The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set

by David B Lyons

  The nurse continues to pat at Lenny’s bicep, continues to try to console him but he’s barely listening anymore. All he wants to know now is whether or not Gordon left behind an envelope with his name on it; whether or not he is now the owner of a million euro gaff. He nods solemnly towards the nurse, trying to act as if he’s desperately saddened.

  ‘If you would like to meet with any of our grief counsellors, I can put you in touch with them…’

  Lenny stiffens his face, then blinks before composing himself.

  ‘Did he eh… did he leave anything for me?’

  The nurse purses her lips, then shakes her head really slowly.

  Shit!

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ she says, ‘But I didn’t clear Gordon’s ward. I know all of his possessions were brought to our family storage room – would you like me to check them for you?’

  Lenny nods. Probably a little too eagerly. But before he’s even stopped nodding, the nurse slips her hand around to the top of his back and begins to guide him back down the corridor.

  Lenny can sense that the nurse is interested in talking, perhaps she’s intrigued by the life of Gordon Blake – she must be if she found out he was the father of Betsy Blake. But they don’t talk as they take a lift down to the ground floor, and don’t talk as they stroll down a long corridor to reach a small reception area.

  ‘Hi, Tanya,’ the nurse says, ‘Gordon Blake, the patient we lost on the table today, his belongings were taken down here a couple of hours ago…’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Tanya says, turning her back and entering a pokey room to the side of her reception desk.

  The nurse reaches out another hand to Lenny’s bicep, pats at it. But he can’t bring himself to look at her, he’s afraid he has guilt written all over his face. She thinks he’s saddened by the news she’s shared with him, she has no idea he is bubbling up inside with excitement.

  ‘It’s not much,’ Tanya says, standing in the doorway. She holds the door open, nods for Lenny to enter.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the nurse says. ‘I’ll be back up on floor three if you feel you need to come talk to me, okay?’

  Lenny barely reacts, he’s too busy staring inside the pokey room. He paces forwards, bypasses Tanya in the doorway and stares at a plastic bag resting on a small white fold-down table.

  ‘That’s everything we took from Mr Blake’s ward,’ says Tanya. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  When she closes the door, Lenny looks to the ceiling first, as if he’s praying to a God he doesn’t believe in. Then he takes one deep breath, still staring up at the ceiling, and steps forward to spread the bag wide open.

  He removes a T-shirt and a pair of shorts before spotting a small brown envelope. He snatches at it, spins it around in his hands.

  Fuck yeah!

  For the attention of Lenny Moon.

  He rips the envelope open with his thumb, and unfolds the paper inside it. There are two sheets of paper. But it’s the very first sheet that makes his heart thump loudly. It is the will. And it’s made out to him.

  This is the will and testament of Gordon James Blake.

  I hereby wish to leave the home, addressed 166 South Circular Road, Inchicore, Dublin 8, Ireland to Leonard Moon.

  It’s signed by Gordon and signed by two girls – one named Elaine Reddy, the other Saoirse Guinness. Lenny’s eyes almost glaze over with joy. The guilt he had been feeling has dissipated, the cringes that were flittering up and down his spine all afternoon forgotten. He and his family are now rich. In bricks and mortar at least.

  He places the first sheet aside, sniffles up the tears that threaten to fall, then continues to read.

  Lenny, if you are reading this it is because I have passed away.

  Yes – I did, as promised, leave you my house.

  I hope you enjoy living in 166 South Circular Road. I certainly didn’t. Too many dark memories.

  You’ll find a girl in there when you go in. Elizabeth Taylor. Betsy Taylor. I took her when I was travelling around Europe ten months after my Betsy was taken. Even on this day – my dying day, I guess – I’m not sure what possessed me to snatch her. I guess I just wanted to replace my daughter.

