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  Don’t Close Your Eyes is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Holly Seddon

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Published in the United Kingdom by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books, London.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN 9781101885895

  Ebook ISBN 9781101885901

  randomhousebooks.com

  Cover design: Carlos Beltrán

  Cover photograph: Liam Norris/Getty

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  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

  Sleeve Notes from Only Forever by Robin Marshall and Callum Granger

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Holly Seddon

  About the Author

  ONE

  ROBIN|PRESENT DAY

  Robin drags in thin breaths of stuffy air before puffing it out quickly. Dust dances in the foot of a sunbeam. Robin tries not to imagine those tiny specks filling her lungs, weighing her down.

  Outside, the Manchester pavement is gray and wet but the air carries a tang of freshness, a flirtation with spring. Robin won’t feel this. She won’t let the dampness tingle against her skin. It won’t slowly sink into the cotton of her faded black T-shirt.

  A bus rushes past the window, spraying the front of her house and its nearest neighbors with a burst of puddle water temporarily turned into surf. But Robin doesn’t see this. She only hears the gush of water and the irritation of the woman whose jeans got “fucking soaked.”

  Robin did not go out yesterday and she will not leave her house today. Bar fire or flood, she’ll still be inside tomorrow. Just as she has been inside for nearly three years. Until a few weeks ago, everything in Robin’s world was fine and safe. A cozy shell. She still spends her days pacing her three-bedroom prison, watching television, lifting weights and aimlessly searching the Internet. But now a new fear sits on her shoulder throughout.

  Robin is careful and controlled. She answers her door only by prior appointment. Deliveries that arrive outside of designated time slots get lugged back to the depot by frustrated drivers. Unexpected parcels are left unclaimed. There is an election soon, but Robin is not interested in debating with an earnest enthusiast in a bad suit, shuffling on her doorstep.

  Someone is knocking on her door right now. They were polite at first but now they’re building to a crescendo of desperation. Or rage. Robin stares forward at the television in grim determination, jaw jutting ahead. The screen is filled with bright colors and mild voices. Television for toddlers. The minutes are filled with stories of triumph in simple tasks, of helping friends or learning a cheerful new skill. There is no baddie; there is no guilt or fear. Everyone is happy.

  As the knocks grow more frantic, Robin deliberately takes a deep breath. She focuses on her chest filling and expanding and the slow seeping of air back out between her teeth. Still she stares doggedly at the screen. People have been angry with her before. When she couldn’t fight them anymore, she ran. This time, she ran herself into a corner.

  SARAH|PRESENT DAY

  My child has been torn from me and there’s nothing I can do. Four days ago she walked off, happily holding her uncle’s hand, and that’s almost the last I’ve seen of her golden hair, doe eyes and tiny pink nose. Violet was smiling and oblivious as she left me; she waved while I was firmly seated at my dining table and confronted with accusation after accusation, with no right of reply.

  Jim was flanked by his parents. We’d just eaten a “family lunch” that I’d spent all morning cooking. Instead of letting me clear the plates, as I usually would, Jim had cleared his throat, nodded to his brother to take Violet away and started reading out his list. Line after line, like bullets.

  For a moment afterward we all sat in stunned silence until Jim looked at his mum and, on seeing her nod of encouragement, said, “Let’s not drag this out. You need to pack your things and get out of here. We’ve found you somewhere to stay until you get on your feet.”

  I was marched upstairs, hands on my back. They watched me while I packed my bags, then Jim and his father escorted me from my home and into a taxi, where I spent fifteen minutes dumbly staring out of the windscreen, too shocked to even cry.

  As the window vibrated against my cheek, the blood drained from my skin. In my mind, I went over and over the list Jim had read out, trying to make sense of it.

  1. Jealousy

  I thought he was going to say more. But he’d said the word “jealousy” alone, quietly and firmly, without taking his eyes off the piece of paper in his hands.

  At that point I still thought the whole thing might be some kind of joke. His mother and father at the dinner table, his normally pally younger brother in another room with Violet.

  But no punch line came. Instead, he just carried on reading his list. His parents sat there with their hands in their laps, curled in on themselves while their son made terrible claims about me. About me and our almost-four-year-old.

  Jim thinks I was jealous of his affection for Violet. Jealous of their bond, which was apparent from the earliest days. Jealous that he would come in from work and say, “Where’s my girl?” and mean her. Our little baby. And—even though I had nourished her all day, run ragged trying to do everything in the house single-handed while my koala baby stuck to me—as soon as she saw Jim come through the door at 6:15 P.M., up her little arms would shoot and she’d make monkeylike straining noises as she tried to reach him.

