Don't Close Your Eyes

by Holly Seddon

“A girl’s.” For the first time I waver. I could just about hold it together when the conversation was abstract, but now we’re really talking about Violet. I take a deep breath, pinch the bridge of my nose and try to muster the will to carry on.

  “Hello?” she asks. “Are you still there?”

  “Oh it must have been a bad line,” I say, trying to keep my accent through the tears that have started to roll. “I asked the age of your little girl.”

  “She’s nearly four,” she answers, not correcting me. She’s my little girl! I want to shout. Not yours!

  “She sounds like a darling. And she lives at the same address as you?”

  “She does.” An emphatic answer. I hate them all.

  “And does she attend school?”

  “These questions are…Why do you…”

  “I’m just trying to ascertain if she’d like the prize bundle with books or with—”

  “Oh she’s very bookish, like her father.”

  “And does her father live with you too?” I ask, more snappy than intended.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s a very personal question. What did you say your name was?”

  “Oh my, I didn’t mean to offend. Perhaps it would be easier if I could speak to Violet myself and get a sense of her interests.” I realize my mistake before she does. My heartbeat races as I fumble to hang up the heavy black receiver. I hear her say, “I didn’t tell you her…Sarah? Is that Sarah? You listen to me—”

  An avalanche of embarrassment, desperation and fury crushes me. I slam the receiver over and over on its holder, kick the plastic windows of the phone box and scream at the top of my voice. At least three people walk past me, quickening their steps. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but getting my life back.

  ROBIN|PRESENT DAY

  Robin has tried her hardest to stay away from the window. Her Mr. Magpie doesn’t exist, and she doesn’t want to see the real Henry Watkins, and she doesn’t want to be seen by whoever was lurking in the shadows the other night.

  She distracts herself in the gym room. She works harder, heavier, tries to make her muscles scream with pain every day. Ready, strong, able to protect herself.

  She’s ordered a shopping delivery, full of proteins and wholesome foods, watery green vegetables that she won’t want to eat when they’re here. The order should arrive in the next five minutes, according to the cheerful text message received not long ago. The delivery slot was chosen with precision, at extra cost. Well worth it.

  Knock knock.

  Robin looks through the crack in the curtain. She can make out the edge of the van just a little up the road. She walks to the front door, listens carefully for the delivery guy and is reassured by the telltale shuffle of heavy feet. She swipes the security chain out of the way, clicks open the lock, takes a deep breath and prepares for the weekly burst of small talk that means more to her than it could ever mean to the guy holding crates of shopping.

  She starts to open the door carefully, just a crack at first while she builds up the nerve.

  Suddenly, a thick black boot has been shoved in the gap and someone is pushing at her door from the outside. “What the fuck?” she blurts as she pushes back against the door with everything she has.

  The boot wriggles to get in farther and the door is shoved roughly again and again from outside, the sound of a man grunting with exertion as it bashes against her. She uses every muscle in her body, but every time the door inches nearer to the frame, her bare feet skid on the carpet.

  “No!” she growls, as she dredges every last drop of energy to drive the door to a close, clicking it into the frame and fumbling to get the security chain back in place.

  Whoever is out there kicks the door hard one last time, but then Robin hears him running away.

  Robin keeps pushing at the closed door anyway, her arms and shoulders locked in agony, her feet grazed and raw. She’s breathing so hard she can’t think over the sound of the air rushing in and out of her. After a minute, she lets go and creeps into the living room to look carefully through the smallest of gaps between the curtains. She sees the white van she’d mistaken for a delivery truck. It’s reversing back into view and has the name of a hire company on it. Fuck. Fuck. She tugs her hair, bends over, can’t think straight. All this paranoia coursing through her was right. Fuck.

  Moments later, the supermarket van chugs into a space right opposite her house, a space they’re not supposed to park in. The driver—one she’s chatted to numerous times—is whistling obliviously as he stacks two crates on top of each other and carefully dodges cars to cross the road.

