Charlie only moves after Helen has tugged at his elbow. He follows her to the car and, as they reach it, they both notice more blue lights flashing in the distance.
‘Jaysus, they’re all getting here now,’ Helen says as they climb into their seats.
Charlie turns the key in the ignition and, as they pull off, Helen scoots down in her seat, her eyeballs soaking in each of the figures in the two Garda cars that pass. In the second car she notices Eddie, and scoots down even further, pulling the collars of her coat over her cheeks.
‘Right… come on, Charlie, let’s go visit that bridge. It’s not far from here.’
Charlie flicks on the lights, and edges his way out of the narrow estate.
‘What’s with you, Helen?’ he asks.
‘Whatcha mean?’
‘Why are you being all secretive with the other cops? What’s going on?’
Helen sits more upright, flattening down the collar of her coat.
‘It’s just… well, it’s two separate investigations. We need clarity and full focus on our investigation, don’t we? We can’t get derailed by theories that the phone call was made as a hoax distraction.’
Charlie flicks his eyes to the rear-view mirror.
‘It must be a hoax distraction, though,’ he says, taking his hand from the gear stick so he can point his thumb backwards. ‘Sure the whole bloody force is out chasing Tommy Smith because they think he has links to Alan Keating. It’s only me and you that seem to think his phone calls were a suicide warning.’
Helen coughs into her clenched fist.
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘That’s why we have to conduct our investigation separately. Let them conduct theirs and we’ll keep focused on ours.’
Charlie pivots his neck from side to side, producing tiny bone cracks.
‘Suppose you’re right,’ he says. ‘It’s cool though isn’t it? All of them; only two of us. Yet we’re always one step ahead. You’ll turn me into a Detective by the end of the night, Helen.’
Helen laughs, only because she is relieved that she’s managed to pull Charlie back around to her way of thinking.
‘Well… it’ll only be a success if we save these girls,’ she says. ‘Remember; focus, Charlie. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase when I first started investigating too. But you’ll come to learn you are focusing your energy in the wrong places when you let the thrill get the better of you.’
Charlie turns to Helen.
‘Thank you. You’ve been great to learn from this evening. Think you eh… think you could let me take you out for a coffee sometime. Just so I can pick your brain about how I can become a Detective? I’m bloody sick of sitting in the station filling out paperwork.’
Helen snuffs out another laugh. Not many would understand Charlie’s frustration with administrative work more than her. Her career’s gone in the opposite direction. From top Detective back down to envelope stuffer. She lost the run of her mind after Scott died by suicide. Could never get her head back on the job. Eddie had stronger mentality. Still does. He managed to get himself back to the station a month after Scott and his mates ended their lives. Five years later, after he became the station’s superintendent — and after much nagging from his wife — he made sure she got a job as administrative assistant. Mainly because he could keep an eye on her. Helen always said it was for the short-term. Even suggested that she’d open her own private investigator practice one day; Eddie knocking her back insisting those guys don’t make any money. It caused quite an awkward argument between them earlier this year when one PI managed to secure himself a million euro house for five hours work in Dublin. Still, Eddie knew she’d never carry through her threat. He knows Helen wouldn’t have the know-how to run her own business.
‘Course, no problem. We can do coffee anytime you want,’ Helen says.
Charlie is smiling to himself when he’s pulling the car over on the double yellow lines that run parallel to the canal.
They both get out as quickly as they can, trotting their way to the steps that lead to the under path of the bridge.
By the time they’re at the bottom step, they can hear the giddy laughter of teenagers.
Charlie reaches for his torch, flicks it on and shines it towards the narrow pathway in front of Helen. They can both see the butts of joints being tossed into the canal as they approach.
‘What the fuck do you pigs want?’ one teenage boy calls out.
21:35
Ciara
Me and Harriet are still lying back on the bed, our hands behind our heads, staring up at posters of bands and movies I’ve never even heard of.
