The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Read online

  The Tick-Tock Trilogy

  David B. Lyons

  The Tick-Tock Trilogy comprises three novels that all take place in the space of five-hour timeframes

  MIDDAY

  by David B. Lyons

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BETSY BLAKE?

  by David B. Lyons

  THE SUICIDE PACT

  by David B. Lyons

  Copyright © 2019 David B. Lyons

  The right of David B. Lyons to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Book I

  Midday

  By David B. Lyons.

  I included the ‘B’ in my author name so you can come on this journey with me.

  07:00

  Vincent

  As soon as I wake up I let out a sigh that probably sounds as if I’m disappointed to be alive. There used to be a time when I wouldn’t care if I woke up or not. But not now. Not with the excitement that envelops me these days.

  I tap the screen of my iPhone to put an end to the beep. I purposely chose the most annoying alarm tone so it would force me to sit up when it goes off. There’s no need to look at the clock. It’s seven a.m. – the same time the alarm sounds every weekday morning. I wipe my hand over my face before throwing my feet over the side of the bed. I always rest them on the carpet before mustering the energy to lift my body to a standing position. A shower will refresh me. I open the Spotify app on my phone and pause for a moment. Some days, this is the hardest decision I make.

  What will the soundtrack to the morning be?

  I scroll until I see Beyoncé’s name. This is nothing new. Her songs have so much energy in them that they are the perfect tonic for a wake-up call. ‘Love on Top’ begins as I shuffle my way to the en suite. I don’t even look behind at what I’ve left in the bedroom. It’s the same scene every morning. A crack of light forms from a gap in our blinds and casts itself over our king-size bed. Ryan will be curled up in foetus position, contemplating what to do with himself today. He’ll be well aware that I’ve got up, but turning over to wish me a good morning won’t have crossed his mind. It’s way too early for him to talk.

  The sensors turn the light on in the en suite for me as I head straight for the mirror. I don’t know why it’s the first thing I do every morning. I look my worst at this time of the day. Everybody does. My eyes are swollen and my face appears puffy. I check my hairline again. If I stare at it every day I don’t notice it receding too much. But who am I kidding? I’m going to be a bona fide bald man soon. I’ve trimmed my hair as much as I can. It’s long enough to look like I have some hair on my head but short enough to look like I’m not trying to hide the baldness. I turn the shower on and decide to dance my way into the spray. ‘Love on Top’ is a great song. The tempo builds and builds. I contemplate the day ahead before getting annoyed with myself. I shower for two reasons – to wash and to refresh. This cubicle doesn’t entertain thoughts about work. To distract myself, I imagine I’m on stage at the 3Arena prancing around in high heels in front of twenty thousand obsessed fans. I snatch at the blue bottle of body wash and use it as my microphone. I love these lyrics. It’s one of those songs that you can really put everything in to.

  Now I’m awake!

  I stop singing when I get out of the shower. I know it annoys Ryan. I think I’ve got a decent singing voice, but I’ve noticed him wince every now and then when he hears me harmonising around the penthouse. Instead, I pick up my iPhone again and, having turned off the music, I turn the kettle on. That’s my favourite use of the iPhone – the fact that I can turn the kettle on in my kitchen, while in another room, through a Bluetooth device. It’s hugely pointless, but it brings me a little joy. I wrap the towel around my waist and make my way through the bedroom towards our open-plan kitchen and living room. It’s the perfect time of the morning to wake up on an April day in this old town.

