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

by David B Lyons

  ‘Let me go get you a cup of tea and we can have a little chat, huh?’ I say, standing up, tapping her on the shoulder as I walk by and then scratching my balls as I head down the stairs.

  ‘What the fuck!?’ I say, reeling back, cupping my hands over my boxers.

  ‘Sorry,’ the woman says. And then I recognise her. It’s her from up the road, Ciara’s mam. What’s-er-name… ‘I eh… didn’t realise you were going to come down the stairs half naked.’

  ‘Oh sorry, Terry,’ Greta says, running across our landing. ‘Yeah… Vivian’s here. We’re both a bit unsure what to do. That’s why I decided to wake you.’

  I stare up the stairs at my wife, then back down at Vivian.

  ‘Well, first things first…’ I say, ‘How about I get some clothes on.’

  ◈

  Helen stares at the back of Louise’s polka dot pyjamas as she follows her and her mother into their plush kitchen, all the while wondering what the hell Louise is doing dressed for bed when she is supposed to be killing herself in a half an hour.

  The light is so bright in the kitchen that it makes the windowed patio doors look as if they’ve been painted jet-black.

  Louise’s mother pulls out a chair, motions for Helen to sit it in and then seats herself in the chair next to it, her hands shaking. Louise walks around the opposite side of the table but remains standing, her arms folded.

  ‘There’s no need to be shaking,’ Helen says, gripping the mother’s hands as she sits. ‘I’m here now, everything is okay.’

  ‘Wh-what is going on?’ the mother stutters.

  Helen purses her lips at her, then flicks her eyes towards Louise.

  ‘Louise… whatever it is you are planning to do at midnight, I’m here to save you. I am the mother of somebody who—’

  ‘What?’ Louise screeches, her face contorting.

  Helen grips the mother’s hands even tighter.

  ‘Tommy… Tommy Smith, he told us what you and Sinead are planning on doing tonight.’

  Louise pulls at the back of a chair, scoots it towards herself, sits in it, then rests both of her elbows on the table and stares at Helen.

  ‘What are you talking about, officer?’

  Helen looks back at the mother, then at Louise again.

  Silence.

  ‘Officer… please, please tell us what’s going on,’ the mother says, her voice shaking as much as her hands.

  Helen swallows.

  ‘Louise, be honest with me now, be honest with your mother. As I was about to say to you, I am not just a Detective, I am the mother of a son who died by suicide… I have studied suicide for many years. Decades. You need to be honest. Are you and Sinead Longthorn planning on ending your lives at midnight tonight?’

  Louise breathes out a laugh. Her mother’s eyes go wide, her arms — releasing from Helen’s grip — stretch across the table, so she can cling to her daughter’s fingers.

  ‘Mam,’ Louise says, shaking her head. ‘Relax. This is all… this is…’ She rolls her shoulders, shakes her head with disbelief.

  ‘It’s okay, Louise,’ Helen says slowly. ‘Open up to us now; I’m here to tell you life is worth—’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, officer?’ Louise says, standing back up. She walks around the table, to her mother, and places her hands atop both of her shoulders. ‘I was asleep in bed until you came banging down the door.’

  Helen swallows again, then her eyes dart from left to right.

  ‘Officer?’ The mother says, squinting.

  ‘I eh… I… where is Sinead Longthorn?’ Helen asks.

  ‘The Longthorns, they’re in Majorca aren’t they, pet?’ the mother says, turning to look up at her daughter.

  Louise nods her head.

  ‘Yeah, they’ve been away the past couple weeks during the mid-term, they’re due home on Saturday.’

  Helen holds her eyes closed, reality washing through her stomach.

  ‘In Majorca,’ she whispers. Then she opens her eyes. ‘So you two aren’t… you eh… you didn’t make a pact?’

  ‘What the hell is going on here, Louise? Tell me!’ the mother says, standing up and turning to grip her daughter in a bear hug.

  ‘Relax, Mam, I don’t know where this officer is getting all of this from.’

