things, as there are no other properties or signs of habitation in sight. Our only neighbours appear to be windswept fields, weather-beaten rocks and a rickety fence to keep people away from the steep drop.

I consider the village Miles mentioned earlier; the local pub in which he said we met. I don’t think it can be that close to the house; a drive rather than a walk away, from what I gather, so little chance of company other than my host. An ideal place to hide away from the world, you might say. Perfect for a man with no known surname and next to no worldly belongings.

So what, or who, am I hiding from?

As I’m musing on this question, and failing to come up with anything in response, Miles walks past the window into my view. He’s wearing a navy fleece and carrying several long pieces of wood under his right arm: floorboards, at a guess. I’m not sure where he got them from, but he looks to be bringing them into the house.

I’m about to knock on the windowpane to get his attention when I see his head snap around as if he’s heard something behind him. I follow his gaze and, to my surprise, see another figure standing about a hundred metres away, close to the clifftop fence. It’s a woman: long black hair, blowing all over the place in the wind; slender figure in jeans and a knee-length red coat. She’s looking out to sea, so I can’t see her face and I’m not sure what she did to attract Miles’s attention. She stands there, hands in her pockets, the stillness of her body in sharp contrast to the constant flapping of her hair, which she makes no effort to restrain.

It’s a mystery where she came from, as there was no sign of her a moment ago.

When I look back to see what Miles is doing, he’s gone. I decide to head down to find him and to get a closer look at the woman. There’s something about her. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but my gut tells me to get out there. Perhaps she and I already know each other. If I could speak to her, maybe she could help me remember something. At the very least, it would be nice to have a conversation with someone other than Miles.

I reach the top of the wide staircase and see Miles unloading the wood in the hallway below.

‘Keeping busy?’ I call before descending.

He looks up at me with a smile. ‘Jack. You’re awake.’

‘Sure am. What time is it?’

‘Mid-afternoon.’

‘I slept for a while, then. It’s becoming a habit.’

‘Be glad of the rest. Your body will take what it needs. Feeling better?’

I nod, standing in front of him now, expecting him to ask about my memory, but the question never comes. Instead he comments that I look steadier on my feet than I did this morning.

‘What’s the actual time?’ I ask him.

He grins. ‘Who knows?’

‘Don’t you believe in clocks?’

‘That’s the second time you’ve asked me that,’ he replies, chuckling. ‘You said the very same thing when you first arrived. As I told you then, I’ve spent enough of my life as a servant to the clock. Now I’m retired, I’ve liberated myself from it. I do things as and when I want to. Live my days and nights by light and dark, enjoying the shades in between; not worrying about exactitudes.’

‘Does that mean there are no clocks at all here?’

‘Only those I couldn’t remove. There are two in the kitchen, for example: on the microwave and the oven, but they’ve never been set.’

I want to quiz him further about this bizarre arrangement, but then I remember the woman in red.

‘Who was that I saw outside?’ I ask.

‘Outside? When?’

‘A moment ago. The woman in the red coat. I saw her from my bedroom window.’

‘Really? I didn’t notice anyone out there. Are you sure?’

I don’t know what to say. Moments ago I saw Miles looking straight at her. I’m convinced of this fact. But rather than accuse him of lying, with no evidence to back it up, I brush past him and through the front door. ‘Follow me. I’ll show you.’

I stride out of the house, trying to ignore the biting wind. I’m expecting to spot the woman right away, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I pace up and down, scanning the clifftop in all directions. There’s no sign of her whatsoever, which is weird. It makes me panic that she might have fallen over the edge. I run forward, scouring the line of the rickety fence and the sea below, focusing on the area where I last spotted her. But there’s no sign of anything untoward. It’s like she was never there.

A concerned Miles catches up to me and clamps a firm hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Jack? What’s going on?’

‘I definitely saw her from my bedroom window. She was over there. I don’t know why you’re pretending she wasn’t. I saw you look straight at her.’

‘I’m sorry, Jack, but I didn’t see any woman. I promise you that. Hardly anyone ever comes up here. I’m not sure what’s going on. Maybe your mind’s playing tricks on you. It could be something to do with the head injury. Come on. Let’s get you away from the edge.’

‘You don’t even have a watch?’ I ask Miles later, once he’s talked me back inside and plonked me down in front of a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

He shakes his head. ‘No need.’

‘What about your mobile phone? There must be a clock on there.’

‘I don’t have one. You’ll notice very little technology around here. Only essential appliances: a couple of radios and CD players. There are no televisions or computers.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘I’m not. I don’t want them. It’s liberating to be free from their grasp. I can’t believe how much time I used to spend staring at a screen. TVs, computers, they’re all the same: soul vacuums. I don’t miss them one bit.’

‘What about me? Don’t I have a watch?’

Miles wrinkles his nose and sucks air in through his teeth. ‘Um, no. Not any more. That was one of the conditions of you moving in here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I didn’t force it upon you. You agreed.’

‘Agreed to what?’

‘To drop it over the cliff into the sea. We made a bit of a ceremony of it on the night you moved in. We had had a lot to drink. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a Rolex or anything. It was just a basic digital watch.’

‘Hang on a minute. Is that what also happened to my mobile?’

Miles nods. ‘Sorry. I probably should have made that clear last time, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you with too much information at that stage.’

‘So I willingly dropped them both into the sea? You have to be kidding.’

He shrugs. ‘House rules.’

‘And my wallet?’

‘What about it?’

‘I don’t seem to have one of those either.’

‘Oh, right. I see. Really? I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about that. It’s not something we ever discussed.’

He looks genuinely puzzled, but it’s not like I know him well enough to read him.

‘I must have had to spend money at some point while I’ve been here.’

Miles shakes his head. ‘Like I told you before, you work for your bed and board. There’s no money involved in our arrangement. Never has been.’

‘What about in the pub? You said we met there.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And? How do I buy drinks?’

‘You don’t. We only go occasionally and, when we do, I pay. That’s also part of the deal.’

‘Really. What about the first time?’

‘Yes, you probably bought some drinks then. It was a while ago. I can’t remember the ins and outs. Listen, what are you getting at? Are you trying to suggest I’ve stolen your wallet?’

The thought has crossed my mind, but I don’t want him to know that. Not at this stage. ‘No, don’t be stupid. It seems strange I don’t have one, that’s all. I thought it might give me some more information about myself.’

‘You seem very suspicious today, Jack. I appreciate how frustrating your amnesia must be, but remember, I’m not your enemy. All I’m trying to do is help you.’

I nod, as if in agreement, but the truth is I don’t know what to believe. How can I when my whole life is a void? I’ve no frame of reference for anything.

Did I imagine the woman in red? That’s certainly the simplest explanation. And yet she seemed so real. My head’s a mess. Nothing makes any sense. I need help – and I’m not sure Miles is the best person to provide it.

