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

by David B Lyons

  Then I open my eyes to see her nodding at me, her lips smiling. She brings herself closer to me, so our foreheads touch and we just hold each other. Until the bus juddering over another speed bump makes my chin slap against Ciara’s. Her teeth crack closed. She laughs at the strange sound it makes and so do I; the two of us bent over at the back of the bus, laughing on the outside, in pain on the inside. And all my mind is doing is wondering whether laughing at the noise of somebody’s teeth closing actually makes life pretty shit… or whether or not finding the likes of that funny is what makes life pretty good. I’ve never quite understood what parts of life I’m supposed to enjoy.

  I answered her question really quickly. Maybe because I knew the question was coming; I was prepared. Or maybe I answered her that quickly because I’m absolutely certain I want to do this. My mind keeps changing. I’ve just told her ten seconds ago that I’m ready to this. And now I’m not sure I am.

  Suicide seems to make the most amount of sense to me, though. The only way I can get rid of the pain is to end that pain. One thing that’s making me slightly nervy about doing it now is that I think the goodbyes we made to our favourite people have been pretty cold. It was my idea; the goodbyes. It was something I wanted to be part of the pact.

  Ciara found me standing behind a bush at the entrance to that tiny park near Balfey’s house. He was the one who had the free gaff last night. I kept playing what Stitch said to me over and over in my head as I stood behind that bush; tears pouring down my face. It wasn’t really his words that were hurting me. It was the laughter from everybody else that followed his words. It made my stomach turn, my whole body shake. I wanted to throw up. But all I could do was cry. And cry.

  ‘Oh, Ingrid,’ she said when she found me. She hugged me tight and as she did I whispered into her ear.

  ‘I want to commit suicide.’

  She pulled away and stared into my face. She’d been threatening that she would kill herself for years. She said I was the only one keeping her alive. She brought the idea of us both doing it together up a few times before; when I used to agree with her that life was shit and that my parents were just as bad as hers. I’m not sure how much of that I really agree with. I think I was just trying to be supportive; felt I was being the best friend I could possibly be to her if I could relate. But that laughter last night — after Stitch said what he said — it just made me realise I can’t go on. I can’t go to school tomorrow. I can’t do a whole six years in secondary school being known as Fishfingers.

  We spoke for two hours about our pact, on that cold bench just inside the park. Ciara was all up for doing it last night. I said we should wait to do it tonight so that we could have a chance to say goodbye to our families and those closest to us. I wanted to say goodbye to Mum and Dad. And Sven. And I really wanted to say goodbye to Harriet. But I’m not sure I really did that well enough tonight. I’m not quite sure what I expected it to be like, though. How are you supposed to say goodbye to somebody for the last time when you don’t want them to know it’s the last time? I could barely look at Mum and Dad when I was leaving the house; in case they could see right through me. I rubbed Sven’s hair. That’s it. It’s all I did to say goodbye to my little brother. And I hugged Harriet and told her I’d definitely read the book she gave me. I promised I’d catch up with her soon so we could talk. Then I just left in the back seat of Uncle Brendan’s car as she waved at me from the doorway. At least she’ll get the book with my note in it. That’s nice, I guess.

  ‘Maybe we should write suicide notes after all,’ I say, as the bus jumps over another speed bump.

  Ciara wrinkles her face up a bit.

  ‘Really?’

  I shrug my shoulder. I don’t know. We both decided last night that writing suicide notes would be too difficult; not just difficult because of how emotional it would be, but difficult because we’re both not great at writing. Our parents would have that note forever. And I just don’t think we could have written something good enough. That’s why we agreed to spend the day at home with our families to say our last goodbyes, and why we decided to visit the people we truly loved before we ended it all. We felt a last goodbye to all our loved ones would have more impact than a note. Now I’m not so sure.

  ‘Oh… maybe not, I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I think writing that small note in Harriet’s book is making me think it would be nice to leave a little message for Mum and Dad and Sven.’

  Ciara squelches her face even more. She was dead against suicide notes last night. More so than me. She doesn’t seem to have changed her mind.