  I stopped for lunch in a small town in Wales during one of the last days of my travelling and was amazed when I heard a man call out the name ‘Betsy’. I stared at her. Couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She didn’t look exactly like my Betsy – not in the face – but she had the same brown hair. Was a similar height. Similar age. I followed her and her family for hours, staring from behind bushes, around corners. Suddenly she started walking on the wall I was hiding behind while I was trying to look at her. And I don’t know what came over me. I just wanted her. I thought my pain would disappear. I stood up and grabbed her.

  But she was never my Betsy. I didn’t know what to do with her. Whether to treat her like a daughter, like a friend, like a partner. I tried all of those hats on, none seemed to fit. Not until the final few years when we both realised we couldn’t live without each other. But she’ll have to live without me now, I guess.

  I love her very much. I looked after her; she’s well nourished, well read. I guess that’s the best I could do.

  I must have apologised to Betsy a thousand times over the years. Guilt kept eating away at me. Give her one last hug and one last apology from me before she’s sent back to her real home. And tell her I’m going to miss her. Just as much as I’ve missed my own Betsy.

  Sincerely,

  Gordon Blake

  Today

  Betsy

  I’m worried. Really, really worried. I haven’t been able to read for the past twenty-four hours. I can’t concentrate. I keep seeing Dod with his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He was breathing funny. And his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. I kept calling his name, louder and louder each time. Right into his face, right into his ear. It was working. A bit. He would respond by making funny noises, but I wasn’t sure what he was trying to say to me. So I rooted through his pockets, took out his phone and fumbled with it until I could find some numbers. Then I dialled 999 and waited.

  ‘I need an ambulance,’ I said. ‘Dod needs to go to hospital.’

  The girl on the other line asked me for the address. I ran to the door.

  ‘Number one-six-six,’ I said.

  ‘One-six-six where?’ she asked.

  My eyes went wide.

  ‘Dod… Dod,’ I screamed. I slapped him across the face. Did whatever I could to wake him up. To make him talk. ‘One-six-six. One-six-six.’ I repeated the number into his face over and over again. Then I watched him swallow hard and his eyes turned more normal.

  ‘South Circular Road.’ he squeaked out of his mouth. Then his eyes rolled back again.

  I keep playing it over and over in my head. Him looking like he was about to die; me making the phone call; me letting the ambulance man and woman come into the hallway; me watching as Dod was put on a stretcher and wheeled out of the house.

  I feel so alone. And very, very sad. I cried most of last night. And this morning. I’ve had to creep outside the back door; just to breathe in some fresh air. I know Dod would be angry that I did that during the daytime, when a neighbour could see me. But I needed the fresh air. Desperately needed it.

  I’m back in the basement now, under my covers with Bozy on my chest just waiting to hear Dod come back through the front door. I wipe my hand over my face and let out a big sigh. I think all of my tears have dried up. The crying has stopped.

  I sit up in the bed and look at my Kindle. I’m really not in the humour of reading. My brain won’t let me concentrate on the story. All I can think about is Dod. About how he collapsed when he reached the top of the stairs yesterday. The noise of his body slapping on the wooden floor.

  Then I look to my right, to my bedside cabinet, whip the duvet off me and pull it open. I reach inside and take out my copybook. Betsy’s Basement. If I can’t read because I keep thinking of Dod, then maybe I c
an write, because I’ll be writing about Dod. I click at my pen and then begin to scribble a new chapter. Chapter 115. I chew on the top of the pen, wonder what to call this chapter.

  Dod goes to hospital.

  And then I begin to write it. I write about him painting my room, then needing a glass of water, then falling onto the floor at the top of the stairs. Sometimes when I write the name Dod, my ‘o’ looks like a small ‘a’. He told me once, not that long ago, that he asked me to call him Dod because it sounded like the word Dad. But then he said he was only messing. I’m actually not sure if he was or not though. Then I write about me calling the ambulance and about the ambulance man and woman coming into the house. I write about how odd that was for me. I hadn’t spoken to anybody but Dod for seventeen years. The woman asked if I’d like to go in the ambulance with them. I looked out the door, stared at the big bright yellow ambulance with blue lights flashing on its roof, and then shook my head.