But Ingrid is sitting up now, flicking through the book Harriet handed to her a couple minutes ago. She just said she’d love to take it home with her. Bleedin’ hell! She better not be serious. I knew coming to Harriet’s wasn’t a good idea. I’ll go mad if Ingrid decides to put our pact on hold just so she can read that stupid book. It’s all nonsense anyway. As if women will ever rule the world. I like Harriet and all, but sometimes the things she says don’t make any sense to me at all. I think she thinks she’s cleverer than she really is.
I sit up and stretch my hand towards Ingrid.
‘Gis a look,’ I say.
I take the book from her and flick through it myself, pretending that I’m interested. Jaysus… Ingrid won’t read this. It’s way too long.
‘What time’s it?’ I ask.
‘Coming up to twenty to ten,’ Harriet says. ‘Jee… it’s almost my bedtime. I normally turn in about ten. How come you guys are out so late? Don’t ye have school in the morning?’
I stay silent to see if Ingrid will answer. But she just continues to stare at the ceiling.
‘Eh… yeah,’ I say. ‘Yeah we do. I actually didn’t realise it was that late. We better get going. Ingrid just wanted to drop by… to let you know about Stitch.’
Harriet tuts.
‘Fuck Stitch,’ she says, sitting up to join us. She smiles at Ingrid. ‘I know Aunt Greta would go mental if she knew I was cursing to ya. But I mean it. Fuck him. He’s gonna be way beneath you in a couple years time.’ She places her hand on Ingrid’s shoulder and rubs it. ‘You sure you’re okay, cuz?’
Ingrid turns her head slowly towards me.
‘She’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘She’ll be okay in the morning.’
‘I don’t wanna go to school,’ Ingrid says, holding her hands to her face.
I reach out and rub her back.
‘Everything will be okay, Ingrid,’ I say.
‘Course it will. Listen to Ciara. What she’s saying is right,’ Harriet says. I smile a tiny smile over Ingrid’s shoulder at Harriet. ‘You walk into that school tomorrow with your head held high and a ‘fuck you Stitch’ attitude, you hear me? That’s what I’ve had to do since me and Conor finished. You just have to get on with it. You’ve a long life to live.’
I cough to distract the conversation. I don’t like where it’s going again. I don’t trust Ingrid to not break down and open up to Harriet about not wanting to live any more. I nudge at her back and keep doing it until she’s got to her feet.
‘I guess we better go,’ she says, staring at the ground.
‘Here, don’t forget the book,’ Harriet says, stretching over to where I’d almost hidden it under her pillow. She hands it to Ingrid who grabs it into her chest. ‘If you have any questions on it, let me know… won’t you?’
Ingrid sniffs up her nose and then nods. I can tell she’s almost in tears. This is her hardest goodbye of them all. She loves Harriet. But as I said to her last night, Harriet is not enough reason for Ingrid to stay alive. Harriet will move on soon; to college, to a job, to a husband with kids. She’s not going to have time for Ingrid forever. Barely has time for her now. They used to be in each other’s lives a lot more when they were younger. Now they only see each other if Ingrid ever bothers to call out here.
‘You sure you’re okay, cuz, you look like you’re about to cry again?’ Harrie
t says.
Then she stands up and rests both of her hands either side of Ingrid’s waist. I’ve already inched my way towards Harriet’s bedroom door. We really need to leave.
I watch as Ingrid nods her head before she nestles it onto Harriet’s shoulder. Harriet looks over at me, her bottom lip turned outwards.
‘I’m telling ya,’ she says, ‘in a couple months’ time you won’t care who this Stitch bloke is. It’ll only hurt for a little while. It’s a little bit of heartbreak… that’s all. The heart mends.’
Ingrid wipes the sleeve of her tracksuit top across her face.
‘It’s… it’s…. it’s not just that,’ she sobs. ‘It’s not just Stitch.’
Oh bleedin’ hell!
‘Huh?’ Harriet says, removing Ingrid’s arm from her face. ‘Tell me… you can say anything to me… what’s wrong?’
A creak sounds from outside, then a huff and a puff. It’s Brendan, making his way up the stairs. He enters the room next to us, the latch on the door locking.
‘Tell me, cuz, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, walking towards them both. ‘It’s the whole school thing… how everybody will be calling her Fishfingers in the morning. But don’t worry, Harriet… I’ll look after her. I promise.’
