Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake?

by David B Lyons

  I hold my eyes tightly closed. And as I do, I sense Elaine leading me over to my bed. Without questioning her, I arch my bum cheeks on top of the mattress and then lie down.

  ‘I need you to witness me signing something,’ I say.

  She doesn’t reply.

  ‘In fact I need you and some other person to witness me signing something, can you do that?’

  She stands back after draping the sheets over me.

  ‘Elaine?’ I say, turning to her, opening my eyes.

  ‘Gordon, I need you to relax. There is barely any time left until you are taken down for surgery.’

  I close my eyes again, then shift down in the bed until my head is resting on the pillow.

  Guus. Fucking Guus. No. Couldn’t be. I can’t get my head straight. My thoughts keep jumping. Is this why the cunt hasn’t spoken to me in years? Jesus, Gordon, get your act together. Think, for fuck’s sake!

  I feel Elaine grab at my left hand as I continue to stew in thought. She feels for my pulse. I don’t pull away. I just let her do what she needs to do as I think this through. Guus Meyer took my Betsy?

  ‘Just breathe, Gordon,’ Elaine says, her thumb pressed against my wrist. Then I feel her face near mine; she breathes in deeply, then out deeply.

  ‘Follow my breaths,’ she whispers.

  I do. I sync my breathing with hers. It slows my thinking.

  ‘In just over half-an-hour, you are going down for major surgery. You need to survive these surgeries.’ Elaine sounds like one of those meditation tapes. ‘In order to survive those surgeries, you need to be calm. Your heart rate needs to be consistent. Keep breathing.’

  I imagine myself on the surgical table, Douglas slicing his scalpel into me, ripping my chest open. Fucking hell. I’m going to die. I’m going to die in the next couple of hours. My eyes open wide. I whip the sheets off me again and jump out of bed, almost pushing Elaine aside. I still have the phone gripped in my hand. I tap at it, call Lenny’s number. It rings. And rings. And rings. Then cuts off.

  ‘Gordon Blake, I swear if you don’t lie down right now I am going to advise Mr Douglas to cancel your procedures.’

  I don’t answer Elaine; I just pace around the room, look at the phone’s screen and press again at Lenny’s number. I know I look like a madman, almost running around, but I don’t give a fuck.

  ‘Gordon please!’ Elaine shouts. She stops me from pacing in circles and grabs me around the waist. I can hear the tone ringing out again as she tries to wrestle the phone from my hand. We end up in a scrum in the middle of the ward, both of us tumbling to the floor.

  Then the door opens. I look up, under Elaine’s armpit, and expect to see Mr Douglas standing there with his clipboard, shaking his head. But it’s not him. I relent, release the grip on my phone and allow Elaine to take it. Then I scramble to a standing position.

  ‘Michelle,’ I say, stretching a big smile across my face. I wipe both of my hands down the front of my T-shirt and walk towards her, leaving Elaine sitting on the floor. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Five years ago

  Betsy

  This is the worst Christmas ever. Dod just put extra money on my Kindle account as a present. That was it. No box to unwrap. No funny hats to wear. No silly songs to sing. I’ve been down in the basement all day. Dod upstairs. We barely speak to each other these days. Not since he beat me up back in February. He threw me against the wall. Slapped my arms, my stomach, my back, my legs. He was really angry. Really, really angry. His face was purple.

  He doesn’t let me upstairs to watch TV anymore. Doesn’t let me go to his bedroom to stare out the window. I miss staring out the window the most. I loved to see other people.

  But I know it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have been stealing newspaper articles out of his drawer. Even if they were newspaper articles about me.

  The worst thing about it all is that Dod feels really disappointed in me. I don’t think he loves me anymore. I don’t even know if he likes me. He probably wishes I was dead.

  The other times he beat me up, he always felt bad about it. He would come back down to my basement the next day and tell me how sorry he was. But ten months on from the last beating he gave me, he still hasn’t said sorry. And I think that’s because he is not sorry. He feels I deserved the beating. And so do I. I’m the one who should be saying sorry. I have tried to say sorry lots of times since, but Dod doesn’t say anything back.