  I wasn’t jealous of her. If anything, I was jealous of him. I wanted her love all to myself, but I didn’t begrudge their bond. I loved to watch it. Love in action. A hardworking, loving man, our comfortable home, our beautiful little baby.

  All lined up in a row, like dominoes.

  TWO

  ROBIN|1989 />
  Robin drags the toes of her patent-leather shoes along the wall. Just because she’s small, that doesn’t mean she should be dressed like a stupid little doll. Sarah’s the one who likes to look shiny and neat. Sarah’s the one who turns herself this way and that in the mirror and admires her golden hair, like Rapunzel. Their mum and dad would love it if Robin acted more like Sarah. The thought of it fills Robin’s mouth with sour spit.

  “Robin!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t spit on the floor; what’s wrong with you?”

  Robin scowls up at her mother. “I had a bad taste,” she says, and, without thinking, carries on scuffing her shoes along the wall.

  “Robin! What on earth are you doing?”

  Whoops.

  “Nothing.”

  “Those are brand-new, you naughty girl.”

  Her mother stands with her hands on her hips, legs apart. With the sun behind her, her silhouette is sharp, but really her mum is quite soft.

  “They’re too shiny,” Robin says sulkily, but she knows she’s already lost the argument.

  Sarah stands to the side of her mother, mirroring her look of concerned dismay. Even though they’ve spent the whole day at school, Sarah’s perfect plaits remain intact. Her gingham summer dress is clean and she doesn’t have an ominous line of black muck under her nails. Robin’s own dark brown hair had burst out of its band before the first playtime. There’s so much of it, the curls in a constant state of flux, that no hair bobble stands a chance.

  Robin and Sarah are still lumped together as one: the twins. But in reality they could scarcely be more different. Blonde and brunette; tall and tiny; rigid and rowdy.

  When they were very little, their mother, Angela—Angie—had done the usual twin thing. Matching bonnets, dresses and shoes. But Sarah had been so much longer and acted so much older—almost from day one—that the coordinated clothes only highlighted how different they looked. There were even times—as had gone down in Marshall family folklore—that perfect strangers had argued that the girls could not possibly be twins.

  “I should know,” Angie would say with a pantomime sigh. “I had to squeeze them both out.”

  “My little runt,” Robin’s dad, Jack, calls her as she sits by his side on the sofa, swinging her feet, which cannot yet reach the ground. Or when she spends long Sundays contentedly passing him bits of wood, nails or glue in the garage while he fixes household objects that Angie would prefer to just replace. “I’m not made of money, Ang,” he says. “Ain’t that the truth,” she agrees with another of her sighs, for show.

  —

  Robin and her sister have just started walking home from their first day of the new school term. Their heads sag on their shoulders, lunch boxes rattling with sandwich crusts. Their talking fades into yawns and complaints. The first day back is always tiring after six weeks of playing and watching TV. They won’t usually be collected by their mum—they’re big girls now, nine years old—but this is a first day back “treat.” Robin has already been told off twice, so she can’t wait to be left to trudge her own way back tomorrow, albeit with her sister acting as substitute adult. Amazing the difference that sixteen minutes can make. “I’m the oldest,” Sarah says all the time while Robin rolls her eyes. It would be different if I were taller, Robin thinks, frowning.

  Up ahead, there’s a shiny black BMW parked partially on the pavement, its hazard lights blinking on and off. The mums who have younger kids in buggies are huffing loudly as they exaggerate how hard it is to negotiate this intrusion to their paths. The driver’s door springs open and a woman glides out. She has bouncy, shiny hair and wears an expensive-looking coat. “I’m so sorry,” she says in the general direction of other mothers. “I didn’t know where to park.”

  As the women ignore her, the shiny, bouncy BMW mum sees someone and waves excitedly. It’s the new boy from Robin and Sarah’s class. As soon as he sees her he runs up to her, his backpack bobbing up and down. His hair must have gel in it, because it doesn’t move. He climbs into the front seat, and the car eases off the pavement and whooshes away almost silently. Robin is unimpressed.

