If Ever I Fall: A gripping, emotional story with a heart-breaking twist. S.D. Robertson
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‘Okay, I’ll help you out a little, lad. We’re on the North Wales coast.’
‘Really?’
He nods. ‘Does that sound familiar?’
‘Um, I’m not sure. Maybe. I guess it wasn’t what I was expecting because, well, you don’t sound Welsh. Come to think of it, I can’t put my finger on where your accent is from.’
Miles laughs. ‘I’m from Yorkshire originally, but I’ve not lived there for a very long time. I spent most of my working life in Cheshire and moved here after I retired.’
‘What about me? What accent do I have?’
‘I don’t know where you’re from, if that’s what you’re asking. You never told me. Somewhere in Northern England, I’d say, but it’s not a strong accent. The answer is locked away in your head somewhere, which is why I want you to try to remember things yourself. That’s all I’m telling you for now.’
Before I can argue, Miles changes the subject and starts talking about the kitchen.
‘This was my first project,’ he says. ‘Did it before I even moved in. A man can’t live without a good kitchen – not me, anyhow. You should have seen the state it was in before, John. Shocking. Made the rest look delightful.’
I pause. ‘What did you say?’
‘That the original kitchen was in a shocking state.’
‘No, after that. What did you call me?’
‘What do you think I called you?’
‘You called me John.’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘My name’s Jack. At least that’s what you said before.’
‘Good. You see now why I need you to remember things for yourself. What’s your name?’
‘Jack.’
‘You’re sure?’
The panic bubbles over again. As I stare at him, Miles’s face begins to look strange. Kind of warped, as though I’m seeing it through a fairground mirror. I can’t tell if he’s leering at me or smiling; his features are morphing before my eyes. He reminds me of a wolf: a snarling, smiling wolf. ‘What if it is John? Or maybe it’s Nigel, or Sam, or Rick, or Ross. What is it? Tell me. Be sure. What is it?’ His face moves closer to mine.
‘What are you …’ A fog descends and the room starts to spin. I try to get up from the table, only to stumble.
The world around me disappears.
Thursday, 4 May 2017
The phone on Dan’s desk rang.
He looked at the clock; ten past two already. Shit.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, Dan. It’s Susan on reception. I’ve got a bit of an angry man on the phone: a Mr Doyle. He’s demanding to speak to you. I tried to put him through to one of the reporters, but he was having none of it. He insisted it had to be you.’
‘Right. What’s it regarding?’
‘I’m sorry. I did ask him, but all he would say was that it was about a serious mistake in this week’s Herald.’
A complaint, as he’d feared. They always came through about this time on a Thursday. Dan paused, thinking back through the many pages he’d checked the previous day. The name Doyle didn’t ring any bells.
‘Can I put him through?’
Dan thought back to the good old days when he had a deputy and a news editor to filter out complaint calls. When he had the peace and quiet of a private office to deal with awkward issues, rather than the noisy open-plan space in which he now found himself. He’d been captain of his own ship. He’d been a somebody, at least to his readers in the Northern England towns and villages where the paper was distributed. He’d deliberately avoided living in the Herald’s reporting patch in order to escape work during his free time. But now the office wasn’t even based there, having been centralised to a hunk of concrete fifteen miles down the motorway, on the edge of the city. It was a ridiculous situation, but one he’d had to accept.
Technically he’d been promoted after the move: made editor of two other titles on top of the Herald, his original newspaper. But in reality he’d become a glorified middle manager, a cog in the wheel. The title of editor had only been retained to appease the public. To pretend their beloved local papers were the same as ever, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
‘Dan? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry. Put him through.’
He’d always hated dealing with complaints: the one thing that had risen in number – unlike ad revenues and circulation – since the centralisation two and a half years earlier. It was only to be expected when you considered the cull of experienced journalists that had taken place.
Dan was lucky to still be there. He was one of only a few senior staff from the group’s weekly papers who were still standing. He didn’t feel lucky, though; in fact lucky was a million miles from how he would describe his life right now. He was waiting for the roof to come crashing down on his career as it had on everything else.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Doyle?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Daniel Evans, the editor.’
‘So I’ve finally reached the organ grinder, have I?’
Not really, Dan thought. Not any more. ‘How can I help you, Mr Doyle?’
‘It’s a bit bloody late for that. The damage is done.’
‘Could you be a little more specific?’
‘You called me a paedophile, Mr Evans. Used the wrong photo – my photo – with a story about some sick kiddie fiddler. I’m going to sue you for every last penny your poxy rag is worth.’
Shit. Dan’s mind raced back to the only article about a paedophile in that week’s Herald. It was a court case on page seven. Jane, one of the few original reporters still working for the paper, had been to court and emailed the piece over. So how the hell could the wrong picture have been run alongside it? He doubted it was her fault. She was one of the good ones – always so thorough.
He opened his copy of the paper and flicked to page seven, his fingers catching on the pages as he rushed to find the article. There it was, with a photo of a suited bald man standing on the court steps.
‘Hello? Are you there?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘Yes. Sorry, I—’
‘You can shove your apologies. I want to know how the hell this happened and what you’re going to do to fix it.’
Dan racked his brains. There were so many ways things could go wrong these days. He’d not had any direct involvement in placing the story or picture. He’d never even seen Jane’s email: only the finished story on the page. Not that any of this would protect him. He’d be the one held to account, blamed for not picking up on it while reviewing the pages.
The paedophile’s name, captioned underneath the photo, was Steven Ross. How on earth had that got confused with Mr Doyle? And why was his picture on the photo system in the first place?
‘Hello? How are you going to fix this? There could be a lynch mob outside my house tonight!’
His tone was pure aggression. Understandable in the circumstances,