CHAPTER 6
Thursday, 6 April 2017

Dear Sam,

Back again, as promised. So I was telling you how Rick and I had picked up the girls from school together, wasn’t I?

We agreed that Rick would follow me back home in his car – a white Mercedes. Ruby and Anna wanted to travel together, so I said they could ride in the back with me. Bad decision, as it turned out. Their chatter combined with my giddy feelings about Rick meant I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been. Next thing I knew, I was slamming my foot on the brake to avoid a boy who darted into the road after his football. Luckily I didn’t hit him and Rick stopped short of rear-ending me, thus avoiding a total disaster. But it was a close call and Anna started crying.

‘Are you all right, love?’ I asked her, after taking a deep breath to stop myself from swearing. ‘I’m really sorry about that.’

She shook her head and pointed to her tongue.

‘Eww, it’s bleeding,’ Ruby said, helpfully, causing Anna to cry even more.

‘Oh dear,’ I said, leaning into the back of the car. ‘Let’s have a look.’

Anna pushed her tongue out like it was the most painful thing in the world; as if it might fall off at any minute.

‘Yes, it is bleeding a little,’ I told her. ‘You must have caught it with your teeth. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right in no time. Things heal really quickly inside your mouth.’

She stared at me in disbelief through her red, tear-soaked eyes. I guessed she wanted her dad, but knowing we’d be at the house in a couple of minutes, I thought it best to keep on going. I ran my right forefinger under her chin and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘When we get home, I’ll give you a special drink to make it better.’

I could see Rick in his car behind us, wondering what was going on, so I gave him a wave and mouthed that it was okay. He nodded back at me and then, all of a sudden, he jerked violently in his seat and his car bunny-hopped forward, stopping just short of my bumper. He was out of there in a flash, racing towards the rear of his Mercedes to see the damage. Some idiot had gone into the back of him. Goodness knows how, when he’d been at a standstill for the last couple of minutes.

I pulled my Golf into the side of the road. Instructing Ruby to look after Anna, who was still too upset about her tongue to work out what had happened, I waited until Rick was done talking to the other driver. Then I locked the girls in the car for a minute and walked across to see if I could help.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked Rick. He nodded, explaining that the other driver – a woman picking up her grandchild from school in a small Citroen – had been profusely apologetic. Both cars were visibly damaged but still drivable; he wasn’t unduly concerned.

‘Give me a second to write down my details for her,’ he said.

‘I feel awful,’ I replied. ‘If I’d not had to stop like I did, none of this would have happened. A boy ran out into the road and I almost hit him. Not that you’d have thought it from his reaction. He raced off like it was nothing.’

‘I know. I saw. Don’t worry about it. What else could you have done? Listen, I’m not bothered about the damage to the car. It’s nothing that can’t be fixed and the insurance will be straightforward because she went into the back of me. I wasn’t even moving. How are the girls?’

‘Anna’s a little upset. She bit her tongue when I braked, but it’s only a small cut. It’ll heal in no time. Ruby’s watching over her.’

‘Really? Oh dear. Do you mind waiting with my car for a minute while I check on her?’

‘No, of course not.’

I handed him my keys and he nipped over to have a few words and a quick cuddle with Anna.

‘Thanks,’ he said, flashing me a grin on his return. ‘It looks like she’ll live.’

I offered to make Anna a saltwater rinse when we got home, but she declined. Her injury was soon forgotten once she and Ruby disappeared upstairs to play.

‘Cup of tea?’ I asked Rick. ‘Or do you need something stronger?’

He laughed. ‘Tea would be great. Nice place you have here, by the way.’

Honestly, Sam, I couldn’t believe how relaxed he was about the whole thing with his car. I’d have been in a right state if it was me. After I apologised again and he brushed it off, we barely talked about that any more. Despite it all, we ended up having a really good chat. It was the first time in ages I’d had a proper one-to-one with anyone, never mind a gorgeous man. He had this intense way of talking to me with his eyes fixed on mine the whole time, like he really cared about what I had to say. It’s been a while since I’ve felt as though anyone cared.

Not that I told him much. Certainly nothing about you. It didn’t feel right at this stage. That was probably why his intensity surprised me, as neither of us went that deep into our lives. It was all superficial stuff about the school and what it’s like bringing up a daughter; bits and bobs about the neighbourhood and TV programmes we’ve enjoyed. It was clear that we both live on our own with our kids, but for some reason neither of us went into specifics. Maybe we’d have got there eventually. But then Ruby broke her arm.

Yes, you heard me right. She and Anna were playing some game that involved them sliding down the stairs and Ruby ended up tripping and falling from top to bottom. I’d not realised what they were doing until then. Otherwise I’d have stopped them. But there was no ignoring the awful thumping sound she made on the way down. Nor the piercing scream that followed once her bone snapped.

She was lying in a heap in the hallway when I found her, Rick and I having raced through from the kitchen. Her skin had turned a deathly pallor somewhere between grey and white and she was shaking. I’m glad it turned out just to be her arm, to be honest. My first impression was that it could be much worse.

‘Oh my God,’ I found myself shouting, panic rising in my chest. ‘What on earth’s going on?’

Anna, who was looking down from the top of the stairs in terror, burst into tears again. Then I snapped into action and focused on how best to help my daughter.

Rick, I have to say, was useless at this point, which surprised me. Rather than helping, he beckoned Anna downstairs and pulled her to one side, looking queasy. Some people aren’t good with that kind of thing, I suppose. It wasn’t like there was blood all over the place, but Ruby’s right arm – thank goodness she’s left-handed – was very obviously broken. It was bent all out of shape between the wrist and the elbow. I was going to pieces inside, believe me, but somehow I found the strength to keep on going. There was no time to be squeamish. No time to over-think things and let that hyperactive brain of mine find some way to cripple me. My daughter needed me. Your maternal instinct kicks in at these moments and you do whatever’s required.

I knew I had to get her to A&E as soon as possible. Rick offered to come, but I could tell he didn’t really want to. Squeamish folk don’t tend to be big hospital fans. ‘No, no,’ I told him as I tried to calm Ruby down and get her into the car. ‘There’s really no need. We’ll be stuck there for hours. You’ve already had enough hassle today.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. You get Anna home.’

‘We’ve not had the best afternoon, have we?’

I gave him a pursed smile, willing him to go, so I could concentrate on my daughter. ‘Not really.’

‘Never mind. There’s always next time.’

‘Sure.’

Anyhow, we went to hospital and, as predicted, it took ages. You can understand now, Sam, why I didn’t find time to write to you yesterday. I—

Got to go. Ruby’s calling. Write tomorrow.

Love as always,

M

Xx

CHAPTER 7
BEFORE
Wednesday, 5 April 2017

The phone on Dan’s desk rang, jangling loudly through the newsroom.

