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

by David B Lyons

  ‘Here, calm down and let’s talk,’ I say.

  She eyeballs me and lets an awkward silence settle between us before she accepts the glass, nodding her head as she does so.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I take her by the elbow and lead her to the kitchen island.

  ‘Greta, the police won’t be able to do anything. The girls have been missing for what… a few hours? Don’t they have to be missing for, like, twenty-four hours at least before the police will get involved?’

  She sits, takes her first sip of my Merlot, her hand a little shaky, and then nods her head.

  ‘Suppose you’re right. I’m being a bit over-dramatic, aren’t I? That’s not like me.’

  Yeah right that’s not like you.

  I just smile back at her.

  ‘Nice house you have. You used your kitchen space really well. I keep saying to Terry that we should put a skylight in ours… you can’t beat a bit of natural light.’

  I look up through our skylight, into the black sky.

  ‘I didn’t even ask Michael for permission,’ I say. ‘I just got it done, gave the builder Michael’s bank account details.’

  Greta pushes out a small laugh. She seems to have relaxed. Wine works wonders.

  ‘Where is Michael?’ she asks, looking around herself.

  I push out a huff.

  ‘In work, probably.’

  ‘On a Sunday night?’

  I sip from my glass.

  ‘He never stops. He’s in that office more than he is here.’

  She takes a fistful of that beautiful golden hair she has and tugs it over her shoulder, then rings her fingers through it.

  ‘I think we might share ambitious husbands as well as troublesome thirteen-year-old daughters,’ she says.

  As I stare at her playing with her hair, I remember the amount of times Ciara came home to say that the Murphys would like to invite us to their house for dinner.

  ‘Yeah… we’ve probably loads in common. We should — for the sake of our girls — get to know each other a bit more,’ I say.

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  The kitchen falls silent. Seems as if we’ve run out of things to say already. I lick at my teeth, a habit I have when I drink red wine because I hate the thought of my teeth staining, and then refill my glass. I don’t bother offering more to Greta; she’s barely touched what I’ve given her already.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I hate to bring it back up, but I just can’t understand why they’d run away from Brendan if he was giving them a lift home. It keeps coming into my head. I can’t relax.’

  She stands up. And so do I.

  ‘There’s not much we can do; let’s just wait here until they come home.’

  ‘We could go out and look for them,’ she says.

  I look down at my slippers.

  ‘Let’s think it through. Who else might know where they are? Do you know of any boys they hang around with at school?’ I ask.

  Greta puffs out her cheeks, then shakes her head again.

  ‘No… jee. I thought they didn’t have any other friends, never mind boyfriends. I thought Ciara and Ingrid were just two peas in a pod.’ She looks up at me, her eyes widening. ‘Do you know if they have any other friends?’

  I scoff. Then tug at my ear. Jesus. I don’t know anything about Ciara really. It’s just… it’s just so boring, parenting, isn’t it? I haven’t enjoyed any stage of it. I’m not quite sure what I would get out of questioning my daughter. It holds no interest to me. Not that I’d ever say that out loud.

  ‘No, sorry. Same as you. I thought they were just two peas in a pod myself. Ingrid is the only friend Ciara’s ever had. Well… apart from Debbie.’

  Greta’s head cocks up again.

  ‘Debbie. The girl who minded Ciara for years right?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I say before taking another sip.

  ‘Think they might have called out to her house tonight?’

  I shake my head as I swallow.

  ‘Course not, why would they do that?’

  ‘Well,’ Greta says, standing a little taller, ‘I’m wondering why they called out to Ingrid’s cousin. I know it’s late… but maybe you should ring Debbie. See if she’s heard anything from the girls.’

  I sigh and hold my eyes closed for a couple seconds longer than I probably should.

  ‘Really?’ I say when I reopen them.

  ‘Please.’ Her hands are clasped, her eyes sad. I feel sorry for her.

  So I place my wine back on to the island and shuffle my way to the phone.