Harriet offers me a sad smile, then she turns to face Ingrid again.
‘You sure, Ingrid? Is there anything else you want to say to me?’
Ingrid opens her mouth.
Then we hear an almighty fart. As if thunder is rolling over our heads.
21:40
Ingrid
This is the hardest goodbye yet. I can’t stop the tears from pouring out of my eyes. And out of my nose. I didn’t think it would be this hard.
Harriet hugs me and tells me everything will be alright. Again.
‘I’m telling ya,’ she says, ‘in a couple months’ time you won’t care who this Stitch bloke is. It’ll only hurt for a little while. It’s a tiny bit of heartbreak… that’s all. The heart mends.’
I wipe my face clear of the tears and snot and then nod my head.
‘It’s… it’s…. it’s not just that,’ I say. ‘It’s not just Stitch.’
Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this. Ciara will be hopping mad behind me. I know she will. I still want to do it… commit suicide. I think I do anyway. But I really wouldn’t mind talking to Harriet, just to get a different opinion. She’s so intelligent, so cool. She might understand why I hate the thought of being called Fishfingers for the next six years. She might understand that I feel like I’m bothering Mum and Dad if I tell them I feel sad.
‘Huh?’ Harriet says, taking my hand away from my face. ‘Tell me… you can say anything to me… what’s wrong?’ I hold my eyes closed and nod my head, as if I’m telling myself I shouldn’t say what I want to say.
‘It’s nothing,’ Ciara interrupts. I knew she would. ‘It’s the whole school thing… how everybody will be calling her Fishfingers in the morning. But don’t worry, Harriet… I’ll look after her. I promise.’
I swallow hard. I’m not sure if I’m grateful for the interruption or not. My mind is too… too full; full of horrible thoughts; full of sadness; full of disappointment; full of fear. But that’s why I want to die, isn’t it? I want my mind to stop feeling all these bad things all the time.
‘You sure, Ingrid? Is there anything else you want to say to me?’ Harriet says.
I suck up a sob, and as I’m doing so, I decide I’ll tell her; tell her that I’d rather die than feel the way I do. Then, just as I’m about to open my mouth, I hear a huge fart — like one of those crackling fireworks. It goes on and on.
I laugh, and as I do, my tears spray onto Harriet’s face.
She falls back onto the bed, her hand over her mouth, doing her best to not laugh too loudly. I look behind, through my tears, and notice Ciara has slidden down the wall. She has her knees up beside her ears, her face buried behind them, her shoulders shaking. Squeals of laughter are squeaking out of all three of us. Then another fart comes; not so loud this time, more a splat. And suddenly I’m on my knees, holding my lips closed as tightly as I can so no more squeals of laughter can sneak out.
Then Uncle Brendan lets out a gasp and I am certain I am about to wet my knickers. Ciara can’t hold it in anymore either. Her laughter gets loud. Harriet rises from the bed, her face purple, her eyes tightly closed, tears glistening on the edges of them and she begins to wave her hand at Ciara — trying to get her to shut up. But she can’t. Ciara is flat on the floor now, on her stomach, laughter roaring from her. Then my dam bursts too; my lips ripping open and laughter pouring out. I fall flat onto my belly and begin banging my fists on the carpet.
‘Bleedin’ hell!’ Ciara says, in between gasps.
I manage to suck in some air and fill my cheeks, to try to stop the laughter and return to normal. I look up at Harriet and see her drying her eyes with her poncho.
‘He always does that!’ she whispers to me. ‘He doesn’t know how loud he is.’
My lips blow out more laughter. I’m getting scared now, as if I’m gonna suffocate and die right here, right now. Jesus. Wouldn’t that be a lovely way to go? Ciara has researched suicide for so long now that she came up with the quickest and least painful way for us to do it, but I bet she never thought about dying of laughter.
I manage to slow down my breathing and finally sit up, resting my back against the bed. Ciara does the same, then grips my elbow and when I turn to her she winks at me.
‘Jesus, Harriet, why did you choose the bedroom closest to the toilet?’ Ciara asks, a ripple of laughter still squeezing out of her mouth.
Harriet dabs at her eyes again.
