I twist my head over my shoulder as the bus pulls over at another stop. And my heart flips.
It’s not… is it? I widen my eyes a bit. Bleedin’ hell… it is!
Stitch. In a grey hoodie sitting on the other side of the stairs. He’s leaning his head against the window, looks like he’s almost asleep.
My heart begins to thump really fast as I stare at him. Which is weird because I was enjoying how relaxing this bus journey had been. Me and Ingrid were just keeping really quiet and really calm as we headed towards our death. But seeing this bleedin’ eejit sitting behind us has made me panic a bit.
I twist my head back around and stare out the front window, wondering whether or not I should tell Ingrid he’s sitting six rows behind us. I don’t want it to have any impact on her. If he starts talking to her; if he starts apologising for calling her Fishfingers, she might change her mind.
I let out a sigh. There’s no escaping him. We’ll be getting off in a couple stops. As soon as she stands up and turns around, she’ll see him.
I breathe deeply and then rub my eyes.
‘What’s up with you?’ Ingrid says. ‘You okay?’
My head shakes slowly and then I turn to face her.
‘Look behind you, Ingrid,’ I whisper. ‘Grey hoodie.’
23:50
Ingrid
Ciara’s taken her head off my shoulder. It’s a pity. I was enjoying how peaceful and quiet everything was. The bus was totally silent. Even though I know a few people got on behind us.
She turns around and begins to fidget. Then her breathing changes. Maybe she’s getting a bit frightened seeing as we’re nearly there. Only two more stops to go. I wonder if she wants to change her mind. Maybe she wants to change her mind. I think I’d be up for that. We could probably do this tomorrow instead.
‘What’s up with you?’ I whisper to her. ‘You okay?’
She shakes her head and then sighs a little bit. Something’s up. I can always tell with Ciara.
She leans her face nearer to mine.
‘Look behind you, Ingrid,’ she whispers. ‘Grey hoodie.’
I don’t know why. But I already know who she’s talking about before I turn around.
I twist my neck as slowly as I can and see his face almost hidden behind his hoodie, his eyes closed, the side of his head resting against the window.
I try to breathe as slowly as I can as I stare at him because I don’t want him to have any effect on me. Not anymore. Then I turn back around.
‘What are the bloody chances?’ I say to Ciara. She just stares into my face as the bus pulls in at another stop.
‘We’re getting off at the next one,’ Ciara says. ‘Let’s just stand up, walk down the stairs, and if he notices you or tries to say anything, I’ll shut him up, okay?’
I can’t believe he’s on this bus. Just as we’re about to do this. I nod my head and then Ciara stands up and reaches her hand to me. I grab it and stand up too before each of us tip-toe our way towards the steps.
I’m staring into his face when his eyes flick open. Then he gasps and sits up straight, whipping down his hood.
‘Ingrid,’ he says.
Ciara holds her hand to my mouth, then takes a step towards him.
‘Stitch — you have no right to talk to her after the way you treated her last night. You shut the hell up and let us get off this bus.’
His eyes widen. He looks more shocked than I am. I wish he wasn’t so handsome. Ciara doesn’t think he is. But I’ve always thought he was one of the best looking boys in the school. I think it’s his bushy eyebrows.
‘I just… I just… I want to say sor—’
‘I told you, Stitch,’ Ciara says, raising her voice. ‘Don’t try to say anything to her.’ She points her hand down the stairs and looks at me. So I do as she wants. I grip the handrail tight and begin to sway my way down the steps. ‘Don’t!’ I hear Ciara shout. Then she follows me down and we wait quietly beside the driver as he makes his way towards our stop.
It seems to take ages for him to pull in. I’m a little scared Stitch will come down the steps to try to talk to me at any second.
But he doesn’t.
The bus pulls over and me and Ciara wave a thank you at the driver before we find ourselves back out in the cold air. We stand and wait until the bus has pulled off and then we hug each other again.