  ‘Don’t you think… don’t you think our goodbyes were a little… cold?’ I ask.

  She makes a funny face again.

  ‘They were natural weren’t they?’ she says. ‘My goodbye to my mam was like any goodbye I’ve ever given her. Seems about right to me.’

  ‘What about your goodbye to Debbie… I mean you slapped her in the face?’

  Ciara sniffs a small laugh out of her nose.

  ‘What… you want me to leave her a suicide note now?’

  ‘No, no…’ I say, sitting back in my seat and slapping my hands against my knees. ‘I don’t know.’ I realise I must be sounding as confused as I feel. I’m probably doing Ciara’s head in.

  ‘Listen,’ Ciara says, placing her hands either side of my face again. ‘Do you want to go home and say another goodbye to your mum? If you do, we can delay this a little bit…’

  I breathe in deep. To give myself time to think. Then I find myself shaking my head before I’ve thought anything through.

  ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘Let’s just say goodbye to Miss Moriarty. Then we can just get this over with.’

  ◈

  Charlie and Tommy are well out of sight by the time Helen pushes at the door and steps outside. She had tried to run fast, tried to keep up, but she needed both hands to hold on to the bannisters either side of her as she trotted down the stairs, allowing them to race way ahead of her.

  ‘Fuck me,’ she says to no one when she gets outside. She looks right, then left. No sign of either of them. No sounds either. She reaches for her phone, scrolls through the screen and dials Tommy’s number again; then cocks her ear out for any inkling of that annoying ringtone.

  Nothing.

  She assumes Tommy would have gone left when he got outside. It would have been stupid of him to have run towards the police car. So she walks — in her own unique way — past the row of closed shops and towards a housing estate that looks like a maze of terraced-lined streets.

  ‘Little bollix could be anywhere.’

  She contemplates calling out Charlie’s name, but bites her tongue. He’ll come back to the car soon enough; hopefully holding Tommy Smith by the scruff of the neck.

  She’s wondering why the little fucker ran; is starting to lose hope that her instinct was right all along about the two girls. She shakes her head in an effort to reduce the growing logic from her mind. But nothing she can think of to support her gut — that the calls Tommy made earlier were legitimate suicide concerns — seems to be adding up. They must have been distraction calls; he must be working for Alan Keating.

  She turns back and stares at the flashing sign for Cue. Maybe all of them up there are working for Keating. That’s why the CCTV is gazing down at them. It’s planned that way. Bastards will have a proven alibi all night.

  Helen stops walking, lets out a sigh and then washes the palm of her hand over her face.

  ‘Your instinct was wrong, Helen,’ she muffles into her fingers. ‘There aren’t two girls out there about to commit suicide. Scott’s death hasn’t led you to this moment. Scott died. Get fuckin’ over it already. It’s been twenty-two—’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell.’

  An approaching voice halts Helen’s whispered monologue. She squints into the darkness, sees Charlie approaching her, his hand to his face. He’s on his own.

  ‘Fuck ye, Charlie,’ she mumbles to herself before walking towards him. They meet
under a street lamp.

  ‘Little bollix punched me in the nose,’ Charlie says taking his hand away to show Helen the damage.

  She stares at his face, notices a fine trickle of blood making its way to his top lip, then shakes her head.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’ she asks.

  Charlie grunts the stinging pain away before answering.

  ‘Fucker’s quick, I’ll give him that. I managed to catch up with him, grabbed a handful of his tracksuit top… but he just turned around, knocked me one. I went flying backwards. Stings like hell. By the time I got to my feet he was out of sight.’

  Helen clenches her jaw.

  ‘Christ sake, Charlie!’ she grinds through her teeth.

  ‘What? What did you want me to do? I was assaulted.’

  ‘You’re a bloody police officer; you are supposed to control these situations!’

  Helen turns her back on Charlie, her hands on her hips.

  He looks at the back of her, his arms outstretched in bewilderment at her lack of empathy.

  ‘We’ll get that little fucker for assaulting a police officer. We know where he lives!’ Charlie says.

