The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set

by David B Lyons

Lenny coughs again. Then blinks; not one long blink, repeated blinks, as if he’s readjusting his eyes to a bright light. He’d love nothing more than to chew on the rubber case of his mobile phone right now, but is already aware he has come across as inexperienced to Alan Keating in the four minutes they’ve been talking.

  ‘This isn’t news to me,’ Keating says before Lenny has a chance to reply. ‘Sure that’s what he told the cops in 2002. And sure poor ol’ Gordy has even been hanging around outside Barry’s house over the years; as if one day Barry’s gonna walk out holding his daughter’s hand. He’s a brave man, doing that to Barry. But Barry doesn’t mind. Neither of us do. We feel sorry for Gordy.’ Keating uses his hands as he talks; it’s another reminder to Lenny of ol’ uncle Arthur. But he shakes his head of his thoughts, tunes backs into Keating’s words. ‘Listen, Lenny Moon; there are two truths you need to face up to. One; Betsy Blake is dead. And two; Gordon Blake is as deluded as a flat-earther. He went mad. Listen, it’s understandable,’ Keating says, shifting in his seat to face Lenny. ‘I’ve two daughters. If one of them was killed and I never got answers, I’d go fuckin mental meself.’

  Lenny shifts in his seat too, mirroring exactly what Keating had done moments prior, but not to talk, just to listen.

  ‘I liked Gordon Blake. As I said, I feel sorry for him. Always have. In fact, I sent my lads out to help look for Betsy. We put sounders out, came back with nothing. I tried to help Gordy. My heart has always gone out to him and his wife. It’s the only reason I’m sitting here talking to you now. Otherwise, any fuckin pig knocks on my door, I don’t hold the dogs back, ye get me?’

  Lenny nods. Then he blinks again, repeatedly, until he finds – somewhere deep within his blinking – an ounce of courage.

  ‘It’s just Gordon insists you threatened him just before Betsy went miss… he said you guys fell out.’

  Keating laughs. Again, Lenny isn’t sure if it’s a sinister laugh or whether or not he actually found what was said funny.

  ‘What did he say exactly?’ Keating grunts as the rain falls heavier on the car.

  Lenny allows a silent exhale to seep through his nose.

  ‘Nothing much. Just that you were pushing him to do things with the money he was handling for you. And when he refused, you held him up against a wall; told him he shouldn’t be fucking with you.’

  Keating laughs again.

  ‘That’s not how I threaten people, Lenny Moon,’ Keating says, the laughter disappearing from his face abruptly. ‘That’s just how I deal with people who work for me. I just wanted to get as much out of Gordy as I could. And I did. He was great for me. Y’know… I actually haven’t had somebody cook my books quite like him ever since I lost him.’

  Lenny nods at Keating, then forces his lips into a sterile smile.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Alan. I eh…’

  ‘Ah don’t go. Is that it? You come knockin’ on my door telling me ol’ Gordy Blake is on death’s door and desperately wants to find out what happened to his daughter before he dies and now… and now, what, you’re just leaving me?’

  Keating stretches his finger towards his door, clicks a button. Lenny instantly feels panicked at the sound of all car doors locking simultaneously. He reels back in the passenger seat, holding his hands up as if he’s being robbed at gunpoint; the strings of the Sherpa hat he’s holding dangling over his face.

  ‘Alan, I don’t know anything more than you do at this—’

  ‘What did Gordy Blake say about me; tell me!’ Keating says, the creases on his forehead wedging deeper, the tone of his voice demanding. It’s striking to Lenny just how instantaneously ol’ uncle Arthur can turn into Scarface and vice versa.

  Lenny’s breaths grow sharp, not just with fright, but with uncertainty. He doesn’t know what to tell Keating, doesn’t know how he’s going to get himself out of this situation.

  ‘I only spoke to Gordon for five minutes. He rushed me out of his ward… told me to get on with the investigation. To do what I could in the few hours he has left. He gave me a thousand quid up front, told me if I found anything new – anything he hadn’t heard before – that he’d leave me his house in his will.’

  Keating relaxes his brow, but his eyes still burn through Lenny.

  ‘His house?’ He clenches his jaw as he says it. Then continues. ‘He musta said more than that. Why are you here? He obviously told you to pay me a visit.’

