The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set

by David B Lyons

  ‘I was only fuckin’ messin’ with ya, fag. I wasn’t going to cut your ear off. Who do you think I am?’ he snaps back at me.

  ‘A murderer, a kidnapper. Isn’t that what you told me you were?’ I reply like a hero. But I need to shut the fuck up. I need to get him back focused on something else, anything but me. I’m almost free. How has he not noticed that my legs are no longer taped? How does he think I managed to knee him so hard in the balls?

  ‘Listen, dude,’ I say, cringing. I hate the word ‘dude’ but he said it earlier on and it’s stuck at the forefront of my mind. ‘There’s an hour left till the deadline. Can we both just wait it out? Go back to watching TV or somethin’?’

  ‘I’m in charge here, fag,’ he replies, lifting himself slowly to a standing position. ‘I’ll decide what we’ll do. You ever knee me in the bollocks like that again and I will cut your fuckin’ ear off, boy, d’ye hear me?’

  ‘Understood,’ I say, nodding my head while he waves the razor blade in my face.

  ‘Right,’ he says, limping back to the couch. ‘What’s normally on this time of the day? Do you watch Jeopardy?’

  Brady won my heart in the short elevator ride we took to the sixth floor of the Travelodge. He was adorable. He kept asking how Nicole was and if I thought they could ever be husband and wife one day. Guilt welled up inside me. I could feel it as I stared down at him. He chatted away without removing the smile from his face. I bet his parents were really proud of him. He was super cute. He bounced up on the bed like any ten-year-old would when we entered the room. He was still asking questions about Nicole. It would break his heart if I told him I was really Nicole and that I’d been the person Facebook messaging him for the past eight weeks. But I couldn’t tell him. It was all part of the act. I needed to persuade him that Nicole had insisted he was sexually active before she met him. I’d been told that once I was in this situation, showing him the porn movies and telling him what the girl wanted from him, I’d be able to close the deal one hundred per cent of the time. I practically had little Brady by the balls.

  ‘What videos does Nicole want me to watch?’ he spat out. It was about the hundredth question he’d asked, but it was one I took time to answer. I rubbed my face in frustration.

  ‘She … eh … she – you know what?’ I said, kneeling down to touch his face as he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I forgot the tapes.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said, appearing really disappointed in me. ‘How could you?’

  ‘I … I’ll tell you what. Next time I’ll bring Nicole with me, huh? And you two can watch the tapes together. I just need to tell her if I think you are a good guy.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’ I asked.

  ‘Think I’m a good guy?’

  ‘I think you’re adorable,’ I said, kissing him on the forehead.

  He beamed a wide grin at me as an awkward silence filled the room. I took the time to think, rubbing at my face again.

  ‘Go on. Go. I’ll tell Nicole you’d be the perfect boyfriend. I promise.’

  11:10

  Jack

  Dinah has the air conditioning turned on. I find her office perfectly cool. It helps me breathe. I am certain I’m coming across as normal to her. I’ll miss Dinah. She knows our meetings are coming to an end anyway. It’s been a couple of months since I last met with her. Before that, I hadn’t seen her since before Christmas. We used to meet every week, at the same time of the same day – nine a.m. Thursdays. We’d sit and talk for over an hour about my grieving. Well, that’s not strictly true. We would talk about anything. Sports, politics, Dublin, my family, her family – or lack of it – and anything else that popped up. We talked like friends talk but I always knew that the conversation would eventually swing around to how I had been handling my losses. Dinah didn’t have to assist with my feelings of guilt. That’s a bullshit feeling to have after somebody’s died. It’s supposed to be a natural part of the grieving process but I leapfrogged it. It’s a waste of time. You can never go back, so stewing on feelings such as guilt is a hundred per cent pointless. I began to really understand that soon after Karyn passed. Denial and bargaining are two further features of the grieving process that I didn’t need counselling for. Again, they’re a total waste of time. Of course, you should accept what’s happened to you. It’s happened. Deal with it. But I needed Dinah to help me with the anger I felt – not with Karyn’s passing, but with Frank’s.

