The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set

by David B Lyons

  There’s a hesitation on the other end of the line.

  ‘Go on,’ Eddie eventually says.

  ‘You did hurt me earlier. So much so I’ve been crying. I thought what you said was really insensitive… about me needing to go home to watch the soaps. In front of everybody.’

  There’s silence again, but Helen is aware Eddie will be rolling his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hel… it’s just I’m under so much pressure here and… well, yeah… there’s no excuse for me saying that in front of everybody. Please accept my apology once more and we’ll speak in the morning, yeah?’

  Helen fake-coughs down the line, is not really sure where to take the conversation from here.

  ‘Yeah, yeah — I know you didn’t mean it. It just hurt is all, and I didn’t wanna just lie here getting angry with you, so thought I’d call so I can just put it all behind me. I know you’re mad busy… how’s the investigation going?’

  ‘Frustrating,’ Eddie says. Helen smiles to herself. Is aware her husband has fallen into her trap. ‘We’re certain Keating is up to something. He’s keeping well away, for sure. We know he’s in Spain. Again. Same place he always is when he’s pulling off something big. None of his main men seem to be doing anything, but we’ll get to the bottom of this. We have to before it’s too late. I’m not letting this fucker give us the run around again.’

  ‘You’ll sort it. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Did you eh…’ Helen looks over her shoulder, ‘did you trace the caller? Y’know; if you get the caller, you’ll almost solve this thing.’

  ‘Yeah. Call was made near the Drimnagh Luas stop, we managed to get CCTV footage of the boy making the call. He looks about fourteen, maybe fifteen. The type of young recruit Keating normally uses to carry out a little bit of the dirty work for him.’

  ‘Track him down yet?’ Helen says, nibbling at the edge of her thumb. She stops walking, awaits the response.

  ‘No. We’ve no name. Just an image. That and the fact we know he walked to Harold’s Cross after making the call. We tracked him on CCTV all the way up the canal. He turned off at the main Harold’s Cross bridge. No sight of him after that. We’re closing in.’

  Helen grabs some air with her fist, chuffed that her little mind game of pretending she was upset soothed Eddie into opening up to her. She spins on her heels and begins to pace back towards the car.

  ‘Interesting… interesting,’ she says. ‘Eh… apology accepted. We’ll do that breakfast after we wake up tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘Helen, you okay?’ Eddie asks. But Helen barely heard; was too busy bringing the phone back down to press at the red button. She places the phone in her coat pocket and begins to quicken her pace as she gets nearer the car, wiring her finger around as if to signify to Charlie that it’s time to get going.

  ‘Here, yis aren’t gonna find the two girls if you’re just gonna leave that car parked there all night,’ one of the teenage boys roars towards her. She doesn’t pay him any attention, nor any of the other boys who decide to laugh at his silly statement. She just snatches at the door handle, folds her tall frame into the passenger seat and instructs Charlie.

  ‘Harold’s Cross.’

  He stares at her, then turns the key and speeds off, staining the road with tyre marks.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Charlie asks.

  ‘The young boy, in our image… he’s in the Harold’s Cross area now. Walked there after making the call.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Charlie asks as he reaches for the siren switch.

  As the sound blares out from the car, Helen sucks on her lips and then says nothing; as if Charlie hadn’t just asked that last question. She’s trying to remain mysterious; as if she’s operating at a different level to Charlie. It seems to be working. He has no idea that his low rank as a recently-recruited uniformed beat officer makes him her senior.

  Charlie chicanes out of the narrow streets of Drimnagh and finds his way back on to the canal road. He’s a decent driver, is Charlie. Was given the share of a car with another beat officer who works a different shift pattern to him about three months ago. For the minimal admin work they do, as well as the odd walk beat they take, they barely need the wheels. But there was a car left over at the station. And Charlie was chuffed with the offer. It almost felt like a promotion to him.

  ‘So, what we gonna do? Door-to-door?’ Charlie shouts over the siren.

  Helen has the nail of her thumb held between her teeth.

  ‘Same again,’ she shouts. ‘Let’s contact the local school Headteacher. He’ll know every teenager in that area. What’s the local school in Harold’s Cross?’ she asks.

