Lenny smirks to himself at the craziness of the underworld he has somehow found himself entangled in today; mucking around with The Boss and now Ireland’s best crime reporter all in the space of a couple of hours. He’s still smirking when the taxi man spins around to him again.
‘Can’t get fully down Talbot Street, mate; I’ll leave ya here. Independent House is that one there on the left-hand side, can ye see it? The one with the glass shelter outside it.’
Lenny looks up, can just about see the building the taxi man is pointing at through the greyness of the rain, then hands the phone back to the driver.
‘You’re a legend,’ Lenny says, tapping him on the shoulder.
‘Well that’s eighteen euro for the ride, plus the tenner you owe me for using the phone.’
Lenny fumbles in his pocket, takes out a few of the notes he had withdrawn from the ATM at the hospital, separates a twenty and a ten and then hands them over to the taxi man.
‘Here, take thirty – and cheers for lending me your phone. It’s been very helpful.’
The taxi man unlocks the doors and Lenny pops out, then runs towards the building with the glass shelter. He’s not running to get out of the rain – Lenny’s already drenched to the bone. He’s running because he’s in such a hurry. He’s aware, because he looked at the taxi’s dashboard before he got out, that it’s just gone half one. Time isn’t on his side. Gordon Blake will be going under the knife in less than an hour and half.
Lenny tries to push at the door at the entrance to Independent House but is stopped in his tracks, his face almost squashing up against the glass. He then waves at the security man inside and, after being eyeballed, the security man reaches for a button under his desk and presses at it to release the door.
‘Thanks,’ Lenny says, as he scoops the drenched hat off his head and steps inside the marble reception area. ‘I need to speak with Frank Keville as a matter of urgency.’
‘Ah – you were the man on the phone to me about fifteen minutes ago, huh?’
‘Yep, that’s me,’ Lenny says, almost dancing due to his lack of patience. ‘I’m in a real hurry and need to speak with Keville straight away.’
The security man picks up a large black phone receiver and then dials three buttons.
Lenny stares around the reception area, notices the list of newspaper brands encased in glass frames on the wall. Six national newspapers are all produced from this one building in the heart of Dublin’s city centre.
‘Sorry, no answer from his phone,’ the security man says, placing the receiver back down.
Lenny takes a moment to stare at the nametag on the security man’s navy jumper.
‘Gerry… please, I need to speak with him as a matter of urgency. I don’t have time to waste.’
Gerry stands up, showing not only his height, but his weight; his belly hanging over the waist of his trousers as if it’s eager to touch the floor. Then he shrugs his shoulders and places a red lollipop in his mouth.
‘Sorry – there’s not much else I can do if he’s not answering his phone,’ he mumbles, before popping the lollipop out of his mouth. ‘Would you like to take a seat over there?’
Lenny glances over his shoulder at the green sofa in the corner of the reception area, next to a glass table adorned by a helping of the day’s national newspapers.
‘Please keep trying his number,’ Lenny says after sighing. Then he solemnly walks towards the sofa, ringing the hat through his hands with impatience. He sits, observes Gerry picking up the phone receiver, holding it to his ear, then placing it back down again. He watches as staff come in and then out of the elevator. When one stands at reception, blocking his view of Gerry, Lenny walks slowly to the elevator and waits on the doors to slide open. When they do, he steps inside, stares at all of the buttons and shrugs his head before deciding to start by pressing number one. But even after pressing the button the doors remain open, the lift not interested in taking him anywhere.
‘Fuck sake,’ he mumbles to himself.
‘Sorry?’ a woman asks, entering the lift.
‘Oh – was just talking to myself. One of those days,’ Lenny replies.
The woman laughs, then lifts her security pass to a reader above the number pad on the elevator and presses at the number three. The lift doors close at the same time Lenny’s eyes close. He mumbles a quiet thank you under his breath and when the doors open he steps out with the woman.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, offering his gentlest smile. ‘I might have got off on the wrong floor. I’m looking for Frank Keville. I have a meeting scheduled with him and I’m running a tad late.’
