The next voicemail is from Derek Talbot. He’s an old employee of mine who has tried to keep in touch with me ever since he left my old job a couple of decades ago. I like him. But I’m not really that interested in hanging on to our relationship. He rings every couple of months for a catch-up. That’s okay with me, I guess. I never follow up with his loose plans for us to meet for a drink. He’s part of my past.
The next call is from my office. Fuck! Belinda is looking for me.
‘Vincent, I’ve just noticed six missed calls on your phone here. Do you want me to listen to them? Let me know. Talk soon.’
Bollocks! I hang up from my voicemail and ring her straight back. I wonder if she’ll answer. I have asked her to stay away from the phones all morning but if she notices my mobile number ringing, she should pick up.
‘Hi, Vincent,’ she says.
‘Belinda, leave the phone alone. Have you got that paperwork in order for me yet?’
‘I’m still doing it, Vincent,’ she says. ‘It’s taking a long time. I don’t know how you got them in this mess …’
‘I just haven’t been keeping on top of paperwork, Be. If you can just concentrate on that for now and leave the phones until I get back, that’d be great.’
‘Will do, boss. I did notice that Jonathan had been looking for you. It was his number that rang a few times.’
My blood boils instantly. I surprise even myself with the tone I take.
‘Stay away from the phones, Be,’ I say more sternly than I’ve ever said anything to her before.
‘Okay, okay. I am, Vincent. I’m just keeping note when they do ring. I … I …’
‘I know you are, darling,’ I say, relieving the tension. ‘I’m sorry. I’m having a crazy morning. I have a conference call with the board members later and I need to have all that paperwork in order. Please.’
‘A conference call with the board? I didn’t know anything about—’
‘They contacted me directly first thing this morning, Be,’ I say, making my story up on the spot. ‘They’re looking for a total update. I just need to have all in order.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ asks Belinda.
‘Yes. The paperwork,’ I reply, laughing. ‘Get those files in alphabetical order and stay away from the phones.’
She laughs in return.
‘Just as you asked me this morning!’
‘Exactly. Just as I asked this morning.’
‘I’ll have them sorted before you get back,’ she says.
‘Thanks, Be.’
I’m desperate to get back to my mobile phone voicemails. I grunt, having to go through the process of dialling into the system again. It seems to be taking ages.
Bollocks. It’s Jonathan.
‘Hi, Vincent, just making sure all is okay. You said you were heading over to Michelle straight from here but I noticed your car pull off in a different direction. Everything okay? I can’t reach you and I can’t reach Belinda by phone. Let me know what’s up.’
This is so frustrating. I should have left my phone on through the morning. I was an idiot for turning it off. I need to quench these fires as soon as they come in. The voicemail informed me this call was made at ten-forty. Just eight minutes ago. I decide to listen to the last voicemail before getting back to Jonathan. It’s Noah again.
‘Mr Butler. It’s gone ten-thirty now and I hope everything is okay with you. I am awaiting your visit. Your phone seems to be switched off. Call me back at your convenience to let me know.’ Fuck off, Voss!
I liked the fact that Ryan was always home, initially. He used to work most evenings so it was great for the two of us to make the most of dinner dates. He’d search for the best restaurants in Dublin through TripAdvisor and we’d go and pay them a visit. It was great for us to rekindle our romance, but it did get kind of boring after a few months. We didn’t have a whole lot to talk about. When we did talk he would spout some shit about wanting to move to Sydney. We’d travelled through Australia back in 2010 and while I certainly enjoyed it, I harboured no ambitions to move there full time. Ryan did, however. Ryan had some bizarre notions. He never really thought things through. On the odd occasion that we would talk about something other than his dream move to Sydney, I’d mention his book. He explained the concept to me a couple of times and I think I understood it. It’s about some paparazzo who stalks Hollywood stars. Doesn’t sound very original to me. I was never sure Ryan was capable of writing a book but I wanted to support him. I bought him the latest Apple Mac and iPhone as a retirement present when he left Wow. He was so grateful. That shut him up about Sydney for a while.
