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

by David B Lyons

  I turn my face to look at Ciara again. She squidges up her nose. And so do I. I always feel uneasy when the word sex comes up.

  ‘Sorry,’ Harriet says. ‘Some of the subject might be a little… what’s-the-word… mature for your age. But the sooner you learn all about this stuff, the stronger you’ll become. Do ye think you need that… strength?’ she asks.

  I look over at her. She’s just staring up at the ceiling, waiting on my answer.

  ‘I’d love more strength,’ I say. I feel Ciara nudging me in the back but I ignore it. ‘How do I get more strength?’ I ask.

  Harriet stretches her neck again to look up at me.

  ‘Read that book… and all these kinda books,’ she says nodding her head towards her windowsill. ‘They’ll help you understand what life is all about. And how you’ll find that the small things such as some little tosser calling you Fishfingers is so insignificant.’

  I sit up straighter and run my finger down the front cover of the book. That’s interesting. If reading this book means it won’t hurt me anymore when somebody calls me Fishfingers surely I should just try to read it.

  ‘Do you wanna take that one home with you?’ Harriet asks.

  I sniff through my nose, then find myself nodding my head.

  ‘Yeah… yes. I’d love to. Thanks, Harriet.’

  21:25

  Harriet

  I stare up at my crappy posters, my hands creating a little pillow for the back of my head.

  ‘You’re into the coolest stuff, Harriet,’ Ingrid says. Jaysus. Cool? Me? If only. ‘Wish I could be more like you.’

  I laugh.

  ‘No you don’t. Jaysus, I wish I was like you,’ I say. ‘Any idea how much the boys are gonna be swarming over you when you’re older? You’re gonna be a model, just like yer ma.’

  Ingrid isn’t gorgeous yet. She’s pretty, definitely. But it’s so obvious that she will be stunning when she grows up. When she grows into her nose, when she develops her body shape, when her eyebrows thicken. Every bloke in school will regret the day they didn’t find her attractive. Whoever this Stitch guy is; he’s gonna be pulling the mickey off himself thinking about Ingrid in a few years’ time. And he won’t be able to touch her. She’ll be way out of his league by then.

  ‘But sure, what’s the advantage of being pretty and getting all the men if we don’t need men?’ Ciara asks me.

  I look back her.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. My answer doesn’t mean anything. But I hope it’s enough to shut her up. I don’t need her testing me on my beliefs. Because I don’t even know what my beliefs are. I’m a bullshitter. Always have been. If I’m good at anything — and I’m not good at much — it’s pretending I’m somebody I’m not. I constantly bluff. Constantly make up who I am. What I stand for. I try to be cool. But there’s absolutely feck all cool about me. These books… these posters… my nose ring… my clothes… my CD collection…. it’s all bollocks. I’ve never even listened to a full Oasis album in my life. I don’t even know who Kurt Cobain is. Give me a Take That record any day of the week. But Jesus, I wouldn’t let anyone know that’s the kinda stuff I’m into. These posters, this whole room. It’s just for show. It’s just all about a person I want to be seen to be. It’s not me.

  ‘Ah — you’re too intelligent for us two, Harriet,’ Ingrid says.

  ‘You’ll understand when you’re older. Read these kinda books. They’ll open your eyes,’ I lie, patting at the book I placed on her stomach. I’ve no idea what’s inside that book. Never read it. Never read any of em.

  She sits up and begins to run her finger down the front cover. It’ll be fine if she asks me questions. Bullshitting to my little cousin is easy. It’s the bullshitting to my mates that’s difficult. I’m always paranoid that they’ll see right through me; that they know I don’t really know what feminism means, that they’ll know I couldn’t tell the difference between Liam Gallagher and Noel Gallagher if they were stood right in front of me.

  ‘The first chapter is called ‘Blame it on Feminism,’ Ingrid says. ‘What’s that mean…? I thought you said feminism was a good thing?’

  ‘Huh?’ I say before swallowing hard. I sit up and stare at her eyes. It’s always best to hold somebody’s eyes when you are bluffing. I take the book from her. ‘Ah… it’s just that some women think the feminism movement goes too far,’ I lie, then hand her the book back. ‘It’s a warzone out there. But the truth is, we have to be strong. Everyone has to be strong. Especially women, though. Men have ruled the world for far too long and all they want from us is food and sex.’