  ‘I shouldn’t go out,’ I said. Then I asked her to look after him as best she could. I write about that too. And about me crying all night.

  This is the fastest I’ve ever written. And the longest. I’ve probably been writing for the past two hours. Maybe three. Then I stop suddenly. I think I hear a key in the hall door.

  I slap Betsy’s Basement shut and look up the steps. The hall door creeps open and my heart thumps really fast with relief. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk. A big smile stretches right across my face. Dod. Dod is okay. He’s safe. He’s home.

  I place Betsy’s Basement and my pen on top of my cabinet, grab Bozy, and we both make our way to my steps. But I stop suddenly because I get confused. I think Dod’s brought somebody home with him. I’m sure I can hear people talking up there. I stand at the bottom of the steps and try to listen. Then the basement door opens and I see a shadow of a man. It’s not Dod. Then a woman appears. Then another man. He’s not Dod either.

  All three of them walk slowly down the steps, one of them shining a torch towards me. I squeeze Bozy tight. Really, really tight.

  THE END

  Did you spot any of the clues to the end twist?

  Well, author David B. Lyons goes through them during this exclusive Q&A.

  You can watch it in the link below. Get ready to kick yourself!

  www.subscribepage.com/betsyblakeq&a

  Book III

  The Suicide Pact

  By David B. Lyons.

  For me mam

  Our Suicide Pact

  1. The decision has been made. Neither of us can ask the other if we want to change our minds anymore.

  2. Spend our last day at home, saying goodbye to family (without them knowing we are saying goodbye for the last time).

  3. Meet up at 7:30, visit the people we love the most to say goodbye (without them knowing we are saying goodbye for the last time).

  4. Get back to Rathmines at Midnight.

  5. End our lives.

  19:00

  Ciara

  What are you supposed to say to your mam when only you know it’ll be the last time you ever speak to her?

  I mean… she doesn’t know it’s the last time. She doesn’t know anything. She’s an idiot. But I know when I leave this house in twenty-minutes time that I will never come back; that I will never sit in this squeaky leather sofa again, that I’ll never see my mam’s nose get any redder than it’s already gotten, that I will never hear my dad tut at me again.

  I thought he’d be here today. But it’s no surprise that he’s not. In fact, it’s appropriate that he’s not here, I guess… because he’s never been here for me anyway.

  I place my glass of Coke down on the side table and wonder what I can say to her that won’t give the game away. She’s shuffling round in the kitchen, probably wondering who my dad is out with this evening. A lot of their shouting seems to be about him not telling her where he’s going and who he’s going to be out with. They make being an adult look really difficult. I can’t bear the thought of growing up.

  I stare at the back of her as her shaking hand lifts the glass to her mouth. Any time I think about my mam, I imagine her in this exact position; sat up on one of the uncomfortable high stools at our kitchen island with a bottle of red wine open in front of her. Sometimes there’re two bottles. And she’s either swirling the wine glass around in her hand or she’s lifting it to her mouth.

  I tried it once. Wine. Yuck. I don’t know how she does it. Every day. I heard her telling Auntie Sue one time that it helps calm her down. That made me laugh a little. I don’t think my mam knows what calm means exactly. I’ve never seen her calm. Ever.

  I walk towards her, tiptoeing across the tiles of our kitchen and when I get close she spins around, holding her hand to her chest.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Ciara, you frightened the shite outta me. Don’t sneak up on me like that!’

  I hold my eyes closed and hear my own breaths as she swivels back around on her stool, back to her wine. She holds that glass much tighter than she’s ever held me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I whisper as I stare down at my feet.

  She doesn’t react; doesn’t turn back around to accept my apology. She just stays on her stool, swirling her glass, staring out the double-doors at nothing. I wonder what she thinks about every time she stares out there. I’d love to know what goes on inside her head.

