The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set

by David B Lyons

  I squint my eyes

  ‘Really? I thought they were acting a little bit odd when they were here. Wonder what the hell they’re up to?’

  Dad shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘It’s the age they’re at now, isn’t it? They want to be independent. Oh…’ he says, ‘Ingrid gave you your book back. It’s on the sofa. She said to say “thank you”.’

  I cock my head, try to remember what it was specifically that felt so odd about Ingrid and Ciara when they called by about an hour ago.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I say. Then I spin on my heels and stroll into the living room. Dad follows me and watches as I pick up my book and flick through it.

  I love you Harriet,

  Ingrid. x

  My mouth opens wide.

  ‘Look… why would she write that?’ I ask Dad. ‘They were acting really strange when they were here.’

  ‘It’s just their age, isn’t it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Nah… something’s up. I’m worried about them. We’ve gotta ring Auntie Greta.’

  I slap the book closed then walk to the phone in the hallway, pick up the receiver and begin to dial.

  Helen paces into the kitchen, runs the tap and then grabs at the kettle. She fills it, places it back on its base and clicks the switch. Whilst it’s bubbling towards a boil, she roots around in the cupboards until she finds where Fitzpatrick keeps his glasses. She fills two of them with tap water, then places one aside and gulps from the other.

  She lets out a heavy gasp before filling the empty glass again and carrying both back into the living room.

  Fitzpatrick is sitting upright on the sofa, fidgeting with his fingers. She flicks her wrist, flinging water into his aged face again.

  He sucks in a long breath, then wipes at his eyes before staring up at Helen.

  ‘How did ye not see that coming?’ she says to him, handing him the second glass. ‘Here… drink up, sober up. And let’s get down to business.’

  She watches as Fitzpatrick sips from his glass.

  ‘Get it into ye,’ she says. She takes a step towards him, holds the bottom of the glass up, helping the water pour.

  He lets out a sigh, spitting and spluttering some of the drink back into the glass.

  ‘Ye trying to kill me?’ he says.

  ‘Me? I’m the one giving you water… y’know, that liquid we all need to stay alive. You’re the one poisoning yourself with alcohol.’

  Fitzpatrick puffs his cheeks out, swirls the glass in front of his eyes and then tries to down it again; this time almost finishing the job. He holds the glass towards Helen who takes it from him, just as the kettle confirms it has boiled by producing a click sound.

  ‘Where d’ye leave your tea bags?’ she says as she makes her way back into the kitchen.

  ‘Eh… in the press under the kettle,’ Fitzpatrick slurs while wiping at his mouth.

  Helen grabs a cup that had been left to dry on the drain, tosses a tea bag into it and pours the kettle. She whistles as she turns to the fridge, then pinches at her nose.

  ‘Sweet fuck,’ she says, balking backwards. ‘The bleedin’ stench of your fridge. You keep dead rats in here or something?’

  After swiping the air away from her nose, she turns around, sees Fitzpatrick staring at her, leaning against the kitchen door.

  ‘Rarely use it,’ he says. ‘I eat in the school, or down the pub at night.’

  Helen spins back around.

  ‘Have ye no milk?’

  Fitzpatrick burps into his chest.

  ‘Nope,’ he says.

  Helen rolls her eyes, then grabs at the cup and hands it to him.

  ‘Here, drink this without milk. It’s tea. The only hangover cure I ever found that worked when I used to drink.’

  Fitzpatrick lifts the cup to his lips, then takes a step back, his eyes tearing up.

  ‘Jesus, sweet Mary and Joseph,’ he says, ‘that’s bloody boiling.’

  ‘Well… looks like it’s woken you up.’

  Helen walks by him, back into the living room.

  ‘Brother Fitzpatrick, time to start talking. These girls don’t have the time to wait on you to fully get your shit together.’

  She hears him shuffle his feet back into the room after her.

  ‘Whatcha ye need to know?’ he asks.

  ‘You need to tell me what the hell you were apologising for earlier?’

  Fitzpatrick brushes his feet off the cheap wooden floorboards of his modest terraced home and then sits back into the sofa.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he says, shaking his head.