  Shit. Maybe mentioning sex to my thirteen-year-old cousin wasn’t cool. Jaysus, Aunt Greta would kill me if she knew I was talking about sex with her precious little Ingrid.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Some of the subject might be a little… what’s-the-word… mature for your age. But the sooner you learn all about this stuff, the stronger you’ll become. Do ye think you need that… strength?’ I ask. It’s a genuine question. Jees, I’d kill somebody for more strength. I’m so weak. Bizarrely weak. Always have been. People think I’m strong because I took over all of the women duties in the house after my mam died. All of our family and the neighbours kept telling me how strong I was. They’d no idea I was crying my little heart out every night. Still do sometimes. Have been for the past couple weeks since Conor dumped me. Fucker was seeing somebody else behind my back. I miss him like crazy.

  ‘I’d love more strength,’ Ingrid says. ‘How do I get more strength?’

  Jesus, Ingrid, I wish I knew.

  ‘Read that book… and all these kinda books,’ I say tilting my head towards my windowsill. ‘They’ll help you understand what life is all about. And how you’ll find that the small things in life such as some little tosser calling you Fishfingers is so insignificant.’

  That’s actually not bad advice. Jaysus, if only I could listen to my own advice.

  Ingrid sits up. I think she’s intrigued by the book. I must be selling it well; even though I don’t even understand what the title of that one means exactly.

  ‘Do you wanna take that home with you?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yeah… yes. I’d love to. Thanks, Harriet.’

  ‘No bother,’ I say. And then I continue to stare up at these old posters on my ceiling. I get them out of Rolling Stone magazine. Seven quid every month that bastarding magazine costs me — just so I can continue to lie to everybody that that’s the sort of shit I’m into. I don’t know why I plaster my walls and ceiling in these posters, nobody really comes up to my room anymore anyway.

  ‘Have you decided if you’re going to college?’ Ingrid asks.

  Yep. I have decided. And no I’m not going. Can’t afford to.

  ‘Yeah… thinking about doing a course in music in Ballyfermot College. Supposed to be a really cool course there.’

  I don’t know why I’ve lied about that. She’ll find out soon enough that I’m not going to college; that I’ve taken a shitty shelf-stacking job in the local supermarket for the summer. I just need to keep up the pretence that I’m cool; to Ingrid more than anyone. She looks up to me. It’s nice to have somebody look up to you.

  I’d love to go to college. But we need money coming into the house. Dad hasn’t worked for years… over a decade. Not since mam died. He’s on benefits. It’s all we have to live on. Which is why paying seven quid on Rolling fucking Stone magazine every month makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. I’m a fuckin loser. Always have been.

  ‘Yeah — you should totally study music,’ Ingrid says. ‘That’d be so cool. Everything you do is cool.’

  ◈

  Charlie has the engine revving, the blue lights flashing and his finger resting on the switch to start the siren’s wail by the time Helen has hobbled into the car. She started sprinting, as soon as she got the name of the boy from Brother Fitzpatrick but waned before she had even reached the laneway. From there, she slowed down — into a jog, then a trot — before she finally huffed a
nd puffed herself into Charlie’s passenger seat.

  She twirls her hand in the air as soon as she’s settled, signalling that Charlie should get going.

  ‘Jesus; I’m wrecked,’ Helen says, leaning her head back on the rest.

  Charlie smiles on one side of his face then nudges the car into gear and speeds off.

  ‘You’re doing great, Detective,’ he says. ‘You were so right in thinking we should go to the local Headteacher first. That was genius investigating. Course the Headteacher would know all of the teenagers in the area.’

  Helen nods.

  ‘Wonder if the others have found out the name yet?’ she says.

  Charlie stares over at her as he nudges the stick into fifth gear, the car now speeding.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The others; the other dicks… Detectives. I wonder if they’ve managed to get the name yet… Tommy Smith.’