  The sun has just risen and thin rays of gold are beaming their way into our penthouse. We have floor-to-ceiling windows all around the living quarters of this place. The living room and kitchen are flooded with light in the daytime. I love these two minutes to myself. I use them to stare out onto the rooftops of the city. The disorganised mess of architecture appears silhouetted at this time of the day. I love Dublin. Well, I used to love Dublin. It’s lost its charm for me a little, but there’s no getting away from the fact that it’s ruggedly handsome. It shouldn’t be, but it is. We can make out a lot of the iconic buildings around the town from our vantage point. The top of the Spire creeps its way above everything in the distance. I think it’s a deadly sculpture. It’s striking to look at – isn’t that what art is supposed to be? I can’t get over the fuckwits who moaned about the cost of the Spire. We were always a population of easy-going jokers in Ireland, but we’ve turned into a right crowd of moaners in recent times. We adopted a lot of traits from the Brits over the centuries, but we always stayed clear of their miserableness – up until we got money. Now we’re just a tiny replica of our big brother across the Irish Sea – a bunch of moaners and groaners. I don’t like to moan. I always try to look at the positive. Such as this view. I can never get enough of it.

  What does Dublin have to offer me today?

  I stay at the window until a click confirms that the kettle has boiled before I pour both myself and Ryan a fresh mug of coffee.

  ‘Mornin’, gorgeous,’ I call out as I re-enter the bedroom to place the mug on his bedside table. I get a grunt in return.

  Some mornings I feel like throwing the hot coffee into his pretty little face.

  07:00

  Ryan

  I hate that fuckin alarm. I’m certain Vincent chose the most annoying tone on his phone just to make sure I start every day in a miserable mood. He takes his time turning it off each morning too.

  I lie in bed contemplating another long day stuck in this penthouse. At least I used to wake up with aspirations for the day, a year or so ago, even though I knew that I wouldn’t go on to fulfil them. But now I can’t even bother to lie to myself. I’m going to get out of bed, not long after Vincent brings me my coffee in about ten minutes’ time, to watch morning television with him over a bowl of Corn Flakes. He’ll leave for work at about seven forty-five and I’ll climb back into bed. I’ll probably stay here until midday with only the urge to masturbate at least once disturbing my lie in. I agreed to get up with Vincent at seven every morning when I left my job almost two years ago. Vincent thinks I spend eight hours a day on my laptop writing a future bestseller. I can’t bring myself to tell him that I’ve written one page of notes in the past twenty months. That’s it. I’ve lost my ability to write, but more annoying than that is the fact that I’ve lost my passion to write. I was always full of great ideas. I had a strong imagination when I was younger, but my creativity receded so much as soon as I started to work in media. My writing was forced to become formulaic. I use the laptop Vincent bought for me to scroll through Facebook and to watch porn. I’m useless. I do nothing with my days and I’m no longer afraid to admit that to myself.

  I’d fall back asleep contemplating my failing life if it wasn’t for the fact that I have to put up with Vincent singing in the shower. He think
s I can’t hear him over the noise of the water, but I can. His voice is genuinely shit. There’s only about three-quarters of an hour left until he heads off. Seven forty-five is my favourite time of the day. In fairness to him, he stops singing once the shower is turned off. He does that for me. I love him and loathe him in equal measure. Sometimes I just wish he wasn’t successful. That way, we’d both be useless together and I wouldn’t feel so inadequate. But then again, we wouldn’t be living in a place like this if Vincent wasn’t so brilliant at what he does. I constantly have to remind myself that I shouldn’t blame him for my depression. It’s all on me.

  I can hear him pour coffee into our favourite mugs and I know he’s coming to wake me up. He loves me so much. His dedication to our relationship has never diminished. He does all the right things. I feel really grateful when he places the mug of coffee on the bedside table beside me and I know it’s cute that he still calls me ‘gorgeous’.

  But some mornings I just want to throw the hot coffee back into his ageing face.

  07:05

  Darragh

  I’ve been lookin’ forward to this day for months. But now it’s all about to go down, I’m nervous – or anxious. Maybe both. I don’t think I know what the fuckin difference is between those two feelings anyway.

  I stand at the corner of Blood Stoney Road and Horse Fair, leaning against a lamppost so I can stare up at their apartment. It looks like a pretty cool place to live in. This building’s seven storeys high and made entirely of glass. The sun’s just popped up in the sky and the reflection from the windows is starting to blind me. I know I have everything in me bag because I checked it at least five times before I left me bedsit an hour ago. But I tap the inside of me jacket pocket to assure meself that the gun is still with me. Then I rub at me jeans pocket to feel for the mobile phone JR handed over to me last week. I’m good to go. I’m just waitin’ on that phone to ring.