I roll my eyes as I ring Jonathan back.
‘Ah, Vincent, how are you? Is everything okay?’ he asks.
‘Jonathan. Calm down. What is going on? I just got your voicemail.’
‘I just … I just thought I’d check everything was okay? I saw John pull away and—’
‘Everything is great, Jonathan. Calm down. John was just getting some petrol in the tank before we headed over to Michelle. Are you okay?’
‘I just couldn’t reach you … or Belinda. I just thought I should keep trying.’
Ah, he’s mostly upset because Belinda hasn’t been returning his calls, I bet. I finish the call by telling him I have urgent engagements. I’m pretty certain he’ll be okay for an hour or two while I get this completed. I stare out of the car window after I hang up. John has just turned right onto Church Street. I wonder how pissed off Noah is that I’m arriving twenty-five minutes later than I told him I would. I don’t give a shit. I need to be bullish in here.
10:45
Jack
I can see him holding the phone to his ear as he exits. He must be ringing Darragh to let him now he has a further two mill in tow. A packed briefcase is hanging from each of his wrists. Vincent looks to be in control. It’s a cocky approach, but I like it. John seems to be taking everything in his stride too. He greets Vincent at the trunk of the car and helps him place the cases inside. As they both climb back into the car, I take a look at my watch. They should be arriving at Church Street a little before eleven a.m. He’s not really that far behind his deadline now. I won’t be at Church Street. It’s the only branch I’m not going to witness being robbed today. I have another appointment. And it’s very important that I attend. As soon as I spin on my heels towards the South Circular Road, where my first car is parked, the phone buzzes in my hand.
‘All looks good,’ I say in an upbeat tone.
‘Yeah, he has the other two mill,’ bellows Darragh. ‘And I told him the deadline is the deadline. He seems to be quickening up.’
‘You’re doing a great job, Darragh. In just over an hour we’ll both be millionaires. Call me when Church Street is done.’
‘Will do, chief.’
The giggle I allow myself after hanging up isn’t supposed to be loud, but it is. It startles the old woman walking towards me. The car’s a four-minute swift stroll from here. I’ve made this walk three times in the build-up to today. It’ll take me ten minutes to drive to Dinah’s from the South Circular Road.
I reminisce about my time travelling with Frank while I walk. We both suffered a little post-vacation depression when we finally arrived home from our first European trip. But it didn’t take us long to get back into the swing of things. I don’t think Frank loved golf as much as I did, but he never turned down the opportunity to have a round with his old man. I think he felt it was his obligation as a son. I’m not sure I would have minded if he told me he didn’t love golf all that much. Or maybe I would. I’m not sure. Sometimes I felt he opened up more to Margarite than he did to me, but I never minded that either. In fact, I encouraged it. Margarite was a proper mother figure to him. I still stay in touch with her, though it’s a rarity these days. She moved to Edinburgh about six years ago with her husband. She met Marcus two years prior. I liked Marcus. He was a good man. I’m sure he still is. Some people thought I was jealous that Margarite ha
d met somebody else, but I genuinely wasn’t. There were times when I felt I should be jealous but I couldn’t bring myself to be. I was worried Frank would be heartbroken once Margarite moved on, but he proved to be of strong mind again. He was nearly sixteen when she left.
I get to the car twenty seconds shy of four minutes. I made a short appointment with Dinah, telling her I’d call by around eleven-ish. I wanted to leave the timing vague. I knew Vincent would be heading to Church Street any time between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock, and that would be my cue to head towards Dinah’s. She’s been amazing to me. She’s really sorted my head out.
