The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Read online

  Just as I’m calming my breaths, his phone rings. I assume straight away that it’s Vincent, as he is supposed to give this guy the okay after he’s contacted his assistant managers. But I can hear the screech of an unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone and I know it’s not my boyfriend.

  ‘Good, good,’ says the freak next to me. It gives nothing away. ‘He’s a little tied up at the minute,’ he then says while looking over at me. He thinks that line’s hilarious, which probably proves again how dumb he really is. ‘Great stuff. He should ring me in about twenty minutes then, I guess, like?’

  He already told us somebody would be keeping a close eye on Vincent to make sure he’s looking after everything from his end. This must be that guy on the other end of the line. His partner in crime. I wonder if they are as stupid as each other. I also begin to wonder how two stupid people could come up with such a plan, and immediately feel that this has to be an inside job. Somebody Vincent knows must be in on this.

  ‘That was my man,’ says the greasy prick to me after he hangs up the phone. ‘Your pussy-ass boyfriend is in his office. All’s going on time. Your life could be spared yet.’

  I try to think of people Vincent works with and immediately get frustrated that I zone out every time he opens his mouth about work. I know there’s a guy called Jonathan, who he mentions quite a lot and then there’s Michelle, of course, who I know quite well. But neither of them would be the type to get involved in this sort of thing. Vincent also has a secretary called Belinda but as far as I’m aware she’s as innocent as they come. It must be somebody I’ve never heard of. Some low-ranking official from one of the banks or the head office. There’s no way they’re going to get away with this. Certainly not with this dumb fuck leaving his baby-making juice all over our living room.

  I notice him walking around the apartment, taking it all in. I’m willing him to leave more DNA around the place, but in truth he’s probably already delivered enough.

  ‘What the fuck do you do around here all day, Harkness, huh?’ he shouts out to me. ‘I mean it’s a nice place, I wouldn’t mind hanging out here myself all day, but you must get bored.’

  That’s the second time he’s mentioned my surname. He knows everything about us. This is a well-planned job. I don’t answer him. I can’t answer him. Instead, I feel justified in knowing that this is an inside job. How does he know I sit around the apartment most days? This guy is leaving me clues every two minutes. He is so stupid that by the time Vincent comes back I may have this case solved.

  ‘Lover boy keep you, does he? You don’t have to work because he brings home enough bacon, huh?’

  I continue to ignore him. He’s right in his assessment though. I haven’t had a job for twenty months now. Vincent and I were only dating for about two months when he asked me what my dream job would be.

  ‘I’m a good writer,’ I said. ‘I enjoy writing. I always wanted to write books but I don’t have the discipline. There’s also no money to be made from writing unless you pen a masterpiece.’

  ‘There are plenty of ways to make money from writing,’ replied Vincent. ‘What about creative writing in an advertising agency or something like that? Journalism?’

  ‘I’d love to be a journalist. I just don’t have the qualifications.’

  With that, Vincent whipped out his laptop and started searching on Google.

  ‘Here ye go,’ he said, turning the laptop towards me. ‘DCU do a specialised journalism course. Let’s see if we can get you on it this September.’

  ‘Nah, I … I …’

  ‘You … what?’ he said, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. I just shrugged as an answer before smiling back at him. Within eight weeks of knowing him, Vincent was already an inspiration to me in more ways than I ever thought possible. He leaned over to kiss my smile and I knew right there and then that I was in love with him.

  My eyes refocus towards the clock on the microwave. I panic slightly. 8:15. The last quarter of an hour has flown by. I hope the minutes tick by slower throughout the morning. My heavy breaths begin to consume me again and the tape feels tighter around my mouth. I allowed myself to get carried away assuming we were dealing with Ireland’s dumbest criminals, but maybe dumb criminals are the most dangerous kind to be dealing with. I can’t keep my eyes off the blinking colon in the middle of the 8 and the 15. There is no noise, but I can hear it inside my head. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

  08:15

  Vincent

  I’m always the first person to arrive at the office. I sit here alone until about quarter to nine almost every weekday morning. I’ve often remarked how quiet and peaceful these few minutes are to my colleagues when they finally arrive in. But today I can hear the ticking of Belinda’s clock just outside my office door as if it’s ringing right next to my ear.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock.

