Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake?

by David B Lyons

  ‘Can’t, Gloria. I’m sorry. I’m on a job at the moment.’

  ‘Ah… okay, no probs, Lenny. I’ll hit you up next time.’

  ‘Sorry, Gloria,’ he offers once more before the line goes dead. Then he stares at his eyes through the rear-view mirror again and laughs; his laugh fogging up part of the mirror.

  He rolls down his window and points his index finger towards an elderly lady pushing her trolley along the narrow pathway.

  ‘Can you tell me how to get to Peyton Avenue?’ he asks.

  The lady twists her body, to look in the opposite direction.

  ‘That’s one of the new estates,’ she says, rolling her eyes, as if new estates are bothersome to her. ‘Next left, then you’ll see it when you get to the first roundabout. Sure, ye can’t miss it.’

  Lenny winks a thank you back at the lady, then winds his window back up and pulls out from the curb.

  The woman was right. You couldn’t miss it. Even before Lenny got to the roundabout he could see a massive sign reading ‘Welcome to Peyton’. It was like one of the signs you’d see in America for a new housing estate; he even had to drive through a pointless archway to enter it. He blows out his cheeks while driving towards the first row of houses.

  ‘There must be a hundred gaffs in here,’ he mumbles to himself. He rounds the first bend, to get to the second row of homes just as Gordon instructed, then pulls over to stare at the front doors. They’re big enough gaffs. Red brick, three storeys. The homes of people who make comfortable money. He couldn’t quite work out why Alan Keating, who must rake in millions a year, was living here.

  Lenny pulls the zip on his puffer jacket all the way up to his chin and yanks at the two strings of his hat, as if those actions are going to protect him from the rain. Then, without hesitating, he walks up the pathway of the house he pulled up outside and rings the doorbell.

  A middle aged woman greets him with a confused smile.

  ‘I’m looking for the Keating house. Do you know what number they live in?’

  The woman drops her smile, narrows the gap in the door so just half of her face is showing.

  ‘Number forty-nine,’ she says. ‘You’ll know he’s in if his black Merc is in the driveway.’

  The door is fully closed before Lenny has finished his thank you. He walks back down the pathway, begins to stroll past the row of houses, counting the numbers on the doors as he goes. Then he stops dead, stares at the front of a black Mercedes that’s taking up way too much space on the driveway of number 49. He takes the mobile phone from his pocket and then brings it to his mouth; not to ring anybody, just to chew on the rubber case; the rain falling around him.

  Go on, Lenny Boy – grow some fucking balls!

  He swivels, stares up and down the estate for no reason and then, almost as if somebody pushes him, he paces confidently, as if he isn’t intimidated one iota by the infamous figure who lives behind the door.

  It’s only when he holds his thumb against the bell that his stomach flips itself over.

  11:05

  Gordon

  There’s a fumble at my door, a clanging. Then Elaine walks in, wheeling a small machine in front of her; leading it towards me. She purses her lips at me again, but I don’t mind this constant sympathy gesture coming from her. She’s nice looking. Not good looking. There’s a distinct difference. And I’d take nice looking over good looking all day long.

  She notices I’m on the phone, mouths the words ‘heart rate’. I stretch the phone away from my mouth.

  ‘Sure, Elaine,’ I say. ‘That is no problem. Whatever it is you need to do, my love.’ Then I bring the phone to my mouth again. ‘Lenny. I’ll have to ring you back. A nurse is here to run some tests.’

  Elaine opens the Velcro strapping on a small rubber tube and then releases two blue suction tabs. She motions towards my T-shirt and without hesitating, I lift it over my head. Then she places the two tabs on my chest and turns to twizzle at some nozzles on her machine.

  ‘Sorry to disturb your call. Won’t keep you long,’ she says. ‘We just need to keep checking your rate.’

  I’m about to tell her the call wasn’t that important when Elaine makes a strange sound; almost as if she’s sucking her own tongue.

  ‘Heart rate’s gone up significantly, Gordon,’ she says staring at me.

  ‘I’m not surprised. After the news I was told an hour ago.’