He looked at the clock: 5.45 p.m. Shit.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello, Dan. It’s Susan on reception. I’m sorry to bother you when you’re on deadline. It’s your wife. She says it’s urgent.’

He felt like correcting her and saying ‘ex-wife’, although technically that wasn’t the case. They were still married, but only on paper. Why was she calling him now? Better than a last-minute story coming through, which was what he’d feared, but not by much. It was never good news when she called these days.

‘You’d better put her through,’ he told Susan.

‘Right. Here she is.’

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Maria.’

‘I know. What can I do for you?’

‘There’s been an accident. I’m at A&E with Ruby.’

That got his attention. ‘What? Is she all right?’

‘Not really. She’s broken her arm.’

‘You’re joking. How?’

‘She fell down the stairs. She was playing with a friend.’

‘Bloody hell, Maria. How bad is it?’

‘I’m not a doctor, Dan. All I know so far is that the arm’s broken.’

Why did she always have to be so offhand with him? Dan wondered. His eyes drifted from the keypad of the desk phone to a half-finished mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. ‘Trust me, I’m a journalist!’ was printed on the side – a gift from Maria back in the good old days.

‘Which hospital are you at?’ he asked.

‘St Joseph’s. We only got here about half an hour ago. We’ll be ages yet.’

‘Can I talk to her?’

‘Hold on.’

There was a pause as Maria spoke to Ruby. All Dan could hear was a hospital announcement in the background.

‘She doesn’t want to,’ Maria said a moment later. ‘She’s in a lot of pain.’

‘Oh. Listen, I’d come to the hospital, but—’

‘But what?’

‘It’s Wednesday, Maria.’

She knew full well what that meant: deadline night for all three of his papers. But she was clearly in no mood for cutting him any slack.

‘Of course. Work comes first. What was I thinking?’

‘Don’t be like that. I’ll get out of here as soon as I can, but you know how it is. You said yourself there’s nothing to do but wait.’

‘Right.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’

‘You’re her father.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Dan sighed. ‘Listen, I’ll call you in a bit when I’m done. See where you’re up to.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Come on, Maria. Don’t be like that. Are you sure she won’t speak to me?’

‘I have to go. Someone’s coming over.’

‘Wait … Hello?’ Damn. She’d hung up on him. Most of their phone calls seemed to end that way nowadays. Being separated was hard work – especially when a child was involved.

Was it unreasonable of him not to down tools and race over to the hospital immediately? Was that what most fathers would do? Probably, but he was so bloody busy. He found it so tough to strike the right balance with Ruby. The temptation, of course, was to wrap her up in cotton wool; do everything to keep her safe; pander to her every need. That was Maria’s way, but Dan knew it would only make Ruby more vulnerable in the long run. Wouldn’t they be better preparing her for the harsh realities she’d face later in life? Wasn’t that the best way to—

‘Smoke?’

He looked up to see Maurice standing next to his desk, a freshly rolled cigarette tucked behind one ear. There was a smile stretched across his ruddy face and he looked as laid-back as ever.

‘I’ve even got my own today,’ he said.

‘So I see.’

‘I can roll one for you too, if you like. Might as well take advantage while I have some baccy.’

‘No, thanks. I’ll stick to my Marlboro Lights. I will join you, though. I could do with a break.’

‘Good stuff.’

Maurice, who was in his late forties, had wavy salt and pepper hair that got increasingly messy the longer he spent at work. He was great company: a magnetic character, liked by everyone in the office. He was good at his job and fazed by nothing. Mostly, though, it was his easy manner that people warmed to; his ability to focus on whoever he was talking to and make them feel important. He’d listen and empathise in a way that made them want to confide in him, like they had a special relationship. It was quite the gift and especially useful as a bachelor. Despite his average looks, he always seemed to have several girlfriends on the go at once. Not that he’d ever boast about the fact; that wasn’t his style. He was more likely to look embarrassed than proud if someone brought it up.

‘Are you all right, mate?’ he asked Dan as they took the lift downstairs. ‘You look troubled.’

‘I had my wife on the phone. Ruby’s at A&E. She fell down the stairs and broke her arm.’

‘Oh, no. That’s awful. How’s she doing?’

‘Well, she’ll be there a while, by the sound of things.’

‘Are you getting out of here, then?’

‘I doubt it. Not for a few hours, anyway. I’ve still got loads to tie up. These things always happen on deadline day, don’t they?’

‘I can help, if you like. I’m not too busy.’

‘Thanks, but it’s not like I’d be able to do anything for her at the hospital.’

‘No, but you’re her dad. She’ll want you there. Trust me.’

Maurice had a daughter of his own – a nineteen-year-old from a short-lived relationship in his younger days – so he did know what he was talking about. However, he didn’t know how tricky things had been with Ruby recently. She hadn’t taken well to Dan moving out of the family home. He’d always suspected that she blamed him for the split with Maria and a few weeks ago she’d said as much. It was blurted out in anger and she’d apologised later on, claiming not to have meant it, but the words had stuck with Dan. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Weren’t the weekends with him supposed to be the fun time? Weren’t daughters supposed to be daddy’s girls? Welcome to reality, he thought.

By the time they went back inside, Dan had agreed to accept Maurice’s kind offer to stand in and finish his papers off for him.

‘You’re sure?’ he asked one more time before leaving for the hospital.

‘Go. Be with your daughter.’

‘Thanks, mate. I owe you.’

Half an hour later he was at St Joseph’s, where Ruby was slumped in a chair, her arm in a sling, waiting to have an X-ray.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said, crouching down next to her and kissing her pale cheek, careful not to brush against her arm.

She gave her best attempt at a smile, although it barely registered on her drawn face. ‘Hi, Daddy,’ she whispered.

‘You look wiped out, little one. How are you doing?’

‘Not good.’

‘Poor thing.’

He looked over at Maria, who was sitting on the next seat along. ‘Hi. I managed to get away.’

‘So I see.’ She didn’t go as far as thanking him, but she did look pleasantly surprised.

‘Have they given her something for the pain?’ he asked.

Maria nodded.

It was late by the time they finally got Ruby home, her arm in plaster, and they put her straight to bed. That evening was the longest time all three of them had spent together in ages, Dan noted. And there hadn’t been one argument. It almost felt like they were a family again.

‘Night night,’ Maria said, planting a kiss on Ruby’s forehead before leaving Dan to tuck her in.

He knelt at the side of her bed and stroked her hair. ‘How are you feeling, darling?’

‘Tired,’ she whispered.

‘Does your arm still hurt?’

She nodded, fresh tears trickling down her flushed cheeks.

‘Better than before, though?’ Dan asked, wiping the tears away with a thumb.

‘A bit.’