  Charlie answers by picking up his phone and handing it to her.

  Helen clicks into his Internet browser history, Googles ‘secondary school Harold’s Cross’ and finds her answer in a matter of seconds.

  ‘St Joseph’s CBS,’ she says. ‘The number’s here.’ She holds the phone to her ear; hears a tone ring twice before an answer machine kicks in.

  ‘The school office is currently closed. We operate between the hours of eight a.m. and five p.m., Monday to Friday. Please leave a message after the tone or — alternatively — call our emergency site team on 01 5333873 in case of an emergency.’

  Helen holds her eyes closed, soaking in the number just read out to her, then she swipes at the screen of Charlie’s phone and punches in the digits.

  Another answer machine.

  ‘Ah for fuck sake!’ she says before the beep sounds.

  ‘This is Detective Helen Brennan from Rathmines Garda station,’ she yells down the line, ‘ring me back on this number as soon as you possibly can!’

  Then she hangs up, places Charlie’s phone back in the cup holder and screams into her hands.

  ‘Supposed to be a fuckin emergency number that!’

  Charlie continues to speed up the canal road, swerving past cars that pull over for him.

  He looks at Helen, then back at the road in front. He does this numerous times. Is itching to ask her another question, but he can sense her frustration and isn’t quite sure now’s an appropriate time.

  ‘Helen,’ he says tentatively.

  She doesn’t hear him.

  ‘Helen!’ She opens the hands from around her face, looks over at Charlie. ‘I eh… I can see why you are a brilliant Detective. You take things really seriously, but do you eh… do you normally get this animated during an investigation?’

  Helen stares straight ahead.

  ‘I take every case as seriously as the last one,’ she says.

  Charlie can just about hear her over the siren. His fingers begin to fidget on top of the steering wheel.

  ‘It’s just,’ he shouts again, ‘you said earlier that this one was personal…’

  Helen looks over at him, arching one of her eyebrows. Then she lets out a long sigh.

  ‘Just do lights,’ she says.

  Charlie reaches for a button near the ignition and clicks at it. The sound of the siren stops but the blue lights remain flashing, bouncing off the car bonnet and back into their faces.

  Helen sits more upright in her seat and then fixes the seat belt around her so that it runs at a straighter diagonal across her chest.

  ‘Somebody very close to me died by suicide,’ she says.

  Charlie turns his face towards her and purses his lips. But she doesn’t notice. She’s just staring at the light show on the bonnet.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Charlie says.

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’

  The car falls silent, except for the noise of tyres zooming down the canal road.

  ‘My son,’ Helen then says, still staring straight ahead. Charlie offers another purse of his lips. ‘Similar age to these two girls, I suspect. He’d only just turned fourteen. Y’know… I still don’t know why. What I wouldn’t give to know why. Ye know what my husband says to me all the time? “Helen, you will never know why.” As if it’s that easy to just forget about it.�
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  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Charlie says, ‘I can see why you are so passionate about saving these girls. Suicide… it’s … it’s such a waste of life—’ Charlie holds his hand up to his mouth. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I meant… I meant, if only they could be stopped…’

  ‘I know what you mean, Charlie,’ Helen says, taking her stare away from the lights. ‘And you’re right. I think how much of a waste of life suicide is every single day of my life. That’s been every day for twenty-two years.’

  Charlie winces a little as he clicks down the gears to turn off the canal road; at the Harold’s Cross junction.

  ‘It was the same as these two girls… him and his friends, they must have made a pact.’

  The vibration of Charlie’s phone ringing in the cup holder halts Helen. She reaches for it and without even looking to see who’s ringing, presses at the green button and brings the phone to her ear. Then she stretches across Charlie, flicking at the button that makes the sirens blare up again.

  ‘Hello, Detective Helen Brennan speaking,’ she shouts, holding one finger to her opposite ear.

  ‘Detective Brennan, my name is Trevor Halpin, I am the site manager of St Joseph’s CBS… I just received your voicemail, is everything okay at the school?’

