I guess I need one now.
I walk towards them, grab them all up in to a bunch and hold them against me.
‘I’m gonna tell you a secret,’ I whisper. ‘Me and Ciara, we’re gonna die tonight. We hate our lives.’
Then I smile. And drop them all back down on the chair they normally sit on. I’m going mad; talking to stuffed animals as if I’m three years old again.
I spin my head round my bedroom to stare at it for the last time and then decide I’ve gotta leave before some memory in here makes me change my mind.
My bedroom kinda lies. It doesn’t look as if I’m a sad girl at all. It’s filled with magazines and posters and books and toys. Lots of things my parents bought for me. But that’s exactly one of my problems. They think it’s things that’ll make me happy. They’ve no idea things mean nothing. Not to me anyway.
‘Bye room,’ I whisper through the crack in my door as I close it and walk out. I find myself on the landing, my eyes shut, my hands sweating.
I open my eyes, stare at my digital watch. 19:09. Ciara will be here in about twenty minutes. I need to do this now. I need to say my last goodbyes.
I edge closer to the stairs and stop at the top of them. I really don’t want to go down there. How am I supposed to say goodbye for the last time without actually saying goodbye for the last time? I’m a terrible liar, too. I’m worried all three of them will see right through me. That they’ll know where I’m going. What I plan on doing.
I take one step down and move my ear closer, to hear if they’re saying anything about me. All I can hear is Heartbeat. Of course. Heartbeat. Mum watches reruns and reruns of that every Sunday night. Not sure why she watches that stuff. Anytime I see bits of those soaps she likes to watch there’s normally somebody looking miserable in it. When I watch TV it’s to get away from real life. Not to drown myself in it. Though I get the feeling Mum doesn’t realise her life is just like those in the soaps. She thinks she’s bigger and better than them. She doesn’t realise she has drama in her life. She’ll know better in the morning.
None of them look at me when I get inside the living room. Mum’s glued to the TV, Dad is looking over his notes for his show tomorrow. He’ll be going to bed soon. Around eight o’clock. He’s got to be up early; early enough to talk to Dublin as they make their way to work. I used to think his job was really cool. But it’s not. He just talks into a microphone for four hours and that’s it. I remember a time thinking I’d like to be a radio DJ when I’m older. But I’m not quite sure I can think of a more boring job. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not going to be older. So thinking about stuff like that is kinda pointless.
I don’t know what to do. I look at the back of my dad’s head, then the side of my mum’s face. A lot of people tell me I’ll be just as beautiful as her when I grow up. I don’t think so. Then I look at Sven curled up on the floor with his action figures. So I sit down beside him and pick one up.
‘Who’s this?’ I ask. He snatches it from me, then gets back to his make-believe without talking. I don’t know what to do next. How do I say goodbye to my little brother? I rub the back of his head and he shakes it and groans until I take my hand away. Then he continues to pretend he’s GI Joe or whoever it is he’s playing with. I can’t blame him not wanting me to join in. I never join in. I haven’t been a great older sister. Not since we were really young. When he was a baby, I used to help look after him; I’d hold him, cuddle him, kiss him. But I’m not sure when I last cuddled him, when I last kissed him. Years ago, maybe. What relationship is a thirteen-year-old girl supposed to have with her eight-year-old brother anyway? How am I supposed to know that? It’s not something they teach at school.
I stare around at my parents again. Neither of them have moved. Then I look back to Sven and blow him a quiet kiss before I get to my feet. I walk, slowly, to the sofa and plonk myself beside Mum. She looks at me, gives me a tiny smile and then gets back to Heartbeat. I place my hand on her knee and she places her hand on top of mine. We sit in silence for ages; her staring at the TV, me staring at the big clock above the mantelpiece. Ciara will be here in fifteen minutes. I don’t have long to say my goodbyes.
I snuggle into Mum; resting my ear on her chest. Her boobies are really hard. Much harder than they’ve ever been. They’ve been that way since she came home from hospital last year after spending a day in there.
‘Hey, what’s with you?’ she says.
