The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set

by David B Lyons

My breathing’s gone all funny. I thought she was going to kick him off the roof for a split second.

  ‘She’s right, Stitch,’ I say over Ciara’s shoulder. ‘Just go back down… forget you saw us here.’

  He crawls back to his feet, slowly, and stares at me. His eyes are really wide. So’s his mouth. He looks different. It must be the shock.

  ‘I’m not gonna let yous kill yerselves. Are ye mad?’ he says. Then he takes a step towards us and stretches out his hand.

  ‘Get lost, Stitch,’ Ciara roars. I can hear the pain in her voice. She’s angry. Really angry.

  Stitch doesn’t listen. He takes another step closer.

  ‘Stitch… I said get lost!’ she screams.

  My breaths are getting sharp. I think I just want to jump.

  Now.

  Get it over with.

  Stitch takes one more step closer.

  ‘C’mon, Ingrid, take my hand,’ he says. ‘Let’s all go back down the steps and we can talk—’

  ‘Stitch, I swear to you, we’re gonna jump. Now if you want to stand up here and watch us…’ Ciara says, releasing from my grip and taking a step towards him. I cover my eyes with my hands, but through the cracks of my fingers I watch them square up to each other, their noses almost touching.

  Ciara takes another step forward, forcing Stitch to take a step back. This is a mess. What an absolute bloody mess. I can’t believe he followed us up here.

  ‘Ingrid… don’t mind this mad bitch, come with me,’ Stitch shouts out. Ciara grabs him and then suddenly they’re wrestling, their hands grabbing on to each other’s shoulders.

  ‘Leave her, leave her,’ I scream as I run towards them. I grip on to Ciara’s waist and try to grab her backwards. But Stitch has her held too tightly. So I thump at his hands… until he lets go. But then he reaches for me. I turn, force both of my hands into his chest and push him away as hard as I can.

  All I can do is watch.

  As he falls.

  Not a sound coming out of him.

  He just swirls through the breeze until he stops swirling altogether.

  ‘Sweet Jesus. Holy fucking Jesus,’ Ciara says grabbing me. I can hear her words in my ears, repeating over and over in slow motion. She drags me to the ground and lies on top of me. ‘Sweet fuckin Jesus,’ she says again, straight into my face. I blink at her. Really slowly. As if I’m a robot.

  Then I shake my head. To try to turn back time. To see if Stitch will appear back on the ledge with us.

  I crawl to the edge to the ledge and stare down. He’s just lying there. Facing up to the moon.

  ‘What’ll we do? What’ll we do?’ Ciara screams as she gets to her feet behind me.

  I swallow and then press my hands into the ledge so that I can get back to a standing position. I turn slowly, so that I’m face to face with my best friend again, and a tear drops from my eye.

  ‘Our turn next,’ I say. I sound really strange. As if I’m not me. ‘C’mon.’

  I stretch my hand out to Ciara. She just stares at me, her breathing is still really heavy and panicky.

  ‘We killed Stitch… we have to report—’ she says, her arms flailing in all directions.

  ‘We don’t have to report anything. We just need to jump,’ I say.

  Ciara shakes her head. She’s in a different state of shock to me. Everything is going really slowly for me… but for her it seems to be going really quickly; her breaths, her head shakes, her hands, her thoughts.

  ‘His parents… his parents are—’

  ‘I know, Ciara… I know. Which is why we need to do this. Now. It’s time.’ My voice sounds really different. My whole body feels really different. As if I’m no longer alive. Maybe I’ve just accepted it. It’s time to die.

  Then suddenly Ciara’s eyes return to normal and her head stops shaking. Her heavy breaths become normal, her arms rest down by her side and her whole body seems to slow down. She holds her fingers out to me and I grip them. Then, for some reason, I smile at her. And she smiles back.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘We really need to do this, don’t we?’

  I nod my head and then we both turn towards the ledge. But rather than stare down at Stitch, I stare across the tops of the buildings on the other side of Rathmines — as far into the distance as I possibly can.

  ‘On three?’ Ciara whispers.

  I grip my fingers tighter around hers. And then nod my head.

  Helen’s almost half way up the fire escape when she has to grip her hands to her knees and bend over. But she doesn’t want to stop for long.

  She takes in one large breath, blows it out and then continues; the tick-tocking of the four clocks that sit each side of the tower rising in volume the higher she climbs; the wind starting to swirl, blowing her leather coat behind her like a cape.

  She heaves herself over the ridge, then — after scrambling to her feet — she stares across the ledge.

  At nothing.

  ‘You’re an idiot. A fucking idiot, Helen,’ she says, grabbing a fistful of her orange hair. ‘Course they’re not up here. They don’t even exist. They never existed. You’ve been chasing ghosts all night.’

  She inches forward to the edge of the ledge and stares down at the pavement; down to where Scott landed. And Ingrid. And Ciara.

