# If Ever I Fall: A gripping, emotional story with a heart-breaking twist

S.D. Robertson

‘Exceptionally beautiful, emotionally charged and inspirational’MIRANDA DICKINSON, Sunday Times bestseller ‘A wonderfully told tale of devastation, grief and ultimately hope’KATHRYN HUGHES, bestselling author of THE LETTER and THE SECRET A heart-rending story of family tragedy, perfect for fans of Amanda Prowse and Jojo Moyes.Is holding on harder than letting go?Dan’s life has fallen apart at the seams. He’s lost his house, his job is on the line, and now he’s going to lose his family too. All he’s ever wanted is to keep them together, but is everything beyond repair?Maria is drowning in grief. She spends her days writing letters that will never be answered. Nights are spent trying to hold terrible memories at bay, to escape the pain that threatens to engulf her.Jack wakes up confused and alone. He doesn’t know who he is, how he got there, or why he finds himself on a deserted clifftop, but will piecing together the past leave him a broken man?In the face of real tragedy, can these three people find a way to reconcile their past with a new future? And is love enough to carry them through?

## S.D. ROBERTSON. IF EVER I FALL


## Copyright


Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017.

Copyright © S. D. Robertson 2017.

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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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 © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008100704

Version 2017-12-21

## Dedication

For Mum and Dad

Table of 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.