He took a final drag, stubbed the cigarette butt out on the floor and disposed of it in one of the many wheelie bins tarnishing the garden. Maybe he could stop. That might help smooth things out with Maria at least. It was easy to think that way now he’d had his fix; if only it would last.
As he walked back inside the house, he decided to go for a shower before trying to make up with Maria.
He hated conflict between them. He didn’t have any illusions of being able to talk her into sex, which had been off the cards for a long time. But a kiss and a cuddle would be nice. That was rare as hell too and he missed it.
When he found all the downstairs lights switched off and no sign of his wife, he knew she’d gone up to bed in a huff. Or locked herself in the bathroom while she soaked in the tub.
He weighed up whether or not to go upstairs and try talking to her. He almost did it. But the evidence of past experience was too compelling. It said enough that she’d turned off the lights when she knew he was still up, deliberately trying to annoy him. He could have still used the downstairs bathroom, where there was a second shower, but what was the point now?
Dan went to the liquor cupboard, in the same sideboard where he’d hidden Ruby’s chocolate rabbit, and poured himself a large glass of whisky, finishing the bottle. It didn’t take him long to drain, plonked on the couch, channel surfing, unable to find any programme that held his attention.
The drink had made him feel a bit better and he fancied some more. Something else strong. So he walked back to the cupboard to see what was there.
Baileys, peach schnapps, port, amaretto and vodka. Not a very impressive collection. He and Maria had always been mainly beer and wine drinkers. And yet Dan had enjoyed a few whiskies of late. The bottle he’d finished had been a Christmas present from a contact at work.
He’d had a bad experience with vodka as a teenager, which had left him wary. But it was the only bottle that looked remotely appealing, so he pulled it out, found a new glass and mixed it with some ice and orange juice. Not bad at all, he thought, sipping it on the couch. Much easier to drink than whisky. Maybe it was time to re-evaluate those feelings about vodka.
He knew that pouring another one was a bad idea, especially with work in the morning, but Dan still couldn’t face going upstairs. Maria had gone for a bath. He could tell from the various plumbing noises he’d heard. You got to know such things after living in a house for a while – particularly when you’d fitted much of the main bathroom yourself. There was a time when Maria had appreciated his DIY skills. Not everyone was lucky enough to have a husband as handy as him. There was a lot she took for granted.
He wondered if his wife still loved him. He was sure she must blame him, at least in part, for what had happened to Sam. How could Maria not speculate about his actions that day? He’d done so himself often enough: scouring the memory; analysing his every move.
So where did the two of them go from here? He couldn’t change things on his own. She had to want it as well. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that perhaps they ought to go for some kind of couple counselling. There was the guy he’d seen a few times about his depression, which he’d found helpful. But Maria didn’t know anything about that. He’d hidden it from her. Why? Probably the same reason he’d declined the happy pills his GP had offered. Too much stigma attached and he didn’t want to appear weak. Someone had to hold things together.
He’d have to find a different counsellor, but the idea felt like a good one in principle. A positive step forward. He’d have a look on the Internet at work tomorrow.
Not long after coming to that decision, Dan dozed off, with his latest drink balancing precariously on his knee. Somehow it remained there until 3.55 a.m. when, attempting to dodge a punch in a dream, Dan jerked forward in the chair. He awoke with the horrified belief that he’d wet himself. The reality – a lapful of vodka and orange – was still damn annoying. Not least because he was due at work in four hours.
‘Bloody idiot,’ he muttered, stumbling to find the kitchen roll. ‘Stupid bloody idiot.’
CHAPTER 26
‘Everything all right?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You seem a bit lost.’
‘I, er—’ I look around and can’t understand what’s going on. There are people everywhere. Travellers wheeling cases, studying information screens, queuing, using their phones.
The woman who spoke to me is wearing a hi-vis vest over a navy jacket and a sky-blue blouse; a photo ID pass around her neck says her name is Diane and she’s a customer service assistant.
‘Sir, have you already checked in? Do you have a boarding card I could look at? That way I can point you in the right direction.’
‘Hang on,’ I reply, patting my pockets.
‘What about your—’
‘Bag?’ I say, finishing the sentence for her as I look down at the small shoulder bag at my feet.
She nods, the hint of a frown flickering across her forehead and then vanishing. It’s replaced by a customer service smile: measured, robotic, friendly but professional.
I pull a folded piece of paper and a passport out of my jacket’s inside pocket. ‘Here it is.’ Handing her the boarding card, I add: ‘I’m flying to Eindhoven.’
‘Very nice. I love Holland. We’re not supposed to call it that any more, though, are we?’
‘Do we know each other?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You were going to tell me that your daughter-in-law is Dutch, weren’t you? But she’s lived here for a long time. She doesn’t like people calling it Holland, as that’s only a small part of the country. The proper name is the Netherlands.’
Diane scratches her temple. ‘I’m sorry. Have we—’
‘Is it right what I said?’
She nods.
‘I knew it. Don’t ask me why or how. It’s like I’ve either got the world’s worst case of déjà vu or something strange is going on.’
