The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set

by David B Lyons

  ‘I’d like to talk to you two,’ I said in a way that already spelt out drama.

  ‘In the middle of the fuckin’ racin’?’ me da asked.

  ‘Dessie!’ me ma said sternly. It didn’t matter. Me oul fella ruled the roost.

  ‘Wait till this race is over!’

  I sat beside me ma on our shabby couch and felt her stare inquisitively at me as she folded the newspaper to put away. She knew something wasn’t right. I looked up at her, fully aware I was putting on ‘pity me’ eyes.

  ‘Ah, fuck ya!’ me oul fella shouted out, cursing that his horse didn’t win. He jumped off his armchair in a rage and clicked the television off.

  ‘What do you want, son?’ he said, standing over me. He was peering down at me as if I’d already ruined his day. He had no idea what was coming next. I knew it wouldn’t go well. Me da called gay people ‘queers’ when he saw them on TV and he genuinely thought homosexuality was a disease. It was a generational thing, I suppose. Telling him his only son was gay was no easy feat. But he didn’t say a thing when I finally got the words out. Me ma didn’t either, but she leaned in to me and wrapped both of her arms around my shoulders. She was trying to hide it, but I could tell she was crying. She was worried about what the neighbours would think. I knew that would be her only concern. It’s the only concern of any Dublin housewife. Me oul fella spun around and lashed at the TV standby button again, turning the horse racing back on. Then he sat down in his chair as if nothing happened over the past two minutes.

  ‘Give me that newspaper, Anne, will ye? I wanna see who I’ve bet on in the next one.’

  My sexuality was never mentioned again in that house. I only ever spoke to me ma about it when she came to see me in the bedsit I’d rented in Mount Brown. She didn’t quite understand what being gay meant but to her credit she tried to learn about it. It turned out that coming out to my parents wasn’t as painful as coming out to me mates. I thought people of my generation would be more understanding, but I noticed my so-called pals slowly but surely drift away from me as weeks and months went by. I’d visit gay bars in town to try to generate new friends but I found it very difficult. I was used and abused by some I’d hoped to become pally with, and genuinely contemplated suicide on two separate occasions. They were just thoughts back then, but I was so depressed. So down. I really didn’t like my life at all. That was until the bank manager I had met a few times to discuss a loan suggested we meet for a bite to eat outside office hours.

  I watch Vincent walk out of our bedroom in his favourite navy-blue suit. It would look like any other morning but for the gunman behind him. My boyfriend winks over at me to suggest everything will be okay. He can be a bit arrogant, but heroes normally are the arrogant type. I trust him implicitly. I am the weak character in our relationship. But I know more than anyone that Vincent isn’t as clever as he thinks he is. I know he will feel confident he can get back here in four hours with all the money in tow. But I am sure it’s a more difficult task than he will feel it is. He walks over to me, shadowed by our captor, and kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘I’ll be back, baby,’ he assures me. ‘Please just relax. I can get this done.’

  I swing my head from side to side in the hope of getting the gunman to remove the tape from my mouth, but he doesn’t even react. He just watches as Vincent holds my head still to kiss me again.

  ‘I love you,’ he says. I nod and blink some tears out as a response. I want to tell him I love him too.

  ‘You guys are fuckin’ sick,’ says our captor, pulling Vincent away from me. ‘Now, go get me my fuckin’ money.’

  07:45

  Jack

  When I hang up the phone, adrenaline rushes through my body. Darragh has done exactly as asked. Vincent should be coming down the elevator and out of the building any minute now. I was worried about the first part of the day because it was the only part I didn’t have full control over. It was all on Darragh. But the boy’s done well. Now it’s all back in my hands. I haven’t had a rush like this in years. And even back then I wasn’t enjoying it as much as I seem to be right now.

