‘Right,’ Helen says. ‘We’re gonna go inside. We’re gonna sober you up. And then…’ Fitzpatrick stops staring around himself to look at Helen, his eyes glazed over. ‘And then I’m going to ask you about something you mentioned to me when I first met you earlier.’
‘Huh?’ Fitzpatrick says, tilting his head like a puppy dog.
Helen puffs out a small sigh.
‘When I first brought you outside that pub an hour or so ago, the first words that came out of your mouth were “I’m sorry”…. As soon as you sober up, Brother, you better explain in detail to me just what the fuck it is you were saying sorry for.’
23:20
Ciara
‘The friend’s house that you say is around the corner… what’s the family name?’ Miss asks.
Ah bleedin’ hell! I think she might be trying to catch us out. She knows we’ve been lying to her.
‘Sally Sweeney,’ I say as quickly as I can. Don’t know where I pulled that name out of, but I knew I had to answer before Ingrid caved in.
‘The Sweeneys? I don’t know any Sweeneys that live around here,’ Miss says.
I laugh a little, just to come across as if I’m calm. I always do this when I’m lying.
‘Ah they do… around two corners actually, they live just off the main Crumlin Road.’
Miss Moriarty stares at Jamie, then back at me and Ingrid.
‘Eh… why don’t I ring your parents, Ingrid?’ she asks.
Oh no. This isn’t going to end well.
‘No, there’s no need,’ I say, standing up. ‘They’re not in anyway. They’re around in the Sweeneys’ house waiting on us to get back to them. We said we’d pop around to see you for ten minutes and I guess… well, we really shouldn’t be taking up too much of your time.’
Miss Moriarty’s forehead wrinkles as if she’s just become an old woman in the space of two seconds.
‘Girls, are you sure?’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I say, tugging at Ingrid’s elbow. ‘C’mon, Ingrid, it’s getting on to midnight. Let’s leave Miss and Jamie to it.’
Ingrid stands up but I can tell by her face that she’s ready to crack. I need to get her out of here quickly. She throws her arms around Miss again.
‘I’m gonna miss you,’ she says.
‘Miss me? Sure you can call by anytime you want. Don’t be silly.’
‘She’s only getting sentimental because you’re pregnant, Miss,’ I say, laughing. Jamie laughs too. ‘C’mon, Ingrid.’ I yank at her elbow again.
When Ingrid finally releases her grip on Miss and turns to face me, I hold my hand up to high five Jamie once more. And then Ingrid does the same.
Miss follows us into the tiny square hallway and, after I’ve opened the front door, I turn to her and hug her myself.
‘You’re the best teacher in the world,’ I say. Then I turn away from her for the last time ever and step into her small garden.
‘Stay safe, you two,’ she says, as we open her gate. And suddenly her door is closed and we both know we’ve finished our last goodbyes. I don’t know how we managed it, but we did. I wasn’t a big fan of the last goodbye thing; it was Ingrid’s idea. But it’s kinda cool that we got around to doing it. I’m glad I found out Debbie takes drugs. I can die knowing who she truly is. And I’m glad we found out Miss Moriarty is pregnant. She deserves all the happiness she gets. Maybe her having twin girls come into her life in a few months time will take away the sadness she will feel for us dying. They’ll be like our two little replacements in life; our two substitutes.
‘Hey, I wonder if Miss’ twins will be us being reincarnated,’ I say as we walk towards the bus stop.
Ingrid laughs out of her nose.
‘Could you imagine Miss Moriarty being your mum? Wow. How perfect would that life be?’ she says.
I know Ingrid doesn’t believe in any of that nonsense about reincarnation or religion at all. I’ve always known, but we had a long conversation about it after we came up with the pact last night. We don’t believe we’re going to come back in other bodies, we don’t believe we’re going to end up in some Heaven. We just know that once we die, that’s it — we’re gone. And that’s why we’re doing it. Because we want to be gone. We want our minds to shut up; to stop going round and round and round in circles. I can’t imagine going to Heaven and having to stay with these thoughts for eternity. That wouldn’t be Heaven. That would be Hell. Anyway; it’s all bullshit. You’d have to be really stupid to believe life goes on and on and on forever.