‘Don’t worry: you’ll be back to normal in no time. One of the best things about being a child is that you heal quickly. Anyway, I’d better let you sleep, hadn’t I?’

She reached out with her good arm, eyes anxious. ‘No. Stay.’

‘Okay, love, I will.’ Taking her hand, he leaned over and kissed her on each cheek. ‘But you close your eyes. It’s late and sleep is really important when your body needs to fix itself.’

Moving into a more comfortable seated position, Dan leaned against the side of Ruby’s bed and promised not to leave until she’d nodded off.

Thank goodness she’s all right, he thought, his heart swelling with the love he felt for his precious daughter.

As he sat there, silent in the dark bedroom, Dan’s eyes grew heavy.

Next thing he knew, he was woken by a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Maria holding a finger to her lips. ‘Come on,’ she whispered, signalling for him to follow her out of the room.

Once on the landing, he asked: ‘How long was I—’

‘Only a few minutes.’

‘Sorry. She wanted me to stay until she fell asleep.’

‘Don’t worry. Listen, I’m going to get changed. Fancy a drink before you go? If you’re not too tired.’

Pleasantly surprised, Dan stifled a yawn. ‘Um, sure.’

‘I’ve no beer, but there’s a bottle of white in the fridge.’

‘Great.’

‘Help yourself. I’m going to freshen up.’

‘No problem. Would you like a glass too?’

‘Are you kidding? I could down the bottle in one.’

‘I’ll make it a large, then.’

She joined him in the kitchen a few minutes later, make-up free, wearing jogging bottoms and a hoodie. It was quite a comedown from the outfit she’d been wearing before, which had been the most dressy he’d seen her in ages.

‘Comfy?’ he asked with a grin, fully awake again now.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

He was thinking back to when she used to dress up, not down, for him. But he stopped himself from saying so. Things between them right now were the most amicable they’d been in ages. Showing up at the hospital had earned him precious brownie points. No point ruining it.

‘The outfit you had on earlier was really nice,’ he added. ‘That’s all.’

She squinted at him over the kitchen table. ‘And now I look a mess.’

‘That’s not what I said. I was paying you a compliment.’

He stopped short of accusing her of twisting his words. That would definitely lead to an argument.

She stared at him for a moment. He imagined the cogs of her mind whirring behind her beautiful hazel eyes. They’d once beamed pure love at him. Now they were more often than not a tool of accusation; of anger and frustration. Maybe even hate, although he hoped not. He couldn’t bear to think that things between them had veered so far off course. They’d been so good together. Under normal circumstances, he was sure they’d still be happily married. But what they’d been through was enough to tear apart even the strongest of unions.

She sighed. ‘I’m tired. It’s been a long day.’

‘No problem,’ he replied, pleasantly surprised. He couldn’t recall the last time Maria had backed down like that.

They’d not discussed the accident in front of Ruby for fear of upsetting her. But now she was out of earshot, Dan was keen to know what had happened.

‘I didn’t see it,’ Maria explained. ‘She was playing on the stairs, which she knows she shouldn’t have been doing. I was in the kitchen.’

Dan knew that had their roles been reversed, Maria would have made a big issue of the whole “playing on the stairs” thing. He’d have been blamed for letting Ruby do it and accused of not paying enough attention. But he knew the reality: Ruby was eight and didn’t always do as she was told. You couldn’t watch children constantly at that age. You had to give them space to learn through making mistakes.

‘Which friend was she playing with?’ he asked. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘Um, no. A girl called Anna. She’s new in Ruby’s class. Recently moved to the area.’

‘Really? Great. What’s she like?’

‘Nice.’

‘Did she come by herself or with her mum?’

Maria looked to the floor and scratched her forehead in that way Dan knew she did when she was uncomfortable. ‘Um. With her dad, actually. Rick.’

‘Oh, right. I see.’

Dan did his best not to look surprised, irritated even. But he could see from Maria’s expression that he’d failed. He’d never had much of a poker face.

‘What?’ she asked defensively. ‘It’s not that unusual these days for a father to pick his kids up from school, you know.’

‘I never said it was. If you remember, I did it more than you when we were both working.’

‘You’re having a go at me for staying at home now?’

‘What are you on about?’

‘I heard the tone in your voice: derogatory, like I’m not as good as you, because I choose to be a full-time mum. You can jump off that high horse right now. Your earnings don’t come close to what mine used to be. And if it wasn’t for the money from my parents—’

‘Yes, yes, I know. Heard it all before. We wouldn’t be in this dream house of ours, if it wasn’t for them. Well, I’m not, am I? Not any more. I’m in my lovely damp flat instead. And as much as I hate it there, do you know what? It beats being here with you. You can shove your family money up your arse, Maria.’

He slammed his half-full glass of wine on to the table, somehow not breaking it, and got up to leave. But now he couldn’t stop himself. She’d popped his cork, like a shaken bottle of fizz; the words came out by themselves. ‘It’s not possible for us to have a normal conversation any more, is it? Whatever I say, you always find a way to turn it into a bloody argument. Why the hell do I bother? You’re not the woman I married. You’re not even a shadow of her. There’s no going back for us, I can see that now. We’re done. We might as well get on with the divorce. Get it out of the way. Then I can be free of you. Maybe you can run off with your new friend Rick. It makes sense now why you were so dressed up today. Trying to impress him, were you? Well, good luck with that. Best not let him see how twisted you are, or he’ll run a mile.’

Dan had expected Maria to fire back at him with a verbal assault of her own, but it didn’t come. Instead she burst into tears, which stopped him in his tracks, instantly cooling his anger and turning on the tap of regret. He took a deep breath, resisted the urge to apologise for his outburst, and left without another word.

‘Idiot,’ he said to himself, getting into his car and slamming the door. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself say all that stuff. No one knew the right buttons to press to upset her better than he did. She’d done the same to him on enough occasions, but he tried not to get sucked into that kind of thing. Epic fail this time, he thought. The worst bit was what he’d said about getting a divorce. In truth, that was the last thing he wanted, so why on earth had he said it? The one consolation was that he hadn’t gone further. He hadn’t mentioned her mental health, which would have been a tough one to come back from. And he’d not brought Sam into it, thank goodness.

He considered returning to apologise, but he knew what Maria’s reaction would be if he did. She’d throw it straight back at him. She hated it when people said sorry for things, especially just after they’d said or done them.

‘You can keep your apology. I don’t want it.’

How many times had she said that to him over the years? Countless, especially at the start of their relationship, before he got wise to it. She felt an apology was the easy option, favouring actions rather than words. Mind you, that opinion was forged in different times: days when she rarely got angry herself; when judging others for speaking in haste wouldn’t have been hypocritical. Things were different now. She was different.

