Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake? Read online

  Whatever Happened to Betsy Blake?

  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.

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  Print ISBN :- 978-1-9160518-1-2

  Created with Vellum

  Praise for David B. Lyons

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  For Lola

  10:00

  Gordon

  I don’t know why I’m smiling when I’ve just been told I have a fifty per cent chance of dying today. But I am smiling. I can feel it; my cheeks high and wide on my face. It must be the shock. Or perhaps the prospect of death is appealing to me; the thought of my mind finally shutting the fuck up.

  ‘Do you understand, Gordon?’ Mr Douglas asks.

  I feel my cheeks fall back down to their resting position, then let out a little sigh and nod my head.

  ‘I understand, Mr Douglas.’

  ‘Well, we’re going to prep the theatre as soon as it’s free. In the meantime, Elaine here,’ he says pointing to a young nurse dressed in purple scrubs, ‘will be available for you to talk to anytime you want. She’ll be positioned outside at the nurses’ station. Just press this button and she’ll be with you in no time.’

  He hands me what looks like a Nintendo games controller from the early nineties; one red button in the middle of it. Then he purses his lips at me before spinning on his heels. They all follow in unison, like a synchronised swimming team. I count them as they head towards the door. Seven. I’m waiting on them all to leave so I can sink the back of my head firmly into the pillow and yell obscenities. But Elaine turns back, walks towards me.

  ‘Mr Blake, are you sure there’s nobody I can call… nobody who can come up to see you?’

  ‘It’s Gordon, please,’ I tell her, my forearms propping me up on the bed. ‘And eh… no, there’s nobody. Not yet anyway. I may call my wife a little later.’

  ‘Your wife?’ she says, her eyebrows twitching.

  ‘Ex wife.’ Elaine makes an ‘O’ shape with her mouth. ‘There’s a few things I need to iron out in my head before I call her.’

  Elaine places the palm of her hand on top of mine and then purses her lips before turning around and walking out the door to catch up with the rest of her team. They must master that in medical college; how to purse your lips before spinning on your heels. As soon as she has closed the door I push my head firmly into the pillow.

  ‘Fuuuuuck!’ I screech, clenching my fists; my fingernails stabbing into the palms of my hands. I allow the reality of the situation to wash over me as much as it possibly can. A fifty-fifty chance of survival. That’s what Douglas said. Fuckin hell. I reach out to grab my phone and hold my finger against the screen so I can check the time. 10:03. Douglas told me the theatre would be ready at three p.m. I twitch the top of each finger on one hand to count upwards. Five hours. Jesus Christ. I might only have five hours left to live.

  ‘Fuuuck!’ I don’t screech it this time. I scream it. I tilt my head; stare over at the door handle in anticipation of it being pushed downwards. But it remains upright. Nobody’s coming to soothe me.

  My breathing grows heavier. Flashes of Betsy’s pretty little face consume me. At first she’s smiling. Then crying. Gagged. Suffocating. I shake my head to get rid of her. This is nothing new. I’ve been doing this almost daily for the past seventeen years. I consciously try to slow my breathing, then rest my head back on to the pillow.

  I remember a college lecturer – many years ago - asking me a question that relates to the situation I seem to have found myself in right now.

  ‘If you had just hours left to live, what would you do?’

  I think I answered by saying ‘sex’ or ‘bungee jump’ or some other adrenaline-filled piece-of-shit activity. She was trying to get across the concept of bucket lists and positive thinking. But that’s a load of bollocks. I’ve never had a bucket list. Unless finding your daughter is applicable to being on a bucket list. That’s the only thing I want in life. To see her face again. To hold her. To apologise to her.

  A tear squeezes itself out of my left eye. I shake my head again. Not to remove the tear, but to remove the image of Betsy from my mind. Then I grip my mobile phone; scroll into my contacts list until I see the name Ray De Brun and stare at it. I picture his chubby little face; bet he’s all fat and old now. Useless prick. I touch his name and then hold the phone to my ear. That annoying high-pitched tone you get when a number is out of use pierces through me. I grip the phone firmer in frustration, let an audible sigh force its way out of both nostrils. I scroll through the screen of my phone again, into my Internet browser and search for ‘Kilmainham Garda Station’. The phone number appears instantly. I press at it, bring the phone back to my ear.

  ‘Hello, Kilmainham Garda Station.’

  ‘I need to talk to detective Ray De Brun.’

  ‘Just one second, Sir.’

  I chew my bottom lip while I’m on hold. What I’ve been told this morning is too mammoth to fully comprehend. But I’ve just realised I’m not my greatest concern. Betsy is. And always has been. My greatest fear may play out today; I may very well die without ever knowing what happened to my daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir, Detective De Brun is not on duty today. Is there anybody else who can assist you?’