‘I wonder what she’ll call the two girls; might call them Ingrid and Ciara, in memory of us,’ I say.
Ingrid laughs through her nose again.
‘Could do,’ she says. ‘It’s a pity we’ll never meet them though, isn’t it?’
I stop walking and turn my face to her, just as we’re stepping onto the main Crumlin Road.
‘You’re not changing your mind just so you can see Miss’ twins are you?’
Ingrid laughs again.
‘No… jeez, course not,’ she says, and then she throws her arm around my shoulder and we continue to walk, like Siamese twins, to the bus stop.
‘I really thought we were in trouble there,’ I say. ‘She asked a hell of a lot of questions, didn’t she?’
‘She just knows us so well,’ Ingrid replies. ‘I saw the way she was looking at us, she kind of knew something was up. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.’
I nod my head.
‘Yeah, I really thought she was going to catch us out when she was asking about our made up friend around the corner. And then… jeez, when she asked if she could ring your parents… I didn’t know what to do. The last thing we need right now is your mam finding out what’s been going on. She’d just want to ring the police straight away, wouldn’t she?’
23:25
Harriet
Uuugh. I can’t sleep; can’t get Conor out of my head. The bastard. I bet he’s curled up with her somewhere now, his arms wrapped around her waist, his cock hard against the crack of her ass. I wish he was doing that to me right now. I’m such a fucking idiot. Why do I always fall for the bad boys? I never learn. I hate being a girl. Boys have it so much easier.
I turn over in my bed again, facing my window and stare at all of the books sitting on the windowsill. I make a silent promise to myself that I’ll read them… one day. But I’ve been making that same promise for months… maybe even years at this stage. I really need to grow up.
It’s so difficult for me to try to face the reality that I’m an adult now. Eighteen. And supposed to have it all sussed. It’s so shitty that people of my age are supposed to know what they want to do for the rest of their lives. I haven’t a clue what I want to do next week, never mind thirty years from now.
I’m just going to take that job in the shop, bring in a few quid for the summer and then think about what I want to do with my life. I wouldn’t mind travelling; going to Australia for a year or something. But I couldn’t leave Dad alone. He’d be lost without me. Not that we do a lot together; he’s normally downstairs slouched on the sofa watching TV while I’m up here listening to Take That CDs, thinking about boys.
I face the other way, away from the books and then try to breathe really slowly. I imagine a flock of sheep in a field, taking turns to jump over a bale of hay.
Uuugh. This is bullshit. Whoever said counting sheep will help you fall asleep? I can’t get past nine without imagining Conor’s perfect teeth when he smiles. I’d love to be kissing that smile right now, my tongue circling his mouth.
I circle my tongue in my own mouth and realise it’s dry. I really should bring a glass of water to bed with me every night. I never do. I always seem to catch myself stewing whether or not it’s worth it for me to get out from under my warm duvet, walk down the stairs and step onto the cold tiles of the kitchen to fill a glass of water.
Fuck it. I turn over again, stare at the window blind as if that’s going to quench my thirst and he
lp me fall asleep.
Then I let out a yelp and whip the duvet away from me. I step out of bed, stretch my arms over my head and decide to brave the coldness of the kitchen tiles.
I can hear the TV blare as I make my way down the stairs. He’s watching some cop show; probably an old episode of Hill Street Blues. I wish he’d get up off that sofa; go down the pub or something and talk to some people. Perhaps he’d even meet another woman; a step mum that could help me answer the thousand questions I have about being a woman. But I know he never will. He’s married to my mam until he dies too. It’s kinda cute I guess… but also a little sad. He has lots of years left. And I just know he’s going to spend all of them on that sofa.
