Maria needed help. Dan knew that. But she wouldn’t listen to reason. She did her utmost to hide what she was doing from him – including kicking him out of their bedroom – and she refused to admit there was any problem.
As he walked into the kitchen, Dan decided enough was enough. He’d have to speak to her, regardless of the consequences. What was the worst thing that could happen? They were arguing all the time anyway. What did one more blazing row matter if it led to Maria facing up to her problem? She needed professional help to get past this. Maybe even some kind of medication. Clearly it all stemmed from her grief, but it had gone way beyond that now. Why on earth had he let it linger on for so long?
He’d looked into it a bit on the Internet – mainly at work, to avoid any chance of Maria finding out. What he’d read had backed up his initial suspicions that she had some kind of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It wasn’t something he’d ever experienced outside films, books and newspaper articles. As a result, he did struggle to understand why sufferers couldn’t pull themselves together and stop whatever behaviour they were repeating. And yet the same was often said about people suffering from depression. This was something he had experienced, albeit on a limited scale, and he’d needed therapy to get through it. He’d even read that there was a significant relationship between the two conditions and they were often treated in similar ways.
He decided to look up the name of a local specialist, which he could pass on to Maria when he spoke to her about it. That would be more positive than simply telling her she needed help, wouldn’t it? He’d do that when he got a quiet moment sometime this weekend, with a view to having the chat after Ruby had gone to bed on Sunday night. That way they might be able to have a nice couple of family days together first. He wasn’t holding his breath, though. Look how she’d reacted to his earlier suggestion of couple counselling.
‘I’m going to sort tea out,’ Dan told Ruby. ‘Mummy’s busy.’
‘What are we having?’
‘Not sure yet. I need to see what’s in the fridge.’
The front doorbell rang, followed immediately by a knock.
‘Who’s that?’ Ruby asked.
‘I’ve no idea. Are we expecting anyone?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Ruby turned her attention back to the television and Dan trudged towards the door.
He opened it to find a pair of bored-looking girls in winter coats chewing gum. He didn’t recognise them; they looked to be around thirteen or fourteen, the taller of the two with braces on her teeth. About the same age Sam had been when she left this world … halfway between a girl and a woman. Not yet comfortable in her own skin.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’
‘Trick or treat!’ the smaller one said without looking him in the eye.
‘What?’
‘Trick or treat,’ she said again.
‘Yes, I heard you the first time. But it’s not Halloween yet.’
The youngsters looked at each other, shrugged, and then looked back at Dan with blank faces.
‘Sorry, girls. We don’t have any sweets or anything in yet. You’ll have to come back on Monday.’
He almost said something about how they ought to dress up next time, but he held back. No point antagonising them. It didn’t take much to wind kids up at that age.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ the taller girl said.
She looked so dejected that Dan almost caved in, but he really didn’t have a clue what he could give them. Other than money, of course. But if he did that and word got around, he’d be inundated with callers. Plus he hated the whole concept of trick-or-treating. It was glorified begging, at the end of the day, with a little extortion thrown in for good measure. Mind you, he’d promised Ruby he’d take her out this year, having avoided it the last few times due to work commitments. She wanted to dress as a ghost in a white sheet: a nice easy costume at least.
Back in the house, Dan finally got to the fridge and, after taking out another beer, he weighed up what to cook. There wasn’t much to choose from. However, there were a couple of packs of fresh pasta and enough bits and bobs to drum up a half decent tomato sauce.
‘I’m going to make some pasta,’ he shouted through to Ruby. ‘It won’t take long. Can you let Mummy know? Tell her about twenty minutes.’
He waited for a reply, but none came. ‘Hello? Ruby?’
‘Yes,’ she called back eventually. ‘What kind of pasta?’
‘The tasty kind. Did you hear what I asked you?’
‘Ye-es.’
He stuck his head through the door into the lounge. ‘Less of the attitude, please. Just do it.’
‘I will.’
‘Good. And after you’ve done that, I’d like you to come and lay the kitchen table, please.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Ruby.’
‘Fine.’
About twenty minutes and two more beers later, Dan called out that the food was ready.
Ruby appeared first.
‘Have you turned the television off and washed your hands?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. Is Mummy coming?’
She shrugged. ‘I did tell her, but she was doing something in her room.’
‘Right. I’ll go and find her. You grab a seat. Here’s your food. Help yourself to grated cheese.’
‘Goodie. Smells yum. Can I start or do I have to wait?’
‘Dig in. I’ll be back in a second.’
He walked over to the foot of the stairs. ‘Maria. Tea’s re—’
‘Yes, I know,’ his wife replied, appearing from the bedroom and shutting the door behind her. ‘I’m coming.’
‘Everything all right?’ he asked her a few minutes later when they were all at the table.
‘Fine. But don’t go in the bedroom, please. The same goes for you, Ruby. I’m in the middle of something and I don’t want to have to start all over again.’
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ Ruby asked. ‘Can I help?’
Maria took a deep breath. ‘No, thank you, darling. I’m sorting a few things out. Having a bit of a tidy up: like we do in your bedroom sometimes.’