  She ignores the knocks at first, but then her mobile vibrates. She answers, knows who is calling. Her heart is still thundering and she’s pouring with sweat.

  “Is that Robin Marshall?”

  “Yes,” she whispers, her name sounding alien and risky.

  “I’m outside your house, love. With your shopping.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not well,” she says hurriedly.

  “Well, you’ve paid for this stuff, so I can’t really take it back. I’ll bring it through to your kitchen if you like. Just come and open the door for me, would you?”

  “I can’t.”

  There’s a pause. “Look, I really have to get this stuff dropped and move on. I’ll be behind for the other customers otherwise.”

  “Just leave it outside.”

  “I can’t do that here. It’ll be nicked.”

  “It’s my stuff, isn’t it?” she snaps.

  “But you need to sign for it.” His voice has a new edge; she could hear it in duplicate through the living room window. She pictured his thick arms, his heavy boots. She didn’t want more boots at her door.

  “I’m contagious. Just push the thing through the letter box and I’ll sign it.”

  “Okay, fine, whatever you want.”

  The phone goes dead and the bulky handheld machine is shoved awkwardly through the letter box. She grabs it, signs the screen with the stub of a nail and pushes it back through.

  “It’s for your own good,” she adds, trying a friendlier tone.

  “Right,” he says. “Thanks.” He doesn’t mean thanks.

  She goes back to the lounge, watches through the curtains as he reloads his empty crates and chugs off down the road. She looks around but can’t see anyone else looking over and no black boots.

  Outside, passersby help themselves to her milk, her bananas, her oats. Someone rifles through looking for booze but she hadn’t bought any. He complains loudly to his friend. It takes under a minute for a small crowd to gather, safely coating her step. Unwitting protection. She pulls back the door and grabs what’s left of her shopping as they skuttle away.

  Robin slams the door shut again and sits on the floor of the hall, surrounded by fruit, bottled water and vegetables in partly shredded carrier bags.

  As her breathing finally slows and her heart stops leaping, Robin considers what just happened. She comes to two very important conclusions:

  One, she’s not just paranoid—someone really is out to get her. And being right about that is no comfort.

  Two, her best hope is that it’s Henry Watkins, aware that it was she who called the police. Better the devil you know. Better the devil you can see.

  Robin jogs upstairs gingerly, her grazed feet raw. She pulls up to the bedroom window and teases the curtain open a hairsbreadth. She pushes her eye to the chink of light and looks straight at the Magpie flat. At first, she doesn’t see him. Wonders, with creeping dread, whether he is still outside her house, standing angrily in his black boots, watching for an opportunity.

  But then he appears in his window. He’s wearing a towel around his waist, his wet hair scruffed. His chest is narrow and sunken. The towel slips down, showing jutting hips that used to have a layer of mid-thirties chub.

  Even with superhero levels of speed he surely couldn’t have been at her door and be back, naked and showered by now.

  So it wasn’
t him. Someone is trying to get her and it isn’t him. Fuck.

  Tears fall, a reaction Robin hates herself for, and she watches the equally defeated man across the street pick up the mug of drink in front of him, stare at it for a moment and then hurl it at the wall.

  As it explodes and showers everywhere, he crouches down on the floor and hugs his knees, shoulders shaking.

  Robin doesn’t see this. She’s already crawled under her bed and is counting the bed slats to try to stop herself from screaming.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  SARAH|1996

  I stand in the doorway of my mum’s bedroom and watch her sleep. It’s the middle of the day so Drew is at work, but my school is closed for spring break and I’m hot and sticky in the house.

  Before class broke up on Friday, some of the girls were talking about going shopping in Lenox Square, but despite my eager expression none of them invited me.

  Our garden here in Atlanta is much bigger than both the gardens I had in Birch End. And it’s more complicated too. There’s not much grass but there are lots of rock sections and decks with lights rigged up and modern statues. There’s a sprinkler system for what little lawn there is and a water feature that bubbles around the clock. At night when it’s still and quiet, I can hear it from my bed.