  ◈

  Fitzpatrick has slumped back into a seating position on the stairs — his head in his hands — by the time Helen has hung up the call. She drops the piece of paper he had handed to her minutes ago with Abigail’s number on it and then spins on her heels to head out the door. But she stops, turns again, takes two steps towards Fitzpatrick and leans over him.

  ‘You better hope I catch up with these two girls before it’s too late, Brother.’ She breathes heavily at him, giving herself a moment to think of what to say next. ‘Bloody drinking so much when you have such an important job to look after young people. How dare you. I bet… I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re somehow responsible for these girls suffering with depression. I know you’ve got dark secrets — and I’m going to find out what they are. I’ll be back, Brother Fitzpatrick… and I’ll find out just what exactly it is you wanted to apologise for.’

  Fitzpatrick takes his hands from his face and sits into a more upright position just as Helen is pulling at his front door.

  ‘It’s not that bad!’ he shouts after her as she storms down his narrow pathway, towards the Garda car she stole half-an-hour ago. ‘It was only a few quid I stole from the school funds. I’ll pay it back. I swear.’

  Helen doesn’t bother to look back at him. She’s fully focused on saving these two girls. She got names, got addresses — all from Abigail — and is intent on being their hero; the hero she failed to be for Scott.

  She speeds off from outside Brother Fitzpatrick’s house, noticing curtains twitching in a couple neighbours’ windows as she does so. By the time she’s at the end of the road, she switches the sirens on, the sound blaring, the lights flashing.

  ‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’ she instructs the car, tapping her palms against the steering wheel.

  She dips her head slightly, to see the digital clock on the dashboard. 23:36. Then she smiles.

  ‘You’re gonna do this, Helen. You’re gonna catch them. You’re gonna save them. You’re gonna save yourself. By the time the morning comes around, nobody will be bothered that you stuck your nose in, nobody will be bothered that you stole a police car. They’ll be lauding you, offering you your old job back. Eddie might even ask you to help him run the station. Just as you and he planned when you first joined the force and fell in love.’

  She eyeballs herself in the rear-view mirror, the grin widening across her face.

  Two girls. Both thirteen. Both being bullied at school. Both have parents who don’t give a shit. The information Abigail gave her over the phone wasn’t surprising — not to Helen. She’d been researching teen suicides for over twenty years. Is obsessed with the subject. Boys are more likely to commit suicide, though not until they’re in their twenties. That’s when they realise they haven’t met the expectations society has placed on them. They become disillusioned, begin to compare themselves to their peers — believing everyone else’s bullshit — then they top themselves because they’re confused and too proud to speak out about how they feel. Girls on the other hand are much more mature than boys from an early age. They realise as early as their teens that they might not be meeting expectations placed on them. They look to their peers, especially the popular ones, and feel mightily inadequate. Whereas males are most likely to end their own lives in their mid-twenties, females are more likely to want to do it in their mid teens. Though, fortunately, they’re less brave than the opposite
sex; less likely to carry out a suicide attempt to full fruition.

  But it seems — to Helen — that these two girls are beyond that. They’re not looking for attention. They want to do this. They’re going to end their lives tonight. They’ve made a pact; just like Scott and his friends did twenty-two years ago. And they’re not going to change their minds.

  Helen knows all of this information from studying statistics released by the National Suicide Research Foundation every year; has noted the rapid increase in numbers across both genders with every report that gets published. Each year she tuts as she reads the latest figures, and on each occasion she thinks to herself ‘if only I could have talked to one of them before they did it, it might make up for me losing Scott.’ That’s why her adrenaline is rising now; she is certain that tonight is the night — is adamant she’s finally gonna save, not one, but two teenagers from doing exactly what Scott and his friends did.

  She screeches the car on to the canal road, swerving around those who have pulled in to let her pass; her heart racing as quickly as the speedometer, her mind flashing forward to tomorrow when she will receive plaudits of heroism from all around her.

  Then her eyes blink back to the present. But it’s too late.

