Up this close, Helen can see more of the damage to Charlie’s nose; a blue T-shaped bruise already starting to form, spreading itself under both eyes.
‘We have to believe we are right. We need to chase down these two girls. If… if the rest of the force are right, and Alan Keating is planning something big tonight, so fuckin what? Another theft, another heist. Who gives a shit? It’s nothing. Money, material things… it’s all fuckin pointless. But… if the rest of the force are wrong, and we’re right? Is anything pointless? Is saving two girls’ lives pointless?’
Charlie narrows his eyes, slows his breathing down and then shakes his head.
‘Exactly,’ Helen says. ‘We have been given an important job to do and we will do it whether we think they were distraction calls or not, ye hear me?’ Charlie nods. And Helen releases her grip on him, before flattening down his collar. ‘Our task is a hell of a lot more important than theirs. We have to be super thorough. Whether we are right or wrong!’
Charlie reaches his hand back up to his nose.
‘I s’pose you’re right,’ he says as his jacket pocket begins to vibrate. He reaches inside for his phone, then looks up at Helen after he’s noticed the screen.
‘It’s Newell — my SI.’
‘Put him on speaker,’ Helen demands.
Charlie swipes at his screen to answer the call, then presses at the speaker button holding the phone outwards.
‘Guilfoyle, what the hell are you up to?’ a voice barks down the line. ‘Louis Kavanagh told me you were at Tommy Smith’s house half an hour ago… what are you playing at, son?’
Helen shakes her head, pinching her forefinger and thumb together and running them across her closed lips.
‘We eh… I eh… I got information from the local school Headteacher using the image of Smith from the CCTV footage. He was able to give me information on the boy; told me his name, gave me his address.’
A scoff is heard down the line.
‘Listen, Guilfoyle, I appreciate you are doing your job as well as you can. But leave this to us, okay? You can get your ass back to the station and finish your shift out. Don’t go chasing Smith. We’re on top of it. You eh… haven’t come across him yet, have you?’
Helen shakes her head, pinches her forefinger and thumb across her lips again, her eyes widening.
‘Guilfoyle?’ Newell barks, having been met with silence.
‘No, Sir.’
Charlie holds his eyes closed in disappointment, his chin tucked into his neck with shame.
‘Good. We don’t want him getting away from us. Listen,’ Newell says, ‘Louis told me you were operating with some Detective from Rathmines. Who are ye with, son?’
Helen’s eyes go wide again, her head beginning to shake rapidly. She has her finger pointed right in Charlie’s face.
Charlie swallows.
‘Eh… Detective Helen Brennan,’ he says slowly, before mouthing a ‘sorry’ at Helen.
She grinds her teeth in his face, then spins around, her hands on top of her head as if she’s just missed an open goal in the last minute of a cup final.
‘Brennan? Never heard of her. Well… you tell her we have everything under control. Leave Tommy Smith to us — that is an order.’
‘I hear you, Sir. All understood.’
As soon as the line goes dead, Helen spins back around.
‘Ye little rat bastard,’ she says, her finger pointing again.
‘I had to… he bloody knew I was with somebody. What did you want me to say?’
Helen shakes her head while producing an overly loud grunt.
‘I’m gonna get fuckin fired now,’ she says.
‘I think we both might,’ Charlie replies, bringing his hand to his nose again. ‘Fuck this, Helen… I have to ring him back. I have to tell him we confronted Tommy Smith. They need to know.’
‘Then you will get fired,’ Helen says. She kicks the shop shutter behind Charlie, causing the clattering sound to echo down the street again.
‘Ah Jesus, I’ve fucked up my career haven’t I?’ Charlie says, almost sobbing.
Helen doesn’t answer. She just stands under the streetlamp, her hands on her hips, her mind racing.
Then she notices them. Across the street. In the window next to the Cue sign. The gang of men staring down at them.
‘Fuckers are laughing at us,’ she says. ‘Let’s get back to the car and get our thinking caps on.’