  Helen stands too, causing her chair to squeak across the kitchen tiles.

  ‘The welfare officer at your school — Abigail — she said you and Sinead have shown signs of depression over the past few months, says you are dealing with a big bullying issue.’

  ‘What!?’ the mother says, leaning herself off her daughter so that she can stare into her eyes.

  ‘Yeah… we reported some bullying that’s been going on and Ms Jensen — Abigail — gave us some leaflets about depression and teen suicide statistics last week. But it was… it was nothing. Me and Sinead looked at the leaflets and wondered if Jensen was going crazy. It was way over the top. We’re getting bullied at school… and a bit online… but it’s… I mean, we’re not going to kill ourselves. We never would. We were just reporting the bullying.’

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ the mother says, grabbing Louise in for another hug. ‘Why didn’t you tell me… sweet Lord.’

  ‘Relax, Mam… it’s all okay. It’s nothing.’

  Helen stares at Louise and her mother holding each other in the middle of their kitchen, before her eyes flick to the microwave clock. 11:45. Fifteen minutes left to save… whoever it is she is supposed to save. And here she is, standing in the wrong fucking kitchen.

  ‘Louise,’ she says tentatively. ‘Is there any reason Tommy Smith would ring in to two police stations to tell us two girls are planning on committing suicide?’

  Louise releases the grip her mother has on her, then sticks her bottom lip out and shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t think anybody believes anything Tommy Smith says. I mean… somebody told me he’s hanging around with a gang of older fellas now.’

  Helen holds a hand to her face, covering her eyes so she can squeeze them shut in an attempt to defuse the migraine that is threatening to flare up.

  ‘Are there any girls, that you know of from your school, who you think might be planning on ending their lives?’ she asks, her hand still covering her face.

  Louise puffs out her cheeks.

  ‘No,’ she says.

  ‘No girls who might be depressed?’ Helen asks.

  Louise puffs again, this time almost laughing.

  ‘Who isn’t depressed these days?’ she says. ‘All of the girls talk to Ms Jensen about some problem or other. I think she just diagnoses anyone who has a small problem as being depressed. She’s just ticking boxes, isn’t she? Isn’t that what working in a school is all about? That’s what me and Sinead have noticed since we started going to secondary school. All the teachers are just following protocol. They’re just protecting themselves in case anything happens. They aren’t interested in the students, not really. They’re only interested in themselves.’

  ‘Louise, please. Think. I have good reason to believe two girls from your school are going to kill themselves tonight. If it’s not you and Sinead… who is it?’

  Helen removes the hand from her face, takes one large stride towards Louise and grips her shoulders. Louise is tiny, the top of her head just about reaching to Helen’s chest.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s anyone at my school who is suicidal. Of course I don’t. If I believed that, I’d have reported it, wouldn’t I?’

  Helen’s eyes glaze over as she stares down at Louise, then she lightly pats her on both shoulders and spins on her heels.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you two,’ she says as she walks out of the kitchen and down the long, narrow hallway before reaching the front door.

  ‘Is that it?’ the mother yells after her. ‘Officer… officer, is that it? You’re just gonna leave us with that bombshell?’

  Helen doesn’t answer. She pulls at the door and steps out into the gard
en, then sucks in some fresh air through the gaps in her teeth. It’s more of a cringe than a breath.

  She wobbles down the garden path, her head racing. Then she sees it. The police car with the bumper hanging off and the front light smashed.

  ‘Oh for fuck sake, Helen,’ she whispers to herself.

  23:45

  Ingrid

  Neither of us have said a word to each other since we sat upstairs on the bus. We were holding hands for a few minutes, then Ciara let go and leaned in to me. I have my arm wrapped around her; her head snuggled into my chest.

  The bus seems to be moving in slow motion, swaying us a little as it makes its way out of Crumlin. We’ll probably arrive in about ten minutes or so. Our last stop. Ever. At least I think it is. I’m pretty sure we’re actually going to go through with this.

