The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set

by David B Lyons

  This is my bank. I am in complete control. Relax!

  I am trying to slow my breathing down when the car door opens.

  ‘Here you are, Mr Butler,’ says John.

  Since I’ve known him, I’ve suggested that he should call me Vincent at all times, but when we are on official duty in the office or at any of the branches he insists on being formal. I find it funny because he doesn’t pronounce the ‘t’ in Butler.

  ‘I’ll be one moment, John, I just … I seem to …’ I stutter.

  ‘Mr Butler, will I take ya home? You clearly aren’t well.’

  ‘I’ll be okay in a second, John.’

  I take three deep breaths before swinging my legs out of the car and rising to a standing position. I assumed I’d be fine once I got outside of the car, but the brightness of the morning sun seems to affect me instantly. My head feels a little dizzy. I try to shrug it off by following John to the boot, though I keep a hand on the car just to ensure my balance. But just as he’s about to hand me the two cases I’ve requested the dizziness proves too much to bear. I feel myself falling to my knees in slow motion. The path I’m staring at seems to be changing colour and a humming sound pierces my ears. I can hear John calling out to me but it sounds as if he’s way off in the distance.

  ‘Mr Butler, Mr Butler,’ he repeats.

  ‘I’m alright, John,’ I finally say when the humming seems to suddenly stop. After a few seconds I manage to sit up on the kerb, staring at John’s kneecaps.

  ‘I can call an ambulance, or I can drive ya straight to the hospital?’ he says in a worried tone.

  ‘John, trust me,’ I say, raising my head to look him in the eye. ‘I am genuinely okay. I jogged to work this morning and it was too hot for that kind of exercise. It’s my own fault. I’m just a little dehydrated,’ I lie.

  John disappears, and within a few seconds reappears with a bottle of water. I laugh at him.

  ‘You’re always on hand, John boy,’ I say before taking a swig from the bottle. The water’s warm but I don’t mind. I’m much warier of Chelle coming out and catching me sitting on the kerb. She’s more likely to cause a fuss over my dizziness than John is. I twist my neck to look behind me and notice that the branch is now open. I stare at the ACB logo etched on the glass doors and feel relieved that nobody has come out to greet me yet. Sometimes Chelle can be out front waiting on me with open arms if she’s privy to my arrival. I guess I gave her very short notice this morning. She’s probably ordering her staff to have every area of the bank spotless, telling them Mr Butler is on the way. I need to get to my feet before she comes out. John offers me his right forearm and helps lift me up just in time. As I stand and face the bank I make out Chelle’s figure caught between the first glass door entrance and the second. She has to wait for the initial door to close before the next one opens. I don’t think she saw me sitting on the ground. As she’s staring out at me, John is tapping at my ass as if he’s a dog desperate to get my attention.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I ask, half laughing.

  ‘Your pants are filthy, Mr Butler,’ he retorts. We both giggle. It puts me at ease.

  ‘Vincent, good morning,’ bellows Chelle as she paces towards me in her high heels. We kiss on both cheeks as if we’re better than everyone else. The fact that she loves me so much kind of annoys me. So much of it is pretentious.

  ‘I’ll wait here, Mr Butler,’ says John, handing me both the cases and a wink. I tap him on the shoulder and wink back. He’s so loyal that he won’t give anyone any hints that two minutes ago I almost had a full-on panic attack. As Chelle and I walk towards the entrance of the bank, I’m aware a slight grin is etching itself onto my face, knowing that John will be staring at my assistant manager’s ass. He’s mentioned his fascination with her figure to me before. Michelle Dewey is forty-four years old and, while you would guess she is around that age, there’s no denying that she looks superb for it. She’s given birth to two kids and her body has bloated somewhat as a result. But it has bloated in all the right areas. Her hips and ass look like they belong to another body compared to her waist. Her chest is over-voluptuous too. John’s often remarked to me, in the privacy of the car, that he thinks she’s the hottest woman he’s ever known in all his sixty-five years. I have to give it to him. If you are into hourglass figures than they don’t come much better than Chelle’s. If I was being bitchy I would say that her face isn’t a match for her body, but I’m no bitch.