Charlie paces after Helen, still holding his hand to his nose as if it’s gonna make the stinging pain go away. When they’re inside the car, they sit in silence; Helen staring out the passenger side window, the tip of her thumb in her mouth; Charlie gripping the steering wheel, trying to ease the pain away by sucking air in through his teeth.
‘I have to ring Newell back, I have to,’ he eventually says.
Helen looks at him, then sighs a deep grunt that is filled with disappointment.
‘What’s that going to achieve?’ she asks.
‘They are looking for Tommy Smith; the whole bloody force is. I know what direction he ran in… I need to tell them. Fuck it! I’m telling them.’
He reaches into his jacket pocket. By the time he’s taken the phone out, Helen’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist.
‘Charlie; don’t be a fuckin idiot,’ she says.
‘I’ve been a fuckin idiot all evening,’ he replies, wrestling his arm away.
‘I’m sorry to let you down, Helen. I’m sorry for… for everything you’ve been through, but…’ he shrugs his shoulder. ‘I have to do my duty. I have to ring it in.’
He pulls at the handle, pushes his car door open and holds his phone to his ear.
When he closes the door, Helen slaps both of her hands against the top of the dashboard.
‘Mother fucker!’ she screams. Then she holds both hands over her face, her breathing becoming long and slow. When she removes her hands, she fidgets at the rear-view mirror, sees Charlie walking slowly away from the car, one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other rubbing the back of his head. She winds down her window, her attempt to hear anything. But there’s only silence — he’s travelled too far from her.
She grunts again; still struggling to let logic overrule her thinking. She wants to believe there are two girls out there about to end their lives. She needs to believe it. Her life is worthless without Scott having some sort of inspiration on it.
‘Help me out, Scott,’ she says. ‘Gimme a sign. Just something small.’
She widens her eyes, inches her face closer to the windscreen.
Nothing. Just a dark blue sky and — in her periphery — that flashing sign for Cue. Then she flicks her head.
‘That’s literally a sign,’ she says. ‘Cue. Cue. Cue. What are you trying to tell me, Scott?’
She stares at it, her eyes moistening. Then a tear escapes and runs down her left cheek. She’s not crying because of grief. She’s crying because of the realisation of her delusion. She hates herself when she talks to Scott. Hates herself even more when she asks him to send her a sign. It never makes her feel better. It only emphasises his loss more.
Helen’s not stupid. She knows she’ll never see her son again. They bloody cremated his body twenty-two years ago. Scott’s gone. He’s ash in a tiny urn that’s buried six feet under the ground in a tiny plot at Mount Jerome cemetery. How the fuck could he send her a sign?
She slaps the top of the dashboard again with both hands, then wipes away the tear.
‘You’re a fuckin idiot, Helen,’ she says.
She’s sniffling up her nose, wiping all of the moistness from under it when the car door snatches open.
Charlie slouches into the driver’s seat; his phone in his hand.
‘Well…’ Helen says. ‘How did your SI take the news?’
‘He eh… well, he’s not happy. They’re on their way here now to try and catch up with him. I’ve to get back to the station. Back to my desk. I’ll be dealt with in the morning.’
/>
‘But sure, you were just doing your job. They gave you the job of looking into the calls as if they were legit—’
‘Helen!’ Charlie snaps, his voice filled with frustration.
Helen shuts up, folds her arms, the leather of her coat squeaking as she does so.
‘I’m never gonna be a Detective, am I?’ Charlie says.
‘Course you will. They’ll keep you on. Just tell them this was all my fault. My husband is the SI in Rathmines Station. I’ll see to it that you’re looked aft—’
‘No, Helen,’ he says, turning to her. ‘I mean… I don’t have the bloody skills to be a Detective, do I? I don’t have the instincts, don’t have the—’
‘You do… you do,’ Helen says, reaching a hand towards his shoulder.
Charlie laughs out of the side of his mouth.
‘I don’t though, do I? You walked right up to my desk about three hours ago, told me you were helping me out with this investigation, brought me to the tram station, to view CCTV footage at the Red Cow, to question two bloody Headteachers…’
‘Yeah — you’ve done a good job with me.’