Frank may have been a cocky teenager but that’s a much better trait in a child than that of lacking in confidence. He was a handsome young man and had a natural charm. He definitely got his gift of the gab from the Ritchies. I was never that charming. I told him once about my attempt at winning over his mother and he had to stop laughing just to breathe. We had our moments. Frank always felt like he knew it all, which was hard to deal with. But apart from the occasional spat, we were an ideal father and son combo. I’ve heard from other fathers that a father and son relationship is a lot tougher to control than a father and daughter. Daughters tend to adore their dads while mothers and sons have a preferable bond. It sounds about right. I would say on a scale of one to ten in father–son relationships mine and Frank’s would rank at about an eight or nine. I was proud of my decisions in parenthood and watching Frank grow into a fine, albeit overly confident, young man filled me with joy. I’m always surprised by how quickly time flashes by when I’m thinking of my son.
I made sure not to go over the speed limit on the way to Drimnagh, but I must have got lucky with the traffic lights across the canal. I make it to Dinah’s a full minute quicker than any time during my trial runs. I was quick getting my wig and beard off. It’s four minutes past eleven now. I imagine Vincent is inside the Church Street branch by this stage, dealing with Noah Voss.
Community centres always look bleak from the outside. Yet inside this building everything is freshly decorated. I don’t know why none of the budget goes on the exterior of these buildings. They always look uninviting, which is totally against the point of them. Dinah’s room is the first on the left past the small reception. A dark-haired man I’ve never seen before greets me as I make my way towards her.
‘How-a-ya?’
‘Hello. Is … eh … is Dinah here?’ I ask.
‘She is,’ replies the man. ‘I’ve just finished a session with her. She works wonders.’
‘She does, doesn’t she?’ I reply with a soft smile.
‘Sorry. My name is Trevor. Trevor Kirwan. I … I lost my wife five months ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Jack,’ I reply, shaking the hand he held out to me. I don’t offer any more until I notice him arch his eyebrows, willing me to open up. Fuck it. Why not? We’re both in a bereavement help centre.
‘I lost my wife too,’ I say solemnly. ‘And my son.’
10:50
Ryan
David de Gea’s long throw towards Marcus Rashford on the halfway line lets me know the winning goal is imminent. As I’m attempting to peel away at the tape wrapped tightly around my left wrist, I watch Rashford skip by two defenders before bearing down on Manuel Neuer in the Bayern Munich goal. The German’s mistimed dive brings the United attacker tumbling to the ground. It’s an obvious penalty kick. I’ve watched it a dozen times since it happened. The referee had no choice. But of course, the media made a meal of it, because it was a decision that went in favour of Manchester United. It takes a few moments for this prick to realise what’s just happened before he leaps to his feet.
‘Penalty kick, penalty kick,’ he roars.
He really is into this. I haven’t been able to tell him this match was played out two weeks ago. I figured it best to let him believe it’s live. It has assisted in his infatuation with it, meaning he hasn’t been paying me much attention. I know Paul Pogba will take the penalty kick and blast it straight down the middle of the goal while Neuer dives towards his left post. That’s how Manchester United made it to the final of this year’s Champions League to face Real Madrid. That game takes place in a couple weeks. I hope I’m fuckin’ alive to see it. The prick roars with delight upon seeing Pogba almost break the net with the penalty. He barely glances at me as he celebrates. I think he asks me a question but I don’t answer it.
‘That’s it, that’s game over isn’t it?’ he says.
It is, yes. But he can figure that all out by himself. Bayern would have needed two goals in the final few minutes of extra time and they barely even registered two shots. I don’t have to stretch as much to get my hand across to the remaining tape but it is a more difficult task. My arms are more visible to the prick than my legs are. But I can sit back in a relaxed state while I delicately peel at the tape. The gun is still sitting on the glass table next to his mobile phone. I hope it’s still there when I free myself. Shouldn’t be long now. I’m thinking through my plan of action once again when I notice him grab at the chair he had Vincent perched on this morning. He spins it around until it mirrors my chair, and then he plonks himself on it. His nose must be only two feet from mine. I can smell his breath. It smells like baked beans. I immediately curl my ankles around the front legs of my chair, hoping with all my might that he doesn’t notice they are now free.