‘No,’ says the woman. ‘You didn’t get off on the wrong floor. His desk is through that door, on the left side.’
Lenny bows as a thank you, turns on his heels, then presses at the door release and walks through to be met by a young woman sitting behind a large mahogany desk.
‘I’m looking to speak to Frank Keville,’ he says. The young woman smiles back at him, then stands up and tries to peer over the top of a tall fake plant by the side of her desk.
‘He should be just behind that,’ she says, pointing her pen.
Lenny thanks her, walks around the plant to find an empty desk. He lets out a dissatisfied sigh and then rings his wet hat in his hands again, his knuckles turning white with frustration.
‘Can’t catch a fucking break,’ he snarls to himself. He then peers down the length of the newsroom, takes it all in. He’d never been in a newsroom before, often wondered what one looked like. It’s just like any other office; though the walls aren’t painted a neutral bland colour like most offices are, they’re bright red – the colour of the branding of almost every tabloid newspaper in the country. Then he spots what he’s looking for: wheels. They’re parked up in amongst a group of people who seem deep in conversation. As he moves closer he makes out the familiar profile of Keville.
‘Frank, Frank,’ Lenny calls out. Everybody in the office turns to face him. ‘I need to speak to you urgently.’
Keville scowls up at the man approaching in an awful-looking yellow puffer jacket.
‘Sorry, but we’re in a very important meet—’
‘I have a story for you,’ Lenny shouts out, interrupting Keville. ‘Remember Gordon Blake – Betsy Blake’s father? He’s dying. May well be dead by this evening. I’ve lots to tell you.’
Nine years ago
Betsy
I’m struggling to read. No. I’m not struggling to read. I’m struggling to find books as good as the Harry Potter books. I’ve read all six of them three times since I got them. That was about nine months ago now. They are brilliant. But no other book has been as good since. I wish I could write like JK Rowling. He is so clever. I wonder how long it took him to write all of those books. I’d love to meet him. I have a million questions I would like to ask.
I’d like to meet anybody. Me and Dod are great now. He is never really angry Dod anymore. We watch TV together. We cook together sometimes. We always eat together. And he never shouts at me. Not anymore. But I would just like to meet another person. To have another friend. I wish I had a friend like Hermione. That would be cool. So many of the characters in the books I read go to a school. But none of the schools seem to be any better than Hogwarts. Sometimes when I am in bed and before I fall asleep I imagine I am in Hogwarts. I think I’d be really good at Quidditch. Sometimes I try to play it. I use Bozy as the Quaffle, and my bin as the basket. Bozy doesn’t mind. It’s fun. But it would be great to have somebody to play it with.
When I am upstairs watching TV, sometimes I see people walking by the house. They just look like shadows from where I sit, but my heart always gets a little faster when somebody does walk by. Sometimes I make up who they are in my head. As if they’re characters from a book.
I keep trying to write a book. But I’m not really good at it. I keep getting words wrong. I can read. But I can’t really write good. That makes me sad. Hopefully one day my writ
ing will get good enough to write a big book. If I went to a school, I bet I could learn to write much better.
I close The Golden Compass and leave it on my bed. It’s a good book. It’s just not Harry. Then I let out a big breath. I always seem to do that when I’m bored. I take a few steps towards the end of the steps and wait. And wait. I know Dod will open the door soon and call me up to watch TV with him. I never know what time it is. I don’t have a watch. Or a clock. But I always know when he is going to open the door. I think it is because I know the sounds of him upstairs so well.
I am not waiting too long when I hear the key in the door. And when it opens the light shines down the steps and I walk up towards it.
‘Hey, Dod,’ I say.
‘Hey, Betsy.’
We both walk into the TV room. He doesn’t stare at me all the time now. I think he trusts me more. I get up into the big sofa and then Dod comes and sits beside me. He looks at me then gives me a big kiss on the lips. I don’t really like it. But he seems to do it every day now.
‘Here,’ he says. He gives me the remote control.