  There’s not much time to back out now anyway. There was a tiny part of me that had always felt Ciara was too frightened to commit suicide, no matter how many times she spoke to me about it. But last night, as we were coming up with our pact, I could see in her eyes how excited she was that she was finally going to do it. The fact that I was on board obviously made a huge difference to her. She told me I was the reason she had stopped herself doing it before. But if I wanted to die, then so the hell did she.

  I stroke her hair and as I do, she places one of her hands on my knee. We’re both just staring out the front window of the bus, at nothing because it’s too dark to make anything out. The pictures in my mind are more clear than the picture in front of us. I’ve been thinking about Sven; about how he’ll be affected if I commit suicide. I’m hoping it helps him more than anything, though. When he grows up and learns what happened to his older sister, he’ll feel that his condition — whatever it is — isn’t so bad. He’ll know life is only as good as his mind. And his mind will always be good because he doesn’t know what bad is. I don’t think he’ll ever be clever enough to be depressed. I spent part of this morning lying on my bed wishing I had his condition.

  Besides, Sven will get more attention from Mum and Dad if I’m dead. It’ll all work out fine for him. There’s no need for me to worry about my little brother. There’s certainly no need for me to be going back over the thoughts I’ve had going through my mind all day anyway. I need to shut it off; can’t wait to shut it off. I’m sure we’re doing the right thing. It’ll be better for everyone when I’m gone.

  I look at my digital watch. 23:47. Almost there, the last minutes of our lives ticking away.

  As the bus turns down the canal road, Ciara twists her head so she can look at me. She doesn’t say anything, she just smiles, then turns her head back so that she’s staring out the window again. So, I do the same; stare out the window. Only this time I try to take in what I’m looking at, rather than slipping back into my thoughts. It’s tough to make much out in the dark, but the street lamps are lighting the way a bit, shining onto the calm water of the canal.

  The bus pulls over, allowing a few more passengers to get on board. A couple of them climb the stairs and sit behind us. I wonder if that’s why we’ve been so quiet on this bus journey; because there are others around us. But I bet it’s more to do with the fact that we’re just trying to soak in our last minutes alive. Maybe we’ve said all we have to say anyway.

  I wonder what Ciara is thinking. She doesn’t have a little brother; doesn’t care for her mam or her dad. She’s probably thinking about Debbie. Or maybe Miss Moriarty. I don’t ask her though. I just continue to run my fingers through her hair and down her cheek. Until I feel wetness. I stop, then tilt her head towards me.

  She’s crying.

  23:45

  Greta

  I sit across from Vivian, both of us leaning our elbows on our thighs in the quiet of my sitting room while we wait on Terry to get some clothes on. My fingers are fidgeting with each other as I try to get inside Ingrid’s mind. I’ve probably been a terrible mum to her over the past few months. Sven’s taken most of my attention.

  It’s beginning to dawn on me that we left her alone to face secondary school. I don’t even know what subjects she’s studying there; have no idea what any of her teachers’ names are.

  ‘Jeez, I just hope they’re out flirting with boys,’ I say to Vivian. She nods her head. The thought of Ingrid flirting with boys would have been my worst nightmare a few hours ago, but now it seems to be my biggest hope. That’s how worried I am. I have no idea what Ingrid and Ciara intend on doing tonight.

  ‘Right-ee-o,’ Terry says as he plods down the stairs. He always says ‘right-ee-o’; especially during his show. It’s almost like a shitty catchphrase he clings to. He claps his hands once and then stands between Vivian and me.

  ‘So, we know they visited Harriet and before that your former child minder, Vivian… remind me of her name again?’

  ‘Debbie. Debbie Martyn.’

  ‘Yes, Debbie. So what does this tell us? I wonder if they have been visiting older girls to get their perspective on boys. Maybe Ingrid — or Ciara, it could be Ciara — has got her first boyfriend and perhaps they just went in search of advice.’

  I nod my head slowly as I soak in the plausibility of Terry’s theory. Then I look up at Vivian. She’s still staring into her lap.

  ‘Vivian, what do you think?’ I ask.