  It is literally a timely reminder. I need to get a move on. I take a deep breath to refocus and get back into character before picking up the phone. I must remain cool. This is an ordinary Tuesday. This is an ordinary Tuesday.

  ‘Hello, Vincent,’ screeches Michelle as she answers after just one ring. I don’t normally call her this early.

  ‘Hey, Chelle,’ I say in a friendly tone. We’ve been close for years. Well, she thinks we’re really close but I just play along. I think she likes the fact that I’m gay. She likes telling her friends that she has a gay friend. Whatever floats her boat. I’ve never played the gay card at all, except when I’m listening to Beyoncé in my own home. I don’t want to be any woman’s gay best friend. The idea repulses me. I never have been, nor ever will be, the sort of person who will sit around sipping coffee whilst bitching about people who aren’t in my company. Fuck that! That’s for people who have nothing going on in their own lives. I’ve got plenty of things going on in my own little world that I don’t have much time to dissect other people’s. And even if I did have the time, I’d fill it in a more productive way. The one stereotype that annoys me most about gay men is the one that says we’re all bitches. It’s simply not true. I’ve known quite a number of gay people in my lifetime and have socialised in gay circles for years. I’d say a low percentage of gay men meet that stereotype. But Chelle thinks I’m a cute accessory to her life and I’m happy to go along with it once she toes my line professionally. She’d do anything for me.

  ‘Nassau Street are low. Just a miscalculation on Jonathan’s part coupled with a monumental number of big withdrawals last week. We’ll need to shift some notes from your vault.’

  ‘No problem,’ she says breezily. ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Two mill,’ I reply, while holding my breath.

  ‘Jesus, two million? Wow! That’s more than you’ve ever asked me for before.’

  ‘I was thinking that this morning after Jonathan rang me,’ I say, backing it up with a confident giggle. ‘But I’ll have it back in your vault within forty-eight hours. It’s just one of those strange coincidences. There was over one point five mill withdrawn from Nassau Street alone in the past five days,’ I lie. ‘That’s three times the regular amount. They’re just really low at the moment.’

  ‘Okay, well I’m about fifteen minutes from the bank. When will your guys be coming to collect it?’

  ‘I’ll be transferring it myself,’ I say. This is the tricky part. I shift massive amounts of notes between the branches on a regular basis but Securicor, our security firm, normally looks after the transfers for us. Especially the big ones. I’ve personally shifted some small amounts here or there but nothing coming close to two million euros. I grind my teeth during the silence between my saying that and Chelle’s response.

  ‘Really, two mill all by yourself?’

  ‘Ah, he needs it as soon as possible. It’s no problem. I have the cases here and will use my car. I’ll get to you around nine, just as you open.’

  ‘Okay,’ she replies slowly.

  I hang up and let out a small sigh of relief. Chelle will be the easie
st to get around today. I know Jonathan and Ken will play ball too, even if better explanations are required, but I’m still worried about Noah. I rest my face on my forearm, leaning on the desk. I was thinking of how to approach things with Noah as I walked to work this morning and feel I should just be assertive as his boss. Rather than ask him for the transfer, just tell him it’s happening. Who’s he going to go complaining to anyway? I’m his only superior. He doesn’t have the contacts for any of our bank’s board members and, even if he did, they wouldn’t have the time to get back to him in any urgent manner. It takes them at least forty-eight hours to return any of my calls and I’m in charge of all four of their Irish branches. I should be fine. I need to channel my acting skills and get in the zone. I can’t give anything away. I’m a method actor anyway. Playing myself is a walk in the park.

  Jonathan is next on my list of calls. As I pick up the receiver to call him I notice the time on the digital screen on my phone. The flashing colon in the middle of the 8 and the 21 makes me hear Belinda’s wall clock again. Tick, tock.

  Jonathan hasn’t answered. I play around with the idea of leaving him a voicemail as his cheesy message plays, but I hang up just before the beep sounds. He’ll get back to me when he’s ready. Jonathan is always on the ball. I lean my head back on my swish leather chair waiting for Jonathan’s call. I’m taking a moment to myself when I immediately sit back upright and reach for the phone. A quote I have lived by professionally for decades enters my head:

  If you have to eat more than one frog, eat the big one first.