A huge man in a leather trench coat rushes by, running over my foot with the wheels of his case. I notice that – bizarrely – he’s holding one of those retractable dog leads in his left hand. It stands out because of its fluorescent yellow colour. ‘Hey!’ I shout after him. ‘Watch where you’re going.’
He’s familiar too, although for some reason I didn’t expect him at that particular moment. I turn back to explain this to Diane, but she’s gone. Nowhere to be seen. Charming. So much for customer service.
I walk towards the nearest information screen to see what’s happening with my flight. I look at all the faces around me – business travellers, families, friends, love-struck couples – but there’s no one I recognise. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to face someone who does look familiar.
‘Hello?’ I say to the girl facing me.
‘Do you recognise me?’
‘Um, yes, I think so.’
‘Who am I, then?’
‘I can’t put my finger on … Listen, to be honest, I’m feeling a bit confused. I—’
A red arm whips up without warning and slaps me hard across my left cheek. ‘You shouldn’t be here. You need to go back. Right back.’
‘What the hell?’ I reply, dazed. ‘You can’t do that. I don’t even—’
Slap.
She’s done it again.
Harder this time.
Forcing me backwards.
‘I said get out of here. Go on. You don’t belong.’
‘What?’
Slap.
‘Will you stop doing that?’
Slap. Slap.
She’s at it with both hands now. My head’s hurting. I’m holding my arms out in front of me to stop her, trying to grab her hands, but she’s too nimble. She skips out of the way and darts back in to do it again.
I can’t believe no one’s reacting. How can all of these people be oblivious to what’s going on before them?
‘It’s because they’re not real,’ she says, slapping me for the umpte
enth time.
Wait. How did she know what I was thinking? I didn’t say it out loud.
‘You didn’t need to say it out loud,’ she says. Or rather, she doesn’t actually say it. Her lips don’t move, but somehow I can hear her in my mind. ‘Why would you? None of this is real. So whether you think or say something here, it’s all the same.’
Her voice is calmly saying all of this to me while the slapping assault continues. It’s as if the two things are unrelated.
‘Stop slapping me,’ I say, using my mind rather than my voice.
‘Fine,’ she replies at last. She lowers her arms and stops.
‘What’s going on? Who are you? Where am I?’
‘You need to work that out for yourself.’
The two of us are standing face to face under the information screen, communicating telepathically. It must look as odd to everyone else as it feels to me. And yet they were happy to ignore me being assaulted, so I’m not expecting an intervention.
‘What was all the slapping about?’
‘I needed to get your attention. You’re cruising towards the exit door when you should be finding your way back to where you belong. Where you’re needed.’
‘I don’t understand. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Get the hell out of here!’ she screams into my mind.
It’s louder than anything I’ve ever experienced before. As if a bomb has exploded inside my skull. Everything is noise and bright white light.
I’m thrown backwards and forwards. Every which way.
It’s dark and there’s a horrible stench of burning chemicals. I recognise it, I think.
‘Hello. Can you hear me?’
It’s a man’s voice from somewhere behind. I want to turn to look but I can’t move. Where am I?
Spider’s web.
Glowing clocks.
‘Can you hear me?’ the voice, which sounds familiar, asks again. ‘Hold on. Help is on the way.’
He’s saying something else now, but I can’t make it out.
I want to call out to him, but all that leaves my mouth is a low groan.
I feel dizzy.
Eyelids so heavy.
Can’t … stay … awake.
‘Morning, Jack. You’re up bright and early.’
Miles is unloading a large bag of beans into the built-in coffee machine above the oven. I smile at him, say good morning and accept his offer of breakfast. But behind the facade I’m cracking up. How did I get here? I’ve no memory of waking, getting dressed and coming downstairs. And what happened yesterday? Or the day before? My memory’s all messed up: confused by shadows of half-remembered dreams.
The last thing I remember for sure is being in the car with Miles in the village and that weird incident in the hardware shop. Was it real or a dream?
I should tell Miles what’s going on. He is a doctor after all. But I’m not sure I trust him. I’m not convinced he’s ever taken me to the hospital. He says I’ve been there, but I’ve no memory of it.
There’s something off about all of this. What if he’s drugging me? Mind-altering substances could explain a lot. Maybe even what I saw – or thought I saw – in the shop. How has this not occurred to me before?
I wait until he’s finished with the coffee machine and then, as he looks at me, hold my hand to my stomach and wince.
‘Problem?’ he asks.
‘Stomach cramps. Think I’d better get to the toilet.’
‘Oh dear. Hope it’s not the crab we had last night.’
Crab? I’ve no memory of that. Shutting the kitchen door behind me, I head to the foot of the stairs. I wait there for a moment, to make sure he’s not coming after me. Then I slip out of the front door.
It’s cold outside this morning, another biting wind blowing in off the sea. Again, I don’t have my jacket with me, but there’s no time to find it now. I have to get out of here. As far away as possible. And it has to be now.