‘Listen,’ Charlie snaps. ‘All that chasing around with you and y’know what? I never even asked you the first question I should have asked you when I first met you.’
Helen narrows her eyes, then shakes her head at Charlie.
‘What question?’ she asks.
‘I should have asked you to show me your Detective badge, shouldn’t I?’
Helen laughs.
‘I’m serious, Helen — if that even is your name. Show me your badge.’
22:45
Ciara
Bleedin’ hell. Ingrid wants to go back and say goodbye to her mam and dad all over again. Jaysus. Last night she was all talk about staying at home to say a final goodbye to our families. Now she wants to go back to do it all again. Maybe she doesn’t want to go through with this. Maybe she’s not ready.
I place my hands either side of her face again and stare into her eyes. I want to sound gentle.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘Do you want to go home and say another goodbye to your mum? If you do, we can delay this a little bit…’
She sucks in a breath, then shakes her head.
‘Nah. Let’s just say goodbye to Miss Moriarty, then we can just get this over with.’
I nod my head slowly and wrap my arms around her; squeezing her in for another hug.
‘You’re doing the right thing,’ I whisper to her. ‘If you keep changing your mind and going back and forth about all this, you’ll just end up sad for years like me. The sadness never stops. It just keeps coming and going and coming and going. And every time it comes back, it feels worse. We’re nearly there, okay? A quick goodbye to Miss, then we’ll stop this pain forever.’
She squeezes me even tighter and when we finally release I can see the sadness has gone out of her eyes. That sort of half smile is back on her lips. Same sort of look she gave me last night when we wrote this pact.
I squint through the darkness of the side window, to try to make out where we are. Can’t see anything. So I stand up, walk slowly up the aisle and look out the front windscreen.
‘Almost at our stop, Ingrid,’ I say, strolling back to her. ‘I don’t know the door number, but I’ll know the house when I see it. It’s only a couple minutes’ walk from the stop.’
‘Can’t wait to see her face when she answers the door,’ Ingrid says.
‘Me neither.’
We’ve both been back to our primary school twice since we graduated last June. Miss Moriarty was delighted when we visited. I’m not sure how she’ll feel about us knocking at her house late on a Sunday night though. But I’m pretty sure she won’t mind. We agreed last night that we’d just tell her we were in the area and thought it’d be rude to walk by her home without calling in to say hello. She’ll have no idea we’re actually calling in to say goodbye.
She was our teacher for two years in primary school. We had her when we were in fourth class and then again in sixth — our last year in primary. She really cared about us; about our learning, about our lives. I remember her telling me once that me and Ingrid were really lucky to have each other. She’s not wrong there. The teachers we have now in secondary school wouldn’t even know me and Ingrid are best mates. That’s the difference. They don’t look up from their desks. They’re only interested in doing their lessons; they’re not interested in knowing the students. I’m not sure any of them will actually be upset one little bit when they hear the news in the morning. I’d bet any money that the most asked question in the staff room will be ‘which two are they?’ But Miss Moriarty, well… she will be sad. She loved us; cared about us. I wish, so much, that she was a teacher in our secondary school. That’d probably save our lives.
‘C’mon,’ Ingrid says, getting up from her seat. She stabs her finger at the small bell on the back of the seat and I follow her as she stumbles her way towards the driver.
‘Thank you,’ she says to him when he pulls over.
‘You get home safe now, girls,’ he says. Then he pushes at a button that closes his doors and leaves us standing on the pavement. It’s starting to get really cold now.
‘This way,’ I say, wrapping my arm around Ingrid’s shoulders.
I lead her around a corner just off the main Crumlin Road, and towards Miss Moriarty’s little cul de sac.
