‘Nothing,’ Charlie says, pulling the car over. ‘Okay… where’ll we start?’
Helen already has one foot out of the car by the time he’s finished his question. She paces straight up to the nearest door and rattles her knuckles against it.
A middle-aged woman answers, holding a spoon in one hand and a cup-o-soup in the other.
‘Jaysus, what’s wrong?’ she says, her eyes widening at the site of the police car in front of her home.
‘Nothing, ma’am,’ Helen says just as Charlie catches up with her. ‘We are looking for the house Tommy Smith lives in… he’s about fourteen or fifteen years old. You know that name?’
The woman tilts her chin upwards.
‘Ah… not surprised you’re looking for one of them,’ she says. She looks up and down the street, then steps out of the house and whispers. ‘They live in that one over there, the red door.’ She nods her head across the narrow street.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Helen says turning back to see the woman closing her hall door without any further comment.
Charlie and Helen trot across the street, Charlie getting to the red door first. He holds the bell down and then stands back.
The door opens slowly after the person behind it has wrestled with an inordinate number of locks.
‘Wha’ d’yous want?’ a rotund man with a strange neck tattoo asks.
‘We need to speak with Tommy as soon as possible,’ Helen barks.
‘He’s not ’ere.’
‘Sir, we have reason to believe a couple of Tommy’s friends are in grave danger—’
‘I don’t know anythin’ about his friends.’
The man attempts to edge the door closed, Helen holding the palm of her hand against it to stop him.
‘Sir… Mr Smith is it? Are you Tommy’s father?’
The man puffs a sigh out of his nostrils.
‘He’s not here. What do yis want me to say?’
Charlie looks to Helen.
‘Tommy! Tommy!’ she roars, twisting her head so she can see beyond the man’s round frame and into his home.
The man steps out.
‘Will ye shut the fuck up, woman. Jesus. He’s not here, I told ye. Stop causing a scene.’
Helen sighs.
‘Where would he be, Sir? Two young girls’ lives depend on it.’
The man squints a little.
‘Wha’ d’ye mean?’
‘Two girls from Tommy’s school are planning to die by suicide tonight. Tommy might hold the answer to where we can find them. We believe he knows them well.’
The man smiles a wide grin at Helen, then shifts his gaze to Charlie, the grin widening.
‘That’s a good un,’ he says. ‘Never had a cop use that kinda tactic before.’
‘We’re not making it up, Sir. We believe Tommy rang in calls to two Garda stations a couple hours ago suggesting two girls from his school were planning on killing themselves at midnight tonight. We have to find them.’
‘Will ye get the fuck outta here… think I’m buyin’ that shite?’ The man laughs.
‘Sir, we’re not lying,’ Charlie says as calmly as he possibly can. ‘Where can we find Tommy?’
‘Tommy doesn’t hang around with girls… Jesus.’
‘Sir, we need to find out where your son is.’
The man takes a step back, inching the door closed again. Helen holds her palm to it, but the man is unforgiving this time, forcing his body weight behind the door until it shuts tight. Helen balks back, shaking the strain from her hand.
‘Fat fuck,’ she whispers to Charlie. ‘I knew as soon as he took an age opening all those locks that they were a dodgy family. Ye never get answers from a dodgy family. Ever.’
Helen sucks her lips, places her hands back in the pockets of her leather coat and then turns around.
‘Over here,’ she says.
Charlie follows her across the street, straight towards the door they had knocked on earlier.
‘Jaysus, not letting me enjoy me supper this evening are yis, coppers?’ the woman says, twirling her spoon in her cup-o-soup.
‘You eh… you mentioned you weren’t surprised when we told you we were looking for one of the Smiths. How come?’ Helen asks.
The woman raises an eyebrow, then takes half a step outside her home and peers up and down the street again.
‘Bunch o’ weirdos,’ she says. ‘The oul fella’s been in and out of prison I don’t know how many times. The son’s gonna be worse. Little scumbag he is.’
‘Tommy.’