  The only time I really see him these days is when he lets me upstairs to wash in the toilet room and then on some days I go to the kitchen to cook dinner for us. But I don’t eat with him in the TV room. I have to take my dinner down here and eat it all by myself. I thought he would have let me upstairs to eat today of all days. But no. I’m here doing nothing. He’s up there doing nothing. This is the saddest Christmas I’ve ever had.

  The thing that I’m most sad about is that I will never get to see the rest of those newspaper articles. I wanted to find out so much about them for my book. I only ever got to read four of them. I found out things I never even knew about myself. I didn’t know my second name. But now I know that. I didn’t know the date I was taken. Now I know that. I didn’t know that I had a big detective looking for me. Now I know that. I wonder if he is still looking for me. The first article I stole said that I was dead. So maybe they’ve given up.

  I’ve written all of this into my book. Betsy’s Basement now has thirty-three chapters. The last seven chapters have all been about characters I made up that I saw when I was looking out of Dod’s bedroom window. So the book has changed. It has turned from a non-fiction book to a fiction one. Some days I think it’s all just rubbish and other days I think it is good. I’ve been writing it for three years. But the problem is, I don’t know how to end it. I don’t know what way the story should finish.

  I pick up my copybook and wonder what I should write about today. But I’m not really in the mood. I’m bored. Or tired. Maybe both. I stretch my arms way above my head and then let out a big yawn.

  Worst Christmas ever.

  Bozy has the right idea. He’s all snuggled up under my sheets on the bed. I yawn again. Fuck it, I’ll join him. There’s nothing else to do.

  I lift up the sheets, grab at my Kindle which is lying under them and then snuggle into Bozy.

  ‘This is a bad Christmas, Bozy,’ I say. I use my two fingers to make him nod back at me. Then I give him a big kiss.

  I roll back over, turn on my Kindle and go straight into the bookstore. I have twenty-five euro in my account now. I click into non-fiction books and scroll through the list. I’ve read most of the ones I want to read. Nothing else really interests me. So I click out and into the fiction list. Nothing really on this list interests me either. I think this year has been my worst year for reading. I just haven’t been interested in reading too much. I haven’t really been interested in anything.

  Ever since Dod beat me up, I’ve just wanted to do nothing but lie on this bed. I feel really sad. Really, really sad. So sad, I’d rather not be alive. Being alive and having all these sad thoughts makes me wish I didn’t have any thoughts at all. Being asleep is now my favouritist hobby. It would probably be better if I was always asleep.

  I press the home button on my Kindle. Only because I don’t know what else to do. A little box flashes up that I’ve never seen before.

  Software update required.

  I click on it and then loads of writing comes up. It says ‘Terms and Conditions’ up the top, but when I try to read it I get confused. I don’t know what any of it means.

  By the time I get to the bottom of the page it asks if I would like to continue. I am about to press ‘Yes’ when I see another box below.

  Chat with one of our representatives now.

  So I click that. And then a blank box appears. I don’t know what to do. I try to find something that will let me click away from it, but I can’t find anything. Then some writing appears.

  Hi, my name is Sana. How may
I help you today?

  I stare at the message. Then a little keyboard appears. I hit at one of the keys and it shows up in the box.

  My heart begins to get faster. Wow. This is amazing. I can talk back to Sana. This will be the first time I’ve spoken to anybody other than Dod since I was four years old. That’ll be a whole thirteen years next month. I breathe in and out really fast. Then in and out really slowly.

  I wiggle my fingers in front of my face and then begin to type back to Sana. Slowly. Really, really slowly.

  Hello, my name is Betsy Blake.

  14:20

  Lenny

  Lenny blinks rapidly after hanging up the call.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that,’ he says to the man in the doorway. ‘That was eh… that was your old mate on the phone – Gordon Blake.’

  ‘Gordon? What the hell were you two talking about?’ Guus says, looking dumbfounded, his eyebrows almost coming together above his narrow eyes.

