I think my favourite non-fiction book so far has been the one called I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I have learned lots of new words because of that book. It’s about a young girl like me called Maya who felt she was trapped but then became a really good writer. She wasn’t a good writer when she was younger and then she became really good because she read lots and lots. I hope the same thing happens to me. She had brown skin. I’d like to see somebody with brown skin. People with brown skin sound as if they’d be beautiful.
Another girl who I have read a non-fiction book about also has brown skin. Serena Williams. She is another woman who wasn’t really happy when she was younger but then became really happy when she got older. She thinks women are the best. Better than men. So do I. She plays a sport called tennis. And is the best person to ever play it. I asked Dod if he could show me some tennis on the TV but we can never find it on any of the channels. We have tried to look for it a few times. He keeps buying me new non-fiction books because I ask for them now. I think he feels just as happy as I do when he gives me a new book. He buys me a new book almost every week. I read so fast.
My room is mostly taken up by the big shelf I have against the wall. It is filled with books. I counted a few weeks ago. I had ninety-five. And Dod has bought me four more since then. So the next one I get will be my hundredth book. I wonder what it’s going to be. I hope it is about another strong woman. A woman who has a bad childhood but then becomes really, really happy. Because I think that is what is going to happen in my life. I will be happier when I’m older. I want to be a happy writer when I am an adult. Just like Maya Angelou.
I have started to write Betsy’s Basement but it is not easy. It takes too long for me to spell out the words correctly.
I hop up onto my bed and pick up Bozy. Then I place him so he is sitting up against my pillow and say: ‘Are you ready, Bozy?’ I make him nod at me by using my fingers to push at the back of his head.
‘This is the start of Betsy’s Basement.’
I flick open my copybook.
‘I was playing on my street one day while Daddy was talking to somebody from work. It was a long time ago now so I don’t really remember everything. I was four years old. I know that. Now I am thirteen years old. So it was nine years ago when it happened. But I was walking on a wall and then Dod just took me. He put his hands around my mouth and around my legs and just took me. He told me to be quiet. Then he put me in a car and he drove for ages and ages and ages. I was really scared. And I was really hungry. And then after ages he took me out of the car and into my basement.’
I look up at Bozy.
‘What do you think so far?’
I think he likes it.
I just wish I could write much faster. That much has taken me two weeks to write. I keep spelling words wrong and then changing them. Maybe when I am older I will be able to write much quicker. I want to write loads of books. Betsy’s Basement is just my first.
13:50
Gordon
I took a mindfulness class once. Wasn’t for me. But I remember one instruction quite clearly; the five breaths per minute technique. Breathe in for six seconds, breathe out for six seconds. I’ve been trying to apply this since Douglas and Elaine left me a few minutes ago, but it’s a difficult technique to maintain; especially when you have a multitude of stuff whizzing through your mind. I’ve tried leaning fully flat out on the bed, tried half sitting up with the pillow behind the arch of my back, tried fully sitting up while resting my head against the steel bed frame. But nothing seems to be helping me calm down.
I keep seeing Betsy’s little face. I always imagine her as she was – four years of age; mousy brown hair, a dash of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I can never quite imagine what she would look like now. She’d have turned twenty-one last August. A bona fide adult. I’m pretty certain she would have ended up being something special. Guess I’ll never know.
I press both shoulder blades firm against the bedpost, then close my eyes and attempt to concentrate on my six-second breaths. I’m refusing to even look at the bedside cabinet my phone is currently resting in. Poor old Lenny Moon out there running around for me when I don’t even need him to anymore. But fuck it; he got a grand for his morning’s work and, given his appearance, I’m guessing that’s quite a lot of dosh for him. He’ll be fine. Last thing I heard from him he was on his way to Jake and Michelle’s house. I’d love to know how that went… but I can’t turn on my phone, can’t ring him. It’ll only raise my heart rate again.
Six seconds in through the nose… six seconds out through the nose.
I can’t stop my mind from swirling. It’s too quiet. Maybe I need a little background noise to help me focus. I pick up the TV remote control, hold down the standby button.
Loose Women. Fuck that! Jesus, if there’s anything that will raise my heart rate it’s watching that shite. News. No! More news. No! Ah… a music channel. Maybe. But it’s blaring out some awful hip-hop song that can barely be filed under the medium of music as far as I’m concerned. No! A crappy, dated American sitcom. No! Fuck it. I tap at the standby button again. The screen blinks off.
Six seconds in through the nose… six seconds out through the nose.
Christ, this is difficult. Not the breathing. The shutting off of my thoughts. I’ve always been a deep thinker. Have never been able to shake off my guilt. Even when I’m not directly thinking about Betsy, there’s always a grey cloud circling my every moment.
I wonder what time it is. Without my phone I can’t tell, but it‘s got to be coming up to two o’clock. That’s when Elaine said she’d be back in to measure my bloods. Jesus… I may have only one hour left to live. And here I am, lying in an uncomfortable bed, doing my best to focus on six-second inhales and exhales. I blow out through my lips, making a rasping sound. The thought of what happens when you die flipping over in my head. I wonder what the fuck a God would say to me if I was to somehow find myself at the gates of Heaven this evening.