  It’s been eighteen months since I first met with her. I feel slightly sad that I’m going to give her my usual goodbye hug in about five minutes’ time, never to see her again. She doesn’t know for certain that I’ll never visit, but she’s aware that I feel I no longer need her. I’m one of her best clients. I guess it helps when you can be open-minded enough to skip most of the processes she has to help you get through. I smile and nod at her as she tells me about the holiday she’s just returned from. She and her husband have just been to Oslo. She’d always wanted to go but couldn’t afford it. Bereavement counsellors mustn’t be paid an awful lot. They should be. I’m not sure what her husband Tom does but I know this is the first time they’ve holidayed together outside Ireland since they met. She’s not suffering from post-vacation blues. She’s still smiling from the delights of the Norwegian capital.

  ‘You need to visit,’ she insists, staring at me over the top of her retro-style glasses frames.

  ‘I will, I promise,’ I say, lying to her. It’s such a shame to lie to Dinah.

  ‘So you just wanted to drop by to let me know everything is okay?’

  ‘That’s all. I figured I hadn’t seen you in too long, so wanted to say hi,’ I lie again.

  ‘You look great.’

  ‘I hope I look half as good as you,’ I return. ‘I guess I need ten days in Oslo, huh?’

  Dinah tries to bring up Frank but I bat it away politely. She probably noticed, but she won’t be surprised. I don’t mind talking about Frank. I’d talk about Frank to anybody. But I don’t want to talk about the whys or the hows; why Frank died, how Frank died. I just don’t. My mind has to move forward.

  I stayed with the Ritchies for eight long days after we lost Frank. I had nowhere else to turn. I think I was depressed, but I mostly remember feeling shocked. Or stunned. It was certainly surreal. I felt like I was walking around in another world. Harry was devastated. He cried for seven of those eight days. As soon as he started talking about revenge I decided to go back to my own place. That was tough. Walking into Frank’s bedroom for the first time since I lost him was heart-breaking. I fell onto his bed and allowed it to swallow me up as I forced out some tears. I only cried because I felt I should. I’m not sure it did me any good. His room didn’t feel right. The cops had been in days ago, searching through all his belongings and, although they did their best to restore everything, it didn’t look the same to me.

  The sight of a cop standing at the front of your house, pursing their lips in sorrow, is something that tattoos the brain. I’ll always remember Declan O’Reilly’s face even though I have tried my best to forget it. He was only a young Garda, maybe in his late twenties. I’ve often wondered if I was the first person he ever had to bring such heart-breaking news to. His pale face told me Frank was dead. I didn’t even have to listen to his words. I stumbled back into the hallway before flopping myself on the bottom step of our staircase. I was always conscious, always aware of what was happening, always aware of what I’d just been told. The surreality kicked in two days later, when I was being smothered by the entire Ritchie clan. They did help in some ways, I guess. I needed people around me. I distinctly remember the pain of Frank’s death as being physical. My bones and my muscles genuinely throbbed with pain. And I never thought that pain would ease. I believed I was destined for a lifetime of hurt. Bizarrely I’m fulfilled now; happier than I’ve ever been. My life is exciting, more exciting than I ever thought possible.

  ‘You know I’d still like to see you on a regular basis,’ Dinah sa
ys.

  She mentions this every time I see her. She’s proud of how I’ve recovered, but I’m pretty sure deep down she feels I got over my losses way too quickly. She thinks I will wake up one morning and a grief explosion will go off inside my stomach. She sees contentment in me, but she has no idea that I’m actually filled with joy. That my life without Frank has actually been largely exciting. I came up with this plan a couple of months after I lost my son and I’m buzzing with anticipation. My new life is going to be perfect. Our new life is going to be perfect.

  ‘I’ll come a-calling any time I feel like I need a Dinah hug,’ I reply.

  ‘I know you will, Jack. You’ll always be my favourite.’ She says this every time too. She doesn’t precede it with ‘I really shouldn’t say this, but …’ anymore.