  Her car comes to a sudden stop, crashing into the back of the Land Rover in front of her. She jerks forward, then back in her seat.

  ‘Ah for fuck sake!’ she yells, yanking at her door handle. She gets out, at the same time a middle-aged man gets out of the Land Rover.

  ‘Jesus, did you not hear my siren?’ she says.

  The man holds both of his palms up towards her.

  ‘I did, officer, I was trying to pull over, you just came too fast… way too fast.’

  They meet where their cars met, and both bend down to survey the damage.

  ‘It’s not too bad, the man says… your car took the brunt of it. These things,’ he says patting at the wheel arch of his Land Rover, ‘can take a bashing.’

  ‘You really need to be more careful when you hear emergency services on the roads,’ Helen scoffs. The man stands back up straight, stares at her, his eyes squinting.

  ‘You okay?’ he says. ‘You didn’t hit your head, did you?’

  Helen tuts.

  ‘I’d feel better if you moved your bloody car so I can get on with my job.’

  The man swivels his head, taking in the two pedestrians who have ran towards them.

  ‘Don’t we need to swap insurance details or whatev—’

  ‘Contact Terenure Garda station tomorrow, we’ll sort it out then,’ Helen says as she strides away from him

  ‘But eh… what’s your name?’

  Helen doesn’t answer. She hops back into the police car, reverses it, the front bumper hanging off, and then waves her hand at the man as she speeds off again.

  The noise of the bumper scraping against the road can be heard over the siren, but Helen doesn’t care. She’ll deal with the whole mess in the morning. Eddie will look after it. A new bumper will mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Saving lives is the most important thing a copper can do; isn’t that what the police force is for: serving and protecting the public? She’s going to protect two members of the public in the most heroic way imaginable.

  ‘I’m coming, girls,’ she screams to herself. ‘Hold on. Don’t do anything yet. Helen’s on her way.’

  She turns the car, its wheels screeching, its bumper scraping and its siren blaring, onto the road Abigail said the two girls lived on and then slows down so she can make out the numbers on the doors of the large houses. She’s not surprised the girls seem to come from good stock. That tends to be the way. It’s rare that it’s poor girls who attempt suicide. It’s more likely those who feel they can’t live up to the expectations set on them by their successful parents. She thinks that might have been why Scott did it. He showed no signs of depression. Perhaps he just felt inadequate because of their regarded status as Detectives. Though — having wracked her brain for twenty-two years — Helen really hasn’t come to any conclusion. It eats at her that she will never know the answer. That’s why she’s eager for her and Eddie to move to Canada. The quiet, the calm. She’s certain it will dilute the prominence of that question repeating itself over and over in her mind.

  When she sees one of the numbers she’s searching for, she abandons the car in the middle of the street, strides towards the front door and lifts the knocker before slamming it back down three times as loudly as she possibly can.

  A light comes on in the hallway before the door inches open,

  ‘Jesus, why you knocking so hard, everything alright?’ a woman says. She notices the police car over Helen’s shoulder and then holds a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Jesus.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’m Detective Brennan from Rathmines Garda station… I need to speak with your daughter as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Oh my God, what’s she done? What’s she done?’

  The woman takes a step backwards, her eyes widening, her fists forming into a ball.

  ‘We believe your daughter’s life is in danger. It’s imperative I speak with her as soon as possible.’

  The woman holds both balls of fists either side of her face, digging them into her cheeks.

  ‘Mum, Mum. What’s wrong?’ a girl appearing at the top of the stairs, wearing polka dot pyjamas, calls out.

  The woman looks up at her, then swallows.

  ‘Louise, you need to get yourself down here right now! The police are here to talk to you.’