‘The house is tiny, all of the bedrooms are close to the toilet,’ she answers as she steadies herself to stand. ‘I’m so sorry, girls. That’s so embarrassing.’
‘Jesus, don’t be silly,’ Ciara says. ‘All men are the same. I wonder if it talks about men’s pooing habits in your books?’
The three of us laugh again, but a normal laugh this time; one we are certain we can recover from.
‘Well there ye go,’ Harriet says. ‘There’s your recipe for getting over Stitch, huh? Your uncle having a noisy shit. You’ve gone from crying to laughing in a split second. Told ye pain doesn’t last long.’
I reach out and hug her again. She grips me tight.
‘Here, take this,’ she says, handing me the book. ‘Read it and get back to me. If you ever need an ear, phone me. Or drop by. Anytime. Both of you.’
I shake my head, nuzzle it onto her shoulder and breathe in her hair.
‘Love you, cuz,’ I say.
She leans off me and stares into my eyes.
‘Not like you to say “I love you”,’ she smiles. ‘But I love you too. Always have, Ingrid. I’ll see you soon, yeah?’
I nod my head; not sure whether I’m lying to her or not. Then I hold her book close to my chest and watch as she hugs Ciara.
‘Actually, tell you what… Dad! Dad!’ Harriet shouts over Ciara’s shoulder.
‘Gimme a sec!’ he calls out from the toilet.
To stop myself from laughing again, I stroll around the room, pull at a little drawer below Harriet’s CD player and flick through her CDs. She strolls over towards me and pushes it closed.
‘Dad!’ she shouts again.
‘Jesus. I’m trying to wipe me arse!’ he says. The three of us laugh again. Out loud. Not minding that he hears us this time.
‘I’m just wondering if you can drop the girls home? It’s late. Ten to ten. Do you mind?’
‘No, no… Jesus no,’ Ciara butts in.
‘It’s no problem. Any excuse to get him out of the house. Sure, it’s only a ten minute drive… he’ll be fine.’
Uncle Brendan sighs.
‘Go on then,’ he says. Then the toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens. ‘Let me get me shoes on.’
‘Uncle Brendan,’ I call out, opening the door of Harriet’s
bedroom. He’s stopped at the top of the stars, is staring over his shoulder at me. I pause before saying anything — not because I don’t know what to say, but because the stench from the toilet has just reached my nose.
‘Doesn’t matter… Uncle Brendan. Thank you. We’d appreciate the lift. We’ll be down in a second.’ I say all that in one breath, then close Harriet’s bedroom door.
‘Oh my God, the stink,’ I whisper.
Harriet and Ciara laugh. I don’t. It’s hard to laugh when you’re pinching your nostrils and holding your lips tight together.
Eventually I let go and puff out a breath.
‘Okay — I guess we better go now,’ I say. I hug Harriet again and thank her for the book.
As me and Ciara are walking down the stairs, she begins to strike up some sort of argument without saying anything. She’s speaking with her hands, her face all creased up in that angry way she gets sometimes. I’m not sure if she’s giving out about me for taking the book or whether she’s angry that Uncle Brendan is going to give us a lift. Maybe it’s both. Or maybe she feels I’ve changed my mind — that I’m not going to follow through on our pact.
I just hug the book a little tighter to my chest and ignore her.
◈
Helen strides in her own unique way — poker straight, arms in pockets — towards the group of teenagers as Charlie, close behind, shines his torch over her shoulder.
‘Which one of you is Tommy Smith?’ she asks.
She notices their heads spin and murmurs spark amongst them, echoing off the dome wall under the bridge.
‘Which one of you is Tommy Smith?’ she asks again, this time more direct.
‘We don’t talk to pigs,’ a boy with bad acne says. He’s a lot taller than the others around him, though Helen notes he can’t be much older than them. They all look to be in their mid-teens, maybe even a year or two younger.
Helen sniffs her nose and then takes a large stride forward, so that she’s only inches from the group. She isn’t afraid of much. Except for water. Would go into a full blown panic if this confrontation got heated and she somehow found herself in that canal.
The Suicide Pact (The Tick-Tock Trilogy Book 3) Page 14