  ‘Have you been resting as we suggested?’ she asks, while walking to the end of my bed to pick up the clipboard. She scribbles some notes on it while I try to find the words to phrase my lie.

  ‘Yes. Just as you said. Haven’t really done anything… Was just ringing a friend of mine there to—’

  ‘That the same friend who was in with you half-an-hour ago?’ she asks, staring at me over the clipboard.

  ‘Yeah – an old friend. My best friend. The only person I could think of to call on to be honest.’

  Elaine purses her lips again. She hangs the clipboard back on to the rail at the foot of my bed and then walks around to sit her pert bum on the edge of my mattress.

  ‘Gordon… Mr Douglas spoke to you about the need for relaxation today. I can’t stress how important that is.’

  I roll my eyes. She catches me. It wasn’t difficult – my eyes are about two feet from hers.

  ‘I can’t fully understand how difficult it is to digest the news you’ve been given, Gordon,’ she says, ‘but your best chance of surviving these procedures is to keep your heart rate steady.’

  Douglas had already mentioned this to me; he told me my ability to keep my mind-set consistent over the next few hours would be just as important to my success as his steady hands during the procedures. The medical team are mostly afraid of blood clots; there’s a high risk that multiple clots will form during my operations that can swiftly make their way to my lungs, to my brain. If that is the case; I’ll never wake up. That’s why Douglas – and now Elaine – are keen for me to relax – they want my heart rate to remain consistent. The more relaxed I am, the less chance there’ll be of blood clots forming. But blood clots aren’t their only concern. My heart’s a ticking time bomb. I could have a massive heart attack while I’m cut open, could even have it before then, which is why they’re trying to get me to the theatre as quickly as they possibly can. Two more of Douglas’ surgical team are flying in from London as I lie here and the theatre will be prepped after the surgery that is going on in it right now is complete. It’s why they’ve been very specific about my surgery time; three p.m. I pick up my phone just to make the screen light go on so I can check the time. 11:11. Jesus fuckin Christ. Less than four hours. While the phone is in my hand I imagine what Lenny is up to right now. He’s probably knocking on Alan Keating’s door. What the fuck is he going to ask Keating? How can he get any more information out of him that the police didn’t get in their investigations? I know it’s an impossible ask. But I can’t lie here, with death’s door opening up to me, and not do all I can to find Betsy.

  My head is melting. I’m torn between relaxing ahead of these surgeries and doing all I can for my daughter. Fuck! I allow a massive sigh to rasp itself up from the pit of my lungs and all the way through my open mouth.

  Elaine reaches her hand and places it on top of mine. Then she smiles at me; not a purse of the lips this time, an upturn of the lips.

  ‘It’s why I keep asking you if there’s anybody who can come up to visit you, Gordon. Company will help you relax. Are you sure you don’t want me to ring your ex wife for you?’

  ‘I thought you want me to relax,’ I say, offering her a smile of my own.

  ‘No other friends I can call?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘What about the friend who you’ve been on the phone to and who was up earlier… can he come back to you? Keep you company?’

  I blow from my lips, making a bit of a motorboat sound, and then shake my head.

  ‘He’s out doing a job for me; don’t worry, it’s all bei
ng taken care of.’

  Elaine looks at me the way a teacher looks at a cheeky student; her face stern, trying to hide the hint of a smile that’s threatening to force its way through.

  ‘Surely you have other friends who can be here for you. Who was best man at your wedding?’

  ‘Guus Meyer,’ I say.

  ‘Well let’s call Guus. I’m sure he would—’

  ‘We haven’t spoken in years,’ I tell her. ‘We blurred the lines of business and friendship. It’s true what they say; don’t mix business with pleasure.’

  ‘I’m sure given the circumstances…’ Elaine says, but I shrug my shoulders at her, allow another tear to drop from my eye. My head is spinning. I don’t know how to feel; how I’m supposed to react to the news I’ve been given this morning. And I’m torn; I don’t know who my main concern should be right now; me or Betsy. Maybe she’s been my concern for way too long. Probably why my heart’s fucked.