  ‘Guus, would you mind if I came in to speak to you for a few minutes?’

  Guus looks behind him, into his hallway, then back out at Lenny.

  ‘I’m a busy man. What’sh going on?’

  Lenny stares at Guus, assumes he certainly doesn’t look the type to kidnap a kid, though he’s under no doubt that his home looks exactly like the type of house a missing kid would be kept in. It’s eerie. Creepy. Something’s not right about this place. He can’t quite work out why Guus would be so well refined in his appearance, yet his home is a total mess.

  ‘I just need ten minutes of your time. I have some bad news about Gordon.’

  Guus’s eyebrows are still narrowing when he steps out from his front door and stands aside.

  ‘Ten minutesh,’ he says, pointing his hand towards his dark hallway. Lenny inches forward, then stalls to look Guus square in the eye. He nods a silent thank you before walking past him. As he does, his phone begins to ring. He looks at the screen, sees Gordon’s number, then hits a button that silences the call and places it back inside his jacket pocket. He sucks on his own lips as he takes five steps down Guus’s floorboarded hallway, sparks of adrenaline beginning to rise from the pit of his stomach. This is the rush he’s been chasing his entire career. This is proper fucking investigating.

  Lenny stops and looks back at Guus closing the front door. When it’s fully closed, the hallway falls into total darkness. Lenny’s knees almost buckle as Guus’s slow footsteps edge closer to him. Then he flinches slightly when he feels Guus raise an arm. Click. The entire hallway lights up. Lenny straightens his neck, lifting his head away from his shoulders and then takes in his surroundings. He’s immediately drawn to a door at the end of the hallway. A door that must lead downstairs. A basement. The perfect place to hide somebody.

  ‘I eh… I’m sorry to say,’ Lenny croaks, ‘that Gordon Blake may only have hours left to live.’

  Guus’s eyebrows straighten and his pupils grow wide.

  ‘You’re fooking kidding me.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Guus. He has to undergo major heart surgery that he may not wake up from.’

  ‘Jeshus fookin Christ,’ Guus says, bringing his hand to his mouth. ‘All the fooking shtress and strain he’s been under for so many years… I’m not surprised.’

  The hallway falls silent but for the buzzing inside Lenny’s jacket pocket. He ignores it while staring into Guus’s face just inches away from his own. Lenny taps Guus on the shoulder, offering condolences in an attempt to come across as initially supportive. He figures it may be best to endear himself to his suspect before finally pushing at his buttons.

  Guus turns his wrist over, checks the time.

  ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Let’sh go in here… would you like a cup of tea?’

  Guus leads Lenny through a doorway before turning on another light. The kitchen is a beautiful white; modern and bright. Lenny creases his brow, confused by the contrast of the interior of the home compared to the exterior.

  ‘Please. Two sugars, drop of milk.’

  As Guus makes his way towards the kettle, Lenny paces the kitchen, taking in all of his new surroundings. He stares at the framed abstract artwork on the walls, then picks up the salt and pepper shakers from the table as if inspecting them. He’s acting how he assumes a detective should act in these circumstances.

  ‘So… what’sh wrong with Gordon exactly?’ Guus asks.

  Lenny places the pepper shaker back on the table, then looks up sheepishly at his suspect.

  ‘He has to have abdominal aortic aneurysm surgery at three p.m. today. The procedures he has to undergo carry major risks… surgeons are only giving him a fifty-fifty chance of making it out alive.’

  Guus shakes his head and then blows out through his lips, making a raspberry sound that stops just as the kettle comes to the boil.

  ‘That man never caught a break his entire life. Do you know him well?’ Guus asks as he begins to pour.

  ‘I eh… only met him for the first time this morning.’

  Guus stares back over his shoulder at Lenny, his eyebrows creasing inwards again. He makes his way to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of milk and when he realises Lenny isn’t following up, he asks another question.

  ‘You just met him today? Are you from the hoshpital or something?’

  Lenny clears his throat.