‘Are we doing a car boot sale?’
‘Um, no. Why do you say that?’
‘Holly in my class did one a few weeks ago. She was allowed to have her own stall and to keep all the money she made from selling her old toys.’
‘Really?’ Dan replied. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’
‘Maybe we should sell some of Sam’s things,’ Ruby said, shocking Dan and causing Maria to almost choke on her food.
After making sure his wife was okay, Dan ventured: ‘Perhaps Ruby’s right. It could be time to sort through some of her things.’
He’d been thinking they ought to tackle Sam’s room for a while now. It was a job he knew they’d have to do one day, but he’d never found a good moment to bring it up before.
Apparently it was still too soon for Maria. The colour had drained from her face and she was staring into the distance, not saying a word.
‘We don’t have to if you don’t want to, Mummy,’ Ruby said, her face creased with concern.
It was then that Dan noticed the tears in Maria’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ he mouthed to Ruby before changing the subject and telling her how nice her hair looked. ‘Did Mummy style it for you?’
She nodded.
‘She’s done a good job. Your curls look gorgeous.’
Dan would have liked nothing more than to have been able to put his arms around his wife to comfort her. That’s what he would have done in the old days, without hesitation. But their relationship wasn’t like that any more. He knew Maria would react negatively – probably pushing him away and snarling something violent at him – and he didn’t want Ruby getting any more upset. So instead he blabbed unimportant pleasantries to his daughter as if nothing was wrong, hoping Maria would eventually join in too. She didn’t. She remained silent for the rest of the meal,
standing up to leave the table as soon as they’d all finished.
‘I’m going back upstairs. Please can you put Ruby in the shower and read her a book tonight?’ It wasn’t really a question.
‘Sure,’ Dan replied. ‘No problem.’
It pained him to see how bad things had become. There was so much left unsaid between them. And without communication, Dan knew their marriage was in big trouble. It was rusting away before his eyes. He really had to speak to Maria soon. It wasn’t that he was going to put it all on her or anything. She wasn’t the only one to blame for how things had become. But how could they ever fix it if they weren’t talking to each other and addressing their problems head on?
He’d definitely speak to her. It couldn’t be delayed any longer. And hopefully the end result would be a big improvement in their relationship. They’d lost one daughter, but they were lucky enough to still have another – and each other. Christmas was only a matter of weeks away now. Could things already be improved by then? Dan hoped so. He couldn’t handle the thought of a festive repeat of the meal they’d just had. He had to believe there was still hope for them. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
CHAPTER 20
I’m trapped. Pinned down with some kind of straps. I can only lift my head a touch, but I can see what looks like a thick brown leather belt over my chest. There must be more of them holding the rest of me down, because I can’t move. I can’t feel my legs at all. What’s going on? Where am I?
And what’s that acrid smell? Burning chemicals, like a school science lab.
I think I’m in some kind of corridor – a narrow room at least – but the bare, off-white walls offer no more clues than the spotlights on the ceiling above me.
I seem to be on one of those trolleys they wheel sick people around on. That’s my best guess from the little I can see. So does that mean I’m in a hospital? How did I get here? What happened? Isn’t someone supposed to be looking after me?
‘Hello?’ I call. Well, croak would be a better description of the pathetic noise that comes out of my mouth. The sound dies as it leaves my lips, which are hard and cracked, like a dried up riverbed. It’s as if I’ve not spoken in weeks. My tongue’s no better: rough and sore, little more than an obstruction.
I take a gulp of cool, soothing air and try to remember where I am.
The only thing I can hear is the unhealthy rasp of my breathing.
There must be something wrong with me. Why else would I be here like this?
Am I dying? I’m gripped by a sudden sense of fear. Or what if I’m already dead?
In the distance I hear a creaking sound followed by a slam. Then footsteps. Moving at a measured pace. Getting louder. Closer.
‘Who’s there?’ I ask.
The footsteps stop for a moment but there’s no reply.
‘Hello? Who is that? Help me!’
I wonder if whoever’s there can understand what I’m saying. I strain to lift my head so I can see in that direction, but it’s useless. The footsteps start up again. Come closer. Eventually they slow and then, as they stop altogether, a man’s face appears above me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m lying down, but he looks huge, both in height and width. He has leathery, pock-marked skin with red spider veins etched across his nose and cheeks. He wears his shoulder-length, grey hair in a ponytail. He brings his head in closer to mine, examining me with bloodshot eyes. His breath smells rancid.
I want to say something to him, but my mouth won’t move. No sound will come out of my throat. I can’t even push against my restraints any more, as if this man’s presence has paralysed my entire body. How am I still breathing? The idea that I can’t – that I might be suffocating – makes me panic. I try to convey this via my paralysed stare. I will this man, whoever he is, to see my internal torment. I imagine a black cloud infusing the whites of my eyes, like ink in water, but the look he throws back at me is devoid of emotion. He might as well be staring at a blank piece of paper.