  I think about Dad and how sad a garden like this would make him. “There’s nothing growing. There are no birds,” he’d say. There are hardly any flowers; instead, there are some reeds and grasses that make it look a bit like a desert.

  Every year post-thirty, Mum has seemed more agitated by what she sees in the mirror. “You look great for your age,” Drew says, “especially considering you’ve had twins.”

  “I don’t want ‘considering,’ ” Mum says, and he looks mystified. Often, like tonight, it falls to me to cobble dinner together while Mum’s at the gym. I’ve been trying to get better at cooking, learning more dishes that Drew might like. Recently, I made macaroni and cheese and put tuna in it, like I’d seen on TV.

  Drew insisted on calling it “a fine Italian meal” and ruffling my hair. The Drew I’d first met in England would never have dreamed of eating something bright orange like this. I was touched by his flexibility. “Don’t tell your mum,” he said, as he poured a slug of red wine into my glass. “It goes with pasta after all.”

  After a few more glasses of wine himself and another shot of it for me, my stepfather was talkative and my cheeks were pink.

  “Angela’s lost her spark, Sarah. I’m worried about her.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “All she talks about is the way she looks. She’s still an attractive woman though, Sarah. I mean, she’s got a few years on her since we met, but she dresses very well and she’s always made up. I said to her the other day, I said, ‘You’re so beautiful now, Angela, I can only imagine how gorgeous you were before having children.’ You’d think I’d insulted her.”

  He was getting more animated then, red-faced and frowning. “I’m walking on eggshells in my own house here,” he suddenly exploded, and I’d jumped.

  “Oh,” he’d said, rubbing my arm, “don’t mind me, don’t mind me. I’m just worried about your mum.”

  He’d opened another bottle by then and he poured himself a big glass and took a gulp.

  “Maybe she’s homesick,” I said.

  The corners of his mouth twisted down and he shook his head. “Oh I don’t think it’s that, I don’t think it’s that at all.”

  “Maybe she’s missing Robin and…” I ground to a halt.

  “She loves your sister, but last time Robin was here, your mum was as relieved as I when she left. She’s a handful,” he said, “not like you. And as for that son of mine, well…” Drew took another big swig, his lips purple when he pulled the glass away. “Anyway, don’t you worry about it. I’m sure your mum will perk up. We’ll just have to give her some time.”

  ROBIN|1996

  They’re on their favorite spot: the wall behind the cricket pavilion, lined up like crows on a wire. Alistair and Robin, John and Callum. Smoking crumbly green weed in loose paper and laughing about nothing.

  Callum is telling a story about John’s mum nearly catching them together.

  “We’d just, y’know, finished what we were doing, and we hear footsteps up the stairs.” Callum’s shoulders shake and John takes over.

  “Cal was like,” John stage-hisses, “ ‘You promised me, John! You promised she’d be out!’ and I really did think she’d be out for longer. Anyway, I’m lying there like a wally, butt naked and fumbling around for my things, Cal’s hopping about, struggling to get his clothes on, and just before the door opens, he leaps into the wardrobe like something out of a sitcom, one leg in his trousers, and collapses on a pile of my clothes.”

  “My heart’s going like the clappers,” Callum says, taking over, “and I’m hiding in all his dirty clothes and trying to be silent while his mum walks over to him, puts a cup of tea down on the side and totally ignores the fact that John’s lying there in bed, wearing just a T-shirt and covering his bits with a cushion at three in the afternoon.” They collapse into giggles, Callum leaning his head slightly onto John’s shaking chest.

  “She thinks I’m really lazy,” John adds.

  “Teenagers!” Callum says, in a mock shrill voice.

  Alistair and Robin laugh but Alistair looks away first. He and Robin still haven’t done “it,” but now is not the time to bring that up. Especially in front of John, who is in the year above.