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit about arresting him for assaulting a police officer!’ Helen barks as she spins back around. ‘I’m only concerned about these two girls. Whoever they are. Wherever they are.’

  Charlie holds his hand to his nose again, then winces in pain before squelching his entire face at Helen.

  ‘If all this little fucker has is information on two girls planning to die by suicide, why did he run away from us? Helen… we’ve got to admit we’re wrong. The rest of the force are out there looking to stop Alan Keating from carrying out something big tonight. This little prick running away from us proves they’re right. He didn’t call two Garda stations because he’s worried about girls he goes to school with. He rang in a distraction call.’ Helen holds her eyes closed, her hands still on her hips. ‘C’mon, Helen, you’ve got to admit that—’

  ‘Shut up, Charlie,’ she snaps.

  ‘What d’you mean shut up? You know—’

  Helen takes a step towards Charlie, grabs him — with both hands — by the collar of his Garda jacket and pins him up against a shop shutter, causing a clang to echo the entire length of the street.

  ‘You listen to me, and you listen to me very carefully,’ she spits into his face.

  Up this close, Helen can see more of the damage to Charlie’s nose; a blue T-shaped bruise already starting to form, spreading itself under both eyes.

  ‘We have to believe we are right. We need to chase down these two girls. If… if the rest of the force are right, and Alan Keating is planning something big tonight, so fuckin what? Another theft, another heist. Who gives a shit? It’s nothing. Money, material things… it’s all fuckin pointless. But… if the rest of the force are wrong, and we’re right? Is anything pointless? Is saving two girls’ lives pointless?’

  Charlie narrows his eyes, slows his breathing down and then shakes his head.

  ‘Exactly,’ Helen says. ‘We have been given an important job to do and we will do it whether we think they were distraction calls or not, ye hear me?’ Charlie nods. And Helen releases her grip on him, before flattening down his collar. ‘Our task is a hell of a lot more important than theirs. We have to be super thorough. Whether we are right or wrong!’

  Charlie reaches his hand back up to his nose.

  ‘I s’pose you’re right,’ he says as his jacket pocket begins to vibrate. He reaches inside for his phone, then looks up at Helen after he’s noticed the screen.

  ‘It’s Newell — my SI.’

  ‘Put him on speaker,’ Helen demands.

  Charlie swipes at his screen to answer the call, then presses at the speaker button holding the phone outwards.

  ‘Guilfoyle, what the hell are you up to?’ a voice barks down the line. ‘Louis Kavanagh told me you were at Tommy Smith’s house half an hour ago… what are you playing at, son?’

  Helen shakes her head, pinching her forefinger and thumb together and running them across her closed lips.

  ‘We eh… I eh… I got information from the local school Headteacher using the image of Smith from the CCTV footage. He was able to give me information on the boy; told me his name, gave me his address.’

  A scoff is heard down the line.

  ‘Listen, Guilfoyle, I appreciate you are doing your job as well as you can. But leave this to us, okay? You can get your ass back to the station and finish your shift out. Don’t go chasing Smith. We’re on top of it. You eh… haven’t come across him yet, have you?’

  Helen shakes her head, pinches her forefinger and thumb across her lips again, her eyes widening.

  ‘Guilfoyle?’ Newell barks, having been met with silence.

  ‘No, Sir.’

  Charlie holds his eyes closed in disappointment, his chin tucked into his neck with shame.

  ‘Good. We don’t want him getting away from us. Listen,’ Newell says, ‘Louis told me you were operating with some Detective from Rathmines. Who are ye with, son?’

  Helen’s eyes go wide again, her head beginning to shake rapidly. She has her finger pointed right in Charlie’s face.

  Charlie swallows.

  ‘Eh… Detective Helen Brennan,’ he says slowly, before mouthing a ‘sorry’ at Helen.

  She grinds her teeth in his face, then spins around, her hands on top of her head as if she’s just missed an open goal in the last minute of a cup final.

  ‘Brennan? Never heard of her. Well… you tell her we have everything under control. Leave Tommy Smith to us — that is an order.’