  ‘He… he… gave me a list. A list of people he suspected might’ve had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance.’

  Keating sits back in his chair, rests both his hands on the steering wheel, then laughs to himself. Lenny sits upright too, just to stare through the windscreen at the image of the houses blurred by the rain. He’s well aware of Keating in his peripheral vision, anticipating any movement. Then it comes. Movement. Keating holds his hand out, palm up. Lenny gulps, then reaches inside his jacket pocket and takes out the note. Keating eyeballs Lenny as he places the paper atop his palm and then, almost in slow motion, he holds it up in front of him and begins to read; his laugh growing louder as each second passes.

  He crumples the note up and throws it back at Lenny.

  ‘I’ve been called worse,’ says Keating. Then he turns his key in the ignition and rolls the car out of his driveway and down the street past Lenny’s little Micra.

  ‘Where we going?’ Lenny asks, not bothering to hide the fear in his voice.

  ‘Do you believe everything I said to you, Lenny Moon?’

  Lenny nods his head. ‘Yes, yes, Alan – everything. I believe you. I don’t think you had anything to do with Betsy Blake’s disappearance.’

  ‘Good. Then you can scratch me off the list.’ Keating drives under the archway, back out of his estate and turns left at the roundabout. ‘So open up your note again there, Lenny Moon.’

  Lenny picks the note up from his lap, uncrumples the paper and then stares back at Keating.

  ‘Who’s the next name on the list?’

  ‘Eh… Barry. Barry Ward.’

  Keating turns to Lenny, winks.

  ‘Good – let’s go have a word with him then, shall we?’

  11:30

  Gordon

  I know daytime TV so well that I can call the beats.

  I always know which items are going to sell for a profit on this show. Dickinson records his little voice overs after the scenes are shot, so there’s always little clues in there as to whether or not the antique will do well when it comes to auction. I knew that little ornament would sell for more than the thirty-eight quid they bought it for because Dickinson suggested it was a bargain when they got it. It’s so fuckin predictable. Had it not have ended up with such a heavy profit, Dickinson’s voice over would have been a lot more negative.

  ‘Told ya,’ I say to Elaine. She smiles up at me.

  ‘That you did! You must know your antiques, huh?’

  ‘Nope. I just know my tele,’ I say.

  I look at her as she returns her gaze to the screen; even the way she’s sitting reminds me of Michelle.

  I am certain I fell in love with Michelle during that first bus ride, but it took her a lot longer to love me. I’m pretty sure she ended up falling for me only after she got wind of how much money I had. I’ve often felt she fell in love with the idea of being married to a rich business man, not the businessman himself. But we had good times, did me and Michelle. We travelled the world together. I was only too delighted to bring her to places she had only ever wished to go to before she met me. The first six years were dream-like really. It’s difficult to explain what it’s like being in love; I’ve often measured it as being the opposite of being depressed. Depression is difficult to explain, it’s just a sour feeling, a negativity that resides in both the bottom of your gut and in the centre of your mind. Being in love is the total opposite in every way. I know. I’ve felt both.

  We got married in St Michael’s Church in Inchicore in 1994; reception in the K Club, overlooking the eight
eenth green. We were both high as a kite; had no idea what bizarre fates lay in front of us. It took us almost four years to get pregnant. My balls were the problem, we found out. I had become a little infatuated with the laptop I had bought, holding it too close to my balls as I was working. When I resisted using the laptop for its exact purpose – typing on the lap – my little swimmers woke the fuck up. Michelle held a white stick with a blue cross on it in front of me one Saturday morning and we celebrated as if Ireland had won the World Cup. Over the next few months we both felt as if all of our stresses and strains had packed up and fucked off thanks to the little bump. We’d no idea that bump would one day deliver the biggest nightmare any parent could ever possibly fathom.

  ‘Okay… that’s it,’ Elaine says as the shite end title music to Dickinson’s Real Deal begins. ‘I gotta go do some work. Just press this if you need me.’

  ‘Elaine,’ I say, unsure of what I’m going to say next.

  She turns, purses her lips at me, then smiles again when she realises exactly what I called her for – no reason.

