‘I’m a fuckin idiot,’ he whispers to himself as he continues to walk, his hands still interlocked behind his bald head. It’s not the first time he’s mumbled that sentence in the past couple of hours.
He’s frustrated with himself over a number of things, but none more so than the fact that he put Sally on the backburner. He’d never done that before. He got so wrapped up in his job that he let Sally down. He’s promised himself – and her –countless times over the past hours that he will never do that again.
Still, despite the cringe-worthiness of his day, it may all work out wonderfully for him in the end. As far as he’s aware, Gordon said he was leaving his home to him in his will; it was practically the last thing he said as he was being taken down for surgery. Wasn’t it? The day’s been such a blur, Lenny isn’t entirely sure what was said. Though, if he learned anything since he arrived home and researched the Betsy Blake case, it’s that it wouldn’t be particularly wise to trust anything Gordon Blake says. Yet, despite that, here he is – back at the hospital, desperate to find out if that will Gordon wrote in front of him was left on his bedside cabinet before he was wheeled down for his surgeries.
The first thing Lenny did when he arrived back at the hospital was to go up to St Bernard’s Ward; into the room Gordon had been lying in all morning. But there was nothing in it; nobody in the bed, nothing in or on the bedside cabinet. Lenny has begun to wonder if he’s being equally as deluded as he was earlier in the day, thinking Gordon would leave him his house. But he couldn’t just sit at home not knowing for sure. He felt he had to be here, he had to find out. Intrigue was controlling him.
He told Sally everything. It took quite a while for it all to sink in and for her to understand what had gone on during his morning, but once the penny dropped that Lenny was doing everything for his family – for her and the boys – she held her arms out, invited him in for a hug. They held each other for about half an hour, until the boys finally asked why dinner was taking so long.
When Sally released him from their long embrace, Lenny made his way to their pokey dining-room and wiggled the mouse of the home computer, making the screen blink on. He researched the Betsy Blake case as thoroughly as he possibly could. Every minute of reading made him squirm even further into his seat. He never thought he could be so gullible.
Everybody he spoke to during his investigation; from Alan Keating and Barry Ward to Michelle Dewey – Betsy’s own mother – to Ray De Brun, the lead detective on the case, Frank Keville who reported on the case for a decade and even Gordon’s former best mate Guus Meyer – they all told him Betsy was dead. And yet he still raced around thinking he could find her. The internet informed him there’s no doubt about it: Betsy Blake’s DNA was found inside that car back in 2009. And that DNA did indeed confirm she was deceased. Unless the cops are unfathomably dirty and had somebody in the lab ensure their findings matched up to the theory, then there’s absolutely no doubt about it: Betsy Blake is dead.
The penny dropped within Lenny that Gordon Blake must have just gone crazy after he lost his daughter, and couldn’t bring himself to admit that she was gone forever. But that’s exactly why Lenny is here – because Gordon Blake is crazy. Maybe, just maybe he was crazy enough to leave a small-time investigator he barely knew a million euro house in his will.
Lenny lets out another deep sigh as he turns another corner, into another corridor that looks identical to the other thirty he’s strolled down over the past hour and a half. He spots another water cooler, decides to fill another plastic cup just to break the monotony of his corridor walking. He holds down the small white tap, and when the cup is only half-filled, he stops and tilts his head sideways. He can hear a familiar voice; a voice he was talking to earlier today. He takes one large step back, just so he can peer around the corner. Michelle. She’s nodding her head, in conversation with a nurse. Michelle’s eyes look heavy, as if she’s been crying. Maybe Gordon didn’t make it. Though maybe she’s been crying because Gordon did make it. Their relationship is so toxic, Lenny’s not quite sure what way Michelle would react to any result of Gordon’s surgeries.
Lenny’s eyes stretch wide and he instinctively takes a step forward, out of her sight, when Michelle glances her eyes towards him.
‘Bollocks,’ he mutters to himself. The conversation around the corner stops dead. Then the sound of heels stamping their way towards him echoes against the walls.
She doesn’t say anything when she’s directly behind him, but he can feel her eyes burn into the back of his head. After blinking rapidly, he finally spins around, widening his eyes in mock surprise.
‘Michelle, how did Gordon get on?’
She holds his stare, snarls up the butt of her nose at him.
‘You should be fucking ashamed of yourself,’ she says. Then she trots away, her heels clapping against the tiled floor again. Lenny tucks his chin into his chest and waits for the cringing to stop running down his spine.
‘Eh… Mr Moon, am I right?’
He lifts his chin, sees the nurse Michelle had just been speaking to approach him slowly. She holds a hand out to his bicep and pats it gently.
‘I’m really sorry to tell you that Gordon Blake passed away during his procedures this afternoon. His… his heart rate was too high, making the surgeries all the more complex. Plus he produced about six massive blood clots after the procedure had begun; a couple of which entered one of his lungs. I know it’s no consolation right now but he slipped away under heavy anaesthetic, so wouldn’t have felt any pain.’
