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

by David B Lyons

  ‘Still better than my station,’ she says to no one, before rushing towards the sink. She turns on the cold tap, holds her hands out to form a cup and then fills it, before splashing at her face.

  ‘What are you fuckin playing at, Helen?’ she says to herself in the mirror as water drops from her brow. Then she enters one of the cubicles, pulls at the toilet paper until she has a ball of it in her hands and begins to dab at her face. As she’s leaving the cubicle, she throws the ball of paper over her shoulder, missing the bowl by quite a distance.

  She pulls tentatively at the door that leads back into the station, inching it open slowly so she can stare at Charlie. He’s scratching at his spikey hair; looks really disappointed in himself as if he’s cringing inside.

  ‘Breathe, Helen,’ she whispers to herself. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Sorry?’ a woman calls out appearing at the toilet door.

  ‘Oh… no, I’m sorry,’ Helen says, offering a fake smile. ‘Bloody talking to myself, aren’t I? First sign of madness, huh?’

  The woman smiles back, then pushes past Helen and into one of the cubicles. Helen steps out, into the station, and then tiptoes herself towards Charlie.

  ‘Didn’t wanna leave without another hug,’ she says perching her ass onto his desk. Charlie laughs a little, then reaches his arm around her and takes her closer to him.

  ‘Our little adventure, huh?’ he says into her ear.

  ‘Our little adventure,’ she whispers back.

  ‘If you ever need someone to talk to, to have coffee with, you know where I am,’ Charlie says.

  Helen pats him on the shoulder, then stands up.

  She walks away, back out through the office floor towards the door and out past reception without paying the man at the front desk any further attention. As soon as she’s outside, she swings the key ring around her finger, and heads straight to Charlie’s car.

  She clicks the button, releasing the locks, and pulls at the driver’s door. As soon as she’s inside she eyeballs herself in the rear-view mirror, then looks away quickly; her eyes focusing on the road ahead as the car inches forward.

  She knows where she’s going; made her mind up when she was holding her face as Charlie drove back to the station. She also realised then that she needed the police car. It was the only means in which she could justifiably pass as a Detective — it’s a tough lie to carry out if you don’t have a badge to flash. She knows. She’s tried it before.

  ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ she says to herself. ‘You’re doing the right thing.’

  She picks up speed, then reaches for the button that sets off the siren before pausing.

  ‘Nah… better not,’ she says. She flicks her eyes to look at herself in the rear-view mirror again, then holds them closed.

  ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ she whispers. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’

  She opens her eyes, shifts into fifth gear and speeds down the canal road. She can hear herself breathing, her breaths growing sharper as the digits on the speedometer rise.

  ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ She shouts it this time, laughing.

  Then her pocket vibrates, causing her to blink as she eases off the gas. She takes out her phone and presses the green button.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Eddie screams down the line.

  23:00

  Ciara

  Jamie holds his hand up for me and Ingrid to high five — and we do. He looks nice. But sure… of course he’s nice. He’s Miss Moriarty’s boyfriend. She’s way too lovely and clever to ever have a horrible boyfriend.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Miss says.

  And we all do; me, Ciara and Miss sitting on the grey sofa, Jamie on the tiny green armchair across from us.

  I watch as Miss struggles sitting down; pulling the belt of her bathrobe tighter across her belly. Her belly is big; never knew she was that fat… hold on.

  I tap at Ingrid’s hip, then try to mumble to her.

  ‘Id ee egnan,’ I say through my teeth.

  Ingrid looks at me as if I’m mad, then shakes her head a little. She can’t make out what I’m trying to say. I hold my hands out over my belly, make a bit of a round shape with them. She’s still shaking her head.

  ‘Yes, young girl,’ Jamie says. ‘We are pregnant.’

  ‘What!’ Ingrid says. She reaches her arms towards Miss and gives her a big hug. So I do the same, joining in.

  ‘Congratulations, Miss. That’s the best news, like, ever,’ I say.

  The three of us stay in a hug for ages.

  ‘Twins,’ Jamie says.

