S.D. Robertson - If Ever I Fall - A gripping, emotional story with a heart-breaking twist

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HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017.

Copyright © S. D. Robertson 2017.

S. D. Robertson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008100698

Ebook Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008100704

Version 2017-12-21

For Mum and Dad

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by S.D. Robertson

About the Publisher

I come round in stages, struggling to shed the cocoon of my dreams. They seem so real, so urgent, until the tug of daylight on my eyelids takes charge and one world blends into another. As my knuckles rub this place into focus, the harsh reality of a moment ago fades, filed away into a dark drawer.

‘You’re awake.’

The man’s voice startles me. I move to sit up, only for a sharp pain to explode in my head, forcing me back down.

‘Easy now. You need to take things slowly, lad. Doctor’s orders.’

‘What happened?’ I whisper, wary not to bait the throbbing.

‘You’ve suffered a head trauma. I don’t know exactly how you did it. I wasn’t there, but it looks like you fell off a ladder. I found you unconscious in a pile of soil. That cushioned your fall, but your head wasn’t as lucky as the rest of your body …’

The voice continues, but I’ve stopped listening. My mind is on something more important. Something I’ve just realised. Something that makes my blood run cold.

I’ve no idea where I am.

The part of the room I can see from my horizontal position on the single bed is unfamiliar: mint green paint; a pine wardrobe and a matching bookcase busy with spine-creased paperbacks; varnished floorboards and a cream rug.

But that’s not what’s really worrying me. Neither is the fact I don’t recognise the voice muttering away in the background. It’s far worse than that.

‘I don’t know who I am,’ I say. My voice echoes in the room.

Then there is silence.

Dear Sam,

I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. It’s something I need to do. I have so many thoughts racing around my head all the time. They need to be channelled. This is my attempt to do that – and to avoid going loopy – so please bear with me.

I miss you so much. You’re in my mind all the time. No matter what else I’m doing, there’s a part of me wishing you were there too. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened. I’m miserable without you. We all are. But I’m not going to keep on with these depressing thoughts. If I do, I’ll end up crying all over this paper and having to start again. And why would you want to read that kind of thing? No, I’m not doing this to dwell on the past. There’s been plenty of that already. I can’t promise it won’t creep in here and there, but I’ll do my best to avoid it.

So what am I going to tell you? Whatever’s going on in my life, I suppose, and my reaction to it. Let’s be clear: for this to work, I’m going to have to think of you differently. I need to be able to confide in you, to tell you anything and everything, and that won’t be the case as things stand. So, to make that easier, I’m imagining writing to a future version of you, as if nothing bad ever happened. I know it’s a bit weird, but I’ve given it a lot of thought and it’s the best I can come up with. On the plus side, I think it will also make it easier to steer clear of the sadness: the black hole that threatens to swallow me if I think about it too much.

I want to tell you about what happened in the schoolyard today. I was standing apart from the other mums, as usual. I’ll never be part of their little club and I’ve no desire to be. I’m pretty sure they all either despise me or pity me and, to be honest, I feel pretty much the same about them. The ringleaders – the overdressed, overconfident Queen Bitches, as I call them – make me want to scream. They’re so damn snooty. And I feel sorry for the more timid, frumpy underlings for being at the Queen Bs’ beck and call.

I missed my chance to join ‘the gang’ when Ruby started in reception and I was too busy working to do the school run. That already marked me out as a bad mum in their eyes. They’ll always think so now, even though the new me is in the playground five days a week. It’ll never make a difference. I’ll forever be an outsider: someone talked about in hushed voices behind her back. That’s small town life for you, I suppose. We made the decision to buy this house – in a semirural spot within commuting distance of the city – and with that comes a specific type of people, people who have, shall we say, certain attitudes. I imagine it would be much the same anywhere in the country as it is here in the north of England. City folk are less judgmental in my experience, or at least better at minding their own business.

In the early days I made the mistake of trying to talk to a couple of them: a pair I later christened Horsey and WAG, not knowing their real names. I walked up to them and said something innocuous. ‘Lovely weather today,’ I think it was. Their response was simply to look down their noses at me for a horrified moment and then to continue chatting with each other as if I didn’t exist. I shuffled away, turned back to watch them giggle. I couldn’t believe it. I felt like I was back at school myself, but at least I knew to steer clear of them in future.

Not everyone is that way. There are people I could speak to if I so desired. I could always make small talk with the other outsiders: the grandmas and grandpas; the working parents on a rare day off; even the girls in the hi-vis vests from the nearby after-school club. I do occasionally, if I’m feeling chatty, but mostly I keep myself to myself. It’s easier that way.