‘A will?’
‘Yeah – as in a will somebody leaves behind when they die.’
The line goes silent for a few seconds.
‘You planning on dying on me, Lenny?’
There’s a small hint of humour in Sally’s response; on any other day hearing his wife crack a tiny joke would overjoy Lenny, but he’s too distracted today.
‘Course not. Just a client of mine was asking and my phone is a piece of shit. I can’t get the information I need.’
‘Okay… lemme see,’ Sally says. Lenny can hear her tap away at the keyboard of their home computer. He eyeballs the rear-view mirror again, wonders what the poor taxi man must be thinking.
‘Jaysus, I’m just getting pictures of men called Will,’ Sally says.
Lenny fake laughs awkwardly, then rolls his eyes.
‘Ye know what, Sally, I have to get myself a good smart phone, I get caught out too many times when I need to find certain information.’
Lenny winces a little as he says this, his shoulders slumping in anticipation of his wife’s moan. But she doesn’t say anything at all, almost as if she didn’t hear what he’d just said.
‘Ah… hold on a second,’ she says. ‘Got it… ye ready?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘For your will to be valid in Ireland it needs to be handwritten and signed by you yourself, plus two witnesses.’
‘Okay… and?’
‘And that’s it… that’s all it says.’
‘Really?’
‘Well… it says that the witnesses must witness you signing it and that’s it.’
Lenny blows out his lips, allows himself a little smile. Gordon was right. The will he has written up in hospital would be valid.
He slows his breathing, doesn’t want to get over-excited, certainly not on the phone; he doesn’t want to disclose anything to Sally. Not yet anyway. If she got carried away by the hope of getting that house, she would crash hard if it didn’t come to fruition. And if she crashes hard, the unthinkable could happen. Lenny’s tried to rid their home of items Sally could use to kill herself, but it’s impossible for a home not to have knifes, not to have belts.
‘Okay, sweetie, thank you so much.’
‘That it?’
‘Yep, that’ll do for now. I’m so sorry I’ve had to bother you a couple of times today to do things for me.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Sally says. ‘I like hearing your voice. But Lenny…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Y’are in your shite getting one of those expensive smart phones. We just don’t have the money.’
Lenny rolls his eyes again, then blinks them rapidly.
‘Okay, sweetie,’ he says. ‘I love you. Speak soon.’
Lenny brings his cheap phone to his mouth after he has hung up, begins to gnaw on the edge of the rubber case again.
‘Fuckin hell,’ he mumbles. ‘A bleedin’ massive gaff for a few hours work.’
He tries to stem his excitement by wondering if he’s being played. Maybe this is all just one huge hoax. But he knows it’s not. It can’t be.
‘Y’know… that’s right. I only did my will there at the beginning of this year,’ says the taxi man. ‘I turned sixty-six in February – felt it was about time I finally put it all down on paper. I just went into a solicitor, wrote it all down and had him and his assistant sign it.’
‘It’s that easy?’
‘Yep… was surprised how easy it was meself. It doesn’t even have to be signed by a solicitor… anyone can do it.’
Lenny’s nose stiffens; his attempt at holding back the smile that’s threatening to spread across his face. Then he throws his head back to rest on the top of the seat and allows himself the daydream of living in a much bigger home. He wonders if a bigger place would take Sally out of her depression; perhaps being cooped up in their tiny terraced house in Springfield plays its part in dampening her mood. Or maybe he could sell the house, pocket the million so he doesn’t have to work. He lets the smile spread across his face and it remains that way until the satnav calls out to him; informing him he has arrived at his destination.
He sits upright, takes in the house they have pulled up outside. A bright yellow door, hanging baskets of flowers either side of it, the latest BMW 3 Series in the driveway. Michelle must’ve married well the second time round.
‘Nine euro, mate,’ the taxi man says.
Lenny continues to stare at the big house as he hands a ten euro note over the shoulder of the driver. As usual, he waits for the change before getting out of the car and strolling up the driveway.