So again I find myself heading towards Gigi, aka Miles’s mud-caked green Land Rover. My heart is pumping away in my chest. I’m still not sure whether I have a driving licence, but last time I was driven by Miles, I had a good look at what he was doing and it felt familiar. I reckon I do know how to do it. I’m hoping muscle memory and so on will take over.
I get to the car and it’s open as usual. I even find the key in the glovebox without having to dig around too much. I slip it into the ignition and an overwhelming sense of panic kicks in. It grabs me by the throat so I can barely breathe, and presses me hard into the seat.
It triggers something else.
Throws me back into my mind.
‘Hello. Anyone home?’ I call as I enter the house after a busy day at work. ‘Sam? Are you back yet?’
There’s no sign of life downstairs, but when I walk into the lounge, I spot her handbag and her red summer coat thrown on the sofa instead of being put properly away. ‘Bloody hell, Sam,’ I say to the empty room. ‘How many times?’
I’m tempted to go up and shout at her, but she’s been a bit subdued recently and I don’t have the heart. She’s in her room, no doubt, away in a world of her own. Probably listening to music too loud on the headphones of mine that she commandeered after breaking her own.
The clock in the kitchen reads 4.15 p.m. Ruby’s not due back from her holiday club bowling trip until 5 p.m. and Maria’s expecting to be late, as usual. I put the kettle on to make a brew. Watching it boil, I think that I’ll make Sam one and take it up for her. What has she been doing all day? It’s only since she turned fourteen earlier this year that we’ve been allowing her to stay home alone over the school holidays. It seems to be working out. Well, I think it is, although it’s hard to tell with a teenager. You just have to do your best to communicate what’s right and wrong and hope they’re not taking drugs and having underage sex behind your back. Sam isn’t very communicative, though, and seems to prefer visiting her friends’ houses to having them over here.
I make two cups of tea and put them on a tray with a couple of chocolate digestives. I’m going to try to have a chat with her; see if I can cheer her up a bit; clear away a few of those moody teenage cobwebs.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
I’m still sitting in the Land Rover and I can hear the sound of a phone.
It keeps ringing, on and on, until I find the source: a battered old Nokia mobile phone under my seat.
The name displayed on the screen is Sam.
Hold on. Wasn’t that the name of the girl in the flashback I just experienced? The girl I thought of as … my daughter? My heart somersaults.
I press the green button to take the call.
CHAPTER 27
Wednesday, 26 April 2017
Dear Sam,
Let me start by saying that your grandpa’s okay. I’ve spoken to Mum again a couple of times since my last letter and he’s out of hospital now. The doctors say there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll be stiff and sore for a while, but that’s it. The two of them have even had the go-ahead to continue with their trip. So that’s all good.
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for matters closer to home. Somehow I’ve managed to go from having two men chasing after me to stuffing things up with the pair of them.
Before I get on to that, I have to warn you that the OCD isn’t good today. I just read back what I’ve written so far and it’s taking all of my willpower not to screw it up and start over. It’s partly because of that blotch in the ink a few lines back, but I don’t like what I’ve written either. I’m seeing Rosie for a session later on – the first in a while – and I feel like I need it.
If I did screw up this letter, I’d do the same again with the next one and the next one and the next one … until the bin was full. Then I’d be on to something else, like the scuff mark on the wall by the front door that I noticed earlier.
I’m trying to write my way out of caving in. I know if I push on, the urge will eventually pass and I’ll be a step clo
ser to freedom. But it’s so bloody hard.
‘Think of it like swimming out of a choppy sea,’ Rosie told me in an early session. ‘As you get closer to the shore, the waves will get smaller and smaller until eventually, all being well, you’ll be striding out on to the beach.’
‘And if I give in?’
‘The current will carry you backwards and you’ll have to start the journey to shore all over again.’
So let’s push on. Back to my trainwreck love life.
I fobbed Dan off, if you remember, batting away his questions about Rick by moving the conversation to Mum and Dad’s accident. By the time he phoned the next day, as promised, I’d already heard that Dad had been discharged from hospital. I told him so, no longer wishing to tempt fate by exaggerating their plight. As expected, we were soon back to the question of whether Rick and I had slept together.
I’d thought plenty since our last conversation, deciding that honesty was the only option. I’m sure that must sound hypocritical in light of my previous actions; I won’t insult your intelligence by offering any defence.
I took a deep breath before answering. ‘You’re right. I’m afraid Rick and I did sleep together. But—’
I never got the chance to reel off the explanation I’d prepared, as he hung up on me. Who can blame him?
We haven’t spoken since then. Ruby, who’s not back at school until tomorrow, is with him today. Hence I can sit here at the kitchen table writing this at lunchtime. He didn’t come to the door this morning. He pulled his car on to the drive and honked his horn to announce his arrival, not acknowledging me at all. I suspect he’ll do much the same when he brings her home.
As for Rick, I don’t have a clue what’s going on there. I don’t think I ever told you what happened with him on Sunday: the morning after the night before. He was weird, like a different person. He was already fully dressed when he came downstairs, shoes and all. I was sitting at the kitchen table watching the girls have breakfast.
If Ever I Fall Page 23