Drift Stumble Fall Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER_ONE

  CHAPTER_ONE_AND_A _HALF

  CHAPTER_TWO

  CHAPTER_THREE

  CHAPTER_FOUR

  CHAPTER_FIVE

  CHAPTER_SIX

  CHAPTER_SEVEN

  CHAPTER_EIGHT

  CHAPTER_NINE

  CHAPTER_TEN

  CHAPTER_ELEVEN

  CHAPTER_TWELVE

  CHAPTER_THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER_FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER_FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER_SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER_SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER_EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER_NINETEEN

  CHAPTER_TWENTY

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER_THIRTY

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER_THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER_FORTY

  CHAPTER_FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER_FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER_FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER_FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER_FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER_FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER_FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER_FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER_FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER_FIFTY

  CHAPTER_FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER_FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER_FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER_FIFTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DRIFT STUMBLE FALL

  ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR

  THE RADIO

  THE PAGE

  A TINY FEELING OF FEAR BROKEN BRANCHES

  This kindle edition published | 2018

  First published | 2018 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  Hideaway Fall Publishing

  BBIC S75 1JL UK

  www.hideawayfall.com

  © M Jonathan Lee 2018

  This novel is entirely a work of ction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Except in the case of historical fact any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. M Jonathan Lee asserts the moral right under the Copyrights, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identi ed as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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

  Lyrics reproduced by kind permission of Miles Hunt © ASCAP uMusic 1993 Polydor Music Ltd (UK) and © uMusic 1991 Polydor Ltd (UK) | Cover designed by Hot Frog Original art by Paul Morton| 2018

  Visit www.mjonathanlee.com | www.hideawayfall.com

  For Alfie

  “These streets used to look big

  This town used to look like a city

  These people used to talk to me.

  And with all due respect

  I’m telling all the secrets you kept

  Without the slightest remorse

  I’m blowing the lid on your cause.”

  – Miles Hunt

  thursday 20th

  CHAPTER_ONE

  The beginning and end of it all.

  The feelings I have as I wait for my wife, Lisa, to climb into bed alongside me are confused at best.

  I know that for all intents and purposes, I will cease to exist in three days’ time. Disappeared. Gone. Like ice melting in a glass of lemonade. Three days; that doesn’t seem like ever such a long time. My children would call it three sleeps.

  “In three sleeps Daddy will be gone forever.”

  Sounds strange, doesn’t it?

  Less than an hour ago, I received news from my father-in-law and made him a promise that, well, I don’t think I can keep. I don’t expect sleep will come quickly tonight.

  My shoulders are cold, and I pull the covers so just my face is exposed, and wait for Lisa to return from the bathroom. For once, I am the first to bed. Usually, there is a bedtime routine that I suppose most families carry out.

  As Lisa heads upstairs to prepare our toothbrushes, I hang around at the back door until Cliff has done his business in the garden. Cliff is a dog. A little ball of white stuff. I stand by idly and wait for him to finish sniffing and snorting and growling before he finally hops over the step and back into the house.

  Then, at Lisa’s request, I have to go around the house unplugging everything electrical. The televisions, digital radio, kettle, microwave etcetera. I also have to close all the cupboard doors. Oh, and check and double-check that all the external doors are locked. And the security chains are on.

  When we were first married I didn’t take these tasks too seriously. I switched the electrics off at the socket. No unplugging. Maybe I didn’t always check that every cupboard door was shut. But once the children came along – and after hearing Lisa’s instructions for what was quite possibly the two- thousandth time – I began to take my tasks more seriously.

  I began to believe that a little flicker of a spark from a plug left in the socket could cause an electrical fault that could kill us all, or if only I had turned the little circular-shaped keys at the top and bottom of the back door that may just have put off the serial killer who came in and cut our throats whilst we slept.

  I don’t know whether it’s simply hearing the bedtime instructions so many times or the fact that there are two children to think about that means I need to ensure my task is completed absolutely right. Night in. Night out. Cutting corners and leaving the Sky box plugged in simply isn’t worth the risk.

  So tonight, I finished my routine and brushed with my pre- prepared toothbrush. But for reasons I am unsure of, when I entered our bedroom, Lisa wasn’t there.

  Her brush was still in the bathroom, awaiting use, the toothpaste she had applied now dripping like wax onto the sink. Not for the first time, I wondered why toothbrush manufacturers still haven’t got a grip on designing a toothbrush which stands upright instead of lying on its side. If there is a brush like this then I’ve never seen it. Lisa is in charge of the shopping.