All the same, going back to say sorry didn’t feel like the right move, so Dan drove home. Well, he went back to the flat, which was the closest thing he had at the moment. He’d never think of it as home, because it wasn’t. He hated it too much for that. It felt more like a prison. Ironically, the place he thought of as home was the house he’d just left, having done a good job of making sure he wouldn’t be invited back any time soon.

He opened a bottle of vodka and necked three shots in quick succession. He hoped the booze would raise rather than lower his spirits. Experience told him it could go either way. Looking for a distraction, he decided he ought to text Maurice to make sure everything had gone well with the papers.

He’d downed several more shots and two bottles of beer by the time Maurice’s reply eventually arrived.

All good. How’s Ruby? She was glad to see you, right?

Yes. Tucked up in best not, ATM on plate.

What? Bloody predictive text. Realising he was already quite drunk, Dan deleted the message and started again, concentrating to make sure he got it right this time.

Yes. Tucked up in bed now, arm in plaster. Thanks again. See you tomorrow.

Maurice’s question got Dan thinking. Had Ruby been pleased to see him at the hospital? He’d thought so at the time, but maybe he’d seen what he wanted to see. Her reaction had actually been quite muted. He’d put that down to the pain she was in, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He could feel himself sinking into one of his moods, but it was too late to change anything now. He took another gulp of vodka, no longer bothering with the shot glass.

CHAPTER 8

I wake up to find I can’t move. It’s getting light outside and I’m looking up at the high ceiling of my room at Miles’s house. I know who I am: I’m Jack, and I have a head injury. But I can’t move. It’s like some invisible force is pinning me to the bed. I try again and again to raise myself up, but it’s no use.

What the hell’s happening? I try to stay calm and rational, but it’s no good. My breathing gets faster; I can feel myself breaking out in a cold sweat. Panic is here. I can feel his bony fingers pressing down on my chest. I can smell his rotten breath.

‘Miles,’ I call out. ‘Help me! I’m paralysed.’

I shout his name more times than I can remember. Louder and louder until my voice cracks, my throat like sandpaper. He doesn’t come.

What time is it? I wonder. Impossible to know for sure in this house without clocks, but I’d guess at five or six o’clock. Miles must still be asleep. That’s why he’s not coming. He will in an hour or two once he wakes up. I need to calm down. Wait it out.

Easier said than done. I’m paralysed! Of course I’m panicking.

At that moment I hear the creak of the bedroom door opening. I try to look in that direction, but my head’s having none of it and my eyes will only roll back so far.

‘Miles? What took you so long?’

But it’s not his voice that replies.

‘Hello, my love. Did you call me?’

When I answer, my voice is that of a child. I’m still around – still part of the action – but not in the driving seat and no longer paralysed. ‘Yes, Gangy. I had a bad dream. I woke up and—’

‘And what? You can tell me.’

‘I thought there was a bat in here.’

‘A bat? Where?’

I point to the corner of the room and she walks over to it. She has a good look around, even kneeling down and peeking under the chest of drawers. ‘No,’ she says, once her search is complete. ‘There’s definitely no bat here. None whatsoever. I think you still had one foot in the Land of Nod.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The Land of Nod is where we go when we’re asleep. It’s a tricky old place. When you’re there, you think it’s real life. When you’re fully awake, it doesn’t seem real at all. Sometimes, when you first wake up and one world blends into the other, you can get confused. Was there a bat in your dream?’

‘Yes.’

‘There you go. That explains it. I dreamt I was a rabbit the other night.’

I giggle as she twitches her nose at me.

‘I really believed it too,’ she continues. ‘I led a full life. It seemed like I was there forever, hopping in and out of my warren; eating carrots and so on.’

‘Mum says rabbits don’t really eat carrots.’

‘She’s right. Carrots aren’t what they naturally eat in the wild. But I bet they’d like the ones I grow in my garden, because they’re super delicious, aren’t they?’

I nod enthusiastically. She knows I love her home-grown veggies.

‘Anyway, I ate carrots in my dream. Like Bugs Bunny. Then I woke up and laughed at myself for believing I was a rabbit.’

‘What was it like?’

‘Being a rabbit? Good fun, from what I can remember. But that’s the other thing with dreams: the memory of them fades before you know it.’

‘What colour rabbit were you?’

‘Light brown with a bushy white tail.’

I smile. ‘Gangy?’

‘Yes, love.’

‘Do I have to go back to sleep?’

‘Not if you don’t want to. We’re both awake now. How about we go downstairs and make some breakfast?’

I jump up and throw on my dressing gown.

‘I’ll need a hug first,’ Gangy says, and I throw my arms around her.

‘I love staying here,’ I tell her.

‘And I love having you.’

‘Come on. Time to get up.’

My eyes snap open and Miles is leaning over the bed, opening the green curtains and letting the daylight stream in.

‘Morning, lad. How are you feeling today?’

‘I can’t—’ I realise I’ve just turned my head. I sit up without any effort. Everything’s working again. The whole paralysis thing must have been a dream.

‘You can’t what?’

‘Um, nothing. It’s fine.’

‘How’s the head?’

‘Good. It hardly hurts at all now.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jack.’

‘And who am I?’

‘Miles. I’m your lodger. This is your house. I’m helping you fix it up.’

‘Excellent. Anything else come back to you?’

‘Maybe. I’m not entirely sure. I think I dreamt a memory. Is that possible?’

Miles shrugs. ‘I don’t see why not. What was it about?’

‘It was something from my childhood. Like last time, with the marmalade. It involved my grandmother again.’

I talk him through the scene that played out in my head. Miles sits on the wooden chair, listening to me with his head cocked to one side.

‘What do you think?’ I ask when I’ve finished.

‘Sounds like a memory to me. What do you think? How did it feel?’

I nod. ‘Like I’d been there before.’

‘What did your grandmother look like?’

‘Um, I don’t know. I should have paid more attention. Small, I think – for an adult. She wasn’t that much bigger than me. Short curly hair. Kind eyes. She was wearing a dressing gown. Light green, maybe.’

‘That’s good.’

‘But why her? Why’s she the one I remember again? Why my childhood? What about everything in between? When’s that going to return?’

Miles sits back in the chair and runs one hand through his short white hair. ‘Take it easy. That’s a lot of questions. Memory’s complicated.’

‘Yes, but you also said this kind of memory loss is rare. What did you call it again?’

‘Retrograde amnesia.’

‘That’s it. So what’s going on? Why hasn’t everything come back? Don’t take this the wrong way; I know you have lots of experience as a GP, but don’t you think I maybe ought to see a specialist or something? Go to a hospital?’

‘Sure, if you’re worried, we can do that. No problem. The nearest hospital is a good drive away, though. Plus the only doctor you’ll get to see on a weekend is at A&E – probably some youngster who qualified five minutes ago. There’s really no point going there until next week when someone senior is around.’

‘What day is it today?’