  Before I married Karyn I was inducted into the Dublin gang scene. I didn’t like it, but I loved her. Karyn’s whole family were involved in organised crime and if I was going to be part of the Ritchie family, I’d have to get involved too. I’ll never forget her da wrapping his arm around my shoulders on the first tee at Deer Park golf course one freezing morning back in 1985. He was puffing on one those ridiculously oversized cigars he used to smoke for show. It felt like something you’d see in a mob movie. That’s the thing with these guys, they try to live up to the stereotype Hollywood invents for them. The movies aren’t a retelling of organised crime, organised crime is a retelling of the movies. And the Irish newspapers do their best to glamorise it as much as they can too, just to jump on the bandwagon. I find it all quite cringeworthy, to be honest.

  ‘Now listen here, kid,’ he said, exhaling rancid cigar smoke. ‘Ye gotta do what you gotta do. But if you wanna be part of this family then you gotta do a little of what I want you to do.’

  It felt like I was an extra in a parody of a poor mob movie but I didn’t dare suggest that. Instead, I nodded in agreement and acted like a puppy dog around Harry Ritchie. Everybody did. He was actually a very friendly guy and quite warm, but he was assertive and strict when I first met him. He was probably laying down a marker, but he had an amazing ability to get everybody on his side. I made it quite clear to him that his daughter was my main concern in life, but if there was anything he needed from me, I’d never let him down. He respected my honesty and for that reason, I was always on the periphery of affairs and not fully involved in the heavy-duty stuff. For the first couple of years, I was used as ‘body’ – that was it. I’d visit restaurants and bars, that my brothers-in-law or other members of the ‘family’ would break into, to demand protection money. I’ve always been a big guy. I was six foot three inches tall at just sixteen years of age, and I have always had broad shoulders. I was known as the Friendly Giant through the last couple of years of secondary school and often wondered what those kids would have thought if they’d seen me hanging around with The Ghost. I just stayed in the background as those braver than me would smash a bar manager’s face in until he handed over every penny he had in the tills. I didn’t get involved in the physical activities for the first eight months or so but after a while, some of the landlords decided to fight back and I’d be called on to sort them or their friends out. I think I’d only ever thrown one punch in my life up until that point, which was aimed at my old best mate in a school corridor when we were both in fifth year. I enjoyed the thrill of the fights because I always knew we could handle them. But I’d go home at night and feel sorrow for what I’d been involved in. Karyn hated the fact that I’d got involved in her family’s business. But she knew all too well that I had no choice. Besides, the money was good. I’d personally take home around a thousand pounds in one week, which was huge money back then. I once calculated that Harry’s empire was collecting close to a hundred thousand a week. And that was only in protection money. He had loads of other activities on the go at any one time.

  I hide behind a parked Rav 4 as I watch Vincent push open the glass door to exit his apartment building. He really likes that blue suit. I’ve seen it on him several times recently. His face appears paler than normal but I have no doubt that he will be able to carry out his orders. He has to. He is mainly based at an office at the IFSC, on Harbourmaster Place, which is a twenty-two-minute walk from here. He doesn’t order his driver to take him to work. He likes to take in the fresh River Liffey air, for some reason. He’ll walk straight over Sean O’Casey Bridge and continue past the two moats in the IFSC until he turns slightly left onto George’s Dock. Once there, he’ll be only a few hundred yards away from his office. He normally arrives between 8.05 a.m. and 8.15 a.m. By the looks of things, he’ll be there at the earlier time this morning. His chauffeur-driven car will be wai
ting for him in the car park under his office. He’ll certainly be using it today. The banks he’ll rob won’t open until nine o’clock, but he’ll spend the guts of the first hour of his morning organising access to the vaults through four phone calls.

  I’d already decided that I’d head towards Nassau Street after I’d watched him cross the bridge towards his office. I know where I’ll be standing when he walks out of that first branch with two million euros. I’ve been spending the money in my head for the past few months. We’ve already planned our perfect life together as millionaires.

  08:00

  Darragh

  I don’t have much to do until Vincent rings me to confirm he’s organised his visits to the banks. He’ll be arriving at his office in the next ten minutes or so. It will probably be another half an hour or forty minutes before he gives me the go-ahead that everything is set up. From what JR has told me, none of this should be a problem. Vincent is the boss of ACB.