‘Wow. That was weird,’ I say, resting my chin on Ciara’s shoulder.
‘I gave him the finger, did you see that?’ she says. It makes me laugh.
The last time he’ll ever have seen either of us will stay in his head forever; Ciara’s finger telling him exactly how we feel about him. He’ll have to live with that for the rest of his life if we commit suicide. He’ll replay calling me Fishfingers over and over in his mind and feel guilty forever.
‘You ready?’ Ciara says.
We release our hug and then — at the exact same time — we both stare up to the very top of the Clock Tower.
It’s one hundred and fifty feet high. They taught us that at school. I think everybody who lives around here knows that. You can see the top point of the Clock Tower from almost every street in Rathmines. It sticks out like a sore thumb. I don’t know how many times in my life I’ve stared up at one of its four clock faces to make out the time. It used to make me dizzy when I was a kid. I’d stand under it and try to stare up to its highest point. Never in a million years did I think I’d ever stand on its ledge one day and jump off it. But here I am. About to do just that. I think we are anyway. Ciara certainly doesn’t look like she’s going to change her mind.
I squeeze her hand as we walk to the side of the tower and — as we planned last night — Ciara jumps to reach the ladder that leads us to the fire escape. When she pulls it all the way to the ground I suck air in through my teeth, shiver a bit, and then nod at my best friend.
We don’t say anything to each other as we climb the shaky steps.
I’ve never been up here before. Ciara has. She figured out a couple years ago that this was the way she wanted to end it all. She says we’ll be dead before we even hit the pavement. She’s thought it all through. This is the best way to commit suicide; no pain, no suffering. Just one tiny leap and it’ll be all over. She’s stood on the ledge a couple times before. Just to test it out.
The wind seems to get stronger the higher we climb but suddenly the shaky stairs end and Ciara is stretching ahead of me, over a small ridge, and on to a concrete ledge. I can actually hear the ticking of the four clocks beneath us as if they’re right next to my ears.
I take one step forward and edge my chin outwards, so I can stare down at the pavement.
Wow.
It really is high. I can feel my heart thump a little bit. I think we’re really going to do this.
We both stand in silence, staring down onto the footpath where we’re supposed to land as the wind gets a bit heavier around us. Then — out of nowhere — we hear a clanging sound.
Somebody’s climbing the stairs.
Helen’s eyes grow wide.
‘What’d the call say?’ she asks really slowly.
Charlie puffs a disappointed sigh down the line.
‘I’m sorry, Helen, but the Royal Hospital museum has just been stolen; they think there’s about three million euro worth of paintings missing. Everybody here is kicking themselves; it’s got to be Alan Keating. He played us. The calls were a hoax, a distraction. I eh… I just wanted you to know.’
Helen holds the phone in front of her face to stare at the screen. There’s nothing to look at, except for the timing of the call flicking upwards in seconds. Eighteen seconds she’s been on this call. Nineteen. Twenty.
She holds the phone back to her ear.
‘Thanks for letting me know, Charlie,’ she says.
‘You okay?’ he asks.
‘Course I am… course I am,’ Helen replies, her thumbnail in between her teeth as she stares out of her side window.’
Ch
arlie sighs again.
‘I mean… I know I’m going to be in trouble in the morning with Newell, but I just I… I thought you should know. We were wrong, I guess. But thank you so much for the adventure. It might be my last night as a cop, but I won’t forget it. I’ll never forget it. I hope you’re eh… still up for that coffee some time?’
Helen nods her head as an answer… her thumb still between her teeth, her eyes still wide.
‘Helen?’ Charlie says.
‘Yes. Yes. Coffee. Of course, Charlie. Any time,’ she says.
‘Cool. So where are you now?’ he asks. ‘Did you go straight home from here?’
Helen swivels her head slowly, staring around Charlie’s car.
Then she inches her nose a little forward to try and make out any of the bumper damage.
‘Yeah… I’m at home,’ she says, before twisting the phone screen to her face again and pushing at the red button.
