‘Thank you, Dod.’
I smile a big huge smile.
‘Okay, sit up here.’
Dod puts down the pan then grabs me and sits me up on the counter where all the food is.
‘I really trust you now.’
I smile again.
‘I think you are getting old enough to be able to do things around the house, so you don’t have to spend too much time down in your basement, what do you think about that?’
I feel really excited. My belly has that fuzzy feeling it can get sometimes when things are good.
‘What would you like me to do?’
‘Well, has cooking come up in any of your books?’
I nod my head.
‘Sometimes. Some books talk about making breakfasts and dinners but I don’t know how to do it. It doesn’t say how to cook in the books, just that dinners are cooked. That’s all… I think.’
Dod laughs a little at what I’m trying to say. I feel a bit embarrassed.
‘Well, see these books here?’
Dod reaches past me and to four really big books. They’re huge. Really thick. There must be a million words in them.
‘Well, I know you like reading, so maybe you can read some of these and they’ll teach you how to cook.’
I take the first book off him. It says Gordon Ramsay: Easy on it. I flick through it then nod my head.
‘I can read this. Thank you, Dod.’
‘Great. Soon you’ll be like my little housewife.’
I look at Dod and am not sure whether to laugh or not. I’m not sure if he was making a joke. Then he leans towards me and kisses me on the lips. That’s weird. He hasn’t done that before.
‘I think you’re old enough to be a little housewife now,’ he says.
13:20
Lenny
Lenny grasps Michelle by both wrists. He wants to stare into her eyes, but can’t really make out her face, not with her hair strewn over it.
‘Michelle, it’s okay. It’s okay.’
He helps her to an upright position and walks her to the sofa where she sits. She parts her hair from her face and then covers it with her hands.
‘Michelle, we are only looking after Gordon’s last wish,’ Lenny says. ‘I didn’t mean to bring back so many horrible memories for you, I’m sorry.’
Michelle blows out a sigh, then wipes her hand across her nose, sniffing as she does so.
‘It’s not you I’m angry with. It’s bloody Gordon. I haven’t heard from him for years… and now this… this.’ She stretches her arms outwards as if she’s preaching at a ceremony.
‘Just gimme one sec,’ Lenny says before spinning on his heels and making his way to his mobile phone he’d left resting on the arm of the chair.
‘Ray…’ he says.
‘What the hell is going on there, Lenny?’
‘I’m eh… I’m with Betsy’s mother Michelle right now; she’s obviously and rightly upset by all of this. Can I please ring you back in ten minutes? I’d love to talk to you.’
There’s an obvious and awkward hesitation on the other end of the line.
‘Okay – but don’t leave it longer than ten minutes. I’m all set to go back out onto the lake.’
Lenny thanks Ray, hangs up and then moves slowly towards Michelle again. She’s removed her hands, is now staring into space, oblivious to the mess of broken glass on the floor.
‘Michelle, can I make you a cup of tea or get you a water or anything?’
Lenny’s question is met with silence.
‘Michelle… Michelle.’ He inches closer to her. Then her eyes refocus and her head snaps to face Lenny.
‘So he’s probably gonna die today huh?’
Lenny stiffens his nose, then nods.
‘It’s not definite, he still has a fighting chance, but…’ Lenny plonks himself on the sofa next to Michelle and holds out his hands as if he’s finishing his sentence through body language.
‘I feel sorry for him, but this… bringing all this shit to my door again. Lenny – it’s not fair. I’ve never done anything wrong in my life. And I’ve just lost my job as well. Why does he always—’
‘He just wants closure before his operations,’ Lenny says, interrupting Michelle in an effort to stop her from flying into a rage again.
She turns her soaked face towards him.
‘We got closure twelve years ago. Betsy’s gone. She’s dead.’