  ‘Stay relaxed,’ she says. Then she leaves.

  I push the butt of both my palms as far as I can into my eye sockets and twist them. Then I let out a yawn that sounds more like a deep sigh than anything. Maybe it was a sigh. I pick up the TV remote, begin switching through the channels; skipping by This Morning because Holly Willoughby’s not on it, skipping by an old episode of The Ellen Show, skipping by Morning Ireland and by Jeremy Kyle. I stall at Sky News just to read the scroll banner. As soon as I see the word ‘Brexit’ I click on, only to be met by white noise. That’s it. Six fucking channels. What a load of me bollocks. I grasp the remote control firmer and swing my arm back, but rather than throw it across the room like I want to, I just let it drop onto my bed.

  I twist my body, grab my mobile phone from the bedside cabinet and deliberately don’t even look at my call log button.

  I scroll into the Sky Sports app instead, try to catch up with any football news. But there’s fuck all new on there. Nothing’s been added since I looked at it just before Douglas and his team came in to give me a harsh reality check over an hour or so ago. Then I click into the WGT Golf app, decide I’ll have a game. It might pass some time. It’s the only game I’ve ever played on a mobile phone. It can get quite addictive. I play it on the loo mostly. A shite these days isn’t enjoyable for me unless I’m putting for birdies at the same time. The load icon appears, scrolling from twenty per cent to thirty per cent to forty per cent to… Betsy. Betsy.

  Fuck it. I tap out, straight into my call log. I’ve gotta get onto Lenny; find out what he’s up to. I can’t be playing bleedin’ golf games when I’ve only a few hours left to live. I tap at his number, hold the phone to my ear.

  ‘Heya, Gordy,’ comes a voice. I sit up straight in my bed, instantly know it’s not Lenny on the other end of the line. Only one person’s ever called me Gordy.

  11:30

  Lenny

  Lenny continues to stare straight ahead; no part of his body – except for his eyeballs – have even twitched over the course of the twenty-minute drive. He’s just sat upright the whole time and listened to Keating sing along to Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits. The gangster crooned to My Way, Got You Under My Skin, Come Fly With Me, Witchcraft and was at the crescendo of Lady is a Tramp when he began backing the car into a parallel parking position outside a row of terraced houses.

  Lenny was actually impressed by Keating’s vocal, but stayed mute all the way, not even nodding in compliment for fear of disrupting him. He was practically scared stiff, though the score was keeping his heart rate quite consistent. It is, after all, almost impossible to be scared while a big band are providing the backdrop. But he now understood for certain that Keating’s smiles weren’t smiles at all; they were gangster grins. The man is a living parody of a Hollywood gangster. A sociopath.

  As Keating takes the keys out of the ignition, ending his duet session, Lenny turns his head for the first time.

  ‘That’s Barry’s house there, number thirteen,’ Keating says. He then gets out of the car, waits for Lenny on the footpath, still oblivious to the rain. Lenny thinks about putting his hat back on his head, but instead crumples it up and stuffs it inside his jacket pocket, making it look as if he has one of those bulbous hernias bursting from his gut.

  ‘This’ll be fun,’ Keating says, holding the gate open for Lenny to walk through.

  ‘Thanks, Alan,’ Lenny says. He was unsure what tone to talk to Keating in; wondered was thanking him for holding the gate open even applicable conversation to have with a gangster. Keating hadn’t explained anything on the drive over and Lenny was still wondering why they had both made the journey; whether Keating was genuinely trying to help him with his investigation or whether he was just taking the piss and trying to intimidate him. He took his mobile phone from his pocket, just to check the time as they waited on Barry to open his door after Keating repeatedly rapped his knuckles against the window panes on it. 11:37. He’s wasting time here; is certain Keating and Barry have fuck all to do with Betsy Blake’s disappearance. Poor Gordon’s time is ticking away; no impact is going to be made on his final wish; not today.

  ‘Whatsup, boss!’ Barry says holding his hand for Keating to grab. They greet like gangsters do, a grasp of hands that helps them lean in for a half-a-hug.

  ‘Who this?’

  ‘Barry, meet Lenny Moon. Lenny Moon’s a PI.’

  Barry looks Lenny up and down, then stares at Keating, his eyes squinting, his mouth almost forming a smile.