‘Saturday.’

‘Oh, right. I didn’t realise.’

He reassures me that he’s perfectly well qualified to keep an eye on me for the time being. I mention the paralysis, in case it’s important, although Miles is sure it was only a dream, most likely spawned by the frustration of my memory loss.

‘But you will take me to the hospital next week?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, Miles. I’m just desperate to get my memories back. It’s so frustrating not knowing who I am. If there’s anything that can be done—’

‘Don’t worry, Jack. I understand.’

‘Are you sure it’s not worth going today? Isn’t there a chance there might be someone who can help?’

‘No. It would be an utter waste of time. You’ll have to trust me on that.’

‘Could we go on Monday, then?’

‘Yes, Monday we can do.’

After a shower and breakfast, I find Miles busy laying floorboards.

‘Can I help?’ I offer.

‘No, I don’t think you’re ready to get back to work yet.’

‘But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’

‘It’s too soon.’

‘What shall I do, then? I need to get busy with something or I’ll go crazy.’

Miles shrugs.

‘Maybe I’ll get some fresh air. The weather looks decent: the sun’s out and there’s no sign of any rain.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea in your condition.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I insist. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t go near the edge of the cliff. I could really do with …’

Miles throws me an expectant stare.

‘Yeah, I was going to tell you that I need to clear my head,’ I say. ‘Then the irony of the expression struck me. What I really want to do is fill my head back up. But you know what I mean.’

‘I’d rather you put your feet up.’

‘Just a little walk. I’ll stay close to the house, I promise.’

‘Fine. You’re a grown man and you seem steady enough on your feet now. But please don’t go close to the edge, and don’t push yourself too hard.’

‘I won’t. Thanks, Doc.’

Outside, the fresh sea air feels great on my skin. Despite what I’ve told Miles, I can’t resist walking over to the rickety fence and peering down the jagged cliff face to the swirling sea, which looks chilly and agitated. I’m not sure what time of year it is, which is an odd feeling, yet I’m dressed for winter in a jumper and jacket. That must be right, I think. The sun might be out, but there’s no warmth, especially in the coastal breeze. I take in my surroundings, noting the bare branches of the few trees nearby and the lack of any flowers. Then I look back at the house: a last outpost of civilisation in this remote spot, as worn and neglected as it is imposing. There’s so much still to be done, I think, eyeing all the flaking paintwork, rotten wood and damaged roof tiles. No wonder Miles needs my help.

Wandering over to the rear of the house, I come across a mud-caked green Land Rover parked at the top of a winding dirt track. I assume this leads to a proper road. The car looks old but functional. I stare down the track; just knowing for sure that there’s an actual route to civilisation comes as a relief.

I hear a thumping noise behind me and I turn to see Miles struggling to open a decrepit wooden window on the first floor. He eventually succeeds and waves to me with a smile. ‘Ring a bell?’

‘Sorry?’ I say, cupping one ear and moving closer.

‘There,’ he replies, pointing to a spot of overgrown grass and a mound of earth to my left-hand side.

Despite having a good look around, I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. I shrug, perplexed.

‘That pile of soil,’ he says, pointing again. ‘It’s where I found you unconscious after your accident.

‘Really?’ I look again, but still nothing comes back.

He nods to one side. ‘The ladder’s over there.’

I go to it, run my hands over the cold aluminium, but it’s as unfamiliar as the rest.

‘I think you must have been looking at the state of the roof. We’d been talking about sorting out the tiles for a while. I’m not sure why you decided to do it when I wasn’t around, though; it’s not wise to go up a ladder alone.’

‘Clearly not.’

‘And? Any recollection?’

I look around again, as if that might somehow trigger my memory, but there’s nothing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen this side of the house. I shake my head. ‘It’s not familiar at all. I was—’

I stop mid-sentence as something catches my eye: a flash of red in my peripheral vision. I turn in that direction, but there’s nothing there.

‘You all right?’ Miles calls down to me.

‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m going for a wander. See you in a bit.’

‘Be careful. Make sure not to lose your way.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

I’m convinced the red is from the woman I spotted out of the window yesterday: the slender figure looking over the cliff, who Miles claimed not to have seen. There’s no logic to this other than the fact that she was wearing a red coat, but I’m gripped by the notion and I race in that direction to try to catch her.

There’s no sign of her at the front of the house. I’m confused. I look all around, casting my eye up and down the coastline. I retrace my steps to the rear of the house, taking care to stay out of Miles’s view, but still no luck. Eventually, after several minutes of scratching my head, I figure I must have imagined it. It’s the only rational explanation. I have had a recent head trauma. Seeing flashes of colour is probably a side effect. Besides, if I’m to believe Miles, I probably imagined her in the first place. And yet somehow I’m still not convinced of that. The first time I saw her she was so realistic, so alive.

I return to the front of the house and decide to walk to the place along the clifftop where I first saw the mysterious woman in red. Miles wouldn’t approve, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I soon reach the spot, but of course she’s not there and there’s no sign of her either. So I carry on, focusing on a crooked sea stack in the distance that reminds me of a witch’s nose.

I take in the cool, fresh air with deep breaths – as slow as I can manage – in a bid to calm myself down. I feel all worked up; my shoulders ache. I hadn’t realised how tense I was until now. Having no memory is so frustrating; how can I understand myself when my past is a mystery? My mind is like an empty library: useless without the volumes of knowledge that define it.

I’m picturing that image in my mind when it’s ripped apart and set alight by the burning arrow of another memory.

It’s dark and the streets are full of monsters with bags of loot.

A little ghost is gripping my hand and pulling me towards the light of a nearby front door. ‘They have a pumpkin in the window,’ she says. ‘They should definitely answer.’

‘Well spotted,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve got excellent eyes for a ghost. Would you like me to come to the door with you or to hang back?’

‘I want you to come. You don’t look scary though. I said you should have worn a mask.’

‘Never mind. I’ll pull a really creepy face instead. How’s this?’

She looks up at my attempt at facial contortion and giggles while pressing the bell.

A moment later the door swings open and we both shout: ‘Trick or treat!’

‘Wow! You do look scary,’ booms the large bald man who answers. ‘I’d better give you some sweets, hadn’t I?

He reaches to grab a big bowl of mini chocolates from a shelf above a coat rack standing beside the door. How strange, I think. All the jackets hanging there are red.

‘Here, help yourself,’ he says. ‘And please don’t trick me.’

As the little ghost reaches out, the man turns to me. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks. His voice is different now, though. It sounds female. Like that of a young woman.

What’s happening? One moment I’m looking him in the eye, wondering what the hell is going on with his voice, and the next everything fades to black. I’m shouting out, but I can’t hear myself, like I’ve been muted. I’m confused, afraid.

Then I hear that voice again.

‘Can you hear me?’