Lenny swallows hard, then taps his hands against his knees, unsure what way to continue the conversation with the devastated woman next to him. Even when Lenny had dreamt of investigating real crimes, he never quite concocted a case in his head that would involve such complicated conversation. When he was training to be a policeman, his tutors touched upon the communications required with family members of deceased persons, but nothing could have prepared him for this. He subtly presses at a button on his phone so he can see the time on his screen. 13:24. He only has an hour and a half to ensure Gordon activates the will. Lenny clenches his teeth, then speaks up.
‘Are you absolutely certain in your heart that Betsy is deceased?’ he asks.
Michelle turns her head slowly to face him again.
‘You’re as bloody deluded as he is. Aren’t you supposed to be an investigator? Some investigator you are. It’s on record… go, go on, ring De Brun back, he’ll tell ye. Then you can give up the ghost. You can go back to Gordon and tell him his dying wish is not achievable. That Betsy is gone. And it’s all his fucking fault for never being mature enough to be responsible for somebody else.’
Lenny cringes a little inside. He knows he fucked up. It wasn’t his place to ruin poor Michelle’s day. The woman had been through enough over the years. Last thing she needed was him dragging all of her miserableness back into her home. He reaches out to her, places the palm of his hand on her shoulder.
‘Get your hands off me,’ she snaps. Then she stands, her arm stretched towards her door. ‘Get out of my house. Out you go. And don’t come back this time.’
‘But Michelle—’
‘Out!’ she screams, so loudly that Lenny immediately takes a step back.
He places his phone back in his pocket, picks up his hat and heads for the door without saying another word. He’d like to offer Michelle more apologies but feels every time he opens his mouth to her he says the wrong thing.
When he gets outside the rain is falling harder than it has at any point so far today. He wonders if he should call a taxi or Ray De Brun first. As he’s thinking it through, he strolls down Michelle’s drive, plonking his hat atop his head, then comes to rest against the lamppost outside the neighbour’s house – much like he had done fifteen minutes ago. It’s a bit like Groundhog Day – one of Lenny’s favourite movies – only Lenny’s mind was swirling too much for him to entertain such a notion.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Lenny,’ he says to himself as he bumps the side of his head against the lamppost. Then he holds the phone to his ear and awaits an answer.
‘Yep.’
‘Ray, it’s Lenny Moon. Thanks for taking my call. So sorry to disturb your day, but as you know, Gordon Blake is in a very bad state, may well be dead in the next couple of hours—’
‘Lenny – let me stop you there so we can end this conversation quickly and get back to our day. As I said, Betsy Blake is dead. If Gordon wants finality or closure or whatever it is he’s looking for; that’s closure right there. She’s gone. She was killed the night she was reported missing… there’s no investigating needed anymore. Case is closed.’
Lenny sucks cold air through his nostrils. He knows this information is likely true, given that not only Betsy’s mother, but the lead detective in the case has confirmed it for him in the past ten minutes. But he’s also aware that going back to Gordon with this information most likely won’t be good enough reason for him to activate the will. Lenny needs something, something Gordon hasn’t heard before.
‘Is there anything… anything about the case that Gordon and
Michelle won’t have known?’ Lenny asks, almost cringing as he does so; his eyes shutting, his neck hunching under his raised shoulders.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just want to find out as much information about the investigation as possible.’
A snort of laughter comes down the line.
‘Lenny… Please.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’ Lenny doesn’t know what to say.
‘What happened with Michelle; is she okay?’ De Brun asks.
‘Yeah – she just got upset at me dragging back up her past. I’m an idiot. I should’ve handled it more sensitively. Gordon sent me to her house. He says Jake Dewey might’ve had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance.’
‘Well… I’ve mishandled things many times as a detective when it comes to dealing with families, so you have my sympathy. As does Michelle… and Gordon. They’ve always had my sympathy. But listen, Jake Dewey had absolutely nothing to do with Betsy’s death.’
‘What about Alan Keating and Barry Ward?’
‘Lenny, you sound like Gordon. Listen to me, it wasn’t Jake Dewey, wasn’t Keating or Ward, it wasn’t Gordon Blake himself and it wasn’t… Look, Betsy is dead.’