‘Yeah… that’s him. Comes and goes from that house at all times of the night and morning. I’ve heard him coming home, shouting and screaming, pissed as a fart at like four-five a.m. His parents don’t give a shit.’
Helen inches closer to the woman.
‘Ever seen Tommy palling around with girls?’ she asks.
The woman sticks her bottom lip out, then slowly shakes her head.
‘Nah… he hangs around with a load o’ blokes his age. There’s a big gang of em. About a dozen of em. They all hang around under the Harold’s Cross bridge, swigging flagons of cider.’
Helen looks at Charlie.
‘Do ye think that’s where he’d be now?’ she asks, turning back to the woman.
The woman sticks her bottom lip out again.
‘It’d be my best guess.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. You can eh… you can finish your soup now. Sorry to be a bother.’
Helen twists her neck sharply as a siren grows in the distance. Then she looks up at Charlie before pacing past him, into the middle of the road to stare up as much of it as possible. She makes out the familiar sound of the siren twirping to a stop.
‘Guess we just about got here before them,’ she says, turning back to Charlie. ‘Now let’s get to the bridge before them. We gotta talk to Tommy, we can’t let them take control.’
‘Really?’ Charlie asks. ‘Isn’t it just a case of finding Tommy. Does it matter who gets there first?’
‘Yes! Yes it does, c’mon?’ Helen moans, pulling at the locked passenger car door. ‘Charlie!’
Charlie doesn’t answer her, he just stares at the cop car coming their way.
He bends down slightly as it passes; makes out a familiar figure in the driver’s seat.
‘A sergeant from my station. Louis Kavanagh. Know him?’ he asks Helen.
Helen shakes her head.
‘C’mon, Charlie. Honestly. We need to act fast.’
Charlie holds his hand up at Helen as he trots past her, towards the cop car that has pulled in.
‘Charlie, how ye getting on?’ Louis says, lifting his stocky frame out of the car and sticking his Garda hat over his ginger hair. All of the hair on Louis’ head is ginger; his eyebrows, his eye lashes, even the loose strands that hang from his nostrils.
‘Grand… grand… You here for Tommy Smith?’ Charlie asks.
‘Yeah… you too? You chasing down the caller?’
‘Yep,’ Charlie says, a touch of pride in his answer.
‘How d’ye get here before me?’
‘Myself and Detective Brennan over there — from Rathmines station — tracked him down. Soon as we saw the CCTV footage, we paid a visit to the local school’s Headteacher.’
Louis nods his head.
‘Good thinking.’
‘He’s not in. The father answered, wasn’t willing to give us much, but a neighbour here behind us, she—’
‘Evening, Sergeant,’ Helen calls out, creeping up behind Charlie.
Louis stretches out a hand.
‘Nice to meet you Detective Brennan,’ he says. ‘Good work so far. No sign of Smith at home, no?’
‘We haven’t laid eyes on him yet, but that’s his house there. Red door. Maybe you can have more impact on the father than we’ve had. Best of luck. Let’s go, Charlie.’
Charlie only moves after Helen has tugged at his elbow. He follows her to the car and, as they reach it, they both no
tice more blue lights flashing in the distance.
‘Jaysus, they’re all getting here now,’ Helen says as they climb into their seats.
Charlie turns the key in the ignition and, as they pull off, Helen scoots down in her seat, her eyeballs soaking in each of the figures in the two Garda cars that pass. In the second car she notices Eddie, and scoots down even further, pulling the collars of her coat over her cheeks.
‘Right… come on, Charlie, let’s go visit that bridge. It’s not far from here.’
Charlie flicks on the lights, and edges his way out of the narrow estate.
‘What’s with you, Helen?’ he asks.
‘Whatcha mean?’
‘Why are you being all secretive with the other cops? What’s going on?’
Helen sits more upright, flattening down the collar of her coat.
‘It’s just… well, it’s two separate investigations. We need clarity and full focus on our investigation, don’t we? We can’t get derailed by theories that the phone call was made as a hoax distraction.’
Charlie flicks his eyes to the rear-view mirror.