  Me mind flashes through what could happen throughout the morning. Part of me hopes I don’t have to kill again and that everything goes according to plan. If that’s the case, I’ll be a millionaire by midday. But another part of me won’t be bothered at all if I do have to shoot Ryan. That’d be murder number three for me. I really am turning into a proper fuckin gangster.

  A light turns on in their apartment and I know for certain that the fags are awake. JR has this down to a T. These jammy fuckers must have a lot of money to live in a place like this. The first two floors of the building used to be a warehouse but were turned into a marble lobby on the ground floor, and a posh bar and restaurant on the first. Some investor, about twenty years ago, pumped a fair few quid into this area of Dublin. He musta made a fuckin fortune. They’re all pretty cool-lookin’ buildings around here now. It looks like a mini New York City. But there’s no doubt that this is the most jaw-dropping mini tower round the place. And these pricks live at the very top of it. JR knows everything about these fags. He even knows everything about their neighbours. Fat Barry and Ugly Janice, who live on the sixth floor, spend most of their time in London and won’t be around this week – this is just one of many apartments they have around Europe. Keith and Sean, who live on the fifth floor – and who we also believe to be fags – will both be in their art studio further down the street on Clare Lane. I watched them leave about ten minutes ago. They don’t normally come back until around five o’clock. I’ll be grand anyway. The noises I make will be minimal. There’ll be no raised voices and I have a silencer for the gun. There isn’t a need for me to worry. JR and I have done our homework. This will be a walk in the park for me. I’ve hardly any work to do. It’s Vincent who will be doing all the hard graft after all.

  I’m glancing around the area again for no other reason but to pass some time when the phone finally buzzes.

  ‘All good?’ asks JR.

  ‘All good, boss. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ I reply.

  ‘You in place?’

  ‘Been waiting on your call. I’ve had a good look around. Everything is as we said it would be. It’s ten past seven, do you want me to make the move now?’

  ‘Go ahead. Don’t take the lift.’

  ‘Of course I won’t take the lift.’

  JR’s amazin’. He’s taken me under his wing over the past few months and taught me so many things I’ve always wanted to learn. But sometimes he treats me like I’m an idiot. Of course I won’t take the lift. That’s been drilled into me as part of the plan for months. There are cameras in the lifts. There are also cameras in the reception area of the building, but we figured out a way to get by them. Besides, with this disguise on, nobody would be able to recognise me anyway. I walk slowly towards the entrance of the building and pause for a minute until I see the receptionist face in the opposite direction. As soon as she crouches down, I quietly push at the big glass door and make me way into the lobby – staying to the left as planned. I stoop low to crawl behind the wide leather couch before entering the jacks. There’s two doors immediately inside the jacks: one that leads into the urinals and another that has a sign on it, which reads ‘Staff Only’. I take out the library card from me back jeans pocket and wrestle with the second door handle before it releases. Another door faces me now I’ve walked into this pokey room which isn’t locked and allows me access straight to the stairwell. I trip over a bucket as I make my way towards the stairs, causing a racket to echo through the room. Me heart races for a few beats. I wait until there’s absolute silence before heading towards them. The receptionist didn’t notice me entering the lobby and I dodged all the cameras. Job done. I’ll be able to climb to the fags’ apartment from here without any fear.

  07:10

  Vincent

  I turn on the light in the living room so I can jot down some notes. I have a touch of OCD when it comes to work and I need to know where I am going to be at any point during the day. My work life used to be stressful, but I’ve managed to take control of my routine and have everything and everybody in line. My career is at a stage now where I just observe all of my staff stressing on my behalf. If I’m brilliant at anything, it’s delegating.