  I’ve known Chelle for seven years. I hired her as a bank clerk for our Drumcondra branch and she impressed me so much that she was promoted four times in her first five years of service. When the board of directors at ACB brought me in to discuss the restructure I had no hesitation in nominating Chelle as one of the assistant managers. Her appointment has been justified since. Our Nassau Street branch is operating like clockwork in comparison to the other three. I know it’s in safe hands. Even though we’ve always had a professional partnership, Chelle has never been shy in trying to double it up as a personal relationship too. Even in the early days she would insist that I’d keep at least one lunchtime free per week just for her. She would obsess about work over a Panini and would pick my brains for any hints or tips on how to improve her role. She’s an impressive, hard-working woman. I had to hit the brakes on our social outings though. I felt it was going beyond a line. I did it subtly. I remember sitting on a kitchen chair in her Terenure terraced home with Ryan, celebrating her twin boys’ fourth birthday one Saturday afternoon, thinking what the fuck am I doing here? I hate kids. Ryan had been asking a similar question on the way over. Enough was enough. Chelle and I still do the odd lunch but that’s as far as our social activities go these days. I just make excuses that I’m too busy or want to spend more time with Ryan any time she asks me to do something involving her family or circle of friends. I do like Chelle a lot, and I have a ton of respect for her – she’s been through the mill, her daughter went missing what must be fifteen or sixteen years ago now, so she’ll always have my sympathy - but I felt our relationship was turning into a gay-guy, straight-gal cliché. We’re both better than that.

  ‘Now, you want two million euros?’ she asks, squinting, as we stand inside the first door waiting on the second one to buzz us through. ‘Is Jonathan alright?’

  It’s typical Chelle. She’d love it if Jonathan’s branch was failing. It would make her look even better.

  ‘He’s fine,’ I say. ‘He just had a substantial amount of withdrawals last week. Holiday season, I guess.’

  The bank floor is empty but for the nine staff who all stand in their rightful positions smiling over at me as if I’m going to take note of their smiles and reflect my impression in their next pay review.

  ‘I really must do this quickly,’ I whisper over to Chelle, letting her know I have no time to stand around small talking to her staff.

  ‘Of course,’ she responds before shouting over at her personal assistant. ‘Janice, do you have that paperwork for me?’

  Janice looks petrified.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Dewey, but the printer is out of ink.’

  I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. There is zero chance of me withdrawing any money from this branch without all the necessary paperwork being filled out. If I even remotely hint at that, Chelle would call in either the cops or some mental doctor – and rightly so, too.

  ‘It should be just another five or ten minutes,’ Janice says, fidgeting.

  ‘Fuckin’ typical,’ I mutter softly as I walk away from Chelle and Janice towards the assistant manager’s office at the back corner of the bank floor. I shake my head and smile at the thought of Ryan being killed due to a lack of ink in the office printer.

  ‘I’ll just wait in here,’ I shout back out to the floor in an impatient tone before I slam my arm on the desk and my forehead onto my arm. I sigh deeply and begin to think things through.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  Earlier on I was somewhat intrigued by
what I was being forced to act out. I walked to the office this morning thinking about how I could secure the money and strategising about getting back to the penthouse before midday. But ever since I set out in the car to begin the robberies I have felt nauseous. The more involved in this I’m getting, the less confident I feel. Maybe I am all show and no action. I take out the cheap mobile phone from my jacket pocket and stare at it. I’m trying to think what I can do before I start these robberies when it suddenly buzzes in my hand.

  ‘Now you fuckin’ listen to me, cunt hole …’ roars the mongrel accent.

  08:55

  Ryan

  I open up the tin and tip it slightly so it shows him what’s inside. He beams like a little kid being offered his favourite sweets.