  ‘Trevor, I need to speak with the school’s Headteacher right away, I need you to give me his contact details.’

  ‘Brother Fitzpatrick is his name,’ he says. ‘Is everything okay, sounds like something bad has happened.’

  ‘Nothing bad has happened yet, Trevor, and only Brother Fitzpatrick can help stop something bad from happening. We need him to identify a school student as soon as possible. Tell me, Trevor, where does Fitzpatrick live?’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Trevor says, ‘I hope the student is okay. Eh… hold on for a second. He doesn’t live that far from the school. I have his details in my phone… gimme a sec.’

  Helen winks over at Charlie, then waves her hand up and down, signalling that Charlie should slow his driving.

  ‘Parkview Avenue, number one-three-six,’ Trevor says. ‘A little cul de sac, y’know those old Victorian style houses off the main road?’

  ‘Gotcha, Trevor. Thanks for your help.’

  Helen hangs up the call, then taps into the Maps app and punches in the address that had just been read out to her.

  ‘Do a U-turn, Charlie, then it’s the second left.’

  Charlie causes the wheels to smoke as he swings around.

  ‘He’s got to know him. If the kid lives around here, the Headteacher of the school has to know who he is. We just had the wrong area when we spoke to the first Headteacher.’ Helen slaps her palm off her knee, excitement beginning to grow inside of her.

  ‘One-three-six, one-three-six,’ she repeats as Charlie inches the car down Parkview Avenue, switching the sirens off. ‘There it is,’ Helen says, pointing. She clicks at her seatbelt, jumps out of the car whilst it’s still moving and sprints — in her own unique way — across the street. Charlie doesn’t even bother parking; he leaves the car — lights show still on — in the middle of the road and paces after Helen; catching up with her just before she presses at the doorbell. No one comes to the door.

  ‘Brother Fitzpatrick,’ she shouts as she bangs at the knocker. ‘I am Detective Helen Brennan, I need to speak with you as a matter of urgency.’

  She stands back, takes in all of the windows.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she whispers over her shoulder to Charlie when she realises nobody’s home.

  Charlie rubs at the back of his head as Helen makes her way to the window, clasping her hands either side of her eyes to peer into the darkness.

  ‘Not a sign of life. Fuck it,’ she says, turning around, to be met by the face of an elderly woman, waiting at the gate.

  ‘Ye won’t find him at home, not at this time o’ the evenin’,’ she says.

  Charlie takes a step towards the woman.

  ‘Where would we find him, ma’am?’

  ‘Same place as always,’ she says. ‘The Horse and Jockey.’

  ‘A pub?’ Helen asks.

  ‘Yep, not far from here. It’s on the other side of those houses. Better off walking. If ye take the car, you’ve to go round the Wrekin… but there’s a lane way over there ye can cut through. You’d be there in five minutes.’

  Helen walks towards the woman and places the palm of her hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, miss.’ Then she turns to Charlie. ‘Park the car up. We’re going for a little walk.’

  21:05

  Ingrid

  Harriet looks happy. She always looks happy. I really don’t know why though. She’s had so much pain in her life. Much more pain than I’ve ever had. But she seems to be able to get over it. She’s got a strength I know I will never have. I’ve tried. I’ve tried to be strong like her, but it’s not me. I guess everybody just has different minds, even if they do share the same blood.

  ‘Hey, good to see you two,’ she says as she hugs me. Then she hugs Ciara. She knows Ciara a bit. Not that well. But whenever Harriet has hung around in my house, Ciara is normally there. Me and Ciara often talk about Harriet; we say how cool it would be to be just like her. And we both agree that we never will.

  She has a hooped nose ring that we know would look stupid on us. If we walked into school trying to dress the way Harriet does, we’d be laughed at until we raced out of the classroom with embarrassment. She wears clothes like Indians do. Not Indian people that live in India. Indians that live in America. She always seems to have a poncho on over her shoulders; a different coloured one almost every time I see her. Today it’s brown with light blue stripes. And she’s wearing long trousers that are so wide at the end that they cover her shoes. Mum says those type of trousers used to be big in the seventies. They have a name, but I can’t remember it.