‘It must be a hoax distraction, though,’ he says, taking his hand from the gear stick so he can point his thumb backwards. ‘Sure the whole bloody force is out chasing Tommy Smith because they think he has links to Alan Keating. It’s only me and you that seem to think his phone calls were a suicide warning.’
Helen coughs into her clenched fist.
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘That’s why we have to conduct our investigation separately. Let them conduct theirs and we’ll keep focused on ours.’
Charlie pivots his neck from side to side, producing tiny bone cracks.
‘Suppose you’re right,’ he says. ‘It’s cool though isn’t it? All of them; only two of us. Yet we’re always one step ahead. You’ll turn me into a Detective by the end of the night, Helen.’
Helen laughs, only because she is relieved that she’s managed to pull Charlie back around to her way of thinking.
‘Well… it’ll only be a success if we save these girls,’ she says. ‘Remember; focus, Charlie. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase when I first started investigating too. But you’ll come to learn you are focusing your energy in the wrong places when you let the thrill get the better of you.’
Charlie turns to Helen.
‘Thank you. You’ve been great to learn from this evening. Think you eh… think you could let me take you out for a coffee sometime. Just so I can pick your brain about how I can become a Detective? I’m bloody sick of sitting in the station filling out paperwork.’
Helen snuffs out another laugh. Not many would understand Charlie’s frustration with administrative work more than her. Her career’s gone in the opposite direction. From top Detective back down to envelope stuffer. She lost the run of her mind after Scott died by suicide. Could never get her head back on the job. Eddie had stronger mentality. Still does. He managed to get himself back to the station a month after Scott and his mates ended their lives. Five years later, after he became the station’s superintendent — and after much nagging from his wife — he made sure she got a job as administrative assistant. Mainly because he could keep an eye on her. Helen always said it was for the short-term. Even suggested that she’d open her own private investigator practice one day; Eddie knocking her back insisting those guys don’t make any money. It caused quite an awkward argument between them earlier this year when one PI managed to secure himself a million euro house for five hours work in Dublin. Still, Eddie knew she’d never carry through her threat. He knows Helen wouldn’t have the know-how to run her own business.
‘Course, no problem. We can do coffee anytime you want,’ Helen says.
Charlie is smiling to himself when he’s pulling the car over on the double yellow lines that run parallel to the canal.
They both get out as quickly as they can, trotting their way to the steps that lead to the under path of the bridge.
By the time they’re at the bottom step, they can hear the giddy laughter of teenagers.
Charlie reaches for his torch, flicks it on and shines it towards the narrow pathway in front of Helen. They can both see the butts of joints being tossed into the canal as they approach.
‘What the fuck do you pigs want?’ one teenage boy calls out.
21:35
Ciara
Me and Harriet are still lying back on the bed, our hands behind our heads, staring up at posters of bands and movies I’ve never even heard of.
But Ingrid is sitting up now, flicking through the book Harriet handed to her a couple minutes ago. She just said she’d love to take it home with her. Bleedin’ hell! She better not be serious. I knew coming to Harriet’s wasn’t a good idea. I’ll go mad if Ingrid decides to put our pact on hold just so she can read that stupid book. It’s all nonsense anyway. As if women will ever rule the world. I like Harriet and all, but sometimes the things she says don’t make any sense to me at all. I think she thinks she’s cleverer than she really is.
I sit up and stretch my hand towards Ingrid.
‘Gis a look,’ I say.
I take the book from her and flick through it myself, pretending that I’m interested. Jaysus… Ingrid won’t read this. It’s way too long.
‘What time’s it?’ I ask.
‘Coming up to twenty to ten,’ Harriet says. ‘Jee… it’s almost my bedtime. I normally turn in about ten. How come you guys are out so late? Don’t ye have school in the morning?’
I stay silent to see if Ingrid will answer. But she just continues to stare at the ceiling.
‘Eh… yeah,’ I say. ‘Yeah we do. I actually didn’t realise it was that late. We better get going. Ingrid just wanted to drop by… to let you know about Stitch.’