He hasn’t yet decided how he’s going to approach this. The will occupied way too much of his thinking on the way over here. But the will is redundant should Lenny not get any original information out of Jake Dewey. He already assumes Jake has had nothing to do with Betsy’s disappearance, much like he felt that Keating and Barry didn’t have anything to do with it either. But maybe if he can get confirmation of that, it might be enough for Gordon to trigger their agreement.
As the taxi man pulls away, Lenny bides himself some thinking time by checking out the BMW. Maybe he could afford a car like this if he sells the million euro gaff. He nods, impressed by the cream leather interior. Just as he places both of his palms either side of his face to get closer to the driver’s window, a voice calls out.
‘Excuse me,’ she says.
Lenny, startled, places both of his hands towards the woman in apology. He instantly recognises her. Whereas Gordon looked different to the man who appeared at press conferences and in newspapers following Betsy’s disappearance, Michelle has barely changed. There are a few more lines round her eyes, but there’s no mistaking who she is.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘But I’m looking to speak to Jake Dewey.’
‘And did you think you were gonna find him in the car?’
Lenny shakes his head and smiles.
‘Sorry – I’m just a big fan. Thinking of buying one for myself actually. Does Jake enjoy driving it yeah?’
‘Jake’s never driven it. That’s my car.’
Lenny’s mouth makes an ‘O’ shape, then he slightly gurns with embarrassment.
‘It’s Michelle, isn’t it? Michelle Blake?’
Michelle’s stare turns inquisitive.
‘Dewey. I haven’t been called Blake for fifteen years.’
‘I’m so sorry… of course. Dewey. Mrs Dewey.’
‘Ye know, I’ve been talking to you for one whole minute and you’ve apologised to me three times already… whaddya want?’
‘I’m sorry eh…’ Lenny scratches at his forehead, blinks rapidly. ‘I need to speak with Jake as a matter of urgency. Would it be okay if I came inside?’
Michelle tilts her chin into her neck, then opens her eyes wide.
‘Lookin’ like that?’
Lenny stares down at himself, realises he looks like a drenched rat.
‘I got caught in the rain and…’ he shrugs his shoulders.
‘Well, Jake’s not in; he’s away in Belfast working.’
Lenny squelches up his mouth, wants to swear; feels as if the possibility of him earning a million euro gaff may have just evaporated.
‘Who’ll I tell him was looking for him?’ Michelle asks.
Lenny pauses, looks back down the garden path, then at Michelle again.
‘I’m Lenny Moon – Private Investigator.’
Michelle takes three steps closer to him, folds her arms.
‘Oh yeah – what are ye investigating? How to piss people off by staring into their cars?’
Lenny huffs out a small laugh, rubs his hands together back and forth as he blinks his eyes.
‘I’m eh… I’m eh…’
‘Go on, spit it out,’ Michelle says, now resting both of her hands on her hips.
‘I’m investigating the disappearance of your daughter.’
12:55
Gordon
He stands up to watch over me as I scr
ibble on another torn page from my novel.
This is the will and testament of Gordon James Blake.
His big belly inches closer to me, almost resting on the edge of my bed. I feel nervous writing this, as if I’m back at school doing an exam. Don’t know why I’m nervous; I stopped being intimidated by this asshole years ago.
I hereby wish to leave the home, addressed 166 South Circular Road, Inchicore, Dublin 8, Ireland to Alan Keating.
I draw three lines to fit the necessary signatures and then smile up at him.
‘Good man, Gordy. I promise I will get you some information on Betsy’s disappearance. Something that will give you peace of mind going into your surgeries.’
He scratches at his nose as he says this, a sure sign he’s lying. Then he removes his coat from the back of the chair he’d been sitting on and throws it on.
‘So you’ll just leave that there,’ he says, pointing at my bedside cabinet, ‘and if I do find you something original you’ll activate that will, yeah?’
I nod my head.
‘Sure thing, Keating.’
He takes a step closer to me again, his face turning back into the kind old granddad he can inhabit any time he wants to.
‘I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened to you, Gordy. Not just Betsy, but this… this situation you find yourself in today. You were always a good man; you haven’t deserved any of the shite you’ve been served in life.’
I offer him another of my fake smiles and then mouth the word ‘thanks’.