  Ryan is draped on our couch watching the adverts between Good Morning Britain segments. I like the fact that he has a small crush on Piers Morgan. People tell me I look a lot like him. I can see it. We’re almost the same age and happen to have the same shaped head. He probably has a little more hair than I do, but we share a rosy complexion. Both of us scrub up well, too. I wonder if Piers looks as dishevelled as I do first thing in the morning before he puts his suit on?

  I finish my notes as Good Morning Britain restarts and notice Piers is wearing a midnight blue suit with a blue tie. That’s what I decide to wear today too as I make my way towards the bedroom. I find my iPhone on our bed and press play on Spotify. Beyoncé is back! ‘Halo’ begins to play, but fuck that. I want something more upbeat and scroll through the playlist until I find ‘Freedom’. I bizarrely have my own dance routine for this song that I can somehow still pull off as I dress. My moves aren’t bad for a forty-nine-year-old. I act like a straight bloke everywhere except in my own bedroom and en suite. I can really ham it up in the comfort of my own home. I take a crisp white shirt from a hanger in the wardrobe and dance my arms into it. Just as I fasten the top button I’m certain I hear a knock at the door. That’s unusual. I mute Beyoncé and squint my eyes in surprise.

  ‘That you, Ryan?’ I shout out.

  ‘It’s the door,’ he replies.

  He can be so fuckin’ lazy. He heard the knock for certain and is still slouched on our couch purring over Piers Morgan with a bowl of Corn Flakes resting on his chest.

  ‘I’ll get it, I guess,’ I say sarcastically as I pace past him towards the front door.

  I look through the peephole to see a young guy with an ugly haircut staring back at me.

  What the hell does he want?

  As soon as I open the door a wave of panic hits me. I’m shoved straight back into the hallway and bounce off the wall before lan
ding face first on the floor. I blink my eyes open in shock to find the ugly prick pointing a gun at me. His other hand is lifted to his mouth, with his index finger stretched up to his lips, signalling that I should shut the fuck up. I hear Ryan’s heavy breaths as he sprints towards us. It must be the quickest he’s moved in a couple of years. The ugly prick points the gun at my boyfriend before back-kicking our front door closed behind him.

  ‘Not a word, you two. In the sitting room, now,’ he orders, motioning the gun up and down. I crawl to a standing position, my body trembling with disbelief.

  ‘Sit down!’ he orders again once we’re at the couch. The stranger grins at us before dropping his gym bag to the ground. He reaches inside and takes out a reel of duct tape. I stare over at Ryan. He looks petrified.

  ‘Is there anything …’ I begin to say before being told to shut up by virtue of the gun being shoved back into my face. My heart races as I try to take in what’s happening.

  ‘You,’ screams the stranger, pointing the gun at Ryan. ‘On the fuckin’ floor, now. On your stomach. Spread your arms and legs out as wide as ya can.’

  He has the strangest mongrel accent. I’m pretty sure it’s half Cork, half Dublin. I’d bet any money that he grew up in Cork but moved to Dublin half his lifetime ago. I stare at his face. He has a bizarre blond hairdo that would have even looked dated in the eighties. You can tell by looking at him that he’s had a hard life. I can see it in his bloodshot eyes. Yet he’s still only a kid. About eighteen or nineteen, I’d guess. He can barely grow a moustache, but he is trying. And his face is still producing fresh acne. Ryan does as he’s told while the kid waves the gun back at me, motioning that it’s my turn to get up. Sliding one hand over a chair in our kitchen, he nods at me to sit in it. I notice my hands shake while I slip into the seat. I’m afraid to say anything as he wraps the thick tape around my wrists, fastening them to the arms of the chair. He keeps an eye on Ryan as he’s doing this, but my boyfriend is clearly too afraid to try anything. He’ll do as he’s told. When the kid’s finished taping both of my wrists, he slaps me across the face. That boils my blood more so than having the gun pointed at me. He then reaches for the back of Ryan’s neck and pulls him to his feet.