‘Just fancy a hug.’
She grips me tighter.
‘Well, I’ll take that,’ she says. ‘I remember hugging you so tightly on this sofa when you were a baby. I never wanted to let you out of my sight. Now look at you… feels like you’re out of my sight way too often.’
I look up at her and feel a bit of pain in my belly. I think it’s guilt. I bet it’s guilt. Then the stupid music to Heartbeat plays.
‘Fancy an ice-cream and a wafer?’ she says.
I smile that half-smile thing I do when I want someone to think I’m happy but am really feeling sad inside.
‘Me, me, me,’ says Sven, throwing his action figures behind him.
‘Terry?’ Mum says.
Dad removes his head from his notes.
‘Huh?’
‘Fancy an ice-cream and a wafer?’
‘Sorry,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’m just too busy here.’
Mum unwraps her hands from around me and gets up off the sofa.
‘Not for me, Mum,’ I say. ‘Ciara’s coming soon, we’re gonna go back to her house to study for that exam.’
‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘Big one, huh?’
I nod my head. And as she leaves for the kitchen, I realise I will never hug her again. And it makes me sad. Really sad. I can feel the sadness in my belly. I turn to Dad and swallow.
I’m not sure I’ll miss Dad so much. He’s not the worst dad in the world. He’s not as bad as Ciara’s. None of my family are. But he’s not a great dad either. I bet if I asked him what my birthdate was right now he wouldn’t know the answer. He’s too into his work. Actually, it’s not work he’s that into. It’s fame. He used to be more famous; used to have his own show on TV. But now he just does radio. His days as a proper celebrity are gone, though I know he’d do anything to get them back.
‘Busy show tomorrow?’ I ask him.
He looks up at me, over his glasses and nods. Then gets back to his notes.
Fair enough.
I move towards him… not sure what to do. I can’t just hug him like I hugged Mum. He’d definitely know something was up. So I just place my hand on his elbow.
‘You okay, Ingrid?’ he says to me, staring over his glasses again. I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Then the doorbell rings.
‘Ingrid, Ciara’s here,’ Mum calls out.
Ciara? Already? She’s early. That’s not like her. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I hope she’s changed her mind.
Twenty-two years on, it still infuriates Helen when she isn’t privy to the discussions being held in Eddie’s office. They’re all in there now… well the important ones anyway: Neil, Cyril, June, Patricia.
Helen can tell something major’s going on. She’ll just have to wait to find out what it is though. A lot of years have passed since she was among the first in line to be handed the juicy information. And waiting can be tortuous for somebody as impatient and nosey as Helen Brennan.
She folds the sheet of paper on her desk into thirds, slots it into a brown envelope and then licks the flap before running her thumb over it. If she was given a euro for every envelope she licks on a daily basis, she’d almost be earning the same money as Eddie. The same money she was destined to be on had her life not come to an earth-shattering stutter over two decades ago.
When she first started working here, way back in November of 1982, Helen had eyed that pokey office. She wanted to lead this station, not fucking stuff envelopes at the front desk. Sometimes, on days like this — when all around her is buzzing, yet she is
sat still — Helen blames Scott for the mess her life has turned into. Then she stops herself and mumbles into her chest, as if she’s asking somebody for forgiveness. Who she’s asking for forgiveness would be news to her, though. She doesn’t believe in any spiritual being. Fuck that shit. There ain’t no spirit guiding her life. Unless that spirit’s some sort of sick sociopath.
‘Wonder what’s going on in there,’ she says to Leo as he passes her desk. He just shrugs his shoulder, takes another sip of his plastic cup of tea and then strolls on by.
Helen doesn’t much care for Leo. The little prick has only been here for less than six months and already has the audacity to treat her as if she’s insignificant. The only saving grace he has, as far as Helen can see, is that he looks mighty fine in uniform — as if it was bespokenly stitched around his muscular frame.
Helen looks around herself, to see if anyone else in the station noticed Leo’s abruptness with her. Nobody. So she tucks her chin back into her chest and begins to fold another sheet of paper, mumbling to herself as she does so.