I hiss as I tip-toe over the cold tiles to get to the sink, then I fill a glass and down it as quickly as I can before filling it back up and strolling towards the stairs again. I notice the time on the microwave clock as I pass it; 11:30.
‘Holy fuck!’ I say, my body jumping, some of the water leaping from my glass. ‘Jesus, Dad, don’t sneak up on me like that!’
‘Sorry, love,’ he says, ‘I wasn’t sneaking up on you. Was just gonna have meself another cup of tea.’
I let out a disappointed sigh; not because I got a fright, not because I have to soak up the spillage, but because I’ve snapped at Dad. Again. I hate snapping at him. He never deserves it. He just seems to get in the way of my shitty life every now and then.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say.
He grabs at a tea towel and begins to mop up my mess for me.
‘Ye can’t sleep, huh?’ he asks looking up from his crouched position. I shake my head. ‘You haven’t been able to sleep right these past couple weeks… everything okay?’
‘Course it is, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m just stressing a little about the Leaving Cert exams.’ That’s a lie. I genuinely couldn’t give a shit about them; not now that I’ve decided I’m not going to go to college.
‘You’ll be fine, love,’ he says, standing back up to nudge his knuckles against my cheek.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, taking a sip. ‘You eh… get the girls home okay?’
‘No,’ he says, folding the tea towel in half. ‘The two of them legged it on me. They got me to stop off at the garage on the canal road and then just said “thanks” and ran off.’
I squint my eyes
‘Really? I thought they were acting a little bit odd when they were here. Wonder what the hell they’re up to?’
Dad shrugs his shoulders.
‘It’s the age they’re at now, isn’t it? They want to be independent. Oh…’ he says, ‘Ingrid gave you your book back. It’s on the sofa. She said to say “thank you”.’
I cock my head, try to remember what it was specifically that felt so odd about Ingrid and Ciara when they called by about an hour ago.
‘Hmmm,’ I say. Then I spin on my heels and stroll into the living room. Dad follows me and watches as I pick up my book and flick through it.
I love you Harriet,
Ingrid. x
My mouth opens wide.
‘Look… why would she write that?’ I ask Dad. ‘They were acting really strange when they were here.’
‘It’s just their age, isn’t it?’
I shake my head.
‘Nah… something’s up. I’m worried about them. We’ve gotta ring Auntie Greta.’
I slap the book closed then walk to the phone in the hallway, pick up the receiver and begin to dial.
◈
Helen paces into the kitchen, runs the tap and then grabs at the kettle. She fills it, places it back on its base and clicks the switch. Whilst it’s bubbling towards a boil, she roots around in the cupboards until she finds where Fitzpatrick keeps his glasses. She fills two of them with tap water, then places one aside and gulps from the other.
She lets out a heavy gasp before filling the empty glass again and carrying both back into the living room.
Fitzpatrick is sitting upright on the sofa, fidgeting with his fingers. She flicks her wrist, flinging water into his aged face again.
He sucks in a long breath, then wipes at his eyes before staring up at Helen.
‘How did ye not see that coming?’ she says to him, handing him the second glass. ‘Here… drink up, sober up. And let’s get down to business.’
She watches as Fitzpatrick sips from his glass.
‘Get it into ye,’ she says. She takes a step towards him, holds the bottom of the glass up, helping the water pour.
He lets out a sigh, spitting and spluttering some of the drink back into the glass.
‘Ye trying to kill me?’ he says.
‘Me? I’m the one giving you water… y’know, that liquid we all need to stay alive. You’re the one poisoning yourself with alcohol.’
Fitzpatrick puffs his cheeks out, swirls the glass in front of his eyes and then tries to down it again; this time almost finishing the job. He holds the glass towards Helen who takes it from him, just as the kettle confirms it has boiled by producing a click sound.
‘Where d’ye leave your tea bags?’ she says as she makes her way back into the kitchen.
‘Eh… in the press under the kettle,’ Fitzpatrick slurs while wiping at his mouth.