  As I lie here, I have that nervous feeling of excitement I used to feel when I was younger. The best way I can explain it is that it feels like a small charge of energy has been inserted into the nerves near my knees. And then, like the Tube trains that endlessly stream beneath the city I live in, the charge is carried through every nerve from my knees to my neck.

  It’s a pleasant feeling, and I cross my arms across my chest and tighten my fists beneath the covers and smile.

  Today is the day that I have dreamed about for five years. Maybe more. It is only in the last week, though, that I have been catapulted forward by events beyond my control, and have actually sat down and formed a proper plan. In fact, last week it somehow just took off. And at breakneck speed. My disappearance from life has always been a daydream that grew and shrank and grew again as life passed by. But in this last week, it has grown into something unstoppable. An overinflated balloon or a growing tumour that has resulted in my having just over two days left.

  My we
ek has been extremely complicated.

  And it began with the snow.

  A white canvas.

  The snow took all the colour from the world outside and I took it as the sign. The one I’ve been waiting for. My rapture. My new beginning.

  At the very least, the end of chapter one as we know it.

  thursday 13th

  CHAPTER_ONE_AND_A _HALF

  The plan: a gift that keeps on giving?

  It has become a regular thing to find myself just staring.

  To be honest I wasn’t really aware of it and didn’t even notice when it first began. But then, after a while, I started to pick up on this. I’d be watching television and find that my eyes were pointing just wide of the screen, staring at the wall behind it. Or at work, I’d be in a meeting and my vision would have drifted to the gap between two people, focusing on some non-descript mark on the wallpaper. Eventually, it got to the stage where I could be in a conversation and I couldn’t even see the person I was speaking to.

  Staring had become my thing.

  At first, I did what most people do when they don’t want to face up to a problem. Nothing. I denied it was even happening. When it continued, I put it down to tiredness. I just needed some sleep. After a month of secretly using lavender bath salts, a mindfulness app and several early nights, I continued to stare.

  I’ve consoled myself with the fact that although it can be a little off-putting, I can live with it. It’s distracting but it doesn’t hurt. Admittedly, there have been a few scary moments when I’ve nearly hit the car in front on the drive home. I would be staring just above it, and didn’t see the brake lights come on until it was nearly too late. I’ve begun to concentrate that little bit harder on the motorway. But I can keep it under control. Staring is my thing, and the good news is that no-one has noticed.

  “Are you even listening?” my friend Paul says that evening. We’re at the pub.

  I heard the gist of what he was saying. Enough to be able to repeat bits of it back to him. His words sounded like they were whispered by someone buried beneath a hundred duvets.

  “Yeah, ’course I am,” I say, taking a gulp from my pint to buy a little time.

  “Well...would you?”

  It’s his turn to take a drink. I focus (the best I can) on his face and play with the half-torn beer mat in my right hand. I repeat back to him what I think I heard: his ex-wife is continuing to make life difficult in relation to Paul seeing his daughter. In the last week, she’s twice cancelled his time with his child so she could play happy families in front of her new boyfriend’s family. His question, I believe, was whether he should go for custody.

  “I mean,” Paul says, “she does this every time someone new comes along. What would you do?”

  I’m trying to focus, but I’m now distracted by the beer froth that has gathered in his moustache. To make matters worse, the fruit machine behind me begins pumping out pound coins.

  “Are you okay?” he says. I see his eyebrows gather up and deep creases form on his forehead.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Well, you seem a bit distant.”

  “Nah, I’m fine.”

  He screws up his face. An I-know-you-better-than-that look. “What?” I say.

  “Is everything at home alright? Y’know – Lisa, the kids?” “Yeah, why?”

  “Well, you’re just not, you. You seem distracted.”

  “You’ve got froth on your moustache.” It’s a weak attempt to distract Paul. Even by my standards.

  He drags his sleeve along his upper lip and says, “No, seriously?”

  “I’m fine. Honestly. Just a bit tired.”

  “It’s not just today. It’s weeks.” He looks to the ceiling.

  “Months. You’ve not been yourself at all, Rich.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  The barmaid arrives and collects the empty glasses from the table. She asks if we want another pint and Paul agrees on behalf of us both. He then turns back to me.

  “You’re definitely distracted. It seems like something is going on in your head. Like you’re not fully in this world.”

  I nod, a sign for him to continue.

  “So, are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  It seems I was wrong. People have noticed. Well, my oldest friend, Paul, has. It’s only a matter of time before everyone else does. Before the dam bursts and I am flooded with questions from family, friends, colleagues. Everyone.

  Except for Cliff. He is the only one who knows what’s going on inside my head. I speak to him some nights, just before I go up to bed.