When she finally hears Eddie’s office door open, she swings around in her chair so quickly that her eyes have to take a moment to focus before she can make out the individual faces. She eyeballs Cyril. Nothing. Patricia. Nothing. June. Nothing. She doesn’t bother to look at Neil as he makes his way towards his messy desk. That gobshite doesn’t share any information with her anyway. Never has. She chews on the nail of her thumb, wondering who she can infiltrate the quickest. Cyril’s already talking to Leo. He must be filling the uniform in. So Helen stands up, flattens down the creases on the front of her grey trousers and then casually walks towards the two men. She always walks as if she’s on stilts, does Helen; her entire five foot eleven inch frame as stiff and as straight as it can possibly be. She damaged the herniated disc in her lower back as a teenager; has been walking like a robot ever since.
Cyril is talking in hushed tones as Helen approaches but she hears mention of the name Alan Keating and already knows the matter is serious. Keating’s been running the streets of Dublin for years. The cops can do fuck all about it, though. The clever bastard keeps his nose way too clean.
‘What about Keating?’ she says, leaning her face over Leo’s shoulder to stare at Cyril.
Cyril looks left and then right before answering.
‘He’s up to something. We’ve just had an anonymous call that’s trying to put us off the scent.’
‘Content of the call?’ Helen asks, tipping her chin up and then down, as if she’s ordering Cyril to fill her in.
Cyril looks left, then right again. But even when his head has stopped moving, he doesn’t answer. He just sucks on his teeth.
‘Some kid saying two girls have agreed to commit suicide tonight. They’ve made a pact,’ Leo says turning around.
Helen watches as Cyril stares at Leo, his eyes widening, his teeth clenching.
‘Jaysus, it’s alright, Cyril,’ she says, tutting. ‘It was twenty-two years ago. You think I can’t ever hear that word the rest of my life?’
Then she spins on her heels, paces as quickly as she can and then snatches at the handle to Eddie’s office door.
He looks up when she enters, his forefinger and thumb immediately stretching to the bridge of his nose.
‘What makes you think it’s Keating?’ Helen says.
Eddie sighs.
‘Jesus, Hel, you never did lose any of your Detective skills huh? You can get information out of anyone in seconds. They’ve only just left my bloody office.’
Helen takes one step back, pushes the door closed, then strides forward, leaning her fingertips on to the edge of Eddie’s desk.
Eddie arches an eyebrow, then leans back in his chair.
‘It’s one of Keating’s hoax phone calls to get us chasing red herrings. I’ve just been on to Terenure Garda station, they’ve had the same phone call made to them. We’ve looked into it; it’s Keating alright. He wants our officers concentrating on something else tonight. Wants us distracted. You know how he operates.’
Helen takes one of her hands from the desk and swipes at her nose.
‘What did the phone call say?’
Eddie holds his eyes shut and then sighs out of his nostrils. He uses the same tics every time Helen sticks her nose into something that shouldn’t concern her at work. He uses the same tics the odd time at home too… when she infuriates him by talking while he’s trying to watch television.
‘Helen, c’mon… you know you’re not supposed to be privy to investigative insight—’
‘What did the call say?’ Helen interrupts.
Eddie peers through the blinds, into the open station at his officers and Detectives beavering away, then turns back to his wife.
‘It’s… it’s an awkward one for me to say to you,’ he says, sighing deeply out of his nostrils again. ‘Some young guy, maybe a boy, rang in to say two girls have made a pact to die by suicide tonight.’ Eddie swallows. ‘I’m sorry, Hel.’
‘Whatcha sorry for?’
Eddie looks down at his lap. He doesn’t answer. He can’t answer.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I must get on with this investigation. I’ve got to organise some uniforms to call out to Keating’s house. We need to get a whiff of what’s going on. So if you don’t mind…’ Eddie points his whole hand towards his office door.
Helen looks back at it, then towards her husband again.
‘What about the two girls?’ she asks. ‘I assume somebody is looking into that?’