I press at the buttons until The Simpsons comes on. It’s so funny. The only thing better than watching The Simpsons is reading a book. Even a bad book is better than anything on the TV. I think my favourite thing about The Simpsons is that it makes Dod laugh. I like to hear him laughing. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel safe.
As soon as it starts I know I’ve already seen this one before. It’s the one where Mr Bergstrom becomes Lisa’s favourite teacher in school.
I look at Dod and watch him smile. He laughs again. And again.
‘What’s with you?’ he says. He looks at me.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why aren’t you laughing?’
‘Oh.’
‘I eh… I’m just thinking instead of watching,’ I say.
‘Thinking about what?’
I wiggle my feet. Maybe I shouldn’t say it to him. He might turn into angry Dod.
‘Thinking about what, Betsy?’ he says. He sounds nice. He’s not angry. I don’t think so anyway. Maybe I can say what I want to say.
‘Thinking about what it would be like if I went to school.’
I look away from him as I say it because I don’t want to see if his eyes go that funny way they go when he is turning into angry Dod.
‘Children hate school,’ he says. ‘I hated school when I was your age.’ I look up at him and then blink. ‘I love you, Betsy. But it’s not right for you to go to school. Not all children go. You are one of the luckiest ones. You get to spend all of your time at home… with your books. And with me and with Bozy.’
He puts his arm around me and hugs me in close.
We just continue to watch The Simpsons. None of us talking anymore. None of us laughing anymore.
‘I love you too,’ I say after ages. ‘And I love Bozy. And all of my books. But it would be just nice to see other people.’
I hold my eyes closed after I say it. I know that that’s bad. I know that saying that will turn Dod into angry Dod. But he doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t even say anything. He just keeps watching The Simpsons. And so do I.
Lisa hates it when Mr Bergstrom leaves the school. She thought he was a great teacher. It actually makes me sad a little bit. Even though I know everything works out well in the end.
I turn my eyes a little bit and try to look at Dod. I think that maybe a tear is falling down his cheek. I turn my head fully and stare at him. It is a tear.
‘What’s wrong, Dod?’
He wipes the tear and then smiles a big wide smile.
‘Nothing. Nothing,’ he says.
I don’t believe him. He can’t be crying because Mr Bergstrom left the school. Dod’s already watched this one with me. He knows everything works out well in the end. I wonder why he’s crying. I snuggle my head into him. He wraps his hand around me and holds me while we watch the end of The Simpsons.
When it’s over, Dod stands up.
‘Come here with me,’ he says. He holds his hand out for me and I grab it. We walk towards the edge of the stairs. Not the steps that go down to my room. But the stairs that lead up to the room Dod says he sleeps in. I’ve never been up there before. But Dod takes a step up while he is holding my hand. So I do the same. And then we go up the next one, up the next one and all the next ones until we are at the top of the house. It looks magical up here. The walls are like a purple colour.
Dod opens a door and then turns back to me.
‘You have to get down on your hands and knees okay?’
I smile a little but only because I think I’m a bit afraid. I’m not sure what is happening. I get down on my hands and knees, like a dog, and then follow Dod into the room. I can’t see much. Just a really big bed. A much bigger bed than mine. Dod walks around it and then stops. I look up. He has stopped near a really big window.
He holds his finger to his mouth. It means I should try and be as quiet as I can be.
‘You ready?’ he says.
I look at him funny because I don’t know what he means, but then I just nod my head.
‘Okay, put your hands here and pull yourself up a bit.’
I do. And then I see it. A magical place. Just like in one of my books. There are lots of houses. Some with blue doors, some with green. One has a black door. One has a red one. There’re lots of cars parked outside the houses. All different colours too. I rest my head against the window and then my breathing makes it go all funny. Dod laughs and then wipes it all away. And then I see one. A person. She is beautiful. She has long brown hair and a red coat on. And a really pretty face. Very pretty. More prettier than mine.
I look up at Dod. I know my eyes are bigger than normal because I can feel it. He rubs at my hair, then bends down and kisses me on the top of my head.
‘I’m so sorry, Betsy. I can’t let you go outside because… well… because I love you so much. I can’t lose you.’