She doesn’t scream, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t slap her palms against the dashboard. She just sits in silence, staring at the subtle ripples in the canal, the edge of her thumb back in her mouth.
Her past is playing in her mind in black and white like an old film reel. She’s remembering walking into her bedroom one evening, her stomach flipping, a tiny white stick in her hand. She showed it to Eddie. His eyes narrowed immediately. It was a surprise. A huge surprise. But one they accepted. They’d both talked about not wanting kids — preferring to give their progressing careers all the time and effort they required. But they adored him as soon as he was born. They’d often switch shift patterns at work, just so one parent was always home with their precious boy.
‘I’m so sorry, Scott,’ she says to the glistening lights in the canal. Then she turns the key in the ignition and inches the car forward, before clicking into reverse and backing all the way to the main road.
She dabs at the tears in her eyes while she drives, unsure where she’s driving to. She flitters between thinking about going back to Terenure Garda station and leaving the cop car where she found it — or driving straight home, going to bed and pleading with Eddie to deal with the mess in the morning. But she still can’t get the two girls out of her head. No matter how much her common sense is screaming at her.
She drives up the main Rathmines Road, spots the Clock Tower in the distance. Then, as it gets nearer, she stares at the hands of it. Almost five to twelve. What an embarrassment this whole night has been for her. She cringes, then without even noticing, she finds herself back at the canal again; car stopped, headlights shining onto the ripples.
‘You’re literally driving around in circles, Helen. What the fuck are you doing? Make a decision. Make a fucking decision.’
She looks at herself in the rear-view mirror.
‘What if they’re still out there?’ she says. ‘Two girls about to kill themselves at midnight. Where would they be? Where would they go to do it? Come on, Scott… give me a sign. Give me a sign.’
She looks around herself, out both side windows, out the back windscreen. Then, as she tugs at the rear-view mirror, her eyes widen.
‘Of course!’
She taps the steering wheel, adrenaline rising in her stomach. ‘It’s been staring at me all bloody night.’
She shifts into gear and speed reverses into the street.
A loud horn blares from a passing car that has to swerve out of her way. Then she wheel spins on to the main Rathmines Road and then pushes her foot, as hard as she can, to the accelerator.
She’s almost grinning to herself when her phone vibrates in her jacket pocket.
‘Hello,’ she says, holding it to her ear.
‘Hel, where are you?’
‘I’m at home, Eddie.’
‘You are not at home. I can hear you… driving.’
‘Well, I’m going home.’
‘You told me you were going home hours ago!’
Helen sniffs her nose as a response.
‘I have something to tell you,’ Eddie says.
Helen sniffs again.
‘Keating carried out a hell of a heist tonight. The Irish Museum of Modern Art at the Royal Hospital.’
‘Yep… over three million worth of art, right?’
‘How did you know that?’ Eddie asks.
Helen sighs. Says nothing.
‘Hel… what are you doing? Where are you going?’
‘I know where the girls are, Eddie.’
‘What the hell do you mean girls?’
‘It’s obvious where they’re going to commit suicide. It’s been staring at me all night. I shudda bloody known.’
‘Hel… Hel!’
Helen shifts into fifth gear, the car now speeding towards the moonlit shadow of her destination.
‘Hel!’ Eddie shouts again. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, you hear me?’
Helen sniffs wet snot back up her nose, then lifts the knuckles of her fingers to dab at the tears flooding her face.
‘Goodbye, Eddie,’ Helen says.
‘Wait! Where are you? Where are you going?’
Helen blows out her lips, tears spraying on to the steering wheel.
‘Hel! Hel!’ Eddie sounds frantic… frightened. Then he gasps. ‘I know where you’re going… Helen! You stop. You stop right now. That is an order!’
Helen swallows back some tears, then sniffs her nose again.
‘Bye, Eddie,’ she says, before she tosses the phone on to the passenger seat.
