The Suicide Pact (The Tick-Tock Trilogy Book 3)

by David B Lyons

  I’m breathing really heavily. I’m not used to running so much. Ingrid’s fitter than me. Always has been. She could probably keep on running. But I can’t. I stop. And bend over. I can’t get the slap out of my head. Jees, that was probably bad. But she deserved it.

  Debbie. Drugs.

  I can’t believe it. But I have to. Because I saw it with my own eyes.

  I have my hands on my knees, breathing as heavily as I can to try and get rid of the sharp pain in my chest. Then I hear it. A bus. It’s coming down the road quite fast. I can end it all right here. Right now.

  I grab both of Ingrid’s hands and stare into her eyes.

  ‘Let’s run out in front of it, ye ready?’ I breathe in and out really heavily. ‘On three. One, two—’

  ‘No! Wait!’ Ingrid shouts in my face. ‘I’m not ready. I’m not ready.’

  She releases both of her hands from mine and wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me back as I try to step out onto the road. The bus whizzes by. Beeping its horn.

  Wow. I nearly did it then. I nearly killed myself. After years of telling myself I would do it and chickening out every time, I nearly did it just then. It seems a little bit… I don’t know… exciting.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Ciara,’ Ingrid says, releasing her grip on me and then holding a hand to each side of my face. ‘Let’s calm down a bit. We have a pact. We have to stick to the pact.’

  She’s right. We discussed this last night. Then we wrote out a pact that we swore we’d stick to.

  She uses her weight to push me back a little until I’m sitting on a small wall outside somebody’s house. Then she sits beside me and throws her arm around my shoulder.

  ‘Ciara, how stupid would that have been?’

  I nod my head, then look up to the sky and suck up the wet snot that’s running down my nose. What was I thinking?

  ‘I know. I know,’ I say, blinking away some tears.

  ‘Jesus, we could have ended up in hospital, like vegetables forever.’ I nod my head again, swipe my sleeve under my nostrils and then look at my best mate. ‘You talked me through this,’ she says. ‘We spent two hours talking through this last night. There are ways to do it and ways not to do it. Running out in front of a bus is not a way to do it.’

  I lean my head onto the top of her shoulder.

  ‘It’s just… Debbie. Drugs,’ I say.

  I hear Ingrid swallow.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she says.

  Me neither. I really can’t. I’ve a lot going on in my mind right now. But the shock of Debbie doing drugs is taking over.

  ‘And what the hell was that guy doing there?’ I say, taking my head up off Ingrid’s shoulder and turning to face her.

  Her eyes are all wet. She shakes her head, sticks out her bottom lip.

  ‘Were they… were they having sex?’ I ask.

  Her lip stretches out further and then she shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘What a bitch!’ I say.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘It’s Debbie. There must be some… some… what’s-the-word?’

  ‘Explanation?’

  ‘Yeah… explanation, there has to be.’

  I shake my head slowly. I really can’t think straight.

  ‘There was cocaine on the mirror and she was in only her bra and knickers. That old man’s shirt was all open… uuuugh,’ I say as an image of the grey hairs on his chest come into my mind. ‘He was older than our dads.’

  Ingrid closes her eyes. Tight. She’s remembering the chest hair too. Some of it had lipstick marks on it.

  I rub at my face with both hands. Then Ingrid leaps from the small wall, wraps her hands around my waist and leans into me. I place my cheek on top of her head and just look down the street at nothing. The road is totally silent. As are we. Except for the thoughts that are going around in our heads non-stop. We need to shut them up. Shut them up once and for all.

  I’m glad Ingrid stopped me running in front of the bus. Glad we’re going to do this right. Just as we had planned. It won’t be long. Two more bus rides. Two more houses to visit. Then we’re done. For good.

  I suck up my nose again, to stop snot from dropping onto Ingrid’s beautiful hair. I’ve always loved her hair. Never been jealous of it though. Ingrid is too nice to ever be jealous of. I’ve only ever been jealous of her once; when she told me that Stitch asked her to be his girlfriend. I fancied him first.