  I pass some of the time by taking a stroll around the apartment. I want a place like this when I’m rich. The living area is somethin’ else. It’s one big, bright large space with a huge L-shaped leather couch taking up the middle of the floor. It faces what must be a fifty-inch TV screen. Just off that is a pretty cool kitchen. I think it’s the biggest kitchen I have ever seen. A big floating table thingy separates the living room and the kitchen. The colours wouldn’t be to my taste, it’s all creams and whites throughout the whole space. I like blues and blacks. Dark colours. Probably because I have a dark mind. A faggoty perfume smell fills the place. This has the look and feel of a gay couple’s apartment except for the sports magazines and newspapers that are thrown across both the floating table thingy and the couch. It’s a clean home but it’s untidy. Ryan mustn’t be doing his job properly as a little fairy housemaid. According to JR, this little fag hasn’t worked in a couple of years.

  I stare over at him as I walk around his table thingy. He no longer looks petrified. He looks depressed. Maybe he doesn’t trust that Vincent will get the job done. I imagine shovin’ the gun into Ryan’s face at midday and blowing his brains all over the massive window behind him. Part of me wants to kill him, but what we really want is Vincent to get round to all four banks in time to give me and JR a payday we could only ever dream of. If he does, Ryan will survive. JR is tailing Vincent all day; I’m certain the job will be completed without fuss.

  I’m not all bad. I do have pangs of guilt every now and then, especially with regards to the first young fella I killed. He didn’t deserve to die, but Bob did. He was a sick fuck – a rapist! JR came up with a plan for us to confront Bob with all the information we knew and demand money from him. Take it, then shoot him. Bob was adamant he hadn’t raped anyone, but JR had it on good authority that it was true. He has great links with the Dublin mob and they have allowed him to take the lead on a new arm of their gang, of which I am the first newbie. It’s a dream come true for me. Most young guys want to be professional footballers or rock stars, Hollywood icons, or some shit like that when they grow up. Me? I always wanted to be Henry Hill. Goodfellas has been my favourite movie since I was twelve years old. I must’ve watched it at least a hundred times by now.

  My job was to have the sick rapist empty his safe of cash before blowin' his head off. Everything JR said to me came true. He knew the cunt would deny the allegations and he knew he’d have about fifty thousand euros in the safe. We split it down the middle.

  ‘You have the wrong guy, you have the wrong guy,’ he kept repeating. I didn’t have the wrong guy. JR’s research is always spot on. I shoved the gun into his mouth and asked him a question.

  ‘Any last requests?’ I said, not giving him time to answer before pulling the trigger. I figured that could be the line I mutter before I kill people in the future. I could become known for it. It could be my catchphrase. I looked at the hole in the top of his head and licked my lips. I unscrewed the silencer while standing over his body and placed both the silencer and the pistol in my bag before slinging it over my shoulder and making my way out of his tiny gaff. I could hear the soundtrack to Goodfellas playing in my head as I strolled away from the garden. I allowed myself a smile. Since then I’ve had feelings of guilt, but there are also times when adrenaline rushes through me, knowing full well that I am a real-life hitman.

  As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a gangster.

  I often repeat that line over and over to myself in Ray Liotta’s accent.

  Good Morning Britain is still showing on the TV I muted earlier. I notice Susanna what’s ’er name is wearing one of those low-cut tops she likes to tease us with every now and then. She’s a dirty lookin’ bitch. I bet she’s savage in the sack. How sexy can one woman be? She is big where all women should be big: lips, tits, hips and ass. She’s not great without make-up on, I saw that when she did that celebrity dancin’ shite on the BBC a few years back, but there’s something in those eyes that screams ‘fuck me now’. The white dress she has on today is makin’ me dick twitch. I reach for the TV remote and unmute the volume. I instantly hear her voice. That husky British accent was designed for men’s ears. Well, most men. Not this fag tied up in the chair just ten feet away from me.

  ‘How can she not turn you on?’ I say, looking at Ryan. He doesn’t even respond with a head nod. He just sits there feeling sorry for himself. I snigger through my nose when an idea crosses my mind. It’s equally funny as it is sick. I unbutton my jeans and slide them down past my ass. I begin to rub on the outside of my boxers, making my dick stiffen.