  ‘It’s not nothing now, Brother, is it? You were worried about something when me and Officer Guilfoyle spoke to you earlier. It’s vital you tell me what that was all about.’

  Fitzpatrick has both sets of fingers wrapped around his cup, the heat offering him the only comfort he could possibly feel right now. He coughs, blinks his eyes and then shakes his head.

  ‘It is nothing. Nothing to do with whatever you are here for. If you were here for that, you wouldn’t need me to explain it now would ye?’

  Helen squints her eyes.

  ‘You’ve sobered up quite quickly, Brother. Used to it, are we? Sobering up after a heavy night on the sauce? It’s what you have to do all the time, isn’t it? Drink all night, run a school during the day.’

  Fitzpatrick lifts one hand from the cup, only so he can pinch at his temple.

  ‘You tell me why you’re here,’ he says, ‘what’s this about; two of my students being in danger?’

  Helen stands tall, her hands stuffed into her coat pockets.

  ‘Are they in danger because of you, Brother Fitzpatrick? Is that what you’re apologising for? Do you abuse your students? Have you pushed two in particular too far?’

  Fitzpatrick reels his head backwards.

  ‘What are you talking about, Detective?’

  Helen puffs out a tiny laugh; she’s trying to act menacingly nonchalant, just as she used to when she first became a Detective all those years ago. She adopted her nonchalant persona from the best of the best; Colombo. The Peter Falk series was all the rage in the early eighties, just as Helen and Eddie were being promoted to Detective status — Helen being one of the first females in the entire country to ever hold such a rank. She was such a promising young Detective. It’s a shame she never got to fill her potential.

  Helen sits, keeping her hands in her pockets.

  ‘Tell me what you were apologising for…’

  Fitzpatrick shakes his head.

  ‘I need to speak to a lawyer,’ he says.

  Helen shakes her head this time.

  ‘Impossible. We don’t have time for that. Two of your students have just over half an hour to live and you need to tell me who they are.’

  Fitzpatrick holds his eyes closed.

  ‘Hold on, Detective,’ he says, ‘why are you here? Are you genuinely here to find two of my students who you think are in danger — or are you here to find out about… about—’

  ‘About what?’ Helen says.

  ‘I want a lawyer.’

  Helen holds both of her hands in front of her face and grunts her annoyance into them.

  ‘Are you telling me that whatever it is you wanted to apologise for earlier has nothing to do with two young female students at your school?’

  ‘No… no, course not,’ Fitzpatrick says, his eyes still closed.

  Helen sucks on her lips, as she usually does when she has a quick decision to make.

  ‘Okay… listen to me, Brother. Whatever it is that you need to apologise for, I’m gonna come back to that, you hear me? Whatever dark shit you’ve got going on… it won’t be forgotten about. Unless…. unless you can help me. I believe two of your students are going to kill themselves at midnight. We need to find them before it’s too late. Do you know of any girls from your school who are so depressed that they might want to take their own lives?’

  Fitzpatrick blinks his eyes open, refocusing t
hem on the strange face in front of him. Then he shakes his head; slowly at first, then more aggressively.

  ‘Bollocks,’ Helen says.

  ‘Hold on… are you serious? Two of my girls are going to commit suicide? Tonight?’

  Helen rolls her eyes.

  ‘I’ve been bloody saying this to you since I first took you out of the pub you stupid f—’ she stops herself.

  ‘I thought this was all about something else,’ Fitzpatrick says. He stands, holds both hands clasped behind his head. Then he blesses himself, mumbling a thank you to a God he doesn’t even believe in.

  ‘You need to talk to Abigail Jensen. She’s the welfare officer at the school. She knows all there is to know about all of the students. If anyone can help you identify them, she can.’

  Helen bows her head. She’s no further along in her investigation than she had been four hours ago; hearing from a Headteacher that she should ring his welfare officer. Last time she did this she ended up with a list of one hundred and sixty-four names. She sighs as she stretches her hand towards Fitzpatrick, opening and closing her fingers.

  ‘What?’ Fitzpatrick asks.

  ‘Your phone… with Abigail’s number ringing.’