‘Why did you never have faith in me, Gordon Blake?’
‘Because you made it fucking impossible for anybody with half a brain to have faith in you, you long-bearded twat!’
I make myself laugh a little with that thought. The first time I’ve produced a moment of giddiness all morning. But the giddiness doesn’t last long; the thought of dying and ceasing to be begins to hit me hard. I’ve never really been afraid of death itself; I’ve only ever been afraid of dying without knowing what happened to Betsy. It looks very likely that my biggest fear may become a reality in just a few hours time. I let out the saddest sigh I’ve let out in years. I can hear the self-pity within it.
Six seconds in through the nose… six seconds out through the nose.
The ward door opens while I’m finishing my long exhale. I stiffen my lips, look over at Elaine strolling towards me. She stares at me sympathetically, unsure of what to say. We’ve been quite open with each other throughout the morning, but right now she knows she’s about to give me a quick test that will determine whether or not I’m guaranteed to die today. That’s hardly an easy topic to raise. So, instead of talking to me, she nods slowly, then clenches her lips tight.
‘So this is it?’ I say.
Elaine remains silent. She almost looks as if she’d cry if she spoke. I think that’s why she hasn’t said a word. It’s either that or the guilt she has felt for ratting me out to Douglas is eating at her. She holds up the blue tabs, presses them into my chest. Then she turns to her machine, presses at a couple of buttons and glances at me, her eyes blinking.
‘Very best of luck, Gordon,’ she says.
I reach out my hand, grab a strand of her hair and brush my fingers gently through it.
‘Thank you, Elaine.’
She breathes deeply, presses another button and then holds her eyes firmly shut. She must be willing the digits to blink to something in the 130s as much as I am. I bend forward to stare at the small screen when it beeps and as I do, Elaine opens her
eyes.
Bollocks. 142.
Elaine holds her eyes closed again, then opens them and tilts her head to stare at me. I fall back onto the bedpost, hold my hand to my forehead and for some reason begin to breathe in for six seconds, then out for six seconds. By the time I’m finished one breath Elaine is at the foot of my bed, unhooking the clipboard from the rail.
‘One thirty-nine,’ she says, scribbling. I remove my hand from my forehead, then smile up at her.
She walks towards me without saying another word, removes the tabs from my chest and then folds them neatly before hooking them to the machine.
‘You are an angel sent from heaven,’ I say, aware that such a statement totally contradicts the thoughts I had been stewing around my head just minutes ago.
She doesn’t even look at me. She just swirls on her heels and heads for the door.
‘I’ll let Mr Douglas know he should begin to prep the theatre. We’ll be going down in an hour, Gordon. You just continue to relax.’
14:00
Lenny
Lenny touches a button on his phone, just so the screen blinks on and he can see the time. Bang on two o’clock. One hour left. He clicks into call history, brings up Gordon’s name and presses at it.
‘Ah for fuck sake,’ he says as he pushes at the glass doors of Independent House and walks out into the rain.
He stops, fidgets at his phone to recall Gordon, then looks up to the grey sky upon hearing the dead tone again.
‘Please tell me they haven’t taken him down to surgery already,’ he says to the clouds.
He stands in against the wall of a newsagents as if that’s going to protect him from the rain as he contemplates his next move. He knows he’s taking a taxi to Clontarf, but he needs to let Gordon know what’s going on. The whole point of finding out something new is so he can secure the million euro house. He tries calling one more time. Same frustration – dead tone.
He places the phone back inside his jacket pocket, zips it up and then paces towards Amien Street in search of a taxi. He bounces shoulders with one young woman, holds a hand up in apology as he walks away, then slaloms through two umbrellas coming towards his face.
‘Ah for crying out loud,’ he yells out as a woman stops in front of him, causing him to walk around her. The woman stares at him, shock at his over-the-top outburst evident on her face. Lenny doesn’t react, doesn’t apologise. He just continues to walk at a swift pace, head down, sheltering his face from the rain.
His mood has changed swiftly in the past three minutes. He had ran down the three flights of stairs of Independent House feeling elated at the thought of giving Gordon something new in the investigation. But now his blood was slowly coming to the boil; the thought he may never be able to communicate this news with Gordon settling in his mind as a high probability. He can’t bear the thought of being that close to earning a million quid and losing it all.
‘Taxi,’ Lenny shouts out, holding his hand up as if he just leaped off a pavement in New York City. A silver Ford Focus screeches to a stop and Lenny – his clothes soaked right through, his woollen Sherpa hat heavy on his head – jumps in.
‘Head for the Clontarf Road,’ he says.
The taxi man eyeballs Lenny in the rear-view mirror as he resets his meter, then pulls out and sets off.
Lenny removes his hat, unzips his puffer jacket to allow him space to breathe, then lays his head back on the rest. He chews on his bottom lip, stewing. Blinks his eyes rapidly, stewing. Then brings the phone to his mouth and begins to chew on the butt of the cover, stewing. He remains in the same position, head back, as the taxi man finally drives out of the city centre and towards the coastal road.