  ‘Oh… yeah, lemme ring that in, in case we’re ahead of them,’ Charlie says.

  He reaches for his car’s radio but before he can lift the receiver, Helen’s hand is on top of his.

  ‘Let’s look after our investigation first,’ she says. ‘We’ll pass on all of our information once we’ve caught up with this fella.’

  Charlie’s eyes narrow, the nub of his nose so pronounced that it forms into a perfect square.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah… if they get to him before us, we’ll never get a chance to speak to him. They’ll be questioning him all about Keating. They’ll take the wrong path. We need to get to him first and find out the name of these two girls without playing games with him. We’ll pass the other dicks on any information we get after we’ve caught up with Smith first.’

  She turns her face, to gauge Charlie’s reaction. But he remains motionless and expressionless, his foot heavy on the pedal.

  ‘Trust me,’ she says, touching his shoulder.

  ‘They might be ahead of us already, Helen,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Hopefully not.’

  They both stretch their necks when they pull into the bungalows, on the lookout for any other blue flashing lights ahead.

  ‘Nothing,’ Charlie says, pulling the car over. ‘Okay… where’ll we start?’

  Helen already has one foot out of the car by the time he’s finished his question. She paces straight up to the nearest door and rattles her knuckles against it.

  A middle-aged woman answers, holding a spoon in one hand and a cup-o-soup in the other.

  ‘Jaysus, what’s wrong?’ she says, her eyes widening at the site of the police car in front of her home.

  ‘Nothing, ma’am,’ Helen says just as Charlie catches up with her. ‘We are looking for the house Tommy Smith lives in… he’s about fourteen or fifteen years old. You know that name?’

  The woman tilts her chin upwards.

  ‘Ah… not surprised you’re looking for one of them,’ she says. She looks up and down the street, then steps out of the house and whispers. ‘They live in that one over there, the red door.’ She nods her head across the narrow street.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Helen says turning back to see the woman closing her hall door without any further comment.

  Charlie and Helen trot across the street, Charlie getting to the red door first. He holds the bell down and then stands back.

  The door opens slowly after the person behind it has wrestled with an inordinate number of locks.

  ‘Wha’ d’yous want?’ a rotund man with a strange neck tattoo asks.

  ‘We need to speak with Tommy as soon as possible,’ Helen barks.

  ‘He’s not ’ere.’

  ‘Sir, we have reason to believe a couple of Tommy’s friends are in grave danger—’

  ‘I don’t know anythin’ about his friends.’

  The man attempts to edge the door closed, Helen holding the palm of her hand against it to stop him.

  ‘Sir… Mr Smith is it? Are you Tommy’s father?’

  The man puffs a sigh out of his nostrils.

  ‘He’s not here. What do yis want me to say?’

  Charlie looks to Helen.

  ‘Tommy! Tommy!’ she roars, twisting her head so she can see beyond the man’s round frame and into his home.

  The man steps out.

  ‘Will ye shut the fuck up, woman. Jesus. He’s not here, I told ye. Stop causing a scene.’

  Helen sighs.

  ‘Where would he be, Sir? Two young girls’ lives depend on it.’

  The man squints a little.

  ‘Wha’ d’ye mean?’

  ‘Two girls from Tommy’s school are planning to die by suicide tonight. Tommy might hold the answer to where we can find them. We believe he knows them well.’

  The man smiles a wide grin at Helen, then shifts his gaze to Charlie, the grin widening.

  ‘That’s a good un,’ he says. ‘Never had a cop use that kinda tactic before.’

  ‘We’re not making it up, Sir. We believe Tommy rang in calls to two Garda stations a couple hours ago suggesting two girls from his school were planning on killing themselves at midnight tonight. We have to find them.’

  ‘Will ye get the fuck outta here… think I’m buyin’ that shite?’ The man laughs.

  ‘Sir, we’re not lying,’ Charlie says as calmly as he possibly can. ‘Where can we find Tommy?’

  ‘Tommy doesn’t hang around with girls… Jesus.’

  ‘Sir, we need to find out where your son is.’

  The man takes a step back, inching the door closed again. Helen holds her palm to it, but the man is unforgiving this time, forcing his body weight behind the door until it shuts tight. Helen balks back, shaking the strain from her hand.