  Get the toughest job done early.

  I puff out my cheeks as I hear the ringing tone. He’s one of those chumps who answers the phone by saying his full name. I can’t stand those sorts of people. What is the fucking point of that?

  ‘Noah Voss …’

  08:25

  Jack

  The soles of these shoes are going to be worn out by the end of the day. It’s no big deal. I’ll be able to afford a walk-in wardrobe for shoes alone soon enough. I’m annoying myself by pacing back and forward on the pathways of Westland Row. I’ve been lacking patience all my life. I surprised myself by holding off on this heist as long as I could, though. I needed everything to be perfect. And today is ideal. Even God would be telling me so, should the fucker exist. The sun is belting down on Dublin’s city centre and I find myself in a jovial mood despite the fact that I am in the midst of the biggest bank robbery in the history of our country. I begin to whistle the tune of ‘Under the Moon of Love’ by Showaddywaddy and it takes me back to my youth. I must have been eighteen years old when that song was a big hit. It would have been just before I met Karyn. I was a really nice guy up until that point, even if I do think so myself.

  I grew up in a tiny detached bungalow on Carpenter’s Road after we left town when I was about eight. We used to say our address was Castleknock, but I’m not sure it really was. It was outside Castleknock, really. Anyway, our post always found us and our house price was slightly higher than it should have been. Our gaff was only a five-minute drive to Elm Green golf course. My old man was a member and we used to bond over eighteen holes every Sunday morning. We were huge golf fans. We’d watch as much golf as we could on the TV at the weekends, too, annoying my ma. I was always my dad’s favourite for that reason. My old man used to cheer on all the Irish golfers, but I was struck by Gary Player. I just loved the man. He seemed like a movie star playing golf to me, such was his aura through the screen. I used to have posters of him on my wall. Sounds fucking pathetic now. A golfer? When I was in my early teens, Gary Player replaced Jesus Christ as my hero. Like everybody else in the whole of Ireland, I fell for the bullshit that is the Bible for the first fourteen years of my life. My parents were happy for me to toe the conventional line, but there was no way on earth my father ever bought into the nonsense. My ma died believing that crap, my da certainly didn’t. My old man was such a great guy, looking back. He worked his ass off to provide for the three of us. Like almost everyone, I hadn’t a clue how great my old man was until it was too late to tell him. He was probably more obsessed with golf than I was. It’s such a shame – the Irish golfers were pretty shit through his entire lifetime and these days they can’t stop fucking winning. If an afterlife exists, then I’m sure my old man would be looking up from hell delighted at the country’s successes since the turn of the century. But, of course, there is no afterlife. There is no proof of an afterlife whatsoever, which is why you have to make your years on earth count. That’s what I’m doing today. I’m going to make sure the rest of my life is as enjoyable as it possibly can be.

  My da passed away after suffering a heart attack in his bedroom aged just fifty-eight. I’m seven short years off that age now. I somehow managed to get over his passing quite rapidly due to my fascination with Karyn Ritchie. My mind was on a new life, not my old one. I think it hurt my ma even more that I dealt with the tragedy quite well and for that reason alone I don’t think she ever took to Karyn. I, on the other hand, was obsessed with her from the moment I saw her across the room at Trolli’s Dance Hall. I could tell straight away that her eyes were green. I don’t know how, she was about fifty yards away from me in a low-lit room, but she stood out in such an obvious way. It was almost as if it was meant to be. I don’t believe in any of that bullshit but I’d be stumped to explain with words just how much I was drawn to her that night. I couldn’t understand why every other man in the room wasn’t staring at the brunette in the blue dress. I’d always been labelled a handsome guy but I found it difficult to find a girlfriend. People used to tell me I was just too shy. I think I was just too picky. It was unusual I’d really fancy a girl. My standards were high. But I distinctly remember the urge I had to speak to Karyn that night. I thought I was being pretty cool by throwing my cigarette in front of me, stamping on it and making my way over to the girl in the blue dress. It was like it all happened in slow motion.

  ‘Fancy a dance?’ I asked, feeling a little Clarke Gable-esque for the first time ever.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said, embarrassing me in front of all her friends. ‘I have a boyfriend.’