  I hold my hand to my mouth as I sit back into the sofa.

  ‘Yep,’ Miss says. ‘They’re due the end of August.’

  I’m so happy for Miss. This is the happiest I’ve been in… jee… I don’t know how long.

  ‘Ah… two little Moriartys running around the place. I can’t wait to—’ Ingrid stops herself talking, then sits back in the sofa. I know what she was about to say; that she can’t wait to meet them. Until she realised she never will.

  ‘Two Roses, you mean,’ Jamie says.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Two Roses… my name.’

  Ah… Jamie Rose. Makes sense that he’d have such a nice name. I bet he’ll make a great dad. Better than mine and Ingrid’s anyway. He won’t be stuck at work all the time; he won’t tut at them when they have their first period.

  I had my first one late last year, just before Christmas. I didn’t know what to do, had no idea what was going on. I just screamed.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ my dad said, poking his nose into the bathroom. He saw me standing there, staring into the bowl at all of the red that had just poured out of me.

  ‘What is wrong with me?’ I asked him.

  ‘Ah, here…’ he said, shaking head. ‘It’s eh… a subject your mam will have to talk to you about… or Debbie. Wait till Debbie gets here in the morning.’

  ‘Debbie doesn’t mind me anymore, Dad!’ I said. Then I began to cry. He left the bathroom. I didn’t see him again for a few days.

  ‘You’ll both make great parents,’ I say to them.

  Jamie smiles at me.

  ‘It’s two girls,’ Miss says, rubbing her belly.

  Me and Ingrid squeeze each other and let out little squeals.

  23:10

  Miss Moriarty

  The two of them cling to each other and produce a cute little high-pitched squeal.

  I love Ingrid and Ciara; always have. My heart has always gone out to them. They never really palled around with anyone in primary school, apart from with each other. And me. They’d try to include me in their plans for lunch and would spend break time trying to make sure I didn’t get any work done. Even though I’ve a lot going on, I still kinda miss them. It’s a shame they’re not enjoying secondary school, but I can’t get involved. At some stage you just have to let kids grow up. They have to take responsibility for themselves.

  ‘You’ll both make great parents. They’re going to be lucky girls,’ Ingrid says.

  How adorable. Ingrid’s going to an impressive woman when she grows up. She’s intelligent, pretty, comes from good stock. Her mam used to be a model — made quite a big name for herself in Sweden back in the day. And her dad’s a bit of a national treasure. He used to be a personality on tele; now has his own radio show. She’s a little bit sensitive though; conjures mountains from molehills with way too much ease. But once she grows out of that, she’ll be grand. I’m not so sure about Ciara, though. Ciara’s parents aren’t up to much. I’m sure her mam is too fond of the drink. She used to turn up for parent-teacher meetings a little squiffy. At least she turned up though; not like her husband. I tried to ring him a couple times over the years, just to let him know how Ciara was getting on at school. He always claimed he was too busy to talk. He runs Fullam’s insurance and accountancy. I’m sure the business gets more of his attention than his family does. Ciara always seemed to focus on the negatives in
life; her glass was always half-empty. I’m not surprised though; if parents show a lack of belief in their kids, then it’s inevitable that the kids themselves won’t have much belief. No matter how good a teacher is, there is only so much impact we can have. I’ve often worried about Ciara over the years. But having Ingrid as a best friend is good for her. She’ll be fine.

  I hold my hand to my mouth and yawn.

  ‘Sorry, girls,’ I say. ‘I’m so tired.’

  I’m not lying to them; not trying to rush them out of my house. It’s just ever since I fell pregnant I’ve been feeling wrecked. And nauseous. Standing at the top of a classroom all day is torturous when you’ve got two little ones growing inside you. They seem to weigh me down that extra little bit every day. And I’ve three more months to go before maternity leave. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through it.

  ‘Oh sorry, Miss,’ Ingrid says. ‘We know it’s late. Maybe we should let you go to bed.’