  ‘Good lad,’ he says to me in such a patronising tone that it makes me wince.

  He’s let his guard down somewhat. The gun he’s gripping in his left hand isn’t his main concern right now. I think about trying to knock it out of his grip by punching at his hand, but I genuinely have never thrown a punch in my life. I could be dead in one second if I attempt to take this prick on. He takes the tin from me and nods towards the living quarters of the penthouse. Pointing the gun in my back, he leads me towards the same kitchen chair I’d been sitting on for the past couple of hours. He shoves me back down into it and turns around to reach into his bag. After removing the duct tape again, he wraps my ankles to the chair legs. He follows that up by taping my left wrist to the arm of the chair but for some reason he leaves my right hand free. The stupidity of this guy is really wrangling with me. I can’t quite get my head around somebody trusting a guy this dumb to take charge of an eight-million-euro theft. I watch the smug fucker pouring my cocaine onto one of my magazines before he rolls up his dirty note.

  ‘You first,’ he says, handing me the bill. I stare at him, confused. ‘Go ahead, fag.’

  He holds the magazine with two thick lines of coke under my face and I lift the five-euro note to my nostril before snorting the smaller of the two lines. As I’m doing this I allow myself a look at the microwave clock. 8:59. This is early, even for me. I don’t normally take my first line until after midday. I’ve become a bit of a bum, but I’m a disciplined bum. The rush of cocaine is instant. I love it. You can feel it burn the back of your nose within a split second before the rush makes its way to the brain. After I snort a line of coke I like to dab my finger into the remains of the powder and rub it around my tongue and gums. The instant numbing of the mouth is a great sensation. I don’t get to do that this time though. My captor grins into my face as he pulls the magazine away from me and sits down on the couch. He is about to re-roll the five-euro note when his phone rings. I can feel my heart rate rise significantly but that could be down to the coke as much as the phone call. I wonder if it’s Vincent calling. I hope he’s okay.

  Vincent doesn’t like me doing coke. It’s a bit unfair considering he used to enjoy a line himself. I’m eleven years younger than my boyfriend, but when he was my age he liked to use the drug on regular nights out. He thinks that’s all I use it for now – the odd session. He has no idea I snort a couple of lines every day just to get me through the realities of life. The last time Vincent used coke was at our penthouse warming. We moved in four months later than scheduled due to some unexpected mishaps with the building work, but it was so worth it. The penthouse looked just as good in reality as it did in our imaginations. Vincent had worked so hard and deserved an amazing place to live in. I was really chuffed for him and immensely proud. When we first moved to the city centre I was still studying journalism at DCU. I promised that I would pay my way some day, but Vincent seemed content with being the main provider in our relationship. Even when I was earning decent money he made sure I spent it how I pleased. After all, he was earning six times the wages I was. I couldn’t believe the size of the penthouse when I first walked into it completed. I had taken walks through the building while it was being renovated but I didn’t have a good enough vision to realise how it would be once the kitchen was installed and all the rooms were painted and decorated.

  Vincent got so high the night we opened the penthouse up to our friends. He hid in the bathroom to do line after line of coke so his work colleagues wouldn’t know. But they must have noticed something was different. He was not only strangely full of energy but he was wiping and snorting his nose at any given opportunity. I remember giggling to myself as he spoke to Michelle and her husband Jake at the kitchen table while constantly fidgeting with his right nostril. If Michelle or Jake knew anything about the use of cocaine it would have been plainly obvious that Vincent was on it. I chuckled constantly thinking about it the next day but Vincent wasn’t in the mood for laughing. His cocktail of coke, whisky and wine had his head throbbing. I had to leave a bucket beside the bed for him to puke into as he moaned and groaned his way through the day.

  ‘I’m never fuckin’ doin’ coke again,’ he screamed on several occasions in quick succession while pinching at his temples.

  ‘Try giving up the whisky and the wine,’ I roared back at him. ‘It’s not the coke that has your head splitting.’

