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

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      He claims to be a doctor: a retired GP. What he won’t tell me is anything about myself. He wants me to try to remember first, although I know there’s no point. The cupboard is bare.

      ‘Nothing at all?’ he asks, finally breaking the silence.

      ‘No.’

      Panic grabs a hold of my throat and thumps me in the chest.

      Where the hell am I?

      Who is this guy?

      Why can’t I remember anything?

      I try to sit up in bed, but doing so makes my head pound like before and I flop straight back down again.

      ‘Take it easy, lad,’ Miles says. ‘Here, let me help. We’ll do it slowly.’

      He disappears from view for a moment and returns with a second pillow. Then, supporting my shoulders, he eases me up into position. Thankfully, the pain is more manageable this way and it settles again once I stay still for a few seconds.

      ‘How’s that?’

      ‘Good,’ I whisper, breathing out a long sigh of relief.

      He hands me a glass of water. I take a couple of grateful sips to sprinkle the desert that is my mouth and throat, licking my swollen, crusty lips a few times to try to moisten them.

      I take a deep breath, try to speak. My voice fails a few times and I cough, my throat hurting with the effort.

      ‘So you’re surprised my memory hasn’t come back yet?’

      ‘Hmm.’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      He paces the room before answering. ‘This kind of memory loss, which we call retrograde amnesia, might happen a lot in films and soap operas, but it’s rare in real life. A blow to the head is more likely to affect the forming of new memories. Even then, it would have to be a serious whack and, honestly, I don’t think yours was that bad. I’d have taken you to the hospital if so.’

      The word hospital sets off the panic again. I feel it rising in my chest. ‘Isn’t that where I need to be? What if my brain’s swollen, or I have a blood clot or something? It’s agony every time I move. And I don’t know who I am. That’s not normal – you said so yourself.’

      ‘Calm down. Getting all riled up is only going to make things worse. I’m a qualified doctor. I have many years of experience and I’ve checked you over with the utmost care. If I had the slightest suspicion you were in any immediate danger, I most certainly wouldn’t be dealing with this here. Trust me, you’re far better resting in bed than being jostled around in a car or an ambulance.’

      ‘How can I trust you, though? I have no memory of you. You claim to be a qualified doctor, but how do I know that’s true? You also said yourself that you’re retired.’

      ‘That’s right. I am retired, but I’ve kept up my registration with the GMC so I can do locum work once in a while. I still have a licence to practise. Would you like to see it?’

      ‘Yes, please, I would actually.’

      ‘Fine.’

      Miles leaves the room. He’s obviously annoyed that I don’t believe him, but what am I supposed to do? I don’t know him from Adam.

      He returns a few moments later and hands me a framed certificate. It hurts my head to read it, but it looks official enough. I pass it back to him. ‘Thanks.’

      ‘I thought you might like to see this too,’ Miles adds, handing me a smaller picture frame containing a local newspaper cutting. ‘Popular GP hangs up his stethoscope,’ reads the headline. Underneath is a photo of Miles surrounded by a bunch of his former colleagues outside the medical centre where he apparently used to work.

      I read the first few lines of the article, which confirm what he’s already told me, and it’s all I can manage.

      ‘I’m sorry for doubting you,’ I say, handing the frame back to him, ‘but put yourself in my shoes. I don’t remember anything at all and it’s pretty damn terrifying. Plus my head hurts like hell.’

      ‘I understand,’ he says, although his folded arms and curt reply tell another story.

      ‘So what now? Do I need to see some kind of specialist? What do you think?’

      Miles screws up his face, emphasising the wrinkles around his sea green eyes. ‘Um, no, I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s most likely a bad concussion. Take it easy for a few days and you’ll soon be back to normal. I can keep an eye on you.’

      ‘Whatever you think is best,’ I say, keen to avoid riling him any further.

      He nods and throws me a pursed smile, although I’m sure I spot a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. After pouring more water into my glass and leaving me some ginger nut biscuits to nibble, he tells me to try to sleep.

      ‘Can’t you tell me my name and something about myself?’ I ask. ‘Are we related? Is this my home?’

      ‘What do you think?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ I snap, loud enough to provoke my headache. ‘That’s the bloody problem.’

      His voice is placid. ‘I’ll tell you if you still can’t remember by tomorrow, but I’m confident you will. Please try to keep calm. I know what I’m doing. Studies have shown that it’s preferable for a patient to be given the chance to recover lost memories for themselves.’

      He shuffles out of the room, pausing before closing the door behind him. ‘For the record, it’s not locked,’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘You’re free to leave here any time you like, but I definitely wouldn’t recommend that in your condition.’

      I have a better view of my surroundings now that I’m sitting up in bed. I see a single-glazed sash window with curtains to match the green walls; a high ceiling, white with Victorian-style coving and a light bulb on a bare ceiling rose; a wooden chair with jeans and a black T-shirt draped over it. There’s also a pine bedside table that matches the wardrobe and bookcase, plus a brushed steel reading light. None of it looks familiar.

      I’m tempted to get up and peer out of the window. From my current position, I can only see the overcast sky and I wonder whether a full view of the outside world might jog my memory. However, a jerk forward and another dagger between the temples puts paid to that idea. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut. I wait for a few moments until the pain has subsided

      My phone! I think suddenly. Where’s my mobile? There must be some answers on there. There will be numbers to call, photos, videos, all sorts. I’ll be able to work out the last person I spoke to and see who I dial regularly. Someone will be able to tell me who I am. I feel a rush of relief at the thought of this solution and look wildly around the room. My gaze falls on blank surfaces; I can’t see a mobile anywhere. There’s not even a charger in any of the plug sockets. I sit forward, slowly this time, and consider getting out of bed to look for it, but as I try the pain kicks in again and, reluctantly, I accept that it’s not going to happen.

      ‘Hello?’ СКАЧАТЬ