‘I’ll be back with you before three… and I’ll have something. I promise I’ll do my very best. And if I do have something for you, I’ll look after that house, Gordy. I’ll treasure it.’
He winks, strolls away from me and out of the ward. Before he’s three steps down the corridor I pick up the will I had just written for him and rip it into tiny pieces, then toss it on the floor.
It was weird talking to that cunt again. I’ve blamed him for all that’s gone wrong in my life. But I’m as certain as I’ve ever been that he had nothing to do with Betsy’s disappearance. Though just because I can rule him and Barry out, it doesn’t make me feel any better.
Not only did I lose Betsy in 2002, I lost my wife as well. I knew even before Betsy disappeared that I was losing Michelle anyway. I was aware she was having an affair. I didn’t catch her or anything, I could just tell. Not only had we stopped having sex, but we’d stop communicating with each other. She was beginning to ‘work late’ at the bank and basically showed me every sign I needed to see that she was fucking somebody behind my back. I didn’t know who it was until months after Betsy went missing. Michelle had the audacity to stamp on my heart when my heart was already broken. She said she was falling out of love with me anyway, but the fact that I looked after Betsy so carelessly – to the extent that she went missing on my watch – ensured she didn’t just no longer love me, but hated me.
That’s what she said to me three months after Betsy went missing. She screamed it at me in the most explicit of terms. ‘I fucking hate you, Gordon… properly hate you. I’ll never forgive you for this.’
It’s still never been made clear to me, because she never looked me in the eye and suggested such a thing, but I think deep inside me that she felt as if I had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance initially, especially around the time the cops were questioning me. But she did stick up for me in some respects; she told the police I had always cared for Betsy, even if I was never likely to be named ‘father of the year’. But soon after I was cleared as a suspect, Michelle broke the news that she was leaving.
I found out about a month later that she was seeing this Jake Dewey bloke. I needed to find out about him; wondered from very early on if he had something to do with Betsy going missing. Perhaps he snatched her so that me and Michelle would split up. I haven’t found anything on the fucker, aside from the fact that he’s a smug cunt. But I still haven’t ruled him out, probably because I’ve got nothing else to go on. If Lenny can give me something… anything today that clears Dewey, then I will genuinely leave him my house. I’ve got no one else to leave it to.
‘Hey,’ she says, offering me a big smile.
‘Hey yourself.’ She sidles towards me, takes a seat. ‘How did your meeting go?’
‘All good. We have everything in place to be set up. You’re going to be in great hands with Mr Douglas – he’s the best heart surgeon in Ireland. Once you do your part – staying relaxed – we’re very hopeful we can get you through all this.’
It’s either the tone of her voice or the delivery of what she says that reminds me of a young Michelle. I’m not quite sure what it is. I just know that I feel comfortable in Elaine’s company.
‘So… eh…’ she says, ‘would you like to continue what we were talking about… or d’you want to talk about something else or just watch tele… whaddya think?’
She crosses her legs, gets as comfortable as anyone possibly can in those horrible plastic chairs.
‘Sorry?’ I say, scratching at my head. ‘What was it we were talking about?’
‘Betsy. You just informed me Betsy Blake was your daughter before I had to go.’
‘Oh… I could talk about Betsy all day, every day.’
Elaine smiles again, but it’s not a happy smile, more sorrowful than anything.
‘Are you sure you want to talk about her today… if… y’know… if you’re supposed to be staying calm, keeping relaxed?’
I sigh a little, scoot down in the bed a bit and let the back of my head sink into the pillow. So much has happened this morning that I can’t get my head straight. I remember talking to Elaine now, just before she headed out for her meeting. She knew of Betsy, was totally shocked when I told her she was my daughter. I stare up at the stains on the ceiling.
‘She was only four years old… would be twenty-one now,’ I find myself saying. I hadn’t even decided in my own head that I was going to continue talking about my daughter. ‘I was supposed to be looking after her while Michelle – my wife at the time – went shopping for the afternoon. It’s all my fault. All my fault.’ I pinch my forefinger and thumb into my eyes. I feel Elaine reach out a hand and rest it on my knee. ‘It wasn’t the first time… I once left Betsy alone in the kitchen and didn’t she split her head open, falling off a chair and onto the tiles. I loved her, still love every inch of her, but I wasn’t a great dad. I was too easily distracted.’