  When I stand up to embrace her I know I’ve nailed it. This meeting went as swift and as normal as any of our last few meetings. A drop by. A catch-up. I’ve been the exact same person I have always been when I’m in this little office. Dinah would have no idea that I am masterminding the greatest bank robbery Ireland has ever seen at this very moment. If – and it’s a big if – I ever need an alibi for this morning, I’ve just perfected one. I haven’t looked at the time since getting to the help centre. I didn’t want to look at a clock any time I was there, consciously. Dinah couldn’t say I was preoccupied in our short meeting. She could genuinely just say I was focused on her. But I guess it must be around eleven-fifteen now. Maybe eleven-twenty. I pace towards my car trying not to get noticed by Trevor. He’s still sitting in his own car, about ten or fifteen minutes after meeting with Dinah. Poor fella. He winds his window down as I pass by.

  ‘That was quick,’ he calls over to me.

  Ah, shit, he’s getting out of the car. He purses his lips at me again. This guy is desperate for consolation. I have nothing to say to him. I could rant on and on about him having to deal with the hand that he’s been dealt, that his story is his story and he needs to just continue it, that his wife’s passing was just a big blemish in the narrative of his life. But I don’t have the time for that. I also don’t have the personality for it either. I’m too nice a guy to be that blunt to a stranger.

  ‘I … I just see Dinah every now and then for a quick catch-up. She’s been very good to me,’ I reply.

  ‘Me too.’ He smiles. ‘She’s a huge help.’

  I think about patting him on the shoulder and walking away in the immediate silence that follows, but his mouth beats me to it.

  ‘Liver cancer, it was,’ he says, looking at his feet.

  Jesus, do we really need to do this?

  ‘I’m … I’m really sorry, Trevor. You know … keep seeing Dinah. Tell her everything. She will get you through this. I promise.’

  ‘She’s already helping,’ he says, trying to sound upbeat. But he’s failing. This guy is miserable. ‘And you … your wife?’ he asks, looking back up at me.

  ‘Skin cancer. Thirteen years ago now. She was gone within six months of diagnosis. Went right through her.’

  He looks a little puzzled. ‘Same as your son? Was it cancer too?’

  ‘No. No,’ I say almost laughing. I don’t know why I almost laugh. I think it’s the manner in which he seems obsessed with cancer. ‘He was killed. Got into a fight one night … y’know.’ I shrug. ‘One punch and … he was gone.’

  11:10

  Vincent

  ‘And the last one, Mr Butler,’ Noah says, sliding the paperwork towards me.

  I’m eyeballing him, not the paperwork. Why has he been so quick reading this? He basically skim-read through the pages, far from as thorough as Chelle or Jonathan were. I should have stopped him, insisted he read every word clearly for me. But I really need to get the fuck out of here. I feel a little disappointed with myself because I let Noah get away with something. I suck my teeth signing the last page. Noah must think I’m still upset with him over his staff not calling him ‘Mister’. Then again, perhaps he thinks I’m always upset with him over something. I’ve never been nice to Noah. I’ve never been polite to him. It’s odd. I’m a really nice person. I’m certain I’m not the only one who thinks that. All my colleagues would consider me fair. Stern, but fair. I wouldn’t say people would have reasons to dislike me. Noah would, though. He’s probably the only one. Which is why it annoys me that he’s always really nice and polite to me. He’s got to be fake. He’s got to be a fraud.

  ‘Ready, Mr Butler? Three, two—’

  I interrupt. ‘Hold on, Noah. I’ll do the countdown. Okay? Three, two and one.’

  We both swipe our keys to enter the first door of the vault. Fuck you, Voss, I think, before realising that really was a petty little victory. I shouldn’t let this fucker get to me. I need to stay in character. Stay in control. I need to get this job done. Ryan’s dimples flash through my mind. He’s still kinda cute.