‘Helen, if you don’t mind… I’ll be running this investigation. We have every reason to believe this is a Keating distraction call. I’ve got information I just can’t share with you. You already know much more than you are supposed to. Anyway…’ Eddie says twisting his left wrist towards his face, ‘it’s almost half seven, you should be heading home now. Relaxing. Forgetting about work.’
Helen squints at Eddie as her breaths begin to grow in sharpness. Then she spins on her heels, snatches at the door handle and marches out of his office.
‘Who’s been put in charge of looking into the girls?’ she says as she approaches Cyril, interrupting him as he was about to instruct two members of his team.
‘What girls?’ he asks. Cyril often feels uneasy around Helen; especially when she’s trying to extract information out of him about work. The lines between them have always been blurred. She used to be his boss. Now he’s many ranks above her.
‘The girls who are planning to die by suicide.’
Cyril stares over his shoulder, towards Eddie’s office, and when he realises he’s not going to get any support, he holds his palm to Helen’s shoulder.
‘We don’t believe anybody is going to commit suicide. It’s a hoax call; Keating trying to distract us.’
Helen brushes Cyril’s hand away from her shoulder.
‘So nobody is looking into the girls, nobody’s going to at least investigate that angle?’
Cyril re-shuffles his standing position, so he is face on with Helen.
‘Helen, there are no girls, it’s just a—’
‘A hoax fucking phone call,’ Helen says slowly into his face. Then she storms off to her front desk, grabbing at the top sheet of paper from her pile, folding it into thirds and then stuffing it into an envelope.
She looks at the digits on her phone. 19:27. Coronation Street will be starting in three minutes. She hates missing Coronation Street. But she ain’t leaving yet. Not until Eddie delivers the team briefing.
‘Okay, okay,’ Eddie shouts out as he claps his hands twice.
Helen spins in her chair and watches as everybody in the station stands to attention; the ritual they normally go through when the Superintendent shouts and claps. There was a time Helen used to stand for briefings too.
‘We’ve had a phone call saying two unnamed girls are planning to die by suicide in the local area tonight. Terenure have had the exact same call. We have it on good authority these were hoax calls, the ty
pe of call Alan Keating has used in the past as a red herring. Patricia… I want your team to tail Keating’s closest confidants, find out where they are this evening and keep your nose up their asses. Cyril, ring around our grasses, find out anything you can — and keep me informed of your progress. June, can you rally some uniforms in the city and put them on red alert? I’ll fill you in later on what they should be looking out for. Neil, as I mentioned to you in our meeting, I want to see your patterns on Keating again, can you give me all the paperwork you have and—’
‘What about the girls?’ Helen shouts over everybody’s head.
All in front of her twist their necks to stare at her. She has her legs spread, is swivelling side to side slowly in her chair.
Eddie holds his eyes closed in irritation, then sighs out of his nostrils. Again.
‘Hel, thank you for your input but I can assure you all is under control.’
Helen hisses a tiny laugh through the gaps in her teeth.
‘I’m sure they are, Eddie. I’m sure you all believe this is a hoax call and that Keating is up to something — and if that’s the case, no better station in the country to have that investigation under control.’ Helen holds both of her hands up, her palms facing the team of people staring at her. ‘But just in case — just in case — the call isn’t a hoax, who is out there looking for these two girls?’
Murmurs ripple from the team. She knows what they’re whispering about. She’s aware that they’ll all be thinking this subject is far too sensitive for her to handle.
‘Hel, I’ve been assured by Terenure Garda station that they have somebody treating the phone call as legitimate and will be looking into that line of enquiry.’ Eddie claps his hands again. ‘Now, if everybody else can—’
‘Who?’ Helen shouts, interrupting her husband again.
Eddie holds his hands together, as if in prayer, then creases his face into a sterile smile.
‘I eh…’ he, says, ‘I don’t know who exactly, but I’ve been assured all is in order in that regard. Now, if you don’t mind, Hel, we have some investigating to do. It’s half-past seven, shouldn’t you be thinking of lying flat out on the couch, watching your soaps by now?’
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 50