It doesn’t take long. She’s there within seconds, grabs at her door and shoves it open. Then she runs — in her own unique way — as quickly as she can; not even bothering to look up at the top of the Clock Tower. She’s certain the two girls are on that ledge. It makes total sense to her. It all adds up.
She stretches until she can reach the bottom rung of the ladder and yanks at it.
Then, without hesitation, she begins to climb.
23:55
Ciara
I pinch at Ingrid’s tracksuit top as it blows in the breeze; the two of us standing at the edge, staring all the way down to the footpath.
The Clock Tower looks huge from down there when you’re looking up at it. But it always seems higher when you are looking down from up here. I’d know.
This is not my first time on this ledge.
But for some reason, I’m more frightened now than I was when I was last up here, even though my best friend is right beside me.
I guess the last time I was standing here I was doing research or something — testing out whether or not this is the best way for me to kill myself. But this isn’t research no more. This is the real deal. Me and Ingrid are going to hug each other for the last ever time in just a few seconds, then we’re gonna leap.
I decided this was the quickest way to do it. It’ll take us two seconds to hit that pavement. Then our lives will be over; no pain, no suffering, no struggle. I could never imagine cutting my wrists, could never imagine drowning myself. This is the only way I was ever going to do it.
I wrap both my arms around Ingrid and squeeze her as tightly as I can.
She puffs out a sad laugh, then grips me and we hold each other as a quiet breeze whistles around us. Then I hear a clanging sound. It’s the stairs.
Somebody’s coming.
We both spin around.
‘Ingrid! Ciara!’
Stitch is lifting his leg over the ridge between the stairs and the roof’s ledge.
‘What are you doing here?’ Ingrid calls out, gripping me even tighter. We take a step backwards.
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ Stitch calls out, shaking both of his hands towards us. ‘Please don’t tell me you are both gonna do what I think you’re gonna do.’
Shit. I can’t believe this. The bleedin’ ass hole followed us. Now it’s ruined. Our pact is ruined.
‘Stitch… you just climb back down those stairs and pretend you didn’t see us up here,’ I say, taking another step backwards with Ingrid.
‘Oh my Jesus, no,’ Stit
ch says. ‘Seriously, You are really gonna do that? Jump? Kill yerselves?’
I’ve never seen anyone look so confused. His whole face has fallen, there are wrinkles on his forehead that I’ve never seen before and his eyes look heavy, his bottom lip is sticking out like a baby about to cry.
‘Because of me? Don’t be bloody stupid. I didn’t mean to… I’m so sor—’
‘It’s not because of you. Don’t flatter yourself.’ I say, interrupting him before he gets inside Ingrid’s head. I release my grip on my best friend and take two steps forward, my finger pointing. ‘This has got nothing to do with you. Climb back down those stairs and don’t get yourself involved.’
‘Ingrid… Ingrid, I’m so sor—’
‘Shut the hell up, Stitch!’ I scream at him. He’s not even bothering to look at me. He’s staring over my shoulder. Trying to plead with Ingrid. But I won’t let him. I take another step towards him.
‘Get lost, Stitch. If you wanna stand there and watch us do this, you can live with that the rest of your life. But if I was you, I’d just get lost back down those steps and forget you ever saw us up here.’
He falls to his knees.
‘Ingrid. Ciara… don’t be stupid.’
‘Get lost, Stitch!’ I scream, taking another step towards him. I stretch out my leg, push the soul of my trainer against his chest.
He stumbles back, holding his hand to the ledge for balance.
‘Jesus no, Ciara,’ Ingrid says, grabbing me from behind. She drags me back a little. ‘She’s right, Stitch. Just go back down… forget you saw us here.’
Stitch gets to his feet, his face still all wrinkled, his mouth still open.
‘I’m not gonna let yous kill yerselves. Are ye mad?’ he says. Then he takes a step towards us and reaches out a hand.
Midnight
Ingrid
‘Jesus no, Ciara,’ I say, grabbing around her arms and holding her back.
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 73