  SARAH|1989

  There is a new boy in our class. He’s as good-looking as Jordan Knight from NKOTB and as quiet as a mouse. He has blond hair and dark eyes, cheekbones like a male model. Our new teacher, an elegant old lady with long silver hair called Mrs. Howard, who Robin says is a witch, made him stand at the front of the class and introduce himself. His ears went pink and he opened his mouth but nothing came out. Eventually Mrs. Howard pursed her lips and said, “This is Callum Granger; he’s new to the school. I hope you’ll make him very welcome.”

  I wrote “Callum” in my exercise book and drew a heart around it so I’d remember his name. As if I’d forget.

  At lunchtime, I saw him sitting on the friendship bench by himself. His knees were clamped tight together and he was reading a book, The Ghost of Thomas Kempe, while he ate an apple. The boys skirmished around nearby, kicking and stamping on a tennis ball, but every time they got near to Callum, he’d just tuck his knees out of the way and continue reading.

  “Hi,” I said, smiling in as welcoming a way as I could manage. “I’m Sarah.”

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Callum.” I thought for a moment that he might extend his hand for me to shake.

  “Do you know this is the friendship bench?” I asked.

  His ears went pink again but he said he didn’t realize.

  “It’s where you sit if you’re feeling lonely and want to play with someone,” I explained. I always find it a thrill to explain the rules and rituals of our school. I’ve been here since I was four and I know all of them.

  I offered to show Callum around. He looked at his book, closed it carefully around a bookmark and followed me as I showed him the field where we have games, the leaking swimming pool that isn’t used anymore, the caretaker’s shed that’s haunted and—to make him laugh—the outdoor girls’ toilets. He went pink again.

  He told me that he’d moved to our village, Birch End, for his dad’s new job. His dad is something important at a cola company in Reading, but Callum probably can’t get any free pop, because his dad doesn’t like to be asked for things. He sounds very strict.

  —

  It’s home time now and Mum has already had to tell Robin off. She’d been scraping her new shoes along the wall and I’d chosen not to tell on her, but then she started spitting for no reason and Mum had to tell her off. I don’t know why she does these things, because she always gets caught. It’s like she wants to get in trouble. I don’t know why anyone would want to get in trouble. Everything’s so much nicer when you’re good. I try to be a good girl, always.

  Dad calls me his little swot. Mum calls me her golden girl.

  Mum likes to pretend that she’s really fed up of Dad and he likes to clown around and call Mum things like “her indoors” or make jokes about nagging, but I think they still like each other. They’ll curl around each other on the sofa when we watch Wheel of Fortune or Roseanne, Mum’s blond hair fanning over his chest, his hand resting loosely on her leg. When we’re in the car, they talk nonstop like they’ve not seen each other for weeks, and Robin and I give up trying to interrupt them to ask for more sweets. We play I Spy or Yellow Car, where whoever sees a yellow car first yells “yellow car!” and punches the other one on the arm. It always ends in tears, but while we’re playing it my sister and I laugh maniacally and press our noses to the glass and it’s the most fun in the world. My sister drives me crazy, but if there’s one thing she always knows how to do, it’s have fun.

  THREE

  ROBIN|PRESENT DAY

  From Robin’s bedroom window on the second floor, she can see into nine separate flats behind her house. If she moves down a floor and balances herself on the windowsill in her spare-bedroom-slash-gym, she can see another three flats on either side. Each of the apartments that face her back wall has three windows facing out, filled with lives she doesn
’t know. Zoetropes stacked on top of one another, showcasing the effortless movement of people as they drift and glide in and out of the windows.

  It’s mid-morning now, so most of the windows are empty, on hold until the evening. In a top-floor flat, a cleaner pushes a mop around briskly. Her bright top swings around her large body like a circus tent. Her shoulders shake; she’s either listening to music or remembering it. In the bottom right-hand flat, the old lady is doing her usual chores. Bright yellow Marigold gloves on, navy tabard protecting her no-nonsense nylon clothes.

  In the apartment at the dead center of the building, a man and woman are both home. Mr. Magpie. Robin’s special one.

  Mr. Magpie wasn’t his real name, of course. He was Henry Watkins and his wife was Karen Watkins. But before Robin knew this, Mr. Magpie—named so for the prominent gray streak that swept down the side of his otherwise black hair—had already formed an important part of Robin’s day.

  Every morning, Robin watches, breath held, until Mr. Magpie and the little boy (whose name wasn’t available online, so she calls him Little Chick) come out of the flats’ communal garden, shaking the night rain off the boy’s scooter and working their wiggly route down the cobbled alleyway that separates the two rows of yards and gardens.