  ‘If anything, tonight has proved we’ve made the right decision,’ she says, lifting her head. ‘Think about it. You tried to say goodbye to your mum, she didn’t want to know. You tried to say goodbye to Debbie, she didn’t want to know. I know some people love us but…’ Ingrid shrugs her shoulder as tears start to fall down her cheeks. She wipes one of them with her baby finger, then smiles up at me. Not a real smile. A fake smile. A pity smile.

  ‘No need for us to cry,’ I say, leaping off the wall. ‘We’ve made a decision. There’s not long to go, Ingrid. Couple more stops. Soon all this pain will be gone.’

  We hug each other, knowing there’s probably going to be another fifty hugs like this before we finally do it.

  ‘So… off to Harriet’s, then. You know what you’re going to say to her?’

  Ingrid almost laughs. Then she shakes her head.

  ‘Same problem isn’t it? Got to say goodbye without letting anybody know we’re saying goodbye,’ she says.

  I think of my mam again; imagining her crashing to her knees when the police call to the house after our bodies are found. Sobbing her heart out. But she’ll only be crying because of herself. Not because of me. Then I think of my dad; wondering how he’ll take the news. He’ll be put out. He’ll have a funeral to arrange. A drunk wife he’ll have to try to keep sober until the funeral is all done. He’ll be so relieved when it’s all out of the way. Then he can get back to doing… whatever the hell it is he does.

  ‘Think your dad will do a show about us?’ I say as Ingrid’s parents come into my mind.

  Ingrid nods her head.

  ‘Definitely,’ she says. ‘He’ll even begin some sort of suicide charity, won’t he?’

  We stand in silence thinking about that. She’s right. That’s exactly what Terry Murphy will do. He’ll be on every chat show in Ireland talking about us over the next few months. Pity we won’t be around to see that. I’ve thought about that kinda thing a lot over the years. It’s quite annoying that I’ll never be around to see the aftermath of my suicide. My mam crashing to her knees. My dad rolling his eyes during the funeral as my mam cries into his chest like a baby. The students at our school being given the news at assembly in the morning. The look on the faces of those who will feel most of the guilt.

  Jaysus, if only we could turn into ghosts straight after we die and come back and watch all of the carnage we’ve left behind. That’d be ace.

  ‘Will we go then?’ Ingrid says, shivering a little. We’ve been standing in the cold too long, thinking about stuff we’ve thought about way too many times already.

  ‘C’mon then, let’s catch the bus to Harriet’s. I promise I won’t try to jump in front of it this time.’

  Ingrid puffs another one of those laughs out of her nose, then throws her arm around me as we walk towards the bus stop on the far end of the road. We’re strolling, very slowly, when flashing blue lights flicker in the sky.

  ‘Girls,’ a voice calls out. ‘Stop right there!’

  20:40

  Debbie

  I hold my hand to my cheek. Jesus fuckin Christ did that hurt. Not just the slap. But her running away, the disappointment on her chubby little face. I haven’t seen Ciara’s face that purple since she used to struggle to poo into her nappy when I first started minding her. I feel so bad. So guilty.

  I shiver as I walk back towards my house, holding my bathrobe closed around my waist. I’m not sure if most of my shivering is down to the cold, maybe it’s the guilt; the embarrassment. I pivot my head up and down my street as I walk, hoping none of the neighbours come str
olling by.

  But I’m not really that concerned about myself. I’m only concerned about Ciara. How the hell would she even know what cocaine is? Surely it just looks like bloody salt or sugar to her. I hold my eyes closed and allow a loud groan to force its way from the back of my throat and all the way out through my mouth. Then I stop walking.

  ‘Oh my God, she’s going to tell her folks isn’t she?’

  I look up to the darkening sky and try to think it all through.

  I know she also saw Gerry with his shirt undone and me back in my lingerie. But what could she deduce from that? She’s too young. Or am I just being a fuckin idiot; assuming Ciara is and always will be a baby?

  I hold my hand to my cheek again to try to rid it of the stinging. Jesus, she gave me a fair oul whack. Come on — get your thoughts together, Debbie. Try to think straight. Ciara and Ingrid came into the house for whatever reason. I rushed them out. Then Ciara came back and saw the coke. Threw the mirror against the wall. Saw a man on my couch with his shirt undone, me back in my lingerie. Shit… this doesn’t look good.