‘Hold on – it wasn’t who… who was the other suspect you were gonna name there?’
‘Lenny, Betsy is dead. We found a car many years later that had her DNA in it. And that DNA pointed to her dying. We believe the driver of that car that night hit Betsy when she ran out onto the road and, rather than face the music, he scooped her up, put her in the boot and dumped or hid her body somewhere… She’s gone, Lenny. Betsy died. She’s not being held captive anywhere. Case is closed.’
‘But who was the other suspect you were about to name there? Please.’
‘Listen, all suspects were cleared, okay… cleared because they didn’t have anything to do with Betsy. Lenny, I gotta go. I can’t give you specific details of any suspects and you know it, or you should know it.’
Lenny slouches against the lamppost, breathes out a cloud of a sigh, then holds his hands together as if in prayer, the phone sandwiched between them.
‘I am begging you, Ray. Just for something. I’m a poor guy… I have nothing, my family has nothing. Gordon Blake promised me some riches if I could find anything out today. If I don’t find anything—’
‘Don’t believe anything Gordon Blake tells you, Lenny. I’m sorry… goodbye.’
Lenny kicks at the lamppost when he hears the dead tone whistle through his phone. Then he stares back at Michelle’s house and pictures the poor woman inside balled up on her sofa crying. It makes him kick the lamppost again. This time harder.
‘She’s dead. Course she’s dead! What was I even thinking?’
Lenny opens his hand, stares at his phone and then begins to dial for a taxi. He’s half way through punching in the number when the phone begins to vibrate.
‘Hello.’
‘Lenny; listen,’ says De Brun. ‘This is only because you pleaded… I can’t give you any inside info from our side, but if you want to know what happened in the Betsy Blake investigation off the record, then perhaps you should speak to Frank Keville. D’ye know who he is?’
‘Frank Keville? The journalist fella who’s in a wheelchair?’
‘Yep – he covered the case for years, knows it inside out. Perhaps he’d be willing to share information with you that I can’t.’
Ten years ago
Betsy
Making curry is my favourite. Me and Dod both really like Chicken Madras. I cut up the chicken breasts so they are really small, like little Lego blocks, and then I cut some onions and green peppers. After I fry them in the pan for six minutes, I add the sauce. I love the smell of the sauce. I am so happy Dod lets me cook. I have learned so much from the Gordon Ramsay books. Me and Dod have curries every Tuesday and Thursday. On Monday, I cook a stir-fry and Dod cooks the other days. He doesn’t let me up the steps to eat every day, but I come up most days.
It depends on how he is feeling. He’s not always happy, but he is definitely never angry Dod anymore. He doesn’t hurt me. He doesn’t pick me up and throw me around. He hasn’t done that for years. I feel happy when I am around him. Not scared like I used to be. The only weird thing now is that he keeps kissing me on the lips, not on the cheek like he used to. It doesn’t taste nice.
‘How long?’ Dod asks. He is on the sofa watching the television.
I check the time on the top of the oven.
‘Two minutes,’ I say.
He says something else. I can’t really hear him that well. The curry is sizzling too loudly. I step down off my little step that Dod set up for me in the kitchen and then go see what he was saying. I walk into the television room.
‘I couldn’t hear you. What did you say, Dod?’
‘I said hurry up, I’m bleedin’ starving.’
I feel sad. Dod is not good Dod today. I walk a little closer to him.
‘Are you okay, Dod?’
He stares at me. He has that angry look in his eye. I hate it when he has that look.
‘Are you a fuckin doctor now?’
I shake my head. I don’t know what to say. He is still looking at me. Then I hear a loud beep sound.
‘Ye little shit,’ Dod says. He runs by me and into the kitchen.
‘Look, you fuckin idiot.’ He shows me the pan. The food has gone a little bit black. It’s not much. But Dod is angry. He presses a button that turns the beep off and then throws the pan against the wall.
