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 h
ad 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 meth
od 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.
If Ever I Fall Page 7