  ‘No, Guus. I’m a private investigator.’

  Lenny maintains his stare after he says that, he doesn’t even blink. It’s his attempt at acting cool, composed, calm. He thinks back to Alan Keating and how brilliantly the gangster handled confrontation earlier this morning. He’s trying to act nonchalant, as if he’s in control of both the pace and the tone of the dialogue.

  ‘A private inveshtigator?’

  Lenny just nods but then loses his cool persona when Guus walks towards him with a hot mug.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh fuck that’s hot,’ he says as he takes the mug from Guus.

  ‘I’m shorry. Let me cool that down for you,’ Guus says, turning around and then grabbing at the bottle of milk.

  He pours some into Lenny’s mug, then sits at the table opposite and begins to sip his own brew.

  Lenny pulls out a chair of his own, sits on it and then stares across at Guus, wondering how he should approach the conversation. He takes a deep breath, then dives straight in.

  ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Betsy Blake.’ He stares at Guus’s face as he says this, determined to find a glimmer of guilt. All Guus does is tip his head back in surprise, then forward again.

  ‘Betsy’s disappearance? Does Gordon still think Betsy is alive?’

  Lenny clears his throat again. He’s finding acting like a cool investigator particularly difficult. It just doesn’t seem to come naturally to him.

  ‘You don’t think she is?’ he asks, before sipping on his tea.

  Guus offers half-a-laugh, a tiny snigger that sneaks out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Nobody believesh she is alive, surely,’ he says. He stares over the rim of his mug at Lenny. His eyes change; his pupils growing large. He swallows, then gasps. ‘Hold on, does Gordon genuinely shtill think Betsy is alive?’

  ‘Yep,’ Lenny replies. ‘Gordon is convinced she is; that somebody abducted her.’

  Another laugh sneaks out of the side of Guus’s mouth. Lenny swirls his jaw; the laugh grating on him.

  ‘Well… he must be the only person on the planet to think tha—’

  ‘He’s not,’ Lenny says placing his mug back down on to the table. ‘I think it too.’

  Guus opens his mouth ajar.

  ‘But I thought the cops concluded Betsy was killed in a car accident. The DNA in the back of a car they found shuggested she was dead, no?’

  Lenny coughs again, then shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘That’s one theory, yes,’ he says. He flickers his eyes up to the ceiling, reminds himself that he should stay cool, stay composed, stay in control.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Guus says, shaki
ng his head. ‘You’re telling me the cops got it wrong, made it up?’

  ‘It’s possible the cops came to a conclusion under pressure to close the case. They never found anybody or anything relating to Betsy. There was a lot of heat on them.’

  Guus pushes back his chair a little, then leans more forward, his elbows resting on the table.

  ‘Cops don’t do that kind of shtuff in Ireland,’ he says. ‘That doesn’t make any sense at all.’

  ‘Well, we’ve looked at the evidence of the car theory and none of it adds up,’ Lenny lies. ‘So we are looking again at all of the original suspects. We feel something went under the radar.’

  Guus laughs; not with humour, with discomfort. He stands up, spins around and then grips the back of the chair he had been sitting on.

  ‘This doesn’t make any… I mean… I eh… I don’t know what to say.’

  Lenny stands up, almost matching his suspect for height.

  ‘Well, you can start by telling me where you were when Betsy Blake was abducted.’ He lifts his mug from the table, stares over the rim at Guus as he sips from it. He notices Guus’s face crumble, his eyes darting left and right.

  ‘Not this shit again,’ Guus says. ‘I told the cops when they questioned me that I was here, working from home, ash I normally am, when Betsy was taken.’

  ‘And do you have any witnesses that can confirm that for you?’ Lenny asks.

  Guus washes the palm of his right hand over his entire face; swiping it right, then left.

  ‘Listen, the cops have been through all this. I didn’t take Betsy… of course I didn’t. What would I be doing taking a four-year-old girl?’

  Lenny shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘Well… you tell me,’ he says.

  Guus squints, then shakes his head.