  Elaine stands up, fixes my sheet so it’s nice and snug under both of my arms. I stare into her face as she’s doing it. I like her freckles. She’s not unlike Michelle. They don’t necessarily look alike, but there’s a similar energy they both give off. I mean the Michelle I knew when we first met, not the bitchy Michelle who exists now. As I’m staring at Elaine I figure she must be the same age Michelle was when I first met her.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  Yep. That’s the age Michelle was when I sat beside her on a bus one day coming home from town. I’m pretty sure I fell in love with her before we both got off that bus half-an-hour later. I never thought, not for one millisecond back then, that I would ever hate her. But I do. She fucked me over. I feel another tear drop from my eye. Elaine notices, reaches for the tissues on my bedside cabinet.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I breathe in heavily, try to soak the surreality of the morning up my nose and deep into my lungs. Who do I love more? Me or Betsy? It has to be Betsy. Of course it’s Betsy. It’s always been Betsy. Fuck relaxing. Fuck my heart rate. I reach for my phone; tap into my call history and hover my finger over Lenny’s number. I need to know where he is; what he’s doing.

  ‘Y’know… if you don’t have anyone to come up to see you, how about I sit here with you for a while? We can watch some TV together… just relax?’

  I haven’t had anybody offer anything quite like that to me in years. Company.

  ‘That’d be lovely,’ I say, placing the phone back down onto my lap.

  I can’t make up my fucking mind.

  Fifteen years ago

  Betsy

  Sometimes it is really hot in my room. Sometimes it is really cold. It has been cold for a lot of days now. Every morning I wake up I feel the cold. I stay in my bed, under my blankets all day, most days. Once I have my books – and Bozy – that is okay. I read my books to Bozy all the time. He likes them as much as I do. His favourite is Pirates in Pyjamas. My favourite is The Enormous Crocodile.

  I have thirty-three books. Eight of them are by a man called Roald Dahl. I would like to be a writer like him one day. I am going to write a book called Bozy’s Adventures. I have asked Dod to bring me some paper to write a book on but he hasn’t brought it to me. He keeps forgetting. But he is kind. Sometimes. He brings me lots of different books. I love books. I am thinking about going over to get The Enormous Crocodile to read it again but I don’t want to get out of the bed. It’s too cold. Then the door opens and Dod walks down the steps. I know if he is going to be good Dod or angry Dod from how he comes down the steps. I think he is good Dod today. He is walking properly. He is not falling against the walls.

  ‘Everything okay, Betsy?’

  ‘It’s cold, Dod.’

  He makes a noise but I don’t know if he said anything. I don’t know if I should say something back. Sometimes he gets angry if I don’t talk back to him. But I don’t think he wants me to talk back to him this time. He is just looking around my room. He rubs his hands together.

  ‘I’ll get you another blanket or maybe a duvet if I can find the time to buy one.’

  ‘What is a duvet?’

  ‘It’s just a heavier blanket for your bed.’

  He is definitely being good Dod today. I see him put his arms around himself and shake a little bit. That’s what I do when I’m cold too.

  ‘Come in.’

  I open up the blankets on the bed. He looks at me. Then walks over and gets into my bed. I put the blankets over him and high up to his chin. He laughs a little bit. I really like it when Dod laughs. He doesn’t laugh many times.

  ‘Would you like to read me a story?’

  He looks at me and then he nods his head. That means yes.

  I reach under the blankets and pull out the first book I can feel.

  ‘This one.’

  It is a Peppa Pig book called Daddy Pig’s Big Chair. I used to like it but I think I am a big girl now and don’t need to read Peppa Pig books anymore. But it is okay. Because reading is fun all the time. And if Dod is reading, then it is even more fun.

  ‘Daddy Pig’s Big Chair.’ Dod laughs again when he opens the book.

  Before he starts to read I say something. I only say it because Dod is happy and I like it when Dod is happy.

  ‘My Daddy had a big chair too. I miss my Mummy and my Daddy sometimes.’

  He closes the book and then gets out of the blankets and off the bed. Oh no. I think he is angry Dod now.

  ‘What have I fucking told you, Betsy? They’re gone. They’re not your parents anymore.’