  ‘That’d be great, girls,’ Jamie says, walking towards me and placing his hand on my belly. ‘Brigid needs as much rest as she can get.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ I say, ‘when the girls are born, why don’t you two call by again? I’d love you to meet them.’

  I smile at the girls; knowing how much they’ll love that invite. But they don’t smile back. Ingrid stumbles a reply and then shakes her head. That’s odd.

  ‘Eh… yes. Okay… okay,’ Ciara says, holding a hand to Ingrid’s knee.

  I squint my eyes at them.

  ‘You two okay?’

  Ciara nods, and then Ingrid mirrors her.

  They’re probably jealous of the babies; because they’ve seen themselves as my babies for so long. That’s cute. I’ve read an article about that before; students feeling envious when their favourite teacher becomes a parent.

  ‘So how you two getting home then?’ I ask.

  ‘Bus,’ Ingrid says.

  ‘Bus? At this time of the night?’

  ‘No… no… don’t be silly, Ingrid,’ Ciara says. ‘She’s…’ Ciara winds her finger around her temple. ‘We’re getting a lift from Ingrid’s dad. He’s around the corner in our friend’s house.’

  I squint again. These two are up to something. I can sense it. Teacher’s intuition.

  ‘The friend’s house that you say is around the corner… what’s the family name?’ I stare at Ingrid as I ask this, knowing I can read her better than Ciara. I think Ciara mastered the art of bullshitting from her father. It’s probably the only trait she’s ever picked up from him.

  Ingrid looks at Ciara.

  ‘Sally Sweeney,’ Ciara says.

  ‘The Sweeneys? I don’t know any Sweeneys that live around here,’ I say.

  Ciara laughs.

  ‘Ah they do… around two corners actually. They live just off the main Crumlin Road.’

  I don’t believe her.

  ‘Eh… why don’t I ring your parents, Ingrid?’ I say.

  ◈

  ‘I’ve just got off a call from Superintendent Newell at Terenure Garda station.’

  Helen holds her eyes closed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eddie,’ she whispers.

  ‘Off investigating the suicide angle? Bringing some rookie with you on a wild goose chase?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You told me you were tucked up on the sofa watching TV.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eddie,’ she says, ensuring this time that each word is pronounced clearly and slowly.

  ‘How bloody dare you? I don’t know whether I’m more angry at you dipping your nose in further than you ever have before, or more angry because you lied to me.’

  Helen stays silent. There’s only so many times she can say the word ‘sorry’ — especially if it’s making zero impact.

  She’s still cringing, outwardly anyway; her right shoulder slumped lower than her left, her head tilted, her teeth clenched tight. But inside she’s feeling somewhat relieved. Eddie isn’t aware she’s stolen a police car. He only knows that Helen was out with Charlie, sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong.

  ‘Christ, what were you thinking? You bloody chased away the most significant witness we have.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who chased him away, Eddie. It was the naivety of the young officer I was with—’

  ‘You shouldn’t be anywhere near a young officer. Nowhere near one!’ Eddie’s voice is getting sterner now; Helen wincing at the obvious fury in his tone. He’s been so patient with Helen for so many years that she feels really guilty when she irritates him. Yet sometimes — especially when it comes to work — she just can’t help herself. Though she’s never gone this far; had never taken another officer on a wild goose chase, pretending to be a Detective. ‘I’m mortified… imagine being told my administrative assistant is out leading an investigation, posing as a bloody Detective.’

  Helen hangs her head when she stops at a red light, allowing another silence to settle between them.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Eddie says, trying to regain control of his tone.

  Helen shifts her head slightly forward, so she can look upwards through the windscreen at the buildings surrounding her. She can make out the old Victorian houses of the Highfield Road to her right; the Rathmines Clock Tower standing tall in the distance.

  ‘I’m on my way home,’ she says.

  Helen hears Eddie mumbling to himself. It’s undecipherable, but the fact that he’s even doing this is quite telling. Eddie doesn’t normally talk to himself; not like Helen does.

  ‘I hope to hell you are,’ he grunts.