‘Clean that shit up and start the dinner again.’
He walks out of the kitchen. I think if I was younger I would cry. But now that I am eleven and nearly a grownup I don’t cry. I just get down on my hands and knees and begin to clean up. I like to think about story ideas when I am doing things I don’t like.
I have a story idea about a girl who becomes a magician and goes to a magic school. It’s a bit like Harry Potter but I want it to be different. Except anytime I sit down to write I get confused. My writing is not good and it takes me ages to write even one sentence. I wish I had have gone to school like the characters in my books do. If I did, I bet I could write much better and much quicker. Reading books has taught me a lot about words and I can talk really well. But when it comes to writing words, it takes me ages to spell them out. It has taken me nearly three months to write two pages of my story. The Harry Potter books have two-hundred and fifty pages in them. It will take me years to write a book that size. But there isn’t really anything else for me to do when I’m in my basement. So maybe I will finish my book one day. I think it’s going to be called Magical Mabel. That’s the name of the girl: Mabel. She is seven years old in it, has red hair and loads of freckles. Then she gets kidnapped and taken to a big school with lots of other children who have the same magic powers as she has. But she doesn’t like the school and wants to escape. Sometimes I think I would like to escape from here. But I can’t. If Dod caught me he would really hurt me. I don’t want to be hurt again. My back still gets sore from the last time. And that was years ago.
‘Here, let me help you,’ Dod says. He gets down on his hands and knees too and helps me put the dinner back into the pan. Then he brings the pan to the bin and tips the food into it. ‘I’m sorry for being so… so snappy,’ he says. ‘I’m just not feeling well.’
‘Did you call a doctor?’
‘I was at the doctors last week.’
‘Oh, that’s where you went that time you locked me in the room?’ I ask.
He nods his head.
‘Yeah, the doctor says I need to take some tablets and get some rest. But none of that seems to be working. I’m sorry I shouted at you and threw the pan against the wall. I’m gonna order us some take-away instead. You like pizza?’
‘Pizza?’ I never heard of it.
Dod laughs.
‘C’mon, come in and watch television with me. You can stay up here late tonight.’
We walk into the television roo
m and I go to sit in the chair I sit on all the time.
‘Nah, Betsy. Come over here with me.’
Dod lifts the blanket he is lying under and I get in it with him. He throws his arm around me and hugs me as we both look at the television.
‘This is nice, huh?’ he says. I just nod my head. But I don’t think it’s nice. I would be more comfortable sitting on the chair I like. On my own. Then Dod kisses the back of my neck. Yuck.
13:25
Gordon
Walking the corridors of a hospital is hardly a recipe for relaxation. Every ward door that’s open offers me a view to another grey-skinned person lying in a bed, much like I had been minutes ago. Still, Elaine – god love her – is doing her very best to soothe me. She keeps talking about football, has assumed that because I said I like the sport that I know as much about it as she does. She’s been rabbiting on for the past couple of minutes, ranting about how much her beloved Manchester United have damaged their reputation ever since Sir Alex Ferguson retired. The amount of statistics she has thrown at me in the past three minutes is, I’m sure, quite impressive. But it all sounds like gobbledygook to me.
She stops talking, then turns to face me.
‘You’re not really that big a fan of football are you?’
It didn’t take her long to realise that. I laugh, my first laugh of the day, then shake my head.
‘Certainly not as much as you are. No, I mean – I might watch the odd game if it’s on tele, but no… maybe I exaggerated a bit. I’m not that big a football fan.’
She giggles.
‘Okay – then what do you like, what can we talk about that will help you relax?’
I shrug both shoulders.
‘Don’t know really.’
‘What hobbies have you got? What do you do when you’re not working?’
‘I don’t work. Not anymore. Got paid off by the company I founded less than a year after Betsy went missing. I understood why. I couldn’t focus. But it was tough. Y’know… I lost my daughter, my wife and my business all in the space of ten months.’
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 37