  ‘Great to see you too,’ I say. ‘We just thought we’d pop in to say hello.’

  Harriet gives me a big smile, then points to the sofa; right next to where Uncle Brendan is sitting.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she says. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  We both shake our heads and plonk ourselves on the sofa. I’m not really sure what to say. Here we are, trying to say goodbye to somebody we love without letting them know we’ll never see them again. It seemed like an easier thing to do when I came up with the idea last night. It was me who added it into our pact; I felt I couldn’t end it all without paying the people I love one final visit.

  ‘Don’t you two have school in the mornin’?’ Uncle Brendan says taking his eyes off the tele.

  I sit more forward on the sofa so I can look at him.

  ‘Yes, we do. But we were visiting a friend of Ciara’s who lives nearby and said we’d pop in to see Harriet. To see you both.’ Uuugh. I hate lying. But maybe I’m getting good at it. That’s about my fourth lie today.

  Uncle Brendan nods, then looks back at the tele. I’m not sure what it is he’s watching.

  I feel sad for Uncle Brendan. Always have. Aunt Peggy died when I was just three. It must be coming up to ten years now. Cancer she had. I don’t really remember her that much. If it wasn’t for the photos I don’t think I’d have a face in my mind for Aunt Peggy at all. Harriet was only eight when her mam died. That’s why it confuses me that she’s always happy.

  ‘Where’s your friend live?’ Harriet asks Ciara.

  ‘Eh…’

  ‘Up in St Michael’s Estate,’ I say, jumping in. Lying again.

  ‘Jaysus, I don’t want you two up there in that estate at this time of the evening… are yis mad?’ Uncle Brendan says. He doesn’t look away from the tele this time. He’s just sitting there, slouched into the sofa, his two hands on top of his big belly. ‘Yer mammy and daddy know you were there?’

  ‘We eh… we were with my mam. She just dropped us off here so we could say hello to Harriet,’ Ciara says.

  I feel a bit of relief in my body. Ciara ended Uncle Brendan’s questions with one sentence. Mayb
e I’m not that good at lying. Certainly not better than her anyway. The last thing we need right now is Uncle Brendan ringing Mum and Dad to check up on me. Aunt Peggy was Dad’s sister. Dad took ages getting over her death. Almost as if he took it personally. He ran a marathon to raise money for a cancer charity the year after she died and raised fifty-five thousand pound. That’s a huge amount of money. He talks about it all the time — more than he actually talks about Aunt Peggy.

  I can feel Harriet stare over at me from the chair she’s sitting in. She’s so clever. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knows we’ve been lying. I turn to look at her and she nods her head towards the stairs.

  ‘Wanna go up to my room? Three of us can have a girly talk?’

  I’m off the sofa before I even say ‘yes’, Ciara following me.

  It’s a tiny house is Brendan and Harriet’s. Especially compared to our homes. The hallway is barely a hallway. There’s only enough room for a tiny table that the house phone sits on. The kitchen doesn’t even have room for a table. It’s only about the size of our downstairs toilet. That’s why I often say to Ciara that poorer people are happier. If you’re in my house, you can sometimes hear Mum and Dad argue. If you’re in Ciara’s, you’re almost guaranteed to hear her mum and dad argue. That’s if her dad is in. But here — in Harriet’s — it’s always quiet, even though the house is tiny. She’s much closer with her dad than me and Ciara. It kinda makes me jealous a little bit. Only I don’t mean anything bad about being jealous of Harriet. I love her too much to have any bad feelings for her. She’s always been a cool cousin. The only cool cousin I have. She’s five years older than me, but she has always spoken to me as if I am the same as her. Nobody else in my life does that. Cept for Ciara.

  ‘What’s up with you two?’ Harriet asks as she holds the door to her bedroom open for us to walk into under her arm.

  It’s a super cool bedroom she has. She’s into the coolest old bands. Bands I’ve barely even heard of. There’s a picture of two crazy lookin’ fellas with crazy hair cuts from a band called Oasis over her bed. And another one of a weird looking blond fella called Kurt Cobain.