  ‘Fat fuck,’ she whispers to Charlie. ‘I knew as soon as he took an age opening all those locks that they were a dodgy family. Ye never get answers from a dodgy family. Ever.’

  Helen sucks her lips, places her hands back in the pockets of her leather coat and then turns around.

  ‘Over here,’ she says.

  Charlie follows her across the street, straight towards the door they had knocked on earlier.

  ‘Jaysus, not letting me enjoy me supper this evening are yis, coppers?’ the woman says, twirling her spoon in her cup-o-soup.

  ‘You eh… you mentioned you weren’t surprised when we told you we were looking for one of the Smiths. How come?’ Helen asks.

  The woman raises an eyebrow, then takes half a step outside her home and peers up and down the street again.

  ‘Bunch o’ weirdos,’ she says. ‘The oul fella’s been in and out of prison I don’t know how many times. The son’s gonna be worse. Little scumbag he is.’

  ‘Tommy.’

  ‘Yeah… that’s him. Comes and goes from that house at all times of the night and morning. I’ve heard him coming home, shouting and screaming, pissed as a fart at like four-five a.m. His parents don’t give a shit.’

  Helen inches closer to the woman.

  ‘Ever seen Tommy palling around with girls?’ she asks.

  The woman sticks her bottom lip out, then slowly shakes her head.

  ‘Nah… he hangs around with a load o’ blokes his age. There’s a big gang of em. About a dozen of em. They all hang around under the Harold’s Cross bridge, swigging flagons of cider.’

  Helen looks at Charlie.

  ‘Do ye think that’s where he’d be now?’ she asks, turning back to the woman.

  The woman sticks her bottom lip out again.

  ‘It’d be my best guess.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. You can eh… you can finish your soup now. Sorry to be a bother.’

  Helen twists her neck sharply as a siren grows in the distance. Then she looks up at Charlie before pacing past him, into the middle of the road to stare up as much of it as possible. She makes out the familiar sound of the siren twirping to a stop.

  ‘Guess we just about got here before them,’ she says, turning back to Charlie. ‘Now let’s get to the bridge before them. We gotta talk to Tomm
y, we can’t let them take control.’

  ‘Really?’ Charlie asks. ‘Isn’t it just a case of finding Tommy. Does it matter who gets there first?’

  ‘Yes! Yes it does, c’mon?’ Helen moans, pulling at the locked passenger car door. ‘Charlie!’

  Charlie doesn’t answer her, he just stares at the cop car coming their way.

  He bends down slightly as it passes; makes out a familiar figure in the driver’s seat.

  ‘A sergeant from my station. Louis Kavanagh. Know him?’ he asks Helen.

  Helen shakes her head.

  ‘C’mon, Charlie. Honestly. We need to act fast.’

  Charlie holds his hand up at Helen as he trots past her, towards the cop car that has pulled in.

  ‘Charlie, how ye getting on?’ Louis says, lifting his stocky frame out of the car and sticking his Garda hat over his ginger hair. All of the hair on Louis’ head is ginger; his eyebrows, his eye lashes, even the loose strands that hang from his nostrils.

  ‘Grand… grand… You here for Tommy Smith?’ Charlie asks.

  ‘Yeah… you too? You chasing down the caller?’

  ‘Yep,’ Charlie says, a touch of pride in his answer.

  ‘How d’ye get here before me?’

  ‘Myself and Detective Brennan over there — from Rathmines station — tracked him down. Soon as we saw the CCTV footage, we paid a visit to the local school’s Headteacher.’

  Louis nods his head.

  ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘He’s not in. The father answered, wasn’t willing to give us much, but a neighbour here behind us, she—’

  ‘Evening, Sergeant,’ Helen calls out, creeping up behind Charlie.

  Louis stretches out a hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you Detective Brennan,’ he says. ‘Good work so far. No sign of Smith at home, no?’

  ‘We haven’t laid eyes on him yet, but that’s his house there. Red door. Maybe you can have more impact on the father than we’ve had. Best of luck. Let’s go, Charlie.’