  Fitzpatrick pats at his chino pockets.

  ‘Oh, I don’t carry my mobile phone. Hate the bloody thing,’ he says. Helen’s eyes roll. ‘I eh… I eh….’ Fitzpatrick stutters. ‘I have a Filofax up in my bedroom. Her number is in that. I’ll go get it.’

  Helen stares around the Brother’s living room as he stumbles up the steps, noticing the array of framed photos hanging on his wall; most of them of Fitzpatrick with his arm draped around celebrities. Fitzpatrick with Eamonn Holmes. Fitzpatrick with Brian O’Driscoll. Fitzpatrick with the Pope.

  ‘Fuckin weirdo,’ she whispers. ‘Bet this guy’s into some dark shit. Probably a kiddie fiddler. Aren’t they all? Those bloody church fellas. Hiding behind the dog collar.’

  She walks into the hallway as she hears him trudging back down the stairs, her right hand gripped to her phone.

  ‘Here,’ he says, stretching a piece of paper towards her. ‘That’s her mobile number.’

  Helen takes the paper from him, then punches the number into her phone. Both her and Fitzpatrick stand in the cold hallway, the ring tone bouncing off the walls.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Abigail, this is Detective Brennan. I’m with Brother Fitzpatrick.’

  ‘Oh no… is he in trouble?’

  Helen lifts her gaze from the phone, to look at Fitzpatrick. He just holds his arms out wide.

  ‘He’s not, no,’ Helen says. ‘But two of the students who attend your school are.’

  Helen hears a gasp on the other end of the line.

  ‘Which two?’ Abigail asks.

  ‘Well… that’s an answer I was hoping to get from you. We had an anonymous phone call made to our school from one your students a few hours ago. Tommy Smith. You know him well?’

  ‘Yeah… Tommy. Of course. Is he okay?’

  ‘Oh yeah — that little fella is more than okay… wherever he is. But he told us two of his friends — both girls — were planning on killing themselves tonight. He didn’t give us names… I’m hoping you can.’

  ‘What?’ Abigail says, all high pitched. ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Abigail. I know this may be shocking news to you right now, but I really don’t have the time for you to absorb it all. I just need you to get your thinking cap on. Are there two girls who know Tommy who you think could be depressed enough to want to end their lives?’

  Helen holds the phone away from her ear as Abigail blows a puff of her cheeks down the line.

  ‘Jee… well… the truth is, we have quite a number of girls who have come to me this year describing symptoms of depression. I don’t know what it is about the modern age; online bullying I think more than anything, but girls and boys are developing depression now more than any time I’ve worked in education.’

  ‘Sorry, Abigail, I don’t need a lesson on the growing rates of depression. I just need to find these two girls before it’s too late. Think. Think thoroughly. Two girls Tommy Smith knows who suffer from some form of depression or have shown you any signs of it recently…’

  Helen stares at Fitzpatrick as the line falls silent, noticing he’s leaning against the wall for support. He doesn’t look drunk anymore, just tired. As if he could fall asleep standing up.

  ‘Yes,’ Abigail says. ‘I’m pretty sure I know which two girls you’re talking about.’

  23:30

  Greta

  I stare at the clock above the mantelpiece, then stretch my arms above my head and yawn. I normally go to bed around eleven o’clock, but can’t seem to shift myself tonight. I’ve been watching some awful movie called French Kiss that I thought might be alright because Meg Ryan was in it but… nah… too cheesy. Although, in fairness to the movie, it didn’t have my full attention. I couldn’t stop worrying about Ingrid. And Ciara.

  Ingrid’s going to be in a whole heap of trouble when she finally gets home. I’m going to ground her for two weeks; stop her pocket money for the rest of the month.

  How dare she lie to me. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to cope with her being a teenager. I’ve too much on my plate looking after Sven.

  I stretch and yawn again, then decide to click through the channels, even though I know I’m not going to watch anything. The phone ringing makes me cock my head and I hop off the couch to catch it as quickly as I can; not just because I’m hoping it’s Ingrid and she’s going to tell me she’s okay, but more so because Terry will fume if it wakes him.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, snatching at the receiver.