  “Seriously though, what would she do if she caught you?” Robin asks. “I mean, you’re practically an adult.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not.” John stops laughing and frowns as he grabs the joint from Callum and takes a deep drag. “And my mum is very traditional,” he says, as he blows out the smoke. “She might not mind semi-nudity in the afternoon, but she certainly minds the idea of two men being together. Two boys. Whatever.”

  “She’s a massive homophobe,” Callum adds, shrugging.

  “Yeah, she is.”

  —

  Robin is passed the floppy damp paper and takes a lungful, coughing the smoke back out in bursts until Alistair thumps her on the back to help. They’ve been going out for a couple of months now, just a few weeks less than Callum and John.

  Callum and John’s friendship bloomed from a shared love of the same books and films and into something deeper. They can’t hold hands in public, they can’t kiss, they can’t really tell anyone outside of Robin and their closest friends.

  When Callum first got together with John, he would spend hours lying on his bed, rambling to Robin about the various things that John had done or said. Analyzing his own performances in the conversation, worrying that he’d revealed his younger age or put John off. As the weeks passed, the analysis decreased and so too did Callum and Robin’s time with each other. They played guitar together less, and she often practiced alone instead. She tried not to be hurt and decided she needed to act. It was time to get a boyfriend of her own.

  Alistair is in the same year as Callum and Robin, a short, baby-faced boy with a serious expression but a kind manner. He’s not exactly Robin’s type, which is more in the region of Michael Hutchence, but he’s an unassuming, easygoing lad, funny, trustworthy and willing to change. At her suggestion, he’d signed up for guitar lessons but has since switched to bass. It’s a little easier to keep up with her that way.

  They walk home from the park arm in arm, stoned and sleepy, singing songs with patchy lyrics. As they reach a triple drain, they all sidestep it. It’s unlucky. Although none of them understands why.

  Robin had seen Alistair’s look earlier. A look that she’d been ignoring for a while. But why not get it over with?

  “I think I dropped my key behind the pavilion,” she mumbles.

  “I’ve got mine,” Callum replies.

  “Yeah, but I still need to find it or I’ll get bollocked. Come with me, Al?”

  “Okay. But I need to get home
soon or I’ll be—”

  “You want to come with me,” Robin cut him off, lowering her voice as they drop back from the others. “Before I change my mind.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Why not?”

  He presses his hand into hers and they jog, giggling, back to the park.

  —

  A week later and it’s all collapsed. Robin stares in disbelief as Callum hides his face and recounts the story.

  “You just ran all the way home?” she asks.

  “That’s not the point,” he snaps. “Fuck!”

  Earlier tonight, Callum and John were caught in the garden of John’s house. John’s parents were out and the boys had been lying in the back garden, shielded by trees and flowers, smoking, talking and kissing. Wedged together on a big sun lounger.

  It had grown dark overhead, a deep gray sky yellowing at the corners where the spring sun was clinging on.

  They were fully clothed, just kissing gently, when suddenly standing over them and shouting unintelligible things was John’s mother, who’d returned early.

  “I ran,” Callum told Robin’s horrified face, “and I could still hear her yelling at the end of the street.”

  —

  In the days that followed, the quiet gentle thing Callum and John had grown unraveled fast. They’d been banned from seeing each other by John’s parents, backed up by the school deputy headmaster, who had summoned both boys to the office to tell them in no uncertain terms that it would not be tolerated, that Callum’s parents would be told if there were any more indiscretions. Indiscretions. John had stared straight ahead, nodded at the head teacher. After they left, Callum had tried to reach for John’s hand and been shaken off.

  After the “intervention,” John had stayed off school for a week and in the vacuum seemed to have shaken his feelings resolutely, or worked on a really good impression of someone who had. Callum, once encouraged into the upper-sixth-form common room by his older friends, was no longer welcome after a teacher-led clampdown on lower-sixth-formers crossing the threshold. John had started to drive into school and take his friends into town in his Ford Fiesta at lunchtime. Callum had started to bunk off to avoid seeing him.