Next thing I know, the pillow has been jerked out from under my head and it’s being lowered on to my face.
‘No! What the hell are you doing?’ I scream.
The sound of my voice is deafening, but only to me: only in my mind. I feel myself start to shake. Then everything stops … changes.
It’s dark and I’m sitting in a small room in front of a computer screen. There’s panic in my chest. I’ve deleted something I shouldn’t have: something precious. I need to get it back. I have to retrieve it.
The light from the monitor is enough to see the keyboard but not my address book. I switch on a desk lamp and flick through the pages with my clammy fingers. Until I find him: Ant, the IT guy.
I glance at my watch before I call him: 11.55 p.m. Far too late, but I can’t stop myself. I have to do something.
I use the landline, not sure where I left my mobile. It rings for ages. I dread hearing voicemail; then Ant picks up.
‘Hello?’
He doesn’t sound happy. I reel off the words, trying not to sound drunk.
‘Sorry to call so late. It’s an emergency. I’ve deleted some files by accident. Not into the recycle bin: properly deleted. I need to retrieve them. There are no other copies. I’ve never done this before. Is it even possible?’
‘Whoa. Slow down. Who is this?’
‘It’s, um—’
My mind’s gone blank.
Who is this?
Good question.
Who am I?
‘Come on. Stay with me, lad. Fight it. Don’t give in.’
It’s not Ant’s voice I can hear any more. It’s someone else. Someone familiar.
My eyes snap open and Miles is leaning over me, hands on my shoulders, shaking me awake.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he says, stepping back. ‘Good morning, Jack.’
‘Miles,’ I reply, looking at him and then down at my chest, which I can feel is covered in sweat. I want to throw the damp covers off, but I’m not comfortable doing so in front of him, as I’m only wearing boxer shorts. ‘What’s wrong? What happened?’
‘Nothing to worry about. You looked to be having an unpleasant dream. That’s all. I thought I’d better wake you. It took some doing, mind.’
‘Eh? What was all that about staying with you and not giving in?’
He scratches his head. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Part of the dream, maybe?’
‘It felt so real. Are you sure you didn’t say anything like that at all?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Okay. Right. I guess I must have dreamt it, then. Weird.’
We look at each other in silence for a long moment and then I ask Miles the time.
He shrugs. ‘Who knows? Late morning, I reckon. Maybe early afternoon. Too late to still be in bed, anyhow.’
‘Shit. Do we need to get going?’
‘Going where?’
‘I thought you were going to take me to the hospital. No, sorry. That’s not until tomorrow, is it? My mistake. It’s Sunday today, of course.’
Miles stares blankly at me. ‘The hospital?’
‘To get me properly checked out: have a scan or whatever.’
‘Is this a joke? Are you winding me up, Jack?’
‘No, of course not. Why would you say that? I want to know what’s wrong with me. I want to know who I am. I want my memories back.’
Miles takes a deep breath, opens the green curtains and, after staring out of the window for a moment, sits down on the chair that has my clothes draped over the back.
‘The thing is, Jack,’ he says in a slow, steady voice. ‘We’ve already been. We did that last week. You don’t remember?’
I sit up in bed and stare at Miles. He’s dressed in his usual jeans and tucked-in shirt combo and looks to have been up and about for some time. I can’t think what to say to him in reply. My brain’s swirling from what he’s told me.
‘Jack, are you all right?’
‘Not really, no. What do you mean, we did tha
t last week? We were only talking about it yesterday.’
‘What do you remember as yesterday?’
‘Saturday. We went to the village by car. You needed some nails from the hardware store. I got bread and milk.’
Miles scratches his head. ‘No, lad. That was last weekend. We went to the hospital a couple of days later – on Monday, like I promised we would. They checked you over but couldn’t see anything untoward.’
‘What about the scan?’
‘You’re booked in for one next week. Friday afternoon at three. In the meantime, I said I’d keep an eye on you. You were doing well until—’ He breaks off.
‘Until now?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it is Sunday today, right?’
‘No, it’s Saturday: a week on from the trip to the village you’re talking about. You really don’t remember anything that’s happened in the meantime?’
I shake my head and it feels like I’m moving in slow motion. There’s nothing – no memories at all of that period – and I can’t wrap my mind around the fact. I’m utterly shell-shocked by this latest body blow.
Miles is saying something to me. I can see his lips moving, but I’m not hearing him. There’s just too much to take in.
How can I have lost a week? I mean, seriously, a week? Just gone like that? It makes no sense. Previously my memory loss only applied to things that happened before the accident: all the important stuff, like who I am and where I come from. So why would that change? It’s incomprehensible. Unless …
I’m struck by a terrifying thought, which chills me to the bone. What if I didn’t skip a whole week? What if Miles is lying to me? He could be making the whole thing up. How would I know any different? And yet why would he do that? To avoid having to take me to the hospital? That’s all I can think, but it makes no sense. He’s a doctor. Why wouldn’t he want me to have the correct treatment? And if he’s lying to me now, where does that leave every other thing he’s told me so far?
If Ever I Fall Page 17