  ‘I hear you, Sir. All understood.’

  As soon as the line goes dead, Helen spins back around.

  ‘Ye little rat bastard,’ she says, her finger pointing again.

  ‘I had to… he bloody knew I was with somebody. What did you want me to say?’

  Helen shakes her head while producing an overly loud grunt.

  ‘I’m gonna get fuckin fired now,’ she says.

  ‘I think we both might,’ Charlie replies, bringing his hand to his nose again. ‘Fuck this, Helen… I have to ring him back. I have to tell him we confronted Tommy Smith. They need to know.’

  ‘Then you will get fired,’ Helen says. She kicks the shop shutter behind Charlie, causing the clattering sound to echo down the street again.

  ‘Ah Jesus, I’ve fucked up my career haven’t I?’ Charlie says, almost sobbing.

  Helen doesn’t answer. She just stands under the streetlamp, her hands on her hips, her mind racing.

  Then she notices them. Across the street. In the window next to the Cue sign. The gang of men staring down at them.

  ‘Fuckers are laughing at us,’ she says. ‘Let’s get back to the car and get our thinking caps on.’

  Charlie paces after Helen, still holding his hand to his nose as if it’s gonna make the stinging pain go away. When they’re inside the car, they sit in silence; Helen staring out the passenger side window, the tip of her thumb in her mouth; Charlie gripping the steering wheel, trying to ease the pain away by sucking air in through his teeth.

  ‘I have to ring Newell back, I have to,’ he eventually says.

  Helen looks at him, then sighs a deep grunt that is filled with disappointment.

  ‘What’s that going to achieve?’ she asks.

  ‘They are looking for Tommy Smith; the whole bloody force is. I know what direction he ran in… I need to tell them. Fuck it! I’m telling them.’

  He reaches into his jacket pocket. By the time he’s taken the phone out, Helen’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist.

  ‘Charlie; don’t be a fuckin idiot,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve been a fuckin idiot all evening,’ he replies, wrestling his arm away.

  ‘I’m sorry to let you down, Helen. I’m sorry for… for everything you’ve been through, but…’ he shrugs his shoulder. ‘I have to do my duty. I have to ring it in.’

  He pu
lls at the handle, pushes his car door open and holds his phone to his ear.

  When he closes the door, Helen slaps both of her hands against the top of the dashboard.

  ‘Mother fucker!’ she screams. Then she holds both hands over her face, her breathing becoming long and slow. When she removes her hands, she fidgets at the rear-view mirror, sees Charlie walking slowly away from the car, one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other rubbing the back of his head. She winds down her window, her attempt to hear anything. But there’s only silence — he’s travelled too far from her.

  She grunts again; still struggling to let logic overrule her thinking. She wants to believe there are two girls out there about to end their lives. She needs to believe it. Her life is worthless without Scott having some sort of inspiration on it.

  ‘Help me out, Scott,’ she says. ‘Gimme a sign. Just something small.’

  She widens her eyes, inches her face closer to the windscreen.

  Nothing. Just a dark blue sky and — in her periphery — that flashing sign for Cue. Then she flicks her head.

  ‘That’s literally a sign,’ she says. ‘Cue. Cue. Cue. What are you trying to tell me, Scott?’

  She stares at it, her eyes moistening. Then a tear escapes and runs down her left cheek. She’s not crying because of grief. She’s crying because of the realisation of her delusion. She hates herself when she talks to Scott. Hates herself even more when she asks him to send her a sign. It never makes her feel better. It only emphasises his loss more.

  Helen’s not stupid. She knows she’ll never see her son again. They bloody cremated his body twenty-two years ago. Scott’s gone. He’s ash in a tiny urn that’s buried six feet under the ground in a tiny plot at Mount Jerome cemetery. How the fuck could he send her a sign?

  She slaps the top of the dashboard again with both hands, then wipes away the tear.

  ‘You’re a fuckin idiot, Helen,’ she says.

  She’s sniffling up her nose, wiping all of the moistness from under it when the car door snatches open.

  Charlie slouches into the driver’s seat; his phone in his hand.