  I speak slowly.

  ‘My name is Gordon Blake. Betsy Blake’s father. De Brun knows who I am. I have his mobile number but it seems out of action – has he changed it?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not aware of that, Mr Blake. Detective De Brun is in semi-retirement now. Our lead detective is Detective Marshall, shall I see if she is avai
lable to talk to you?’

  I fall silent. Marshall. Never heard of her.

  ‘It’s an emergency. I need to talk to De Brun right now. Please pass me on his mobile number. He won’t mind. I’m dying… may only have hours to live.’

  ‘Eh… hold on just one second, Mr Blake.’

  A tipple of piano music plays. Doesn’t last long.

  ‘Hello, Mr Blake – this is detective Marshall. How can I help you?’

  ‘Marshall… De Brun was the lead detective in the case of my missing daughter over seventeen years ago. You may be familiar with it.’

  ‘I am indeed, Mr Blake. But you are fully aware that case is closed, right?’

  I turn my face away from the phone and gurn. Nothing annoys me more than being told the case is closed. It’s not fucking closed! It won’t be closed until I’m holding my daughter again.

  ‘Mr Blake, the case was closed in 2009. Elizabeth was announced deceased and—’

  ‘Listen, Marshall,’ I shout, my patience already stretched. ‘Firstly, her name isn’t Elizabeth okay, it’s Betsy. And secondly, she’s not fuckin dead. How can she be announced deceased when you and your colleagues never found a body?’

  ‘Mr Blake, I can call up the files for you later and—’

  ‘I don’t have later, Marshall!’ I snap. ‘Listen, can you please just get me in touch with De Brun. I need to speak with him as urgently as possible. I’m in Tallaght hospital. I have to undergo emergency surgery in a few hours time and there’s a huge chance I won’t wake up from it.’

  The line falls silent. All I can hear is my own breathing reverberating back at me.

  ‘Please,’ I say, sounding desperate.

  ‘Mr Blake, Detective De Brun is in Galway – he’s semi-retired, has a home out on the west coast and spends an awful lot of his time there. He—’

  ‘Please.’ I say it even more desperately this time.

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll give him a call and let him know you are looking for him. I can see your number here on the screen. I’ll ask him to ring you as soon as possible. But… I must inform you, Mr Blake, Detective De Brun goes to the west coast to get away from phones, to get away from work. He may not have it switched on. There’s no guarantee I can reach him imminently.’

  My eyes twitch, flickering from side to side. Maybe I’m going mad. I’ve been seventeen years searching for Betsy, with possibly only five hours left. What makes me think I can get to the bottom of this today? I allow a long sigh to force its way out of my nostrils.

  ‘Just ask him to ring me as soon as he can. It’s an emergency.’ I hear my voice crack as I say that. Then I hang up. The tear that dropped out of my left eye is now hanging from my chin. I swipe it off with the palm of my hand, almost cutting my fingertip against my sharp stubble. Then I lie flat back down on the pillow.

  Maybe I should ring Michelle. Tell her my terrible news. Though I’m not quite sure what that would achieve. Douglas said it’s imperative I relax ahead of my surgeries, says that having a positive mind-set could be key to success. Having Michelle come up to me will only cause me stress. Us stress. She gets more worked up than I do. She can’t stand the fact that I can’t let go; that I haven’t accepted that Betsy is gone. And I can’t stand that she gave up; that she’s happy to accept the cops’ theory.

  And that’s all it is; a fuckin theory.

  No. Fuck her. There’s nothing I can achieve by ringing Michelle.

  But I can’t lie here and do nothing. I pick up my phone, scroll into the Internet search browser again.

  10:00

  Lenny

  Lenny can feel Claire’s knees vibrate against his. It isn’t a shivering of her knees that is causing the vibration. It’s the constant swiping of her palms against her thighs. She’s trying to rid them of sweat; is all too aware that she’s about to receive an answer to the mystery that has engulfed her for the past six months.

  They’re both sitting at Lenny’s tiny desk, inside his tiny office. Calling it a desk is exaggerating; it’s no bigger than the type of table you would find on a train. And calling it an office is probably exaggerating too; it’s no bigger than a laundry room in a modest home. But it’s all he can afford. The office just about has enough space for the desk, two chairs and one tall, skinny filing cabinet, which can’t fully shut due to the amount of paperwork desperate to jump out of it. Most of the paperwork is redundant, but sorting it out isn’t high on the list of Lenny’s priorities. It’s not as if the day doesn’t afford him ample time to sort it out, he just couldn’t be bothered. He’s more interested in finding new assignments than pouring over the contents of old ones.