‘Gordon,’ Elaine says, now standing up. ‘You don’t have to… not if you don’t want to. We can talk this all through tomorrow if you want… after you recover from your surgeries.’
I take my fingers away from my eyes, open them. She’s staring down at me, that sorrowful smile still etched on her pretty face.
‘Why don’t we turn on the tele, watch some crappy daytime TV, huh?’ she says. ‘It’ll help you relax.’
I sit back up, dry my eyes by sweeping the palm of my hand across my face, then smile back at Elaine.
‘Anything but Loose Women,’ I say.
Elaine laughs as she reaches for the remote control. After a few clicks of a button, she stops on an old episode of Top Gear.
‘I like this,’ she says, ‘my dad got me into cars.’
I look over at her, wonder how much more perfect her dad was to her than I was to Betsy. I bet Elaine’s dad never left her alone while he was working, I bet he never left her alone in the kitchen to split her head open.
‘Perfect,’ I say.
I try to get as comfortable as I can in my bed, then watch Jeremy Clarkson make a tit of himself by interviewing an A-list celebrity. The guy’s such a buffoon. Though the buffoon seems to be having a positive effect on me. It’s either him or Elaine’s company. She’s right, watching tele does allow me to escape from my own head. Suddenly I’m matching Elaine’s little giggles. Never in my life did I think I’d ever laugh at something Jeremy fucking Clarkson said.
‘That you?’ Elaine says turning to me.
‘The buzzing.’
I look down to my lap. My phone’s alight. I pick it up, the number ringing unfamiliar, then press at the green button.
‘Hello.’
‘Is this Gordon Blake?’
‘Yes… who’s this?’
‘Gordon, I just heard your terrible news, it’s me – Ray De Brun.’
Eleven years ago
Betsy
‘Double figures, huh?’
Dod pushes his shoulder against mine as he says that and smiles at me.
I never thought of it like that. Double figures.
I suck in a big breath and then let it out as hard as I can. I miss just one of the candles. But Dod blows it out for me, then looks up at me and laughs. I laugh too. I love when it’s my birthday.
Dod didn’t just bring a cake down the steps with him, he brought three presents too. I really hope they’re all books – every one of them. But I know one present looks too small to be a book.
‘Go on then.’
I reach for the rectangular present first, rip the paper off it and bring it close to my eyes. It’s a box-set of books: called Harry Potter. Six of them. Brilliant. I think I read the name Harry Potter in one of my magazines before. Didn’t know who it was. But I will soon. I hug Dod really tight. Really, really tight.
‘Supposed to be the best books ever written.’
‘Really?’
‘So they say.’
I stare at him. He looks just as excited and as happy as I am. I don’t know why. It’s my birthday, not his.
‘Has Harry Potter been on the television as much as I have?’
Now he looks confused. He turns his head and stares at me as if he doesn’t know what I’m saying.
‘Remember you told me I was on the television a lot?’ I say.
He still looks confused.
‘You said that to me a few years ago. That I was on television lots of times.’
‘Did I?’
It makes me sad that he’s forgotten. It’s one thing I will never forget. It has actually made me happy ever since Dod told me I was on television and now he’s just forgotten all about it. I really like Dod. He buys me lots of things and makes my room really beautiful and bright. But sometimes he hurts my insides a little bit. I don’t think he means it. Not in the way he used to hurt my outsides; like the time he dragged me down the steps by my hair because I screamed in the upsteps toilet, or the time he threw me against the wall. But my insides seem to hurt when he has forgotten something he’s said to me or the way he doesn’t let me talk about the memories I had before I came to this room. I wish he would let me talk about my memories because it helps me remember Mummy and Daddy and my old house. The memories seem to be getting smaller and smaller. That’s why I talk to Bozy about them when I can. I talk to Bozy about my Mummy’s smile and about playing football with my Daddy.
Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake? Page 11