It definitely sounds like a young woman; maybe a teenager. The tone reassures me somehow. It seems familiar, although I can’t put my finger on why.

‘You have to get up. It’s not safe here. You need to open your eyes.’

Bright sky is above me: light blue with fluffy sheep clouds. I turn my head to the right, feel damp grass under my cheek and view the sea through the gaps in the rickety fence. Why am I lying on the ground? What happened?

I heave myself up. First into a sitting position and then, once I’m sure everything’s working, on to my feet. I feel dizzy, especially when I look at the sea far below. There’s a twinge from my head, but nothing like the pain I felt when I first woke up after the accident. I must have fainted or passed out. It didn’t feel like that, though. It was more like I was in a trance – reliving a forgotten memory, as I had before.

So who was the young girl trick-or-treating with me? Was the little ghost my daughter? It felt like she was. But how can I be a father and not remember? That’s not the kind of thing you ever forget, is it? I must be mistaken. Maybe she was a niece, a young sister or a friend’s daughter. Perhaps it wasn’t a memory at all. It could have been a scene I watched in a film, although again it felt so real.

I think back to the feeling I keep having that I should be somewhere else, with someone else. Maybe there’s a good reason for that.

I shiver in the wind. What about the older girl’s voice that spoke to me at the end? She told me to get up. She said I wasn’t safe. Was she right? And why did she sound so familiar?

I turn 360 degrees, scanning the open space in every direction for some clue. And then I see her: far in the distance along the clifftop, in the opposite direction from which I was walking.

The woman in red. Or maybe not a woman at all. Could she be the one who just spoke to me? Could she be a girl? A teenager?

She looks identical to the last time I saw her; same jeans and knee-length coat, billowing long black hair. She’s looking at me, although she’s some distance away: too far to clearly make out her face. So how could she have been talking to me?

I cup both hands around my mouth and shout to her. ‘Hello! Can you hear me?’

She doesn’t react, so I wave my hands above my head, staring at her the whole time and shouting some more.

She stands there, hands in her pockets, looking straight at me but through me.

Then I blink and she’s gone.

CHAPTER 9
Friday, 7 April 2017

Dear Sam,

Sorry about breaking off so abruptly last time. Ruby had got herself all confused, poor thing. She’d had some sort of nightmare; then she woke up and got into a panic at not being able to move her arm. It’ll take her a while to get used to the plaster cast.

I’m keeping her off school for a couple of days. Yesterday she was shattered after all the time we spent at the hospital. Today it was more about giving her a chance to get used to doing everything one-handed. She should be fine to go back next week, from what the doctors said. As long as she’s not in any pain and keeps her arm rested in a sling. She’ll still be able to do most of her schoolwork, thanks to being left-handed, but there’ll be no PE or Games for a while. She’s mainly excited about all her friends signing the plaster.

I didn’t have a chance last time to tell you about the hospital visit itself. We went to A&E at St Joseph’s and were there for hours. One nice – and somewhat surprising – thing was that Dan turned up.

There, I’ve mentioned him. You probably wondered when I was going to. It had to happen eventually; he’s still in our lives and always will be, despite what happened between us. Forgive me if I’m not as impartial or diplomatic about him as I ought to be. I’m writing to your future self, Sam, not to the person you were. So these letters are making the assumption that you know all about the separation and so on. The whys and wherefores are not something I want to discuss here. I will say, though, that you mustn’t feel bad about any of that – I’m not suggesting you do; there’s absolutely no reason to. But just in case.

I rang him at work after the accident. He said initially that he couldn’t make it, because it was deadline night, but then he turned up after all. That was unexpected and, in light of Rick’s disappointing response, it actually felt refreshing. Dan was really supportive, and I think Ruby and I both appreciated it.

Things between us were really good for once. Dan stayed at the hospital the whole time and followed us home to tuck Ruby up in bed. He even stayed for a glass of wine. But then things turned sour. First he said something derisive after I changed into some casual clothes. Then he picked up on the fact that Rick had been here and got all narky with me. He didn’t actually accuse me of not paying enough attention to Ruby when she had the accident, but I could tell he was thinking it. He put me on a guilt trip about giving up work and, before I knew it, he was asking for a divorce and saying all kinds of hurtful things.

After everything I’d been through that day, it was too much. I burst into tears. Pathetic, I know, but I didn’t have the energy to argue back. Dan went home. I sat there, sobbing my heart out until there were no tears left.

All in all, a pretty dreadful day.

The thing is, Sam, before we had that argument, I was feeling better about our relationship than I have in ages. Dan turning up at the hospital renewed my faith in him. It felt nice the three of us being together again as a family unit. A small part of me even started to wonder …

No, I can’t bring myself to say it. Not after how it all turned out. I guess that was why it hurt so much when he started having a go at me. The irony is I’ve done that to him on loads of occasions; if I’ve not actually used the D word at some point, then I’ve definitely implied it. I’ve shouted and screamed at him; behaved in the bitchiest way possible countless times. I even made him return the present he gave me last Christmas, because we’d agreed not to do gifts. Nasty or what?

That might not sound like how you remember me, Sam. I never used to lose my temper so easily, did I? It’s part of the personal problems I’ve been having: the breakdown I mentioned in my last letter.

The thing about Dan is that he usually takes whatever I say firmly on the chin. As awful as that sounds, it’s true. He’s not the type to shout back, even when I deserve it. He definitely hasn’t asked for a divorce before. He’s never been one to say much at all about his emotions. That’s played a part in the problems between us. So in a way, although it sounds warped, I’m glad he shouted at me. It was good to see him being passionate, but a shame it was so horribly negative.

Gosh, just thinking about the current state of my relationship with Dan has got me welling up, especially since we used to be so good together. The way we met – in a pub with a group of friends – might not have been especially romantic. (I’ve told you the story before about how I knocked over his beer, spilling it all over his shirt.) But everything else about the start of our love affair was perfect. We fell head over heels for each other. I knew I wanted to marry him after we kissed at the end of that first meeting, believe it or not. I’d never got on so well with another person, male or female, before. We just clicked instantly, as if we’d known each other for years, even though I spent the first half an hour or so apologising for my clumsiness. It was like everyone else we were out with that night disappeared. Within a few weeks we were inseparable, and it remained like that for so long.

Relationships change over the years, of course, especially when you start a family. But when you’re married to your best friend and soulmate, as I truly felt I was, you travel through the ups and downs of life confident that your relationship will stand the test of time, no matter what. Unfortunately, as we eventually found out, even the strongest marriages have their breaking points.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the other night. After Dan had left and I’d cried myself out, I got into a bit of a state. I’d better explain. Sorry for the heavy subject matter again, Sam, but I need to do this.