The nurse continues to pat at Lenny’s bicep, continues to try to console him but he’s barely listening anymore. All he wants to know now is whether or not Gordon left behind an envelope with his name on it; whether or not he is now the owner of a million euro gaff. He nods solemnly towards the nurse, trying to act as if he’s desperately saddened.
‘If you would like to meet with any of our grief counsellors, I can put you in touch with them…’
Lenny stiffens his face, then blinks before composing himself.
‘Did he eh… did he leave anything for me?’
The nurse purses her lips, then shakes her head really slowly.
Shit!
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ she says, ‘But I didn’t clear Gordon’s ward. I know all of his possessions were brought to our family storage room – would you like me to check them for you?’
Lenny nods. Probably a little too eagerly. But before he’s even stopped nodding, the nurse slips her hand around to the top of his back and begins to guide him back down the corridor.
Lenny can sense that the nurse is interested in talking, perhaps she’s intrigued by the life of Gordon Blake – she must be if she found out he was the father of Betsy Blake. But they don’t talk as they take a lift down to the ground floor, and don’t talk as they stroll down a long corridor to reach a small reception area.
‘Hi, Tanya,’ the nurse says, ‘Gordon Blake, the patient we lost on the table today, his belongings were taken down here a couple of hours ago…’
‘Oh yeah,’ Tanya says, turning her back and entering a pokey room to the side of her reception desk.
The nurse reaches out another hand to Lenny’s bicep, pats at it. But he can’t bring himself to look at her, he’s afraid he has guilt written all over his face. She thinks he’s saddened by the news she’s shared with him, she has no idea he is bubbling up inside with excitement.
‘It’s not much,’ Tanya says, standing in the doorway. She holds the door open, nods for Lenny to enter.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the nurse says. ‘I’ll be back up on floor three if you feel you need to come talk to me, okay?’
Lenny barely reacts, he’s too busy staring inside the pokey room. He paces forwards, bypasses Tanya in the doorway and stares at a plastic bag resting on a small white fold-down table.
‘That’s everything we took from Mr Blake’s ward,’ says Tanya. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
When she
closes the door, Lenny looks to the ceiling first, as if he’s praying to a God he doesn’t believe in. Then he takes one deep breath, still staring up at the ceiling, and steps forward to spread the bag wide open.
He removes a T-shirt and a pair of shorts before spotting a small brown envelope. He snatches at it, spins it around in his hands.
Fuck yeah!
For the attention of Lenny Moon.
He rips the envelope open with his thumb, and unfolds the paper inside it. There are two sheets of paper. But it’s the very first sheet that makes his heart thump loudly. It is the will. And it’s made out to him.
This is the will and testament of Gordon James Blake.
I hereby wish to leave the home, addressed 166 South Circular Road, Inchicore, Dublin 8, Ireland to Leonard Moon.
It’s signed by Gordon and signed by two girls – one named Elaine Reddy, the other Saoirse Guinness. Lenny’s eyes almost glaze over with joy. The guilt he had been feeling has dissipated, the cringes that were flittering up and down his spine all afternoon forgotten. He and his family are now rich. In bricks and mortar at least.
He places the first sheet aside, sniffles up the tears that threaten to fall, then continues to read.
Lenny, if you are reading this it is because I have passed away.
Yes – I did, as promised, leave you my house.
I hope you enjoy living in 166 South Circular Road. I certainly didn’t. Too many dark memories.
You’ll find a girl in there when you go in. Elizabeth Taylor. Betsy Taylor. I took her when I was travelling around Europe ten months after my Betsy was taken. Even on this day – my dying day, I guess – I’m not sure what possessed me to snatch her. I guess I just wanted to replace my daughter.
I stopped for lunch in a small town in Wales during one of the last days of my travelling and was amazed when I heard a man call out the name ‘Betsy’. I stared at her. Couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She didn’t look exactly like my Betsy – not in the face – but she had the same brown hair. Was a similar height. Similar age. I followed her and her family for hours, staring from behind bushes, around corners. Suddenly she started walking on the wall I was hiding behind while I was trying to look at her. And I don’t know what came over me. I just wanted her. I thought my pain would disappear. I stood up and grabbed her.
But she was never my Betsy. I didn’t know what to do with her. Whether to treat her like a daughter, like a friend, like a partner. I tried all of those hats on, none seemed to fit. Not until the final few years when we both realised we couldn’t live without each other. But she’ll have to live without me now, I guess.
I love her very much. I looked after her; she’s well nourished, well read. I guess that’s the best I could do.
I must have apologised to Betsy a thousand times over the years. Guilt kept eating away at me. Give her one last hug and one last apology from me before she’s sent back to her real home. And tell her I’m going to miss her. Just as much as I’ve missed my own Betsy.
* * *
Sincerely,
* * *
Gordon Blake
Today
Betsy
I’m worried. Really, really worried. I haven’t been able to read for the past twenty-four hours. I can’t concentrate. I keep seeing Dod with his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He was breathing funny. And his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. I kept calling his name, louder and louder each time. Right into his face, right into his ear. It was working. A bit. He would respond by making funny noises, but I wasn’t sure what he was trying to say to me. So I rooted through his pockets, took out his phone and fumbled with it until I could find some numbers. Then I dialled 999 and waited.