  We started to clash when he was home all the time. I didn’t have my respite after work. I just wanted an hour to myself to tune out. I always had that when he was working evenings at Wow. But I started to miss that luxury from my day. It irritated me. Ryan didn’t irritate me, the circumstance did. But I still took it out on him. I’d casually ask about his novel in the first couple of months, not really caring about the answer. His response was always vague. I just thought I should ask. We began to fuck a lot more then. I think he was bored all day and sex crossed his mind more often. Besides, he wasn’t fucking anybody else behind my back for the first time in a while. All his erections were for me. I understood he was most likely living out another fantasy in his head when we were fucking, but I actually appreciated and enjoyed the sex. It was a workout. Besides, most people imagine anybody but the person they’re fucking when they’re having sex, don’t they? I do.

  Our relationship was in the ‘okay’ status, I would have thought. I loved him and hated him in about equal measure and I think he felt the same way about me at that stage. I guess being in an ‘okay’ relationship is about the average for any couple. But what really bothered me most was that my professional life had sunk to ‘okay’ status too. I was always a high-flyer. I was always somebody. I felt like somebody when I walked around Dublin. I had control over important matters in this city. But I felt I was starting to become less significant. I could feel it. My walk even changed. There was less of a bounce to it. I knew I was lucky after the redundancies were handed down in early 2009. The board told me they wanted me to stay on as overseer of the four remaining banks. It was a huge responsibility. But there are some days when I think I was actually the unlucky one. Soon after the restructure of the branches, the elderly board members started to wilt away. Slightly earlier-than-they-thought retirement decisions were made and I was left with a naïve board who didn’t involve me in any decision-making. It’s such a shame. If I had been operating in this position under the previous board I think we’d be back to a similar situation to the one we were in before the recession. As it stands now, we’re making slow progress. The progress because of me, the slow because of them. I didn’t have a midlife crisis, I had a midlife settlement with myself. I remember sitting down one evening while watching a Bill Maher clip on YouTube and realising I was okay with ‘okay’. I was too lazy for anything other than ‘okay’. I was beginning to distance myself from social occasions and even reduced Chelle to just a colleague. I was content getting up for work at seven o’clock every morning and arriving home at six-thirty in the evening to crash on the couch with Ryan. I couldn’t claim to be the happiest man in the world, but given that the experts were saying one in three people will suffer with depression at some point in their lives and I happened to steer clear of it all my life, being ‘okay’ was okay by me.

  I stand parallel to Noah, intently glaring at his face out of the corner of my eyes. I don’t even blink. I really don’t understand this guy.

  Why did he race through the paperwork? Why does he seem in as much of a rush as I am?

  Maybe it’s just that I’m such a great
boss that when I suggest I’m in a hurry, you are too. It’s not even Noah’s rushing that’s bothering me about him. It’s just his face, his bullshit-believing face. I hate it. Even the breaths he’s breathing in between each count of ten bundles are annoying me.

  ‘Stop fuckin’ breathing,’ I spit out of my mouth as if I’ve got Tourette’s. I said what I was thinking. He looks up at me in disbelief. A silence fills the vault and I know it’s totally my responsibility to put an end to it.

  ‘Eh … so loudly. Sorry. It’s echoing in here and I can’t concentrate on counting along with you.’ He’s still staring at me, his mouth slightly ajar. So he should. What a ridiculous thing to say to somebody. Stop breathing. Fuckin’ hell!

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was a really rude thing to say, Noah,’ I continue, filling the second silence.

  I touch him on the shoulder. I’m sure a vision has flashed past his eyes where he saw himself punching my lights out. I wonder if Noah has a really dark side. I’m sure he does. Most of these Jesus freaks are fronting for a secret life of darkness.

  ‘That’s okay, Mr Butler,’ he finally says, flashing me his bright pink gums again. They’re revolting.

  ‘No, no. I am sorry. Please forget I said that. Please. I’m just under a lot of stress.’

  I cringe when he takes his eyes off me. I can feel the embarrassment shudder through my insides. I have never been that rude to anybody in my entire life. I’m just feeling so stressed. I look at my watch. It’s almost twenty past eleven. Fuck me. I’ve forty minutes left.

  ‘Come on, Noah. Let’s finish counting these notes, pal.’