You’ve heard of OCD, right? Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It’s kind of a trendy mental illness these days. All sorts of people claim to have it: famous sports stars, actors, comedians, you name it. It’s often mentioned in a light-hearted way. They say something like: ‘I’m a bit OCD.’ Then they go on, with a wry grin, to explain how they like to order things in a certain way in their kitchen cupboards or have to check the front door twice before going out.

This winds me up because from my perspective, as someone who definitely does have OCD, it isn’t funny at all. It’s debilitating, humiliating, infuriating; rather than tell people, I do my utmost to hide it, even from those closest to me.

On the other hand, you get films and TV documentaries taking things to the opposite extreme. They tend to portray OCD in its most acute form. You see someone housebound or unable to lead a normal life because of it. They’re some kind of twitching wreck, hopping down the pavement to avoid cracks, or scrubbing all the skin off their palms for fear of germs. I understand why the producers and directors do this, as extremity makes for a more powerful story, but I just wish someone would portray the condition in a way that more closely matches my own experience.

I’m a functional fruitcake, remember, and I think the middle ground – the place where I and many other sufferers live, hiding our craziness from view – gets overlooked.

For a long time, I tried to hide it from myself by denying it was there. Now, finally, I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve sought help and I’m on the road to recovery, but it’s hard enough for people to understand without it being portrayed inaccurately in popular culture.

Wow. I can’t believe I told you all that, Sam. I thought it would be hard, but in fact the opposite was true. The words flowed right out of me. I wonder if this comes as a huge surprise to you, or if it kind of makes sense. With hindsight, you see, I think I’ve probably had a latent form of it for most of my life, which developed into full-blown OCD when I had my breakdown.

I’ve always liked things ‘just so’. I used to keep items on my desk at work in certain positions, for instance, and I’d get annoyed if someone moved them. I suppose I did it at home too, insisting on things being neat and tidy around the house. But it rarely got in the way of my everyday life and I never thought of it as anything more than fussiness or perfectionism. Even at school I remember tearing pages out of my workbooks and starting again because what I’d written the first time wasn’t neat enough. But it was only little things like that, every now and again.

Rosie, my counsellor, has been teaching me how to use cognitive behavioural techniques to overcome my OCD. It’s a self-help method and, although it’s not easy or a quick fix, I’ve been doing my best and I have been seeing good results. It’s not all plain sailing, though. I said earlier that I got myself into a state after Dan left. What I meant was that I had an OCD episode and ended up back at square one.

It’s a condition that affects people differently. For some it’s all about hygiene: obsessive cleaning due to fear of contamination. Others can’t stop themselves hoarding junk. In my case, there are two main obsessions. The first is a fear of harm occurring to me or my family, which leads to me repeatedly checking things like door locks and smoke alarms. The second is an excessive concern with exactness or order. This can emerge in a variety of situations, from tidying the house to writing a letter, but it’s basically a kind of extreme perfectionism. It could mean, for example, taking an hour to do a job that should only take minutes. It’s an obsession with getting small tasks ‘just right’ as if by doing that you’ll make everything else in your life perfect too.

Sounds absurd? No doubt. Even I know it’s ridiculous, but when I’m trapped in the middle of an episode, I just can’t stop. Not without following the steps Rosie’s been teaching me.

I hope I’ve not lost you, Sam, prattling on about all of this. It must be a lot to take in. Believe me when I say that I’m tempted to scrub out this whole page, screw up the paper and start over. It’s like there’s a voice in my head urging me to do so – begging me – with the false promise that I’ll do a better job next time. But I’m fighting it. I’m fighting so hard.

You know how in cartoons a character sometimes has an angel and a devil pop up on each shoulder, one urging them to do good and the other to do evil? It feels a bit like that. The angel, in this case, is the part of me that wants to beat the OCD. But fighting it is always the harder choice. And sometimes the devil won’t stop. He goes on and on and on and on and on and on. His voice bounces around my head like a rubber ball, demanding to be heard.

That’s what happened after Dan left the other night, and I didn’t have the strength to resist. I locked the door after him, but five minutes later I felt the urge to go and check it. Even though I knew it was locked. I tried to resist, to stay put where I was, but eventually I gave in. I checked it once and then dozens of times. I couldn’t tear myself away from that bloody door. And then when I finally did, I found myself at the bottom of the stairs, worrying that the carpet wasn’t properly fixed down; that Ruby could have another fall. I went up and down the stairs, over and over again on my hands and knees, checking every inch. And then I was at the back door, twisting the key in the lock like a mad woman.

It went on for hours. Somehow I managed to pull myself together before Ruby woke up. I had to. I couldn’t let her see me like that, although I’d hardly slept and was shattered. In the cold light of morning, I felt ridiculous. I felt ashamed, as I always do after tearing myself free of its clutches. If only that was enough to stop it happening again.

Gosh, I’m really starting to wonder if I’ve gone too far with this, telling you too much in one go. Maybe I ought to start over.

Maybe.

No!

No starting over!

Move forward.

Keep moving forward.

You see? I’m fighting it right now.

You must think I’m …

Sorry about that, Sam. I needed a few minutes to compose myself. I made a cup of tea.

It’s time to move on and tell you about something else. Lighten things up.

So Rick phoned me yesterday.

‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘How’s Ruby? Anna said she wasn’t at school today. She was worried about her. Me too, of course.’

He sounded nervous. Embarrassed. Not the self-assured, relaxed person I’d first met. No doubt he felt bad about the way he’d reacted to Ruby’s injury. He’d not exactly been supportive. Useless more like.

‘Well, she has a broken arm,’ I replied.

‘Right. Oh dear. Everything went well at the hospital?’

‘Yes. It took a while, but we got there in the end.’

‘Ruby’s arm’s in plaster now?’

‘That’s right.’

There was a long pause. He was waiting for me to expand, but I didn’t feel like making things easy, so I stayed silent; waited for him to say something else.

‘Right. That’s good. The plaster, I mean. Well, not good exactly, but it’ll help it to heal.’

‘Yes,’ I said, enjoying feeling in control for once. I almost mentioned that my husband had joined us at the hospital but thought better of it. Why risk blowing things when they’d reached such an interesting phase?

‘How long is Ruby likely to be off school?’ he asked.

‘Not long. She should be back next week.’

‘Oh, good. I’ll tell Anna that. She’ll be pleased.’

Rick went on to apologise for ‘being a little squeamish’, as he put it, asking for the chance to make it up to us.

‘I’m not a bad cook,’ he said. ‘I wondered if the two of you might like to come over for some food this weekend. Only if Ruby’s up to it, of course.’

I said yes. I’m not a big fan of apologies, as I’m sure you remember, but he is gorgeous and I couldn’t resist.

We’re visiting their place tomorrow afternoon. I’ll let you know how it goes in my next letter, which I promise will be more upbeat.

Love as always,

M

Xx

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