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 being 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?’
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.
Lenny jumps backwards as the roaring barks of Keating’s dogs echo from behind their owner. They both sound as if they’re eager to get outside, eager to confront Lenny on their owner’s behalf. Lenny glances down, sees one of them through Keating’s legs; foam dripping from its mouth.
Keating stays still; doesn’t even blink at the sound of the barking. He just stares straight ahead, eyeballing Lenny and welcoming him to keep talking.
‘I eh… have been hired by Gordon Blake to eh… to see if… are they Rottweilers?’
Keating nods his head, squats down to his hunkers, grabs each dog by the collar.
‘This is Bernie,’ he says, speaking for the first time. ‘And this one here, this is Barbara.’
Being held by their owner hasn’t calmed Bernie and Barbara down; they’re still barking, still foaming at the mouth.
Lenny holds the tips of his fingers to Keating’s car as he stands back, anticipating he may have to leap upon it should one of the Rottweilers break free from their owner’s grasp.
‘Get your fuckin’ hand off my car,’ Keating snaps, standing back up.
Lenny swipes his hand away, places it inside the pocket of his puffer jacket and then stands still, as if he’s frozen. Keating yells ‘release’ and the dogs shut up barking, swivel and go back down the hallway.
Lenny gulps, then almost mouths a ‘thank you’ to Keating, such is his relief.
Keating steps outside, the heavy rain not a bother to him.
‘Betsy Blake… you were saying…’
Lenny gulps again, then holds a blink closed for a few seconds, taking the time to remind himself that he should grow some balls, man the fuck up, be an investigator.
‘Gordon Blake is dying. Could be dead by the evening. He’s in Tallaght Hospital right now. He’s hired me as his last chance to find out what happened to his daughter.’
‘Shit. Poor ol’ Gordy. What’s wrong with him?’ Keating says, looking genuinely concerned.
‘Heart problems. He has to have emergency surgery this afternoon at three o’clock. Doctors are only giving him a fifty per cent chance of making it through.’
Keating bites his bottom lip, shakes his head.
‘He’s only young. Must be twenty years younger than me… What’s he – fifty?’
‘I’m not entirely sure of Gordon’s age, Alan. But—’
‘The poor fucker.’
Keating seems ashen-faced by the news Lenny has just shared with him, even though he hasn’t worked with Gordon Blake for seventeen years – not since Betsy went missing.
‘As an associate of Gordon’s at the time of Betsy’s disappearance, I wouldn’t mind asking you some questions, Alan.’
Keating looks behind him, stares at his door as if that was going to remind him of what happened when Betsy Blake disappeared.
‘Gis a sec,’ he says, before pushing at the door and walking back inside.
Lenny’s eyes flick from left to right, his pulse quickening. He holds his blink closed again, reminding himself that he is an investigator; that there is no need for him to be intimidated; that he’s only doing his job. But he’s finding it difficult to convince himself. He leaps when a high-pitch beep sounds behind him; the lights of Keating’s Merc flashing on, then off.
‘Get in,’ Keating says, walking back out the door and banging it shut behind him.
Lenny turns, stares down the row of houses, contemplating whether or not he needs this job, whether or not it’s all worth it. He blinks repeatedly again, for so long that Keating is already
inside the car before he has re-adjusted his eyes. Then he grabs at the handle of the passenger door and pulls it wide open. As soon as he gets in, he removes his hat. He stares at it, realises immediately what Keating must have been thinking when he saw him; that he looks like a kid with this blue and black chequered tartan piece of shit atop his head. It has the same pattern of an eighties’ Christmas jumper. It’s okay for going incognito to spy on unsuspecting insurance claimants, but not ideal for confronting the country’s biggest criminals.
‘I don’t deal with pigs,’ Keating says, taking Lenny’s gaze away from his hat.
It takes a couple of seconds for Lenny to realise what Keating’s saying.
‘Oh no; I’m not a cop. I’m—’
‘You’re investigating, aren’t you? You’re questioning me over the disappearance of a little girl, right?’ Keating sniffs sharply in through his nose three times. ‘Well that means I smell bacon.’
‘Alan – I’m not investigating you. I’m just… it’s just… you were a close associate of Gordon Blake at the time of Betsy’s disappearance and I’d just like to ask you if you were aware of anything out of the ordinary that was happening in or around the Blake family in 2002. Anything at all. Lenny has asked me to beg you – it’s his last chance.’ Lenny says all of this so quickly that his intimidation is blatantly obvious.
‘Lenny Moon, that your name, yeah?’
Lenny nods.
‘Well, Lenny Moon. Let me finish this investigation for you in the next two seconds, huh? Betsy Blake is dead. She was hit by a car and whoever hit her with the car disposed of her body.’
Lenny coughs into his hand. Clears his throat. He doesn’t want to sound intimidated, doesn’t want his voice to crack.
‘Gordon Blake doesn’t believe the findings of the Gardaí. He’s certain somebody kidnapped his daughter,’ he says, slowing down his pace.
‘Lemme guess… he thinks Barry Ward kidnapped his daughter on my orders?’
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 29