  I fidget with my hands a bit, each of my fingers taking turns to tap against my thumb and then I curl my bottom lip downwards. I’m stuck. I really don’t know what to say to her. And I’ve had all day to come up with something.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask.

  I don’t know why I call him Dad… or her Mam. I should just call them Michael and Vivian. They don’t deserve to be called parents.

  ‘You still there?’ she says without turning around. Then she lets out that deep bloody sigh she always lets out. I’ve heard this sound a million times before. I hear it a hundred times every day. ‘I don’t know where he is. Working late again, I s’pose.’

  I know that’s a lie. Everything’s a lie. He’s lying to her. She’s lying to me. Our whole family lives in a house full of lies. And I’d know. Because I’m about to lie to her right now.

  I clench my hands so that all of my fingers are in a ball and no longer fidgeting. Then I look around the kitchen, as if the words I want to say will be written somewhere for me to read from.

  ‘I’m gonna stay in Ingrid’s tonight, Mam. We’re studying for our exam. Mrs Murphy said it’s okay.’

  She holds the hand that’s not gripped to her glass up and swirls it in the air.

  I almost laugh; a short snort shooting out of my nose. What a bitch! Maybe I should just go… go now… head out the door. That way when they find my body in the morning, this moment will haunt my mam forever: the time she had the chance to say goodbye to her only child and she couldn’t even bring herself to turn around. So I do. I spin on my heels, grab at my tracksuit top and then look back at her and realise I have to do this. There’s no way I can risk ending up like her.

  There was a tiny part of me that hoped this evening would give me some sort of relief. When I thought about the final goodbye to my parents, somewhere in the back of my mind I hoped they would see right through me. That they’d know what I was up to. That my dad would sweep me into his arms and cry. And tell me that he’s sorry. That he knows he’s been a terrible dad. That he won’t be a terrible dad ever again. Then my mam would join in; a big family group hug that we’d hold for ten minutes before my mam would make her way to the kitchen to pour every one of her bottles of wine down the sink.

  I stare at the back of her head. Then check the clock. It’s not even ten-past seven. I told Ingrid I’d knock for her at half-past. I’m way too early.

  But there’s not much else for me to do. Dad’s not here; Mam’s too busy cradling her wine to even turn around and look at me, let alone talk to me. I slip on my tracksuit top and, without even thinking, I pace across the kitchen tiles again, wrap my arms around my mam’s
waist and snuggle my head into the lower part of her back. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t let a swirl of her hand be the last conversation we ever have. But maybe I should have. Because as soon as my hands are around her, I hear that bloody sigh again.

  ‘Jesus, Ciara, I nearly spilt me wine. What are ye doing?’ She unwraps my hands from her waist then turns around on her stool. ‘What do you want from me?’

  I just laugh. A full, proper laugh that seems to roar through my nose. And my mouth. I literally laugh in her face. Take that! Let that be the last conversation we ever have. Me laughing at you. I tried to hug you; I tried to say goodbye, but you were more worried about your bloody wine than me.

  I zip my tracksuit top all the way up, so it’s tight under my chin, then turn on my heels and — as I’m walking away from her — I raise my hand in the air and swirl a goodbye.

  19:05

  Ingrid

  I stand on my bed, stretch onto my tip toes and kiss Gary Barlow’s face. I’ll miss Take That the most. People always say that early Take That were the best; that when they had Robbie Williams in the band they had better songs. But I like the Take That now more. Then I kiss Howard. Then Jason. Then Mark. I touch at Mark’s lips as I sink back down to my heels… I guess I’m not going to grow up and marry him after all.

  I hop off my bed and look around my room. I’ll miss my teddy bears, even though I haven’t played with any of them in years. I haven’t even touched one of them in years. But it’s always been nice to know that they were there if I ever needed a hug.