13:40
Gordon
I’ve opened and shut the bedside cabinet drawer three times since Elaine left me alone. On each occasion that I’ve done that I’ve hovered my hand over my phone, then pulled it away. I hugged her before she left me, promised her I would just lie back and relax.
I really like Elaine, but I can’t allow my smittinness to control me. Lenny’s out there – somewhere – trying to find Betsy. Surely I should turn my phone back on, see what he’s up to. I let out a frustrated sigh. My mind keeps changing. I can’t get a fucking grip on my thoughts. I can’t get them in order.
I pull at the drawer again, and this time I grab at the phone without pausing for thought. I take it into my chest, hold down the standby button and wait for the screen to blink on. Then the ward door swings open.
‘Gordon,’ Mr Douglas calls out like a teacher. He’s got one eyebrow slightly raised as he strides towards me. It’s only when I hear tiny footsteps behind him that I notice Elaine has followed him in.
‘I stressed to you this morning the importance of keeping your mind positive and your bloods even, isn’t that correct?’
I just nod my head once, stare up at him in anticipation of being barked at. I can’t believe Elaine ratted me out. Especially after I’d totally opened up to her on our little walk.
‘You may shrug at me, Gordon, but the truth is you haven’t been adhering to that advice have you?’
Douglas scowls at me. It’s almost laughable how serious he is taking all this; as if it’s his life at stake.
I don’t say anything. I just switch my glance from Douglas’s scowl to Elaine’s guilty eyes. She can barely look at me.
‘Well if you don’t want to talk, I will,’ Douglas says as he plants his hands onto his hips. ‘It has been brought to my attention that you have had quite the morning. Look at this,’ he says, turning his clipboard to face me. He jabs his fat finger at a line of digits. ‘Your heart rate has gone from 122 this morning at eight a.m., to 152 at ten a.m., back down to 130 at j
ust gone eleven a.m. And when Elaine last checked your heart fifteen minutes ago you were back up to 155. I can not stress to you how dangerous it is for us to operate with your heart rate fluctuating.’
I take the clipboard from him, squint at it as if I can comprehend in any way what I’m staring at.
‘Gordon, the risk of you forming blood clots during the procedure is enormously high. Even in the 120s these procedures are a big risk, but the 150 range makes your chances of survival minimal at best.’
I shake my head slowly, still nothing coming from my mouth. I need to speak up. Need to justify myself.
‘I eh… I’m sure Elaine has told you. I have a fear of dying without ever knowing what happened to my daughter and I just wanted to—’
‘I understand your situation,’ Douglas interrupts. ‘But what is most important is that you understand everything we have advised you. Your best chance of finding out what happened to your daughter is to survive these procedures. Then you can live your life thereafter, in any way you please.’
I look down at the foot of my bed, feeling like a teenage kid being told off.
‘Gordon, I’m not sure we can continue with these procedures,’ Douglas says, his voice shifting to a more direct tone.
My head shoots up to stare at him.
‘But then I’ll just die.’
Douglas arches his eyebrow again, then offers me a tilt of his head. The cheeky fucker. I swirl my jaw towards him.
‘How the fuck does that make sense? If I’m going to die anyway, isn’t it best that you at least give me the opportunity of surviving the surgeries?’
‘Gordon, if you don’t mind curtailing your language,’ Douglas says as he takes his clipboard from my hands. ‘There’s something you don’t get.’ He looks back at Elaine, then returns his gaze to me. ‘As a surgical team we are measured on our abilities to oversee successful procedures. The last thing a surgeon wants is his patient dying under the knife. My – our,’ he says returning to Elaine before looking back at me, ‘our reputation is at stake every time we hold a scalpel to somebody’s skin. It’s why we weigh up all of the risks before we give the green light for any surgery.’ Douglas inches closer to me, rests the tip of his fingers on my mattress. ‘Gordon, even when we weighed up the option of surgery for you this morning, we knew we were playing with fire… but now this,’ he says, jabbing his finger at the notes on his clipboard, ‘this makes our job all the more difficult. You have left us with little choice.’
Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake? Page 15