  He finally stops typing, then turns his laptop screen to face Claire. She sucks in a sharp breath, then holds a finger to the tip of her nose; her attempt to halt the tears from loosening their grip from the tips of her eyelashes.

  ‘He’s… he’s my line manager at work,’ she whispers into her finger.

  ‘Have you any idea why he would be doing this to you?’ Lenny asks.

  Claire begins to drum the tip of her finger against her lips as she sinks into her thoughts. Then she shakes her head slowly.

  ‘I mean… he tried it on with me at our Christmas party last year,’ she says, finding volume. ‘But… that’s about it. I can’t think why… Derek! Derek Murray. I don’t believe it.’

  Lenny closes the lid of his laptop and looks up sympathetically at Claire. He’s been in this position many times before; not really knowing what to say next. The job she offered him had reached its conclusion, yet he understands Claire will have a thousand questions racing around her head right now.

  ‘Do you know why… why he is doing this to me?’ she asks.

  Lenny scratches at his temple. He always feels awkward when he has the opportunity to upsell.

  ‘Well that’s another job. If you would like me to confront Derek, get those kind of answers for you, I can indeed do that but…’ Lenny shrugs his left shoulder.

  ‘I eh… I eh,’ Claire stutters, ‘I don’t really know what to do next.’

  ‘Tell you what. Now that we’ve found out the who, why don’t you take a step back and think it all through. If you want to find out the why, get in touch. I’ll be here for you. For now, I recommend going home, having a nice hot cup of tea and thinking all this through before contacting me again. I’m at the end of this phone anytime you need me,’ he says, picking up his clunky mobile from his desk. ‘Y’know, perhaps you have enough information now to see if the cops would be interested – now that you know who has been stalking you they may look at it differently.’

  Claire throws her eyes towards the stained ceiling, then stares back down to her fidgeting fingers on her lap. She’d taken that road before. The cops didn’t want to know; they didn’t even hide the fact that such a complaint was beneath them either.

  ‘I’ll think it through, Lenny. I’ll go home, have that cup of tea, and eh… thank you so much for all of your help.’

  Both Claire and Lenny stand up at the same time. Lenny holds his hand out for his client to shake, but she squashes it between them both as she drags him in for a hug.

  ‘Allow me,’ Lenny says after they release. He pulls his door open, then steps aside so Claire can squeeze her way out.

  ‘I’ll send my report on to you by email, but eh… just so you know, there’ll be no H in the report. This old thing,’ he says, slapping the lid of his laptop, ‘it’s getting old. The H key came off and…’

  Claire offers Lenny a thin smile and then nods her head once before turning around. She’s still in a sterile state of shock as she slumps down the corridor, her head bowed. Lenny doesn’t watch her leave. He’s too bothered chasing the sheet of paper that has floated into his office. He tuts, picks it up and then paces down the corridor himself, turning left before he reaches the stairs Claire is now making her way down. He walks past two doors, all equally battered as his, then knocks on the third one he comes to.

  ‘Sorry, Joe,�
�� he says, after opening the door himself. ‘Any Blu Tack?’

  ‘Again?’

  Lenny holds the sheet of paper towards Joe as an answer.

  ‘Fuck sake, mate… can you not get a proper sign? Won’t cost much.’

  ‘I keep meaning to, it’s just…’ Lenny shrugs his shoulder again, then blinks his eyes rapidly.

  ‘Didn’t you have a client in with you just there? She was alright lookin’ wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, nice girl really – job’s all done.’

  ‘She paying you?’

  Lenny nods.

  ‘Well then buy a fuckin sign,’ Joe says as he lobs a marble-sized blob of Blu Tack towards Lenny. ‘Or at least buy some of your own fuckin Blu Tack.’

  Lenny looks around Joe’s office space. It’s not much bigger than his; probably longer. It’s more rectangular in shape, but still only fits a small desk, two chairs and one filing cabinet – though Joe’s filing cabinet is a little chunkier than Lenny’s.

  ‘Thanks, man,’ Lenny says before closing Joe’s door and plodding back down the corridor. He grips the sheet of paper between his teeth while pulling at the blob of Blu Tack, dividing it into four separate smaller blobs. Then he removes the sheet from his teeth, stabs a blob onto each corner and slaps the paper to his door before rubbing his thumb repeatedly over each corner firmly. He knows that no matter how many times he rubs his thumb over the corners, the sign is still going to fly away again. But he might at least try. He stands back, stares at the sign as if it’s the first time he’s ever read it.