  Helen says nothing; then shifts into first gear and takes off slowly across the junction.

  ‘I’ll speak with you first thing in the morning. Forget going out for breakfast; you and I need to have a serious conversation. We need to re-evaluate what you do in our station; whether or not you should be doing anything at all.’

  Helen’s nostrils stiffen.

  ‘Eddie—’

  ‘I’m serious, Helen. Deadly serious. I blame myself. I shouldn’t have said a word to you about these calls. I shudda known as soon as you heard the word suicide that you would go off on one. I just… I can’t keep taking the blame and dealing with the guilt every time you fuck up at work.’

  ‘Eddie. Don’t… I’ll do anything. Anything. If I don’t have my job… I have nothing.’

  ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’ Eddie’s tone is softening, his volume lowering. ‘Just… just answer me this question, will you, Hel?’

  Helen holds her eyes closed again.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Did you take your pill today?’

  She opens her eyes wide and then rolls them backwards, just as she’s rolling the car to a slow stop. She stares out the driver’s side window and brings the phone a little closer to her lips.

  ‘Yes!’ she says.

  ‘Good… good. I hate prying about that, but… y’know. Just felt like I should ask.’

  ‘Good night, Eddie,’ Helen says.

  She presses at the red button; her eyes still haven’t blinked since she started to stare out the window.

  She shuffles in the car seat, so she can place her phone back into the pocket of her leather coat, then pushes the door open and steps outside, crunching the gravel beneath her feet as she strolls across the car park.

  She takes one large breath when she reaches the small porch way and then pulls at the heavy door.

  ‘Ah… hello again, Detective,’ the barman calls out. He’s stopped drying glasses; is resting his forearms on the bar, chatting with one of the punters.

  Helen nods a hello back at him, then begins to peer around the square room at all of the faces in attendance. She spots him at the back of the room, holding a pint glass to his mouth, his eyes peering at her over the rim of it.

  ‘You need to come with me again,’ she says.

  He places his glass back down on the table to a tsunami of mumbles floating around the bar, then rises slowly out of his seat, placing bot
h sets of his fingers on the table for balance.

  Helen watches as he brushes his feet against the carpet, shuffling his way towards the exit. She spins on her heels, takes in everybody’s face, ending with the barman, and then paces out the door after him.

  ‘Brother Fitzpatrick, you need to sober yourself up as quickly as you can,’ she says. ‘Two of your students’ lives are in serious danger. And you and I have less than an hour to save them.’

  Fitzpatrick bends over slightly, his hands resting on his knees.

  ‘Course I’ll help,’ he says, a slight slur in his delivery. ‘I’d do anything for my students.’

  Helen stares at him, her hands on her hips.

  ‘I bet you would,’ she says, before storming towards the Garda car.

  ‘Hey… what does that mean?’ Fitzpatrick calls after her. He then burps into his chest while rising to a standing position and shuffles towards Helen. By the time he’s climbed into the police car, Helen is staring him down. As if she’s the Headteacher and he a student who’s just got caught smoking behind the bike shed.

  ‘Where you taking me?’ he says, looking up at her.

  ‘Your house.’

  ‘My house? My house? For what? I don’t want the neighbours seeing—’

  ‘Brother! Two of your students are in grave danger. You need to understand the serious nature of what the hell I’m saying to you.’

  Fitzpatrick holds both of his hands aloft.

  ‘Okay… okay,’ he says, blinking. ‘You’re eh… quicker walking to my house, down that lane-way back there.’

  ‘The last time I ran down that lane,’ Helen says as she reverses the car from its space, ‘I ended up like you were a few seconds ago, Brother… my hands on my knees, struggling for breath. We’ll take the car, thank you very much. Won’t be long.’

  Fitzpatrick lays the back of his head on to the rest and they both sit in silence, save for the odd clicking of indicator lights every so often, before Helen is pulling up the handbrake and removing the keys from the ignition. Fitzpatrick’s head pivots to look out any window he can see out of in search of neighbours’ curtains twitching.