  She looks up, her eyes heavy.

  ‘Sorry, but eh… could I have a drink? My throat’s a bit parched,’ she asks.

  ‘Sure thing, a glass of water?’ Terry says.

  ‘Eh… do you have anything heavier… a red wine by any chance?’

  My eyes meet Terry’s.

  ‘Sure thing,’ he says, making his way to our kitchen.

  ‘What do you think, Vivian? Has Ciara mentioned any boys in her life recently? Ever heard of this Stitch or whatever his name is?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I… I don’t really… I mean… I don’t even know when I last sat down and spoke with Ciara. It’s been ages. Way too long.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say making my way towards her so I can rest my hand on her shoulder. ‘I feel the exact same way about my relationship with Ingrid. I guess we’re both guilty of feeling our girls have grown up enough to look after themselves.’

  She looks up at me. I’m not sure if her eyes are glazed from emotion or from alcohol. I wonder how much wine she had before I called over to her.

  ‘Here y’go, Vivian,’ Terry says, swooping back into the room.

  ‘Is this Merlot?’ she says, sniffing into the glass he just handed to her.

  ‘It’s red. S’all I know,’ Terry says.

  I’d normally laugh at something like that. But I just stand back upright and fold my arms.

  ‘Terry, I hope you’re right. I hope the girls have just been trying to get a perspective from girls older than them about boys. And that they’ll knock back on that door in the next few minutes. But the one thing that’s niggling me is the note Ingrid wrote in Harriet’s book. Why would she do that? It’s sticking in my mind… it almost seems… I don’t know… final.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. What do you mean final?’ he asks me.

  I dip my chin into my neck and begin to fidget with my fingers again.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. I don’t want to say out loud what is troubling me. Mainly because I can’t make sense of it.

  Terry sits on our sofa, then claps his hands again.

  ‘She wants to ring the police, don’t ye, hun?’ Vivian says, swirling her glass.

  ‘Sure the police will laugh at us,’ Terry says. ‘Don’t children have to be missing for twenty-four hours or something before they’ll look into it?’

  ‘That’s what I told her,’ Vivian says.

  I rub my face with my hand and then blow out my lips.

  I keep seeing the note she wrote for Harriet in my mind; her cute little handwriting.

  I love you Harriet

  She never says those words, let alone write them. She has never told me she loves me; has never
said it to her dad, to her little brother. It’s just not how we talk to each other.

  ‘Something’s not adding up for me,’ I say. ‘I’m going to call the police.’

  I pace out of the sitting room, into the hallway and pick up the phonebook to search for the local station’s number. Terry joins me by the time I’ve found it and I begin punching it into the phone.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not overreacting, Greta?’ he says.

  I just stare at him as I hold the phone to my ear.

  ‘Rathmines Garda Station, how may I help you?’

  ‘Hi… my name is Greta Murphy. I have a thirteen-year-old daughter who has gone missing with her best friend. Her name is Ingrid Murphy, her friend is Ciara Joyce.’

  ‘Okay, ma’am,’ the voice says. ‘And how long have these two girls been missing?’

  I hold my eyes closed, then sigh a little out of my nostrils.

  ‘They left here at about twenty-past seven this evening.’

  ‘This evening?’ the voice says back to me. ‘Just over four hours ago?’

  ‘Uh-hmm,’ I say as I begin to nibble at my thumbnail.

  ‘Ma’am, I understand your concern right now, but we suggest you only involve the Gardaí should your child be missing over twenty-four hours.’

  ‘But I’m… I’m going out of my mind right now. I know something is wrong, I can feel it in my bones. Call it mother’s intuition or whatever—’

  ‘Ma’am… I am sorry you feel this way. But trust me; ninety-nine times out of a hundred, young people find their way home after we’ve received a call like this. What I propose you do is wait at home. Make sure somebody is there when your daughter arrives. There’s no need for everybody to go out and search; somebody needs to be at home when your daughter gets there.’

  I bite at my thumbnail again, then feel a rage burn up from my insides.