‘I need an ambulance,’ I said. ‘Dod needs to go to hospital.’
The girl on the other line asked me for the address. I ran to the door.
‘Number one-six-six,’ I said.
‘One-six-six where?’ she asked.
My eyes went wide.
‘Dod… Dod,’ I screamed. I slapped him across the face. Did whatever I could to wake him up. To make him talk. ‘One-six-six. One-six-six.’ I repeated the number into his face over and over again. Then I watched him swallow hard and his eyes turned more normal.
‘South Circular Road.’ he squeaked out of his mouth. Then his eyes rolled back again.
I keep playing it over and over in my head. Him looking like he was about to die; me making the phone call; me letting the ambulance man and woman come into the hallway; me watching as Dod was put on a stretcher and wheeled out of the house.
I feel so alone. And very, very sad. I cried most of last night. And this morning. I’ve had to creep outside the back door; just to breathe in some fresh air. I know Dod would be angry that I did that during the daytime, when a neighbour could see me. But I needed the fresh air. Desperately needed it.
I’m back in the basement now, under my covers with Bozy on my chest just waiting to hear Dod come back through the front door. I wipe my hand over my face and let out a big sigh. I think all of my tears have dried up. The crying has stopped.
I sit up in the bed and look at my Kindle. I’m really not in the humour of reading. My brain won’t let me concentrate on the story. All I can think about is Dod. About how he collapsed when he reached the top of the stairs yesterday. The noise of his body slapping on the wooden floor.
Then I look to my right, to my bedside cabinet, whip the duvet off me and pull it open. I reach inside and take out my copybook. Betsy’s Basement. If I can’t read because I keep thinking of Dod, then maybe I can write, because I’ll be writing about Dod. I click at my pen and then begin to scribble a new chapter. Chapter 115. I chew on the top of the pen, wonder what to call this chapter.
Dod goes to hospital.
And then I begin to write it. I write about him painting my room, then needing a glass of water, then falling onto the floor at the top of the stairs. Sometimes when I write the name Dod, my ‘o’ looks like a small ‘a’. He told me once, not that long ago, that he asked me to call him Dod because it sounded like the word Dad. But then he said he was only messing. I’m actually not sure if he was or not though. Then I write about me calling the ambulance and about the ambulance man and woman coming into the house. I write about how odd that was for me. I hadn’t spoken to anybody but Dod for seventeen years. The woman asked if I’d like to go in the ambulance with them. I looked out the door, stared at the big bright yellow ambulance with blue lights flashing on its roof, and then shook my head.
‘I shouldn’t go out,’ I said. Then I asked her to look after him as best she could. I write about that too. And about me crying all night.
This is the fastest I’ve ever written. And the longest. I’ve probably been writing for the past two hours. Maybe three. Then I stop suddenly. I think I hear a key in the hall door.
I slap Betsy’s Basement shut and look up the steps. The hall door creeps open and my heart thumps really fast with relief. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk. A big smile stretches right across my face. Dod. Dod is okay. He’s safe. He’s home.
I place Betsy’s Basement and my pen on top of my cabinet, grab Bozy, and we both make our way to my steps. But I stop suddenly because I get confused. I think Dod’s brought somebody home with him. I’m sure I can hear people talking up there. I stand at the bottom of the steps and try to listen. Then the basement door opens and I see a shadow of a man. It’s not Dod. Then a woman appears. Then another man. He’s not Dod either.
All three of them walk slowly down the steps, one of them shining a torch towards me. I squeeze Bozy tight. Really, really tight.
* * *
THE END
Did you spot any of the clues to the end twist?
Well, author David B. Lyons goes through them during this exclusive Q&A.
You can watch it in the link below. Get ready to kick yourself!
* * *
www.subscribepage.com/betsyblakeq&a
The Tick-Tock Trilogy
Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake is just one book in a gripping trilogy. The Tick-Tock trilogy can be read in any order.
* * *
Midday
by David B. Lyons
* * *
Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake
by David B. Lyons
* * *
The Suicide Pact
by David B. Lyons
Acknowledgements
My first thanks – as always – go to my wife without whom none of this would be possible. There isn’t room for moping if you live with Kerry Lyons – every minute has to be appreciated. She’s an inspiration every day.
This book is dedicated to our daughter Lola. Within it, I hope to teach her a valuable lesson: see what happens when little girls don’t stay by their daddy’s side forever? You’re never leaving home, Lo. But don’t worry; we live with somebody who won’t let us mope.
I’d also like to extend a thank you to my ma, Joan, and my sister, Debra, for no fucking reason whatsoever once again. I’ve started thanking them in acknowledgements and I guess that needs to continue for tradition’s sake.
A huge thanks goes to Barry O’Hanlon and Hannah Healy who helped me refine this book as I was writing it. And also to Margaret Lyons, Rubina Gomes and Livia Sbrabaro who read very early drafts and offered fantastic constructive notes. I’d also like to mention the great Andrew Barrett who has helped me through my journey in more ways than his humbleness will allow him to admit.
Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake? Page 25