  He kept to his word. He’s never taken any drugs since that night. He wouldn’t even take a drag of a joint these days. The fun seems to have snuck out of his being. I’ve often thought it’s just his age. Vincent is a middle-aged man now. He’s only six months off half a century. Yuck!

  ‘Relax. Sorry,’ my captor says, startled, into his phone. ‘I was in the bedroom … I was … I was just walking around the apartment. I left the phone on the couch. Everything is alright here. Chill out.’

  I can’t make out what his accomplice is saying on the other end of the line but I know there’s panic in his voice due to the raised volume. He’s treating this greasy little fuck like a kid. I guess he is a kid.

  ‘But what … he what? What are you saying?’ my captor mumbles. He seems really confused. ‘What do you mean, he collapsed?’ he asks after another moment of silence.

  My breathing starts to get panicky again. I’m not entirely sure if I’m initially worried about Vincent or myself. If Vincent has had some sort of panic attack and can’t get on with the job, am I going to be shot right now?

  ‘So he’s in the bank now – everything must be okay?’

  The person on the other end of the line seems to have calmed down. So too has my heart.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll ring him and make sure he’s not up to any funny business. I’ll give you a shout back in a minute or two.’

  I’ve no idea what Vincent is playing at, and I’m concerned. He doesn’t have a history of fainting. But then again, he doesn’t have a history of robbing his own banks of eight million euros, either.

  My captor and I eyeball each other when he hangs up. He seems worried. As he lifts the phone to his ear again he holds my stare. That’s my fucking black Hublot he has on his wrist!

  ‘Now you fuckin’ listen to me, cunt hole,’ he snaps down the phone.

  09:00

  Jack

  John seems to be slapping Vincent on the ass for some reason. He must be just shaking off the concrete dust. At least I hope that’s all that’s going on. That’s some service.

  I watch through a gap between two parked buses as Michelle greets Vincent. He finally looks to have steadied himself. But I’m still a little shook up about him collapsing onto all fours. I remove the phone from my jacket pocket and speed-dial Darragh. My teeth grind as the tone rings out. My panic begins to grow. What the hell could have gone wrong at the apartment? Three minutes ago, everything was going perfectly; now it all seems to be falling apart. I have one collapsed man who is supposed to be taking the money and one accomplice in charge of the kidnapping who can’t answer his bloody phone. Huffing, I spin on my heels to take my frustration out on the grey brick wall I had been leaning against. It’s kicked repeatedly before I try to compose myself. I need to stay calm. I can’t draw any notice to myself. I’m staring at my phone willing it
to ring back when, in my peripheral vision, I notice Vincent entering the bank with Michelle. I’m worried about him cracking up once he’s in there. Maybe he isn’t as strong as we both think he is. I’m desperate to find out what’s going on. I speed-dial Darragh once again. This time the spotty prick answers within three dials.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ I scream down the line. He mutters some response about walking around the bedrooms. The little shit has one job to do – keep a gun on Ryan until midday. How hard can that be? Suddenly he’s telling me to calm down.

  ‘Listen,’ I say sternly. ‘Vincent bloody collapsed when he arrived at the bank.’ I can tell Darragh’s in shock. ‘He fell to the ground. He got up, though, and is in the bank now. But I need you to call him straight away and make sure he’s not breaking down in there and ruining this for us. Tell him you’re going to kill his little boyfriend if there’s any more messing.’

  I wait for Darragh to hang up but he’s still breathing down the line.

  ‘Bloody ring him!’ I shout so loud that a pedestrian walking by glances at me.

  I’m not too bothered. My disguise really is so good that I can’t imagine anybody would recognise me. There is no way any witness could conjure up any sort of photofit that would look even remotely like me. The sun is out in all its spring glory, which allows me to wear my sunglasses without any suspicion whatsoever. Most people on the streets are wearing sunglasses today. Coupled with my wig and false beard, my whole face is covered up.