  ‘Auntie Greta… it’s me… Harriet.’

  ‘Oh hey, Harriet, please tell me Ingrid is with you.’

  There’s a pause. A pause that makes my stomach flip itself over.

  ‘Eh… she’s not with me right now. But she was here. She left about an hour ago and well… well… I don’t know how to say this, but her and her friend Ciara, they seemed a bit… eh… they were acting a bit weird. As if they’re up to something.’

  I hold fingers to my forehead and close my eyes.

  ‘Oh Jesus.’

  ‘She eh… left a note in a book I had given her a loan of — she wrote that she loved me in it. She never does that. And Dad was giving them a lift home and half-way there they asked him to pull over at a garage and then they ran from him.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ I say again. ‘She eh…’ I hold my hand flat out in front of my eyes and watch it tremble, ‘she eh… she seemed a bit distant when she left here earlier. They said they were going to spend the night at Ciara’s house, but when I rang Ciara’s mum a couple hours ago, she told me they’d said the opposite to her.’

  I suck in a breath. ‘Harriet, what did they say to you when they were at yours?’

  Harriet clicks her tongue.

  ‘Ingrid told me that she had been embarrassed by a boy in front of everybody at a party last night.’

  ‘A boy. I knew it!’ I say, covering my mouth after I’ve said it. ‘Who is this boy, Harriet?’

  ‘I don’t know… he has a weird nickname. Stitch they call him, I think… something like that.’

  ‘I had a feeling they were hanging around with boys. I said it to Terry. Terry wasn’t having any of it.’

  ‘Listen, Greta,’ Brendan says joining in the call. ‘They’re just young girls. Whatever it is they’re up to, I bet it’s not as serious as you think. They’ll be home soon.’

  I hold my hand to my forehead again and try to slow my breathing. Maybe I shouldn’t be overreacting. They both lied to their parents to say they were staying in each other’s houses when they’ve probably called back over the see this boy. Is that such a big deal?

  ‘If they call by again — or if you hear from them, Harriet — you make sure to ring me straight away, okay?’

  ‘Course I will, Auntie Greta. I told Ingrid I’d bring her out soon an
d we can sit down and have a good chat.’

  I put the phone down without saying goodbye, my mind racing. Then I stare up the stairs and before I even realise it I’m climbing them… slowly. When I reach our bedroom, I push the door open as gently as I can and watch his breaths heaving the duvet up… then down. He’s almost on the verge of snoring. He’ll go crazy if I wake him. I know he will. If he didn’t have the big interview with the transport minister in the morning, I might be tempted. I close my eyes, to try to engage with the thoughts racing through my head, then decide to quietly pull the door closed and walk back down the stairs.

  I shuffle my feet into my trainers, reach for my coat that’s hung on the bottom bannister and then snatch at my keys. My hands are still shaking. I make sure I open the hall door quickly, so that it doesn’t creak and, before I realise what I’m doing exactly, I’m out in the darkness, walking down our drive and turning right.

  They only live four doors down. I say ‘they’. I mean ‘she’. He’s never really there. I’ve sometimes wondered if they have an open marriage or something like that. It’s certainly not conventional anyway.

  I whisper an apology to nobody as I hold my finger against their doorbell. I must be going mad; talking to myself. Then I hear the latch turn in the door and suddenly I am not talking to myself anymore.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Vivian, but I’m getting ever so worried about the girls. I don’t suppose they came back here, did they?’

  Vivian blinks her eyes. She looks jaded. Or drunk.

  ‘No… no… they didn’t come back here. What time is it now?’ she asks.

  It must be gone half eleven, something like that,’ I say. ‘It’s just… my niece rang; said the two girls called over to her about an hour ago and they were acting suspiciously. Do you mind if I come in?’

  Vivian takes a step back, giving me room to enter. This is actually the first time I’ve ever been in their house. It’s lovely. They’ve much more light in their hallway than we have and their walls have been more recently painted than ours. It’s easier to maintain a home if you only have one child, I suppose. Certainly easier if you have cleaners like these guys do.