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 available 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.