S.D. Robertson - If Ever I Fall

‘Yes, yes, I know. Heard it all before. We wouldn’t be in this dream house of ours, if it wasn’t for them. Well, I’m not, am I? Not any more. I’m in my lovely damp flat instead. And as much as I hate it there, do you know what? It beats being here with you. You can shove your family money up your arse, Maria.’

He slammed his half-full glass of wine on to the table, somehow not breaking it, and got up to leave. But now he couldn’t stop himself. She’d popped his cork, like a shaken bottle of fizz; the words came out by themselves. ‘It’s not possible for us to have a normal conversation any more, is it? Whatever I say, you always find a way to turn it into a bloody argument. Why the hell do I bother? You’re not the woman I married. You’re not even a shadow of her. There’s no going back for us, I can see that now. We’re done. We might as well get on with the divorce. Get it out of the way. Then I can be free of you. Maybe you can run off with your new friend Rick. It makes sense now why you were so dressed up today. Trying to impress him, were you? Well, good luck with that. Best not let him see how twisted you are, or he’ll run a mile.’

Dan had expected Maria to fire back at him with a verbal assault of her own, but it didn’t come. Instead she burst into tears, which stopped him in his tracks, instantly cooling his anger and turning on the tap of regret. He took a deep breath, resisted the urge to apologise for his outburst, and left without another word.

‘Idiot,’ he said to himself, getting into his car and slamming the door. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself say all that stuff. No one knew the right buttons to press to upset her better than he did. She’d done the same to him on enough occasions, but he tried not to get sucked into that kind of thing. Epic fail this time, he thought. The worst bit was what he’d said about getting a divorce. In truth, that was the last thing he wanted, so why on earth had he said it? The one consolation was that he hadn’t gone further. He hadn’t mentioned her mental health, which would have been a tough one to come back from. And he’d not brought Sam into it, thank goodness.

He considered returning to apologise, but he knew what Maria’s reaction would be if he did. She’d throw it straight back at him. She hated it when people said sorry for things, especially just after they’d said or done them.

‘You can keep your apology. I don’t want it.’

How many times had she said that to him over the years? Countless, especially at the start of their relationship, before he got wise to it. She felt an apology was the easy option, favouring actions rather than words. Mind you, that opinion was forged in different times: days when she rarely got angry herself; when judging others for speaking in haste wouldn’t have been hypocritical. Things were different now. She was different.

All the same, going back to say sorry didn’t feel like the right move, so Dan drove home. Well, he went back to the flat, which was the closest thing he had at the moment. He’d never think of it as home, because it wasn’t. He hated it too much for that. It felt more like a prison. Ironically, the place he thought of as home was the house he’d just left, having done a good job of making sure he wouldn’t be invited back any time soon.

He opened a bottle of vodka and necked three shots in quick succession. He hoped the booze would raise rather than lower his spirits. Experience told him it could go either way. Looking for a distraction, he decided he ought to text Maurice to make sure everything had gone well with the papers.

He’d downed several more shots and two bottles of beer by the time Maurice’s reply eventually arrived.

All good. How’s Ruby? She was glad to see you, right?

Yes. Tucked up in best not, ATM on plate.

What? Bloody predictive text. Realising he was already quite drunk, Dan deleted the message and started again, concentrating to make sure he got it right this time.

Yes. Tucked up in bed now, arm in plaster. Thanks again. See you tomorrow.

Maurice’s question got Dan thinking. Had Ruby been pleased to see him at the hospital? He’d thought so at the time, but maybe he’d seen what he wanted to see. Her reaction had actually been quite muted. He’d put that down to the pain she was in, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He could feel himself sinking into one of his moods, but it was too late to change anything now. He took another gulp of vodka, no longer bothering with the shot glass.

I wake up to find I can’t move. It’s getting light outside and I’m looking up at the high ceiling of my room at Miles’s house. I know who I am: I’m Jack, and I have a head injury. But I can’t move. It’s like some invisible force is pinning me to the bed. I try again and again to raise myself up, but it’s no use.

What the hell’s happening? I try to stay calm and rational, but it’s no good. My breathing gets faster; I can feel myself breaking out in a cold sweat. Panic is here. I can feel his bony fingers pressing down on my chest. I can smell his rotten breath.

‘Miles,’ I call out. ‘Help me! I’m paralysed.’

I shout his name more times than I can remember. Louder and louder until my voice cracks, my throat like sandpaper. He doesn’t come.

What time is it? I wonder. Impossible to know for sure in this house without clocks, but I’d guess at five or six o’clock. Miles must still be asleep. That’s why he’s not coming. He will in an hour or two once he wakes up. I need to calm down. Wait it out.

Easier said than done. I’m paralysed! Of course I’m panicking.

At that moment I hear the creak of the bedroom door opening. I try to look in that direction, but my head’s having none of it and my eyes will only roll back so far.

‘Miles? What took you so long?’

But it’s not his voice that replies.

‘Hello, my love. Did you call me?’

When I answer, my voice is that of a child. I’m still around – still part of the action – but not in the driving seat and no longer paralysed. ‘Yes, Gangy. I had a bad dream. I woke up and—’

‘And what? You can tell me.’

‘I thought there was a bat in here.’

‘A bat? Where?’

I point to the corner of the room and she walks over to it. She has a good look around, even kneeling down and peeking under the chest of drawers. ‘No,’ she says, once her search is complete. ‘There’s definitely no bat here. None whatsoever. I think you still had one foot in the Land of Nod.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The Land of Nod is where we go when we’re asleep. It’s a tricky old place. When you’re there, you think it’s real life. When you’re fully awake, it doesn’t seem real at all. Sometimes, when you first wake up and one world blends into the other, you can get confused. Was there a bat in your dream?’

‘Yes.’

‘There you go. That explains it. I dreamt I was a rabbit the other night.’

I giggle as she twitches her nose at me.

‘I really believed it too,’ she continues. ‘I led a full life. It seemed like I was there forever, hopping in and out of my warren; eating carrots and so on.’

‘Mum says rabbits don’t really eat carrots.’

‘She’s right. Carrots aren’t what they naturally eat in the wild. But I bet they’d like the ones I grow in my garden, because they’re super delicious, aren’t they?’

I nod enthusiastically. She knows I love her home-grown veggies.

‘Anyway, I ate carrots in my dream. Like Bugs Bunny. Then I woke up and laughed at myself for believing I was a rabbit.’

‘What was it like?’

‘Being a rabbit? Good fun, from what I can remember. But that’s the other thing with dreams: the memory of them fades before you know it.’