  She’s probably off home right now, to tell Michael and Vivian that I do Class A drugs.

  I let out another groan. Then squelch up my nose and shake my head.

  Fuck Vivian and Michael. Sure they probably do coke themselves. I’m certain Michael has always had the glazed eyeballs of a coke user. And Viv, well, I’m not sure Viv does coke. She wouldn’t take her nose away from her glasses of wine long enough to sniff a line. They probably won’t give a shit if Ciara runs home and tells them. Sure, why am I even worrying about Michael and Vivian Joyce? It’s not them I give a shit about. It’s Ciara. I wanted her to be a part of my life forever. I know I haven’t seen her much lately, but I just assumed she’d always be there; like a little sister to me. I fuckin raised her. I can’t just let her go out of my life.

  I head towards my garden gate and as I do so, I decide I’ll ring their house in the morning. To make sure I explain myself. Tell her I wouldn’t even dream of doing drugs. That it’s not my thing. I’ll take her out somewhere nice next weekend. Treat her. I’ve been meaning to spend more time with her anyway. I’ve missed her.

  I push at my door and walk into the living room to see Gerry man spreading on my couch.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ he says.

  ‘Sorry, Gerry… that little girl, the chubby one, I helped raise her. She’s like a little sister to me. I feel awful that she saw the coke.’

  ‘What t’hell did ye have them in here for, anyway? Ye know I booked this time with you.’

  I eyeball him. All of him. His horrible saggy neck, the matted grey hairs on his chest, his huge belly hanging over his yellowing Y-fronts. What the fuck am I doing with my life?

  I’ve asked myself that question loads of times over the past year or so. But I need this. It’s only one hour. One hour every Sunday night for a hundred quid. It increases my income by twenty-five per cent. I’d barely be able to afford food for myself if I didn’t do this. The Joyces paid well… the Franklins just don’t pay the same. I need the extra income. So I signed on to be an escort. It’s not as if I’m out on the streets every night waiting on anyone to ride me for a few quid. I’m part of an elite escort agency that sends a man — mostly fat fuckin Gerry — to my house every Sunday night for one hour. They pay one-hundred and fifty quid for that hour and I ship fifty of it to the agency.

  ‘They just knocked on the door, Gerry. I thought it was you. I couldn’t just throw them back on the street, I invited them in for a drink until you came, and when you did, I kicked them out. What more do you want me to do?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I want ye to do,’ he says, opening his legs even wider. Jesus, the fuckin state of him. ‘Do a line.’

  I huff, then tut.

  ‘I don’t do fuckin drugs, Gerry, how many times do I have to tell ye? It’s your fuckin coke. And that’s the last time you leave it in my house, d’ye hear me?’

  I unwrap my bathrobe, sit beside him on the couch and then sigh. ‘You do a line yourself,’ I say. ‘Then do me. Let’s get this over with.’

  ◈

  Helen is still pacing up and down Patrick Tobin’s tiny sitting room, her jaw clenching, when Charlie stands up and winks at her.

  ‘Okay, got it,’ he says.

  Helen nods her head, then strolls over to Tobin.

  ‘Think it through, Patrick,’ she says. ‘And ring us if anything comes to mind.’

  Tobin mumbles a worried ‘yes’ to her, then Helen cocks her head sideways to motion to Charlie that it’s time for them to leave. As they’re heading for the door Charlie scrolls his finger down the screen of his phone.

  ‘There’s a hundred and sixty-bloody-four names here, Helen. How the hell are we gonna find out which two are the girls we’re looking for?’

  Helen makes a sucking noise with her mouth, then pops her lips.

  ‘We’ll find em.’

  They both pace towards the police car; Helen still stewing their next move. They have a list of girls’ names that’s been emailed to Charlie’s phone, all of whom have been noted by the school as having symptoms of depression. And — of course — they have an image of the teenage boy who made the phone calls that started this whole investigation. It wasn’t a bad start, not by any means — and Helen was secretly quite chuffed that she hadn’t lost any of her investigative nous — but it was only a good start if they had time to investigate. With the clock ticking towards midnight, Helen and Charlie had it all to do. They didn’t have the time to trawl through the list of girls’ names; didn’t have time to go door-to-door asking the community if they knew who the young boy in the grainy CCTV image was.