  I smiled for years afterwards thinking about that moment. I’d never known what fancying somebody felt like until that night in Trolli’s. The only thing I could relate it to was my fascination with Gary Player.

  I whistle ‘Under the Moon of Love’ again through my smile when I feel the phone buzz from the inside pocket of my jacket.

  ‘How a ye, JR?’ says Darragh in an upbeat tone. It always amuses me how he pronounces the R with his West Cork accent – as if he’s saying ‘are’. ‘Vincent rang me there. Everything is good to go. He said he has authorised to take the money from each of the banks. He’ll be setting off in about twenty minutes or so to get to the first one for nine o’clock. He’s going to Nassau Street first, okay?’

  I can’t really make out what he’s saying due to the noise of the traffic so I ask him to repeat himself. Plus, my mind is wandering through the possibilities of the rest of the morning. The excitement builds in my stomach as I realise Darragh is telling me all is in order.

  ‘Great work, Darragh,’ I say, ending the call.

  I look at my watch. 8:35. If I stroll from here to Nassau Street I should arrive just before Vincent and his chauffeur pull up in their BMW. I can’t wait to see the look on Vincent’s face as he walks out the front door of that bank with two million euros cuffed to his hands. A rush of adrenaline hits me. Instead of whistling, I sing quietly to myself.

  ‘Let’s go for a little walk …’

  08:30

  Vincent

  Jonathan Reilly has always been easy-going. I can’t believe he questioned me so vigorously about the money transfer. I transfer money to and from his bank on a regular basis. Besides, it’s not his bank. It’s my fuckin’ bank. Fair enough, I’ve never asked him for two million, but I’m a little annoyed that he went against the grain. He usually bows to my every demand. Noah Voss also surprised me.
He did bow to my demand, without question. My phone call to him lasted about three minutes with him concluding he would have everything ready when I popped by at around ten thirty. Strange. Everything this fucker does is odd to me. He’s a Christian, after all. I can’t stand believers of faith. They’re so bloody arrogant. Imagine having the arrogance to think you know the answer to life’s greatest questions.

  Where do we come from? What happens after death?

  These fuckin’ idiots walk around with a smug persona thinking they know it all. They know as much as anybody else. In fact, they know less than non-believers. Non-believers like to research and seek answers to these questions, believers don’t. They are stuck with an answer – a wrong answer – and as a result are totally narrow-minded on the whole issue. Believers are the last kind of people you should listen to when it comes to life’s biggest questions. Christianity bothers me more than any other religion probably because I’m surrounded by it in Ireland. I bet most of these guys have never even researched the book they believe to be the word of some creator. The Bible is actually a book filled with plagiarism. The story of Jesus Christ coming down to earth is a total rip off of the story of Horas that was written decades before. Horas, like Jesus, was born miraculously to a virgin, they were both the son of ‘God’, an angel came down from the skies to inform the mother of her pregnancy, their birth was heralded by a shining star, there is no telling what happened to both between the ages of twelve and thirty, they both had twelve disciples, both performed miracles. Oh yeah, and both were crucified to death before rising again three days later. And then there are stories of other gods such as Attis, Dionysus and Mithra who cover the same bloody plot lines that were written before the Bible. You couldn’t make it up. Actually, you could. They did. How can anyone of sound mind believe the Bible is a unique book when the Bible is plagiarised from fictional tales? The truth is, Christians aren’t of sound mind. They are liars. They lie to themselves. I don’t trust them. I don’t fuckin’ trust Noah Voss. He’s a snake. I didn’t like him in his initial interview despite the fact that he had a perfect CV. He had an arrogance that made me instantly dislike him. He told the story of how he grew up in Nigeria before he and his twin sister took refuge in London when they were just thirteen years old, leaving the rest of the family behind. They had not one single penny to their name. He was determined to make a success of himself and managed to obtain education to degree level before becoming a bank clerk. The board members of ACB fell for his sob story. I didn’t give a shit. We’ve all been through our own difficulties. Appointing him as assistant manager of the Church Street branch wasn’t my decision but I was outvoted. He hasn’t caused me any hassle since he was appointed but I know trouble is on the horizon. I bet this prick is eyeing my job. The feedback I’m getting from our employees in Church Street is that Noah is quite a fair boss, but I’m sure they’ll see through his ‘pity me’ bullshit in time.