  And I trust him not to spill the beans.

  That night, when I return from the pub, Lisa is already in bed. I walk into the bedroom and, without looking up from her book, Lisa says, “Have you locked the doors?” “Yep,” I reply, smiling.

  “Unplugged everything?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She is lit by her red bedside lamp. The rest of the room is in darkness.

  “Good,” she says, again without looking at me.

  She reads those books about love and romance. Sometimes I’ve read the blurb on the back. They usually involve a new neighbour or dark stranger arriving. I’ve never read one, but I suspect he and the dizzy-or-disorganised-or-unpunctual-or- unlucky-in-love female lead character eventually end up in each other’s arms.

  I dunno.

  Lisa seems to like them, though.

  My head sinks into my pillow and I watch Lisa for a second.

  Her dark hair is tied back untidily with a pink bobble. Her eyes stare over her plump cheeks toward her book. Her mouth is semi-pouting, semi-pursed. A bit like she was suddenly frozen in time at the very moment she was about to kiss someone. It wouldn’t be me, of course. Not for a while now.

  I reach for my phone and set the alarm for 5.05 the next morning. I chose that time because it reminds me of an old song that Lisa and I used to like. The song lyrics pop into my head and I am reminded that the time looks like ‘SOS’. I smile.

  “’Night,” I say, trying not to sound too excited. There was something about the snow beginning to fall as I walked home that told me the time was now.

  “It’s snowing,” I whisper.

  I shuffle slightly to get comfortable and wonder whether her response was drowned out by my rustling the fabric. I’m not sure.

  I close my eyes, and have to make an effort to keep them closed. The excitement I feel within makes them want to instantly burst open again.

  I hold them tightly shut.

  Something has changed.

  Something that tells me life will never be the same.

  friday 14th

  CHAPTER_TWO

  The day I approved my own plan.

  I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling the second of my black socks tightly around my calf, when I hear Lisa’s voice from the floor below. She’s shouting up the stairs to me, and although I can’t hear her exact words, I am sure I know what she wants. I stand up and make my way over to the wardrobe in the corner. Inside, I find my suit trousers and remove them from the hanger. It is the same routine, five mornings a week, forty-eight weeks a year. My trousers are always the final item I put on. In fact, my routine goes: pants, vest (in winter), shirt, tie, socks (left then right), trousers. Over the last twenty years, I have found this is the most efficient way to dress.

  I fasten my belt and stand by the window for a moment. The snow has been falling for a few hours now. It doesn’t appear to be in any rush to reach the earth, meandering its way down from an ice-grey sky, drifting from side to side to side as it falls. Like a million white feathers, from some giant pillow fight above. It covers the hedge that runs across the end of our small front garden. Everything is white, aside from the black scribble created by the tyre tracks that run down the middle of the road. My neighbour, Bill, stands at his lounge window on the opposite side of the road. His head is brightly lit by a bulb in the glass light fitting that hangs fr
om his ceiling. For a moment he looks angelic. I am not sure if he can see me, but I raise my hand to wave. At that moment, I hear Lisa’s voice again. It is sharper this time and it makes me jump slightly.

  I pull my comb through my hair, parting it from left to right, and head for the stairs.

  I reach the dining room door and see the outlines of my family momentarily misshapen through the pane of obscured glass. They all turn to look at me as I walk inside.

  They are seated (as they are every morning) around the long oval dining room table. At the far end sits Lisa. To her right sits Hannah. To her left, Oscar. The bay window forms a picture postcard snow scene behind them. Both children have built a makeshift wall around themselves with cereal packets. They look like they are in the type of booth in which you may visit a death row prisoner. Behind each wall, both have their tongues out directed at the other. Hannah can’t see Oscar, nor Oscar, Hannah. I’m unable to work out which most deserves to be incarcerated.

  “I was shouting you,” says Lisa. She’s chewing on a bagel. Her unbrushed hair curls wildly out on each side of her head. Like springs from a torn mattress.

  I smile and nod.

  “I didn’t know if you wanted some porridge making,” she continues.

  And it is at this exact moment that the plan that has been swimming, no, floundering in my head for months is finalised. I can’t tell you why. There is nothing different about this morning than almost every other morning. Aside from the snow. The prison visiting room. The crunch of the bagel. The tongues. The word ‘porridge’. Whatever it is, at this moment, a perfect storm comes together in my head.

  And I know that time is ticking by. Time I will never have again. As I stare down the length of the table, I am acutely aware of each second passing. Each second of my stare is another second wasted. It is time to create a proper plan. And put it into action.