  ‘Sirens?’ Charlie asks while both of them are pulling at their seatbelts.

  Helen narrows her eyes then sucks her mouth again.

  ‘What would you do, Charlie? If you were the lead Detective in this case, what would your next move be?’

  Charlie gently drums his two index fingers against the steering wheel as he stews his answer.

  ‘Ye think the two girls are on this list?’ he says, nodding his head towards the phone he dropped in the cup holder beside the gear stick.

  Helen scrunches up her face.

  ‘Can’t be sure of it,’ she says. ‘I just… ugh… we just need more time.’

  ‘Let’s ask the local teenagers about the boy in our image,’ Charlie says, there’s a football club who play their games around the corner here. St John Bosco they’re called, there’s always lads hanging around that clubhouse.’

  Helen swallows, then nods her head.

  ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

  ‘Sirens?’ Charlie asks.

  Helen shakes her head this time.

  ‘Not if you still want the teenage boys to be hanging around when we get there.’

  Charlie holds his eyes firmly closed as he cringes a little. He should have known. That was quite an amateur question.

  He drives off, rounds the first bend and by the time he’s approached the roundabout, both he and Helen can see a group of lads sitting on a small wall next to the dressing-rooms of the football club. Some of them stand, bracing themselves to run as the police car edges up beside them. But when Helen gets out, her hands held in the air as if to call for peace, they all seem to relax.

  ‘We’re only looking for a bit of help,’ she says as she inches towards them; her hands now back in her pockets, the leather coat open, making her look like a character from The Matrix.

  ‘Need you to identify a boy of your age. He’s not in trouble, we just need to find him.’ She looks behind her at Charlie fumbling with his phone, then rolls her eyes because he’s not prepared. He was supposed to show the image bang on cue. Now she thinks he’s made her look uncool to the boys. As if her leather overcoat and orange hair hadn’t already done that.

  ‘C’mon, piglet, hurry up,’ one of the boys shouts to a ripple of laughter. Helen offers the boy who yelled a stern gaze. He just star
es back.

  Then Charlie holds his phone towards the pack and they circle in.

  ‘Ah yeah — that’s Mike Hunt,’ one lad says.

  An ounce of excitement forms in Helen’s stomach, until she hears the rest of the boys laughing again. Mike Hunt. My cunt. She should have copped it; had been fed that fake name a few times when she used to do routine beat work back in the day.

  ‘Boys, lemme ask you this,’ Helen says, stepping in to the middle of the group. ‘Any of you got sisters?’

  One boy cocks his head up, a couple others mumble a ‘yes’.

  ‘You,’ she says talking to the boy who cocked his head. ‘Your sister younger or older than you?’

  He swallows.

  ‘Younger.’

  ‘So about… twelve, thirteen?’ Helen asks.

  The boy cocks his head again.

  ‘Well let me tell you this.’ Helen takes her hands out of her pockets. ‘Two thirteen-year-old girls are planning to die by suicide tonight, somewhere in this area. We don’t know who they are or where they are. We just know they are alone, and they want to end their lives. The boy in this photograph is the only person who can lead us to the girls. Guys… they’re only young. Same age your sister. Please,’ she says, holding her palms out, ‘no more messing; we need you to be serious. Do you know who the boy in this image is?’

  Charlie stretches the phone closer to the boys and they shuffle their way for a closer look.

  Helen winces when she notices the beginning of a Mexican wave of heads shaking from side to side.

  ‘Sorry,’ the boy who had called Charlie a piglet says, ‘we don’t know him. He’s not from round here anyway; we’d know.’

  Helen spins on her heels, pivots her head backwards and offers a silent grunt towards the sky.

  ‘Thank you, boys,’ Charlie says, before he trudges after Helen and into the car.

  Helen is snarling as they both reach for their seatbelts again.

  ‘We’ve enough information to find these girls, don’t we?’ Charlie says as he repeatedly knocks the butt of his phone off his bottom lip. ‘It’s just we don’t have enough to find them before midnight tonight. We’d need a team of officers, wouldn’t we? Calling around houses, showing neighbours this image. Calling around each of the girls’ homes that are on our list.’