  23:40

  Terry

  ‘That’s all very well and good that you think you are doing the right thing, Minister, but I put it to you that your opinion is wrong. Just give me a second here to read you out some statistics. Four years ago, the number of road deaths in Ireland was one hundred and eighty-eight. The following year one hundred and ninety-three. The year after that, one hundred and sixty-two, then back up to one eighty-six. Yes, the following year there was small drop again, to one-five-seven, but in each of the past two years the number has slightly increased again. I put it to you, that labelling the methods you have introduced over the past six years as ‘a fantastic success’ is nothing more than a fairy-tale. Isn’t that right Minist—’

  ‘Terry, Terry… wake up.’

  My eyes dart open. I can’t see a thing, but I can hear her — and smell her.

  ‘What the fuck, Greta?’ I say, slapping the mattress.

  ‘Terry, Ingrid is in trouble. Something’s definitely up.’

  I hold my eyes closed as tightly as I can, then open them wide, just so I can try to focus. I turn to the digital clock on my side table. 23:41.

  ‘What are you talkin’ about?’

  ‘Terry — Ingrid and Ciara… they called over to Brendan and Harriet’s house earlier, they were also at Ciara’s former child minder. We’ve just been on calls to each of them; they all say the girls were acting really weird. I’m so worried, Terry, I … I…’

  I can feel her knees vibrate against the bed, so I hold my hand out to reach her; see if I can calm her down a bit. Then I pull back the duvet and manage to throw my legs out of the side of the bed, yelping out a yawn as I do so.

  ‘Calm down, Greta,’ I say, ‘there’s no need to get all dramatic. Start again. What did you wake me up for?’

  She takes a deep breath, then sits down beside me.

  ‘Ingrid and Ciara visited two houses tonight. Two that we know of. And they acted really strangely in both of them. I told you… I told you when they were going out that door tonight that Ingrid couldn’t even look me in the eye. Something’s up… something major.’

  ‘Like what?’ I ask, twisting the balls of my palms into my eye sockets.

  I hear her shrug.

  ‘I dunno,’ she says.

  ‘Well, then, how am I supposed to know? I’ve just been asleep, haven’t I? How do you suppose I know what the hell our daughter’s up to when I’ve been snoring my head off?’

  I hear her gasp
a little bit. Maybe that was a bit harsh. But she knows darn well I have a big interview in the morning.

  ‘Terry, your daughter might be in trouble,’ she says.

  I stand up, click at the switch on the lamp by my bedside and then sit back down, holding the palm of my hand to my wife’s lower back.

  ‘How the hell do you get from her visiting her cousin to her being in trouble, Greta? Are you sure you’re not being a bit dramatic here? Ingrid and Ciara — they’re teenagers now. This is the sorta stuff teenagers get up to…. Listen,’ I say, moving my hand up to grip her shoulder, ‘I’ll give her an earful tomorrow when she gets back from school. But…. I mean, there’s nothing I can do right now, is there? I’m in my bloody boxer shorts, and I have to get up in five hours’ time.’

  ‘Terry… Brendan was giving them a lift home when they both got out of his car and ran. They left a book behind; a book Harriet had lent to Ingrid. Ingrid had signed it before she handed it back, writing ‘I love you Harriet’. You know that’s not like our daughter. I think she might be running away; her and Ciara.’

  ‘Huh?’ I say. ‘What would they be running away for?’

  Greta shrugs again. She’s really good at posing questions; is shit at answering them. A bit like the politicians I interview.

  ‘Well… have you checked her wardrobe, did she take any clothes or anything like that?’

  Greta stands up, then sprints out of our room. I hear her as she rifles through Ingrid’s wardrobe, sweeping hangers aside.

  ‘No… no everything seems to be here’, she shouts out to me.

  ‘Shhh… Jesus, be quite will ye. You’ll wake Sven.’

  I hold both of my hands over my face and then sigh as deeply as I can into them.

  ‘Terry, I’m really frightened. I don’t know what’s going on, I just know I don’t like it,’ Greta says, pacing back into our bedroom.

  I hate that I’m awake right now. Hate that it’ll play havoc with my performance tomorrow. But I know I can’t really have a go at Greta, especially while she’s shaking so much and almost in tears. It’s just… I don’t know what it is she wants me to do.