Helen grabs a cup that had been left to dry on the drain, tosses a tea bag into it and pours the kettle. She whistles as she turns to the fridge, then pinches at her nose.
‘Sweet fuck,’ she says, balking backwards. ‘The bleedin’ stench of your fridge. You keep dead rats in here or something?’
After swiping the air away from her nose, she turns around, sees Fitzpatrick staring at her, leaning against the kitchen door.
‘Rarely use it,’ he says. ‘I eat in the school, or down the pub at night.’
Helen spins back around.
‘Have ye no milk?’
Fitzpatrick burps into his chest.
‘Nope,’ he says.
Helen rolls her eyes, then grabs at the cup and hands it to him.
‘Here, drink this without milk. It’s tea. The only hangover cure I ever found that worked when I used to drink.’
Fitzpatrick lifts the cup to his lips, then takes a step back, his eyes tearing up.
‘Jesus, sweet Mary and Joseph,’ he says, ‘that’s bloody boiling.’
‘Well… looks like it’s woken you up.’
Helen walks by him, back into the living room.
‘Brother Fitzpatrick, time to start talking. These girls don’t have the time to wait on you to fully get your shit together.’
She hears him shuffle his feet back into the room after her.
‘Whatcha ye need to know?’ he asks.
‘You need to tell me what the hell you were apologising for earlier?’
Fitzpatrick brushes his feet off the cheap wooden floorboards of his modest terraced home and then sits back into the sofa.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘It’s not nothing now, Brother, is it? You were worried about something when me and Officer Guilfoyle spoke to you earlier. It’s vital you tell me what that was all about.’
Fitzpatrick has both sets of fingers wrapped around his cup, the heat offering him the only comfort he could possibly feel right now. He coughs, blinks his eyes and then shakes his head.
‘It is nothing. Nothing to do with whatever you are here for. If you were here for that, you wouldn’t need me to explain it now would ye?’
Helen squints her eyes.
‘You’ve sobered up quite quickly, Brother. Used to it, are we? Sobering up after a heavy night on the sauce? It’s what you have to do all the time, isn’t it? Drink all night, run a school during the day.’
Fitzpatrick lifts one hand from the cup, only so he can pinch at his temple.
‘You tell me why you’re here,’ he says, ‘what’s this about; two of my students being in danger?’
Helen stands tall, her hands stuffed into her coat pockets.
‘Are they in danger because of you, B
rother Fitzpatrick? Is that what you’re apologising for? Do you abuse your students? Have you pushed two in particular too far?’
Fitzpatrick reels his head backwards.
‘What are you talking about, Detective?’
Helen puffs out a tiny laugh; she’s trying to act menacingly nonchalant, just as she used to when she first became a Detective all those years ago. She adopted her nonchalant persona from the best of the best; Colombo. The Peter Falk series was all the rage in the early eighties, just as Helen and Eddie were being promoted to Detective status — Helen being one of the first females in the entire country to ever hold such a rank. She was such a promising young Detective. It’s a shame she never got to fill her potential.
Helen sits, keeping her hands in her pockets.
‘Tell me what you were apologising for…’
Fitzpatrick shakes his head.
‘I need to speak to a lawyer,’ he says.
Helen shakes her head this time.
‘Impossible. We don’t have time for that. Two of your students have just over half an hour to live and you need to tell me who they are.’
Fitzpatrick holds his eyes closed.
‘Hold on, Detective,’ he says, ‘why are you here? Are you genuinely here to find two of my students who you think are in danger — or are you here to find out about… about—’
‘About what?’ Helen says.
‘I want a lawyer.’
Helen holds both of her hands in front of her face and grunts her annoyance into them.
‘Are you telling me that whatever it is you wanted to apologise for earlier has nothing to do with two young female students at your school?’
‘No… no, course not,’ Fitzpatrick says, his eyes still closed.
Helen sucks on her lips, as she usually does when she has a quick decision to make.
The Suicide Pact (The Tick-Tock Trilogy Book 3) Page 20