Harriet tuts.
‘Fuck Stitch,’ she says, sitting up to join us. She smiles at Ingrid. ‘I know Aunt Greta would go mental if she knew I was cursing to ya. But I mean it. Fuck him. He’s gonna be way beneath you in a couple years time.’ She places her hand on Ingrid’s shoulder and rubs it. ‘You sure you’re okay, cuz?’
Ingrid turns her head slowly towards me.
‘She’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘She’ll be okay in the morning.’
‘I don’t wanna go to school,’ Ingrid says, holding her hands to her face.
I reach out and rub her back.
‘Everything will be okay, Ingrid,’ I say.
‘Course it will. Listen to Ciara. What she’s saying is right,’ Harriet says. I smile a tiny smile over Ingrid’s shoulder at Harriet. ‘You walk into that school tomorrow with your head held high and a ‘fuck you Stitch’ attitude, you hear me? That’s what I’ve had to do since me and Conor finished. You just have to get on with it. You’ve a long life to live.’
I cough to distract the conversation. I don’t like where it’s going again. I don’t trust Ingrid to not break down and open up to Harriet about not wanting to live any more. I nudge at her back and keep doing it until she’s got to her feet.
‘I guess we better go,’ she says, staring at the ground.
‘Here, don’t forget the book,’ Harriet says, stretching over to where I’d almost hidden it under her pillow. She hands it to Ingrid who grabs it into her chest. ‘If you have any questions on it, let me know… won’t you?’
Ingrid sniffs up her nose and then nods. I can tell she’s almost in tears. This is her hardest goodbye of them all. She loves Harriet. But as I said to her last night, Harriet is not enough reason for Ingrid to stay alive. Harriet will move on soon; to college, to a job, to a husband with kids. She’s not going to have time for Ingrid forever. Barely has time for her now. They used to be in each other’s lives a lot more when they were younger. Now they only see each other if Ingrid ever bothers to call out here.
‘You sure you’re okay, cuz, you look like you’re about to cry again?’ Harriet says.
Then she stands up and rests both of her hands either side of Ingrid’s waist. I’ve already inched my way t
owards Harriet’s bedroom door. We really need to leave.
I watch as Ingrid nods her head before she nestles it onto Harriet’s shoulder. Harriet looks over at me, her bottom lip turned outwards.
‘I’m telling ya,’ she says, ‘in a couple months’ time you won’t care who this Stitch bloke is. It’ll only hurt for a little while. It’s a little bit of heartbreak… that’s all. The heart mends.’
Ingrid wipes the sleeve of her tracksuit top across her face.
‘It’s… it’s…. it’s not just that,’ she sobs. ‘It’s not just Stitch.’
Oh bleedin’ hell!
‘Huh?’ Harriet says, removing Ingrid’s arm from her face. ‘Tell me… you can say anything to me… what’s wrong?’
A creak sounds from outside, then a huff and a puff. It’s Brendan, making his way up the stairs. He enters the room next to us, the latch on the door locking.
‘Tell me, cuz, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, walking towards them both. ‘It’s the whole school thing… how everybody will be calling her Fishfingers in the morning. But don’t worry, Harriet… I’ll look after her. I promise.’
Harriet offers me a sad smile, then she turns to face Ingrid again.
‘You sure, Ingrid? Is there anything else you want to say to me?’
Ingrid opens her mouth.
Then we hear an almighty fart. As if thunder is rolling over our heads.
21:40
Ingrid
This is the hardest goodbye yet. I can’t stop the tears from pouring out of my eyes. And out of my nose. I didn’t think it would be this hard.
Harriet hugs me and tells me everything will be alright. Again.
‘I’m telling ya,’ she says, ‘in a couple months’ time you won’t care who this Stitch bloke is. It’ll only hurt for a little while. It’s a tiny bit of heartbreak… that’s all. The heart mends.’
I wipe my face clear of the tears and snot and then nod my head.
‘It’s… it’s…. it’s not just that,’ I say. ‘It’s not just Stitch.’
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 62