  He throws Daddy Pig’s Big Chair against the wall and it makes a big noise.

  I go under my blankets. Dod has never said that before. He never said they’re not my parents anymore. Why is he saying this?

  ‘You fucking mention Mummy and Daddy again and I’ll hurt you, you little bitch. Do you hear me? Do you fucking hear me?’

  I can’t see him. My face is under the blankets. But he takes the blankets off the bed. His face is really red. This is bad. When his face is red he is really, really angry Dod. I am frightened. Frightened and cold. I am shaking so much.

  Dod lifts me up. He holds me in the air. He is shouting but I can’t hear what he is saying. He throws me against the wall. I land on top of Daddy Pig’s Big Chair. My back and bum hurt. Really, really hurt. I don’t want to cry but I can not stop it. I start to cry really loud. Dod picks me up again.

  ‘Shut the fuck up crying, Betsy, or I swear to God I’ll fucking kill you.’

  I stop crying. Well, I stop making crying noises. But tears are still falling down my face. I wipe them away and then he throws me again. But this time it doesn’t hurt. He throws me on the bed. Then he bends down. He takes my hands away from my face and looks at me.

  ‘Are you okay, Betsy?’

  I shake my head. And then rub my hands against my back.

  ‘Show me.’

  He turns me around and pulls up my top. It’s really sore.

  Then he runs up the steps. I want to cry again but I don’t. I hold up Bozy and give him a hug. That makes the pain go away a little bit.

  Dod runs back down the steps. He has a bag with him. He turns me around and then lifts my top again. He puts the bag on my back and it is really cold. Really, really cold. It makes me laugh. Then Dod laughs.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Betsy.’

  He lies me down in the bed and then gets into the bed too. He puts the blankets over the two of us.

  ‘Betsy. I have something to tell you. Do you know what heaven is? Has heaven come up in any of your books?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Heaven is a place you go after you die. When people stop being alive they die.’

  ‘And then they go to heaven?’

  ‘Yes. And that’s where your Mummy and Daddy are, Betsy. They are in heaven.’

  I turn my head to look at Dod. I’m shaking again. Even though I’m under the blankets.

  ‘My Mummy and Daddy are not living anymore?’
r />   Dod kisses me on the nose.

  ‘You’re so clever, Betsy. Yes – your Mummy and Daddy are not living anymore.’

  11:10

  Lenny

  Lenny’s bottom lip hangs out, his eyes wide. He assumed Keating would intimidatingly tower over him. But here he was, standing two feet from Ireland’s most notorious gangster; Keating’s nose at Lenny’s nose’s height. And Lenny’s only five foot seven.

  Keating’s infamy has painted him as a bigger presence than he actually is. In fact, Keating – in the flesh – reminds Lenny of his late uncle Arthur. And Arthur was the most gentle of souls Lenny had ever known. Keating doesn’t look like a gangster at all; not with the cute little side parting in his thinning hair and his bulbous purpling nose. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt with grey trousers that are pulled up way too high over the waist; above his belly button. Ol’ uncle Arthur used to do the exact same thing. Most men in the later years of life do; they lose their hips and their trousers don’t have much to cling on to, so the roundest part of the gut has to do.

  ‘I’m eh…’ Lenny hesitates, his eyes blinking. ‘I’m Lenny Moon. Private Investigator.’

  Keating’s eyebrows arch, then he breaks out a little smile. Or is it a grin? Lenny’s unsure. He’s watched a lot of gangster movies over the years; is a big fan of Guy Ritchie flicks and knows gangsters mostly smiled when they were being menacing. Yet Keating didn’t look menacing. He just looked like good ol’ uncle Arthur. Harmless.

  Keating doesn’t speak. He just keeps the grin on his face; inviting Lenny to continue talking. The rain’s falling heavily now, but Keating’s certainly not offering Lenny the chance to stand inside his doorway.

  ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Betsy Blake.’

  Keating laughs. Then stares at Lenny, still not saying anything; still waiting to learn why this weird looking fella with the kiddish Sherpa hat and God-awful yellow jacket has had the audacity to ring this doorbell.