‘What’s the number when you don’t know a number,’ Lenny says, shooting himself back into an upright seating position.
‘Huh?’ the taxi man says.
‘Y’know when you don’t know a phone number and there’s a number you can ring that’ll give it to you?’
‘Jaysus,’ says the taxi man. ‘Who uses that shite anymore, sure can’t you just search for any number on your phone?’
‘Don’t have Wi-Fi on this,’ Lenny says shaking his mobile in the air. Then he leans forward. ‘Can I eh… any chance you’d give me a loan of your phone for a minute? Need to get the number for Tallaght Hospital.’
The taxi man eyeballs his passenger in the rear-view mirror again, then removes his phone from the cradle and hands it back. As soon as Lenny has the phone in his hand, the sound of the doors locking sounds out.
‘You’re a star, thank you.’
Lenny scrolls through the phone, into the internet browser and types ‘Tallaght Hospital’ into the search bar.
The hospital’s information flashes up straight away; address, phone number, fax number, an About Us page, visitor information.
‘Gotta get me one of these,’ Lenny whispers to himself. Then he picks up his own phone and begins to punch in the number.
As he’s handing the phone back over the shoulder of the taxi man a friendly voice answers his call.
‘Tallaght Hospital, how may I help you?’
Lenny double taps the bicep of the taxi man after handing back the phone, his way of thanking him.
‘Yeah, I eh… I need to speak with a patient please. A Gordon Blake. He was taken in last night, has to have heart surgery today and eh… yeah, can I speak to him?’
‘Sir, patients don’t have phones in their rooms.’
Lenny falls silent, then blinks rapidly.
‘How can I get a message to him?’ he asks.
‘Let me see… do you know what ward he’s in?’
‘Floor three eh… what is it, oh yeah – St Bernard’s Ward.’
‘Hold on one moment, Sir.’
Lenny clenches his fist, gives the air a little jab as the sound of elevator music pierces down the line. He stares out the window as he waits, taking in the greyness of the day. The taxi is splashing up rain spray, pedestrians are wobbling around with either umbrellas held high or hoods clenched tight. He begins to whistle along to the elevator music, his mood suddenly shifting. He’s certain Gordon doesn’t know that Guus Meyer was another suspect in Betsy’s disappearance; feels confident that this information is enough to trigger the will he had been shown back at the hospital. He begins to imagine Sally’s face when he finally tells her they have the keys to a new million euro gaff. Then he sits upright, chuffed with himself for picturing his wife smiling for the first time in God knows how long. He offers the air an uppercut this time, not just a jab, then beams a huge smile of his own, stretching it right across his face.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, nobody seems to be answering up at St Bernard’s Ward. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
Lenny lies back in the chair, his smile disappearing.
‘I need to get a message to Gordon Blake, can you deliver it for me?’
The man on the other end of the line offers a subtle laugh.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, but there is no way I would be able to do such a thing; the front desk here at the hospital is constantly busy. I can eh… can keep trying St Bernard’s Ward for you… I do know the staff up there are extremely busy, but when a nurse finally sits at the nurses’ station they will answer.’
‘Yeah, yeah… keep trying,’ Lenny says, bowing forward out of frustration, his head hanging through the gap between his knees.
The elevator music sounds again and Lenny lets out a deep sigh.
‘Rough day?’ the taxi man asks. Lenny looks up, meets the eye of his driver through the rear-view mirror.
‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘Odd is the word I’d use for it. Could turn out to be rough, could turn out to be one of the best days of my life.’
The taxi man creases his brow in confusion.
‘How’s that then?’ he asks, tilting his head.
‘Putting you through now, Sir,’ the man on the other end of the line says. Lenny raises his index finger, holding it up for the driver t
o signal that he will return an answer in time.
‘St Bernard’s Ward,’ a woman says.
‘Hey, I’m looking to speak to a patient there – a Mr Gordon Blake. I’m a eh… an associate… a friend of his.’
‘We don’t have phones in the rooms themselves, I’m afraid. But if you are looking for updates on Mr Blake’s health, I can see if I can find his nurse – Elaine Reddy – to speak to you about his current condition.’
Lenny sits up straight in the back seat, reaches a calming thumb to massage his temple.
‘He hasn’t gone down for his surgeries yet, has he? Please don’t tell me they’ve taken him down.’
‘No… not yet. But soon. I think he’s due to go down at three p.m. Again, Elaine would be the one to give you all of the details of Mr Bl—’
‘Can you please enter his room, let him know Lenny Moon is on the line for him and that I’d like him to call me back on his mobile as soon as possible. Tell him I have news for him.’
‘Eh… hold on one minute.’
There’s no elevator music this time. No sound at all except for distant murmurs of a functioning hospital; muffled footsteps down hollow corridors, the odd beep.
He looks back up at the taxi man while he waits.
‘I’m eh… I’m holding out for news on a house,’ he says. ‘I’ve either got it or I haven’t… Still hasn’t been made clear to me.’
Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake? Page 17
