He stands up to watch over me as I scribble on another torn page from my novel.
This is the will and testament of Gordon James Blake.
His big belly inches closer to me, almost resting on the edge of my bed. I feel nervous writing this, as if I’m back at school doing an exam. Don’t know why I’m nervous; I stopped being intimidated by this asshole years ago.
I hereby wish to leave the home, addressed 166 South Circular Road, Inchicore, Dublin 8, Ireland to Alan Keating.
I draw three lines to fit the necessary signatures and then smile up at him.
‘Good man, Gordy. I promise I will get you some information on Betsy’s disappearance. Something that will give you peace of mind going into your surgeries.’
He scratches at his nose as he says this, a sure sign he’s lying. Then he removes his coat from the back of the chair he’d been sitting on and throws it on.
‘So you’ll just leave that there,’ he says, pointing at my bedside cabinet, ‘and if I do find you something original you’ll activate that will, yeah?’
I nod my head.
‘Sure thing, Keating.’
He takes a step closer to me again, his face turning back into the kind old granddad he can inhabit any time he wants to.
‘I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened to you, Gordy. Not just Betsy, but this… this situation you find yourself in today. You were always a good man; you haven’t deserved any of the shite you’ve been served in life.’
I offer him another of my fake smiles and then mouth the word ‘thanks’.
‘I’ll be back with you before three… and I’ll have something. I promise I’ll do my very best. And if I do have something for you, I’ll look after that house, Gordy. I’ll treasure it.’
He winks, strolls away from me and out of the ward. Before he’s three steps down the corridor I pick up the will I had just written for him and rip it into tiny pieces, then toss it on the floor.
It was weird talking to that cunt again. I’ve blamed him for all that’s gone wrong in my life. But I’m as certain as I’ve ever been that he had nothing to do with Betsy’s disappearance. Though just because I can rule him and Barry out, it doesn’t make me feel any better.
Not only did I lose Betsy in 2002, I lost my wife as well. I knew even before Betsy disappeared that I was losing Michelle anyway. I was aware she was having an affair. I didn’t catch her or anything, I could just tell. Not only had we stopped having sex, but we’d stopped communicating with each other. She was beginning to ‘work late’ at the bank and basically showed me every sign I needed to see that she was fucking somebody behind my back. I didn’t know who it was until months after Betsy went missing. Michelle had the audacity to stamp on my heart when my heart was already broken. She said she was falling out of love with me anyway, but the fact that I looked after Betsy so carelessly – to the extent that she went missing on my watch – ensured she didn’t just no longer love me, but hated me.
That’s what she said to me three months after Betsy went missing. She screamed it at me in the most explicit of terms. ‘I fucking hate you, Gordon… properly hate you. I’ll never forgive you for this.’
It’s still never been made clear to me, because she never looked me in the eye and suggested such a thing, but I think deep inside me that she felt as if I had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance initially, especially around the time the cops were questioning me. But she did stick up for me in some respects; she told the police I had always cared for Betsy, even if I was never likely to be named ‘father of the year’. But soon after I was cleared as a suspect, Michelle broke the news that she was leaving.
I found out about a month later that she was seeing this Jake Dewey bloke. I needed to find out about him; wondered from very early on if he had something to do with Betsy going missing. Perhaps he snatched her so that me and Michelle would split up. I haven’t found anything on the fucker, aside from the fact that he’s a smug cunt. But I still haven’t ruled him out, probably because I’ve got nothing else to go on. If Lenny can give me something… anything today that clears Dewey, then I will genuinely leave him my house. I’ve got no one else to leave it to.
‘Hey,’ she says, offering me a big smile.
‘Hey yourself.’ She sidles towards me, takes a seat. ‘How did your meeting go?’
‘All good. We have everything in place to be set up. You’re going to be in great hands with Mr Douglas – he’s the best heart surgeon in Ireland. Once you do your part – staying relaxed – we’re very hopeful we can get you through all this.’
It’s either the tone of her voice or the delivery of what she says that reminds me of a young Michelle. I’m not quite sure what it is. I just know that I feel comfortable in Elaine’s company.
‘So… eh…’ she says, ‘would you like to continue what we were talking about… or d’you want to talk about something else or just watch tele… whaddya think?’
She crosses her legs, gets as comfortable as anyone possibly can in those horrible plastic chairs.
‘Sorry?’ I say, scratching at my head. ‘What was it we were talking about?’
‘Betsy. You just informed me Betsy Blake was your daughter before I had to go.’
‘Oh… I could talk about Betsy all day, every day.’
Elaine smiles again, but it’s not a happy smile, more sorrowful than anything.
‘Are you sure you want to talk about her today… if… y’know… if you’re supposed to be staying calm, keeping relaxed?’
I sigh a little, scoot down in the bed a bit and let the back of my head sink into the pillow. So much has happened this morning that I can’t get my head straight. I remember talking to Elaine now, just before she headed out for her meeting. She knew of Betsy, was totally shocked when I told her she was my daughter. I stare up at the stains on the ceiling.
‘She was only four years old… would be twenty-one now,’ I find myself saying. I hadn’t even decided in my own head that I was going to continue talking about my daughter. ‘I was supposed to be looking after her while Michelle – my wife at the time – went shopping for the afternoon. It’s all my fault. All my fault.’ I pinch my forefinger and thumb into my eyes. I feel Elaine reach out a hand and rest it on my knee. ‘It wasn’t the first time… I once left Betsy alone in the kitchen and didn’t she split her head open, falling off a chair and onto the tiles. I loved her, still love every inch of her, but I wasn’t a great dad. I was too easily distracted.’
‘Gordon,’ Elaine says, now standing up. ‘You don’t have to… not if you don’t want to. We can talk this all through tomorrow if you want… after you recover from your surgeries.’
I take my fingers away from my eyes, open them. She’s staring down at me, that sorrowful smile still etched on her pretty face.
‘Why don’t we turn on the tele, watch some crappy daytime TV, huh?’ she says. ‘It’ll help you relax.’
I sit back up, dry my eyes by sweeping the palm of my hand across my face, then smile back at Elaine.
‘Anything but Loose Women,’ I say.
Elaine laughs as she reaches for the remote control. After a few clicks of a button, she stops on an old episode of Top Gear.
‘I like this,’ she says, ‘my dad got me into cars.’
I look over at her, wonder how much more perfect her dad was to her than I was to Betsy. I bet Elaine’s dad never left her alone while he was working, I bet he never left her alone in the kitchen to split her head open.
‘Perfect,’ I say.
I try to get as comfortable as I can in my bed, then watch Jeremy Clarkson make a tit of himself by interviewing an A-list celebrity. The guy’s such a buffoon. Though the buffoon seems to be having a positive effect on me. It’s either him or Elaine’s company. She’s right, watching tele does allow me to escape from my own head. Suddenly I’m matching Elaine’s little giggles. Never in my life did I think I’d ever laugh at something Jeremy fucking Clarkson said.
‘That you?’ Elaine says turning to me.
‘Huh?’
‘The buzzing.’
I look down to my lap. My phone’s alight. I pick it up, the number ringing unfamiliar, then press at the green button.
‘Hello.’
‘Is this Gordon Blake?’
‘Yes… who’s this?’
‘Gordon, I just heard your terrible news, it’s me – Ray De Brun.’