‘Game over!’ he says with a grin. ‘Who will they play in the final?’
I think about not answering before deciding that’s not the best route to take right now.
‘Real Madrid play Juventus in the other semi-final tomorrow,’ I offer up. ‘Do you want to call by to watch that with me too?’ He finds my retort funny.
‘I’ll be out spending my millions tomorrow, fag boy,’ he responds. It’s so juvenile to call anyone a fag. I’m glad he’s immature. I can take this fucker down once I’m free. I’m certain of it. ‘Who’ll win that?’
‘Real Madrid,’ I answer with absolute positivity. I know. The game was actually played last week.
‘Really? You think so?’
‘I know so. They won the first leg one–nil and they’ll see out a nil-all draw tomorrow to go through.’
He screws his nose up trying to take in what I say. I know the two legs thing still has him baffled despite me explaining it to him when he first settled down to watch the game. His silence is welcome. I’m wondering if he’s going to leave it at that. I can see he’s thinking about what to do. The palms of my hands are clammy with sweat. If he notices my ankles are no longer taped then all my morning’s work will be undone. I glance at the microwave clock, ignoring his gaze. Anything to get away from the stench of his beans. 10:58.
Holy shit. Do I really have just an hour to live?
After a while the only videos that TeenCum069 was sharing with me involved kids. It was very strange watching them, but I found it quite addictive viewing. I was half turned on, half feeling sick with guilt. I remember feeling the same way when I watched “regular” porn for the very first time. I had the nerve when I was just fourteen years old to ask the local video rental guy if he had any porn movies. He didn’t hesitate in ducking down behind his counter to show me what he had to offer. I’d heard of pornography then, but I’d never watched any of it. I pretended to school friends that I knew what sex was all about but I hadn’t got a clue. I remember waiting on my mother to go to work that evening before placing the VHS in our dated video recorder. The film opened with a beautiful blonde girl stranded on the side of the road after her car broke down. Fast forward to three minutes later when the hero who stopped to help her began to unzip his jeans. I watched stunned as she took his hard dick to the back of her throat.
What the fuck’s going on?
My stomach flipped upside down. I felt like throwing up. But so too did my dick. It stood on end. That mixed feeling between a sour stomach and horniness thrashes through my body every time I watch kiddie porn. TeenCum069 introduced me to other l
ike-minded Internet scum. It wasn’t long until they were teaching me how to contact kids online. I still can’t believe how easy it is for us to interact with teens. Why the fuck do their parents allow them this sort of access online? I guess they can’t help it. Every kid wants to have their own social media accounts and that is where they’re most vulnerable. All it takes is for people like me to set up a fake account, using images of a hot young girl, and boys will do or say anything you ask them to. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been this gullible when I was ten or twelve years of age. Kids these days are more stupid than ever. Despite me contacting quite a few cute kids when I first set up my fake account, it was a ten-year-old named Brady Donovan who fell for my bullshit first. He was fascinated with Nicole Blake, my alter ego. It didn’t take long for him to agree to meet me. But I kept putting it off. Every time we arranged a date, I would freeze. So many permutations crossed my mind. The guys in the forum tried to help me fight those fears. They’d all been through this countless times before. They knew how to deal with the fact that the boy was looking to meet a cute schoolgirl only to be met by a middle-aged man. They gave me all the lines, all the subtleties required. It was like being handed ammunition. I remember the date well because it etched itself on my mind. I arranged to meet Brady in the car park of the Travelodge in Derry on the sixth of December. That was about a year and a half ago now. I had a room booked in the hotel under the names of Charles and Brady Donovan – a father and son. When I first bumped into him in the car park, I figured straight away that the guys’ hints and tips would work almost effortlessly.
‘She can’t make it,’ I told Brady’s disappointed face. ‘I’m her uncle. She asked me to come and meet you just to make sure you can be a good enough boyfriend for her. If you come with me, she asked me to show you some things. She wants to know if you’re ready. Ready to meet her. To really love her.’
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 17