Miss had told us she lived in Crumlin when she was our teacher. I managed to find the exact address when I was flicking through some paperwork in the Headteacher’s office sometime last year. I visited the street and stood outside her house for ages one day. I didn’t knock or anything. I just thought it was cool that I knew where my teacher lived. Her house isn’t as big as ours. Which is a bit weird. Surely teachers should be paid a lot more than anyone else? My dad runs a company that sells boring insurance. And he’s loaded. All Ingrid’s dad does is talk on the radio for three hours every morning. How the hell are they rich and Miss Moriarty isn’t?
‘It’s this one here,’ I say, pointing towards Miss’ front door.
We walk towards the garden gate and then stop outside it.
‘Okay,’ Ingrid says to me. ‘We just say we were in the area visiting a friend and that we felt it was rude to walk by Miss Moriarty’s house without knocking in to say hello, right?’
I nod my head.
‘Yup. You first,’ I say, pushing the gate open.
Ingrid takes two steps into her garden and then lifts and drops her crooked letterbox a few times. Within seconds the door is opened.
‘Yes?’ a man says.
‘Oh,’ Ingrid says turning to me. ‘We eh… we thought our old teacher Miss Moriarty lived here.’
The man scratches at his head, then turns over his wrist so he can look at his watch.
‘Brigid,’ he calls out over his shoulder. ‘There are two young girls here to see you.’
22:55
Ingrid
I can see Miss walking down the stairs. She’s wearing a bathrobe and her hair is all wet.
‘Hey, you two,’ she says, smiling, ‘what are you doing here?’
I laugh a bit awkwardly, then stand aside, leaving Ciara to do the lying.
‘We eh… we were visiting a friend around the corner and thought it would be rude to walk by our favourite teacher’s house without knocking in to say hello… so eh… hello.’ Ciara waves. And I laugh. Awkwardly again.
Miss Moriarty looks a little lost for words. She doesn’t say anything; she just stands there, combing her fingers through her wet hair.
‘I’m sorry, Miss. Have we come at a bad time?’ I ask.
‘Not at all. I’m just out of the shower… was going to dry myself off and get into bed. It’s eh… it’s late… what time is it?’
‘Almost eleven,’ a voice from inside the house calls out. It must be the man who answered the door to us. I wonder who he is. She’s not married. Her name is Miss Moriarty. Not Missus Moriarty.
‘Eh… well, come in,’ she says standing aside and pulling the door a little wider for us.
We step into a square hallway that’s no bigger than the welcome mat we have in ours. ‘How did you girls know where I lived?’
‘We eh… we’ve always known. Somebody pointed it out to us once,’ Ciara says. She lies so quickly. I’d be still scratching my head if it was up to me to answer that question.
‘We won’t keep you long, Miss,’ I say and then I lean into her and hug her. I miss Miss Moriarty so much.
‘Oh, Ingrid,’ she says, hugging me back. Then she reaches one hand towards Ciara and drags her in to our little huddle. This is what teachers should do; hug their students, care for them. The teachers we have now barely even know our names.
‘Let me get the two of you a quick drink. Squash?’
Me and Ciara look at each other, then both nod at the same time.
‘Thanks, Miss,’ Ciara says.
‘Hey, you don’t have to call me Miss… it’s Brigid, now that you’re no longer students of mine.’
She waves her hand to make sure we follow her into the kitchen and then she begins to pour us both a raspberry Ribena.
‘So, how you getting on in secondary school?’ she asks.
Me and Ciara look at each other again.
‘Not great,’ I say.
Miss squints her eyes at me as she hands us our drinks.
‘What do you mean “not great”?’
‘Well… well…’ I stumble, fidgeting with my fingers.
‘The teachers barely know who we are,’ Ciara says. ‘It’s not like primary school where you’re with the same teacher all day. We change classrooms every forty minutes and… I don’t know. It’s just hard.’
‘Oh… everybody says that about secondary school when they start,’ Miss Moriarty says. ‘You’ll get used to it. It’s only been… what’s-it?’
‘Eight months and two weeks,’ Ciara says.
Miss Moriarty smiles.
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘It’s nothing. By next year you’ll be used to it. Don’t worry. It’ll get better.’
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 66