  ‘A PI? Ye don’t look like a PI. Ye look like the fuckin’ shit member of a shit boy band.’

  Keating laughs as he enters Barry’s hallway. ‘You rolling?’

  ‘I’m awake amn’t I?’ says Barry.

  Barry swings his hand, welcoming Lenny inside his home, the whiff of cannabis in the hallway alone enough to get anybody stoned. They all enter the square living-room, Barry making his way straight to a glass decanter in the far corner. He picks it up, shows it to his guests.

  ‘Jesus no, too early for me,’ says Keating.

  Barry stares at Lenny, awaits his response.

  ‘Eh… too early for me, too,’ he says.

  Barry and Keating take a seat on the dated furniture, leaving Lenny standing. He stares around the room, takes in the impressive artwork on the walls. They look so out of place in the tiny gaff; probably just as valuable as the gaff itself.

  ‘Sit down, PI,’ says Barry. Lenny does as he’s told, plonks himself on the couch next to Keating. He becomes aware of his left knee bouncing up and down, so places his hand over it, holds it in place.

  ‘Wait till ye hear this,’ Keating says, turning to Lenny. ‘Go on… tell Barry why you’re here.’

  Lenny takes in a breath, then blinks rapidly.

  ‘I’m investigating the Betsy Blake disappearance on behalf of her father Gordon Blake. He—’

  Lenny is interrupted by Barry’s laughter. Then it stops abruptly, almost as if he was half-way through his laugh when a sniper aimed a dart into his neck.

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place, PI. She’s under the stairs.’

  Lenny swivels his head to peak out the sitting-room at the door leading under the bannisters and is then met with an even bigger laugh. This time Keating joins in; bringing Lenny back to school, back to the days he used to be picked on for being the oddest boy in the classroom. But back then it was only harmless insecure teenagers picking on him – not Ireland’s most notorious gangster and his psycho sidekick.

  ‘Ye know what?’ Lenny says, standing up. ‘I have decided to stand down from this job. I will be notifying Gordon Blake of my resignation and – gentlemen – I am so sorry to have disturbed your mornings.’

  ‘Sit down, Lenny Moon,’ Keating orders. Lenny does as he’s told, his eyes blinking. ‘Barry – are you just gonna let that J sit in the ashtray or are you gonna offer your guest a welcome puff?’

  Bar
ry bends down to his glass ashtray, picks up the joint he had started to smoke when the knocks came at the door. He holds it in front of him, ignites the flame on a lighter with his other hand, then holds the flame to the joint until it catches. Lenny squints. He had smoked weed before, back when he was studying for a pointless certificate in media at college, but had never seen this technique for lighting a joint before, didn’t think it was possible to light one without inhaling.

  ‘No thank you,’ he says when Barry holds the joint towards him. ‘Too early for me.’

  Barry laughs again.

  ‘I understand it being too early for whiskey, but no such clock exists for this shit.’

  Lenny turns to look at Keating beside him, hoping ol’ uncle Arthur would appear; pat him on the back, tell him to get home if he wants to. But Keating holds Lenny’s gaze, again staying mute, allowing Lenny to do the talking. Lenny reaches out, takes the joint, assumes being on friendly terms with these two is probably his quickest route to getting the fuck out of here.

  He inhales slowly, making sure the smoke isn’t too harsh on his throat. The last thing he needs right now is these two laughing at him for coughing up a storm.

  ‘Gordy Blake’s dying,’ Keating speaks up as Lenny exhales. ‘Lenny Moon here has told me he may only have a few hours left to live. Has to have a massive heart operation later today that he might not wake from. He’s hired Lenny as his one last shot at finding little Betsy. And… guess who he came to investigate first?’

  Barry arches his right eyebrow, breaks out a tiny smile and then shakes his head.

  ‘Poor Gordy. I’ll miss him. Y’know,’ he says, turning to Lenny, ‘he’s hung out a few times on this street, stalking me. Haven’t seen him in a long, long time… but Jesus yeah, I’ll miss the poor fucker. We’ve always felt sorry for him, haven’t we, boss?’

  Keating nods his head then pinches the joint out of Lenny’s hand as Barry continues.