If Ever I Fall. S.D. Robertson
‘Can’t you at least tell me exactly where we are?’ I ask him. ‘I’d really like to know.’
Miles hesitates for a moment and then his face softens, like he’s taking pity on me. ‘Fine.’ He walks over to a drawer and pulls out a map of Wales. He unfolds it on the kitchen table and shows me our exact location.
The information doesn’t help like I hoped it would, though. It means nothing to me at all.
I’m trapped. I was walking through a tunnel when there was some kind of earthquake and the ceiling collapsed. I’m pinned to the ground, covered in pieces of rubble. I can’t see them because it’s pitch black, but I can feel their rough edges all around me, digging into my skin, holding me down. There’s sensation in my arms, but I’m unable to shift them. They’re wedged into place. I can’t feel my legs at all.
‘Help,’ I shout, but it’s pitiful. The sound dies as it leaves my lips, the rocks all around me sucking it in like sponges. Then I feel water creeping along my back; rising from below. Terror rips through me. I’m going to die here: alone in the dark.
I wake with a start and throw the quilt off me in disgust. It’s soaking wet, as is the sheet below. My whole body is drenched in sweat. I jump out of the bed, shivering, only for a jolt of pain to run through my head, stopping me in my tracks. I stand as still as I can, my right hand squeezing my temples, and gradually the sensation fades.
The cave, the rocks: a dream, thank God. A nightmare.
I still feel so anxious, though. I have that feeling again that I should be somewhere else – somewhere I’m needed – rather than here. Someone somewhere needs me. The problem is, I don’t know who. I take deep breaths, like Miles showed me, trying to calm myself down.
I’m Jack. This is Miles’s house. I have a head injury.
The green curtains are closed, but it’s clearly still light outside. I remember Miles leading me back upstairs after breakfast; advising me to rest. I must have dozed off straight away. Goodness knows for how long. There’s no clock in here.
The cold sweat is still clinging to me, so I head next door to the bathroom for a shower. It’s pleasant: hot and powerful. It seems Miles and I have done a good job with this part of the renovation. Afterwards, helping myself to one of the white towels under the sink, I look around the steam-filled room and try to picture myself in here fitting all the bits and pieces. It’s useless. I can’t remember that at all. And yet the idea of fitting a bathroom doesn’t seem entirely alien to me. It’s not that I suddenly recall the correct technique for plumbing in a toilet, but I get the feeling I’d be able to work my way through it.
Back in the bedroom, I put on the clothes I wore earlier – jeans and T-shirt, sweater and trainers – and look in the wardrobe at the rest of my belongings. There’s not much to see: a couple more pairs of jeans; a few shirts, T-shirts and jumpers; a well-worn black leather jacket; a week’s supply of boxer shorts and socks; a pair of black leather shoes. None of it looks new, but it all seems in reasonable condition. The quality is decent, but there are no designer brands. There’s an empty medium-sized navy rucksack shoved underneath the wardrobe, which is presumably how I carried everything here.
Apparently I’m a man of few possessions, although it strikes me as odd that I don’t at least have a watch or a wallet. Maybe I do and I’ve left them somewhere else. The whole “dropping my mobile in the sea” thing is weird too. I make a mental note to bring up all of this with Miles later on.
I pull open the curtains and look out through the salt-flecked sash window. I like being able to see the sea from here. There’s something captivating about it. Not that it looks very appealing. It’s dull and drizzly outside; the choppy water looks more grey than blue. It’s close to the house but some way down. We’re on a cliff: an isolated one by the looks of things, as there are no other properties or signs of habitation in sight. Our only neighbours appear to be windswept fields, weather-beaten rocks and a rickety fence to keep people away from the steep drop.
I consider the village Miles mentioned earlier; the local pub in which he said we met. I don’t think it can be that close to the house; a drive rather than a walk away, from what I gather, so little chance of company other than my host. An ideal place to hide away from the world, you might say. Perfect for a man with no known surname and next to no worldly belongings.
So what, or who, am I hiding from?
As I’m musing on this question, and failing to come up with anything in response, Miles walks past the window into my view. He’s wearing a navy fleece and carrying several long pieces of wood under his right arm: floorboards, at a guess. I’m not sure where he got them from, but he looks to be bringing them into the house.
I’m about to knock on the windowpane to get his attention when I see his head snap around as if he’s heard something behind him. I follow his gaze and, to my surprise, see another figure standing about a hundred metres away, close to the clifftop fence. It’s a woman: long black hair, blowing all over the place in the wind; slender figure in jeans and a knee-length red coat. She’s looking out to sea, so I can’t see her face and I’m not sure what she did to attract Miles’s attention. She stands there, hands in her pockets, the stillness of her body in sharp contrast to the constant flapping of her hair, which she makes no effort to restrain.
It’s a mystery where she came from, as there was no sign of her a moment ago.
When I look back to see what Miles is doing, he’s gone. I decide to head down to find him and to get a closer look at the woman. There’s something about her. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but my gut tells me to get out there. Perhaps she and I already know each other. If I could speak to her, maybe she could help me remember something. At the very least, it would be nice to have a conversation with someone other than Miles.
I reach the top of the wide staircase and see Miles unloading the wood in the hallway below.
‘Keeping busy?’ I call before descending.
He looks up at me with a smile. ‘Jack. You’re awake.’
‘Sure am. What time is it?’
‘Mid-afternoon.’
‘I slept for a while, then. It’s becoming a habit.’
‘Be glad of the rest. Your body will take what it needs. Feeling better?’
I nod, standing in front of him now, expecting him to ask about my memory, but the question never comes. Instead he comments that I look steadier on my feet than I did this morning.
‘What’s the actual time?’ I ask him.
He grins. ‘Who knows?’
‘Don’t you believe in clocks?’
‘That’s the second time you’ve asked me that,’ he replies, chuckling. ‘You said the very same thing when you first arrived. As I told you then, I’ve spent enough of my life as a servant to the clock. Now I’m retired, I’ve liberated myself from it. I do things as and when I want to. Live my days and nights by light and dark, enjoying the shades in between; not worrying about exactitudes.’
‘Does that mean there are no clocks at all here?’
‘Only those I couldn’t remove. There are two in the kitchen, for example: on the microwave and the oven, but they’ve never been set.’
I want to quiz him further about this bizarre arrangement, but then I remember the woman in red.
‘Who was that I saw outside?’ I ask.
‘Outside? When?’
‘A moment ago. The woman in the red coat. I saw her from my bedroom window.’
‘Really? I didn’t notice anyone out there. Are you sure?’
I don’t know what to say. Moments ago I saw Miles looking straight at her. I’m convinced of this fact. But rather than accuse him of lying, with no evidence to back