  ‘See how sexy I find her?’ I say, pointing me dick at Ryan. Susanna continues to talk about some British education bullshit but I’m not hearing the words, I’m just hearing that husky voice. She’s often awoken my morning glory. I giggle to meself as I walk over to Ryan with my hand wrapped round me whole package.

  ‘See that, fag, bet you never had one that big, did ye?’

  I’m not even sure whether me dick is big or not, to be honest. It’s seven and a half inches long when hard. I measured it once with a ruler. I think that’s a decent size. Google says the average size of a penis is just over five inches when on a boner so I must be fuckin well hung. But when I watch porn I end up a little bit confused. My dick is tiny compared to the guys that fuck on camera for a living. Maybe the camera adds length.

  ‘Oh yeah, mutha fucker,’ I say to Ryan while grabbing at my balls. I stare over at the TV screen. Susanna what’s ’er name has turned into Piers Morgan. That’s one sure-fire way to lose an erection. But for some reason I’m still turned on. I don’t normally get this horny this quickly, but I think the strange environment for wanking has added to the excitement. I’ve never had somebody in the same room as me while I whack one off. Within a minute I spray a load of cum all over the screen, laughin’ as I do it. When I’m done cumming I stare over my shoulder at Ryan. His chin is resting on his chest looking down, but I’m sure he had a peek up just to see if I finished the job all over his fifty-inch TV screen.

  ‘That’s what real men do, Harkness,’ I say to him. He allows himself a look at me, perhaps in surprise that I know his surname. ‘You’re missin’ out on pussy and tits, you little freak.’

  I fall back on the couch and sigh deeply, just as I always do after a wank. The thrill of whackin’ off is deadly but I always get a depressed feeling instantly afterwards. I don’t know if all men get that. I pull my boxer shorts back up over my dick and button my jeans back up just in time for the phone to ring. I answer, expecting to hear Vincent’s voice, but it’s not him.

  08:05

  Ryan

  I wish I listened to Vincent more often. I’ve no idea what time he gets to work. But if he leaves at seven forty-five each morning I’m guessing it only takes him about twenty minutes to walk there. He should be arriving at his office about now. This morning is the first morning in ages I wish he hadn’t left me. I’ve been a lot more nervous since he headed off.

  I’ve refused to stare over a
t this spotty prick but he’s just turned the volume back up on the TV and I can’t help but give him a glance.

  ‘How can she not turn you on?’ he asks, pointing at Susanna Reid on Good Morning Britain. I answer by looking away again. But I can’t help but draw my eyes back to him when I notice he’s pulling his trousers down.

  What the fuck is he doing?

  He begins to rub at his dick right in front of me. This guy is fuckin’ insane. My eyes widen as I see him take his dick out of his boxer shorts. I don’t look but I know he’s tugging away at it. He must be just trying to freak me out. If he is, it’s working. But after a few seconds of being disgusted I will him on in my mind to complete the job.

  Cum, you stupid prick. Go on, spray a load.

  He strolls away from me towards the TV, giving it everything. This is weird for a million different reasons, but none more so than the fact that he’s now jacking off to Piers Morgan’s smug face. He’s not relenting. I hear his spunk slap against our TV screen and I almost laugh to myself.

  Way to leave your DNA at a crime scene, you fucking idiot!

  I can’t believe somebody would be that stupid. It begins to frustrate me that Vincent and I were held captive by somebody with such a low IQ. I think the whole thing through. This can’t be for real, can it? I look at his face for the first time since this morning as he falls back into our couch sporting an ugly grin, and realise that he must be some form of retard. And that’s when I get really frightened. This guy is so unhinged that he will have no problem blowing my brains out as he promised he would if Vincent doesn’t arrive back here by midday. I immediately think of my yoga breathing techniques again as the panic attack resurfaces. My yoga instructor used to always start by saying ‘breathe in through the nose’. Right now, I have no fuckin’ choice.