  Then she wipes her face, smudging snot and tears across her cheek.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s been twenty-two years,’ she says, sucking back up her nose.

  She stares off into the distance, over the rooftops of Rathmines, zipping her leather coat up fully so that the collar is fastened tight under her chin. It’s not the first time she’s been up here. It took a year after Scott and his friends died for her to stoke up the courage to visit the scene. Even though hundreds of people had laid flowers at the foot of the Clock Tower in the aftermath of the suicides, Helen couldn’t bring herself to visit. She kept her head low every time she left the house because had she looked up, the tower could be seen hovering above the rooftops of the terraced houses of her estate. The sight of it repulsed her. It still does. But one night, just before Scott’s one-year anniversary, she found a strength within her to sneak out of the house and make her way to the exact spot they landed on. She circled her foot around it, then stared up to the highest point of the tower.

  Seconds later she was heading to that point; grabbing on to the ladder that led to the fire escape stairway. She stood on the ledge, staring down at where she had just been circling her foot. She thought about leaping herself. But froze. Eddie kept coming into her mind. She adored him. Even more than she did when Scott was alive. He went out of his way to ensure she got counselling, went out of his way to make sure she had the best mental health support she possibly could have. He saw to it that she got a job back in the station when she was ready. Even though he knew she’d never be the same person again. She wasn’t only heartbroken from Scott’s suicide. She was mind broken. And neither her heart nor her mind would ever mend.

  Even though the doctors insisted she shouldn’t return to police work, Eddie conjured up some position at the front of the station for her — doing admin work. It meant he could keep an eye on her all day long. He knew she was capable of going off the rails at any point — especially if she didn’t take her medication — and it was annoying to him that she would poke her nose into investigations every now and then. But at least she was still there, still near him, still existing.

  She places her hands into her coat pocket and inches closer to the edge; the toes of her Converse trainers hovering over it, only the weight of her heels keeping her alive. Then she closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath.

  ‘Hel!’

  She twists her head, sees Eddie clambering over the ridge. He has both hands held up and his palms out as he inches slowly towards her.

  She wipes at her face, then darts at him.

  ‘Oh, Eddie,’ she says wrapping her arms around his head and neck. They squeeze each other as tightly as they possibly can. �
�I’m so sorry. So sorry.’

  Eddie brings one of his hands to the back of Helen’s head, taking a fistful of her orange hair. Then he yanks it back a little, so that her head tilts and he can stare into her eyes.

  ‘It’s not you who needs to apologise. It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for telling you to go home and watch your soaps. I’m sorry you found out about this case. I’m sorry I haven’t been checking up on you as much as I should…. It’s just been such a manic night, a manic investigation and… and…’ He holds a hand to his face, to cover his tears. He hates crying, does Eddie. Only ever cried in his own company after Scott’s suicide.

  The two of them shake their heads, then they just grab each other closer again.

  ‘I just want to know…’ Helen sobs on his shoulder, ‘what happened to them. What the hell went on that night.’

  ‘Sweetie,’ Eddie says pushing his wife away again so he can stare into her face. ‘How many times do I need to tell you?’

  ‘I know. I know,’ Helen says, shaking her head. ‘I will never know what happened.’

  Eddie purses his lips.

  ‘You can’t keep punishing yourself. We have to accept that we will never know what happened. We’ll never be able to get inside their heads.’

  Helen takes a deep breath, then blows it out through her lips; tears spraying either side of her.

  ‘I should have known as soon as suicide was mentioned in the station earlier that you would’ve been affected by it. I was too bloody concerned with Alan Keating that I… I…’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Eddie,’ Helen says. ‘You’d think twenty-two years later that I’d be able to hear the word suicide and not have it trigger me. I just… I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it. Not in this life.’

  Eddie wraps his arm around the back of Helen’s head and pulls it towards him, so that her chin rests on his shoulder.

  ‘Well… we’re going to get away from this life,’ he whispers. ‘On the way over here I made a phone call.’ Helen opens her eyes. ‘I spoke with Dickinson, told him I would be handing in my resignation first thing in the morning. I’m done. I’m retiring. And you and I…’

  Helen takes her head off her husband’s shoulder, bringing her nose to touch his.

  ‘We’re moving to Canada?’ she says, unable to hide a joy that bubbles up within her. She laughs as she says it, spraying tears onto Eddie’s face.

  Then Eddie kisses her forehead.

  ‘We’re moving to Canada,’ he says.

  Helen wraps her arms as tightly around her husband’s waist as she can and uses all her might to lift his feet a few inches off the ground.

  When she releases, allowing his heels to rest back down to the ledge, he laughs.

  ‘It’s the right time,’ he says. ‘To hell with this job. To hell with chasing around after ass holes like Keating and looking like a mug. I’m done. We spent the last twenty-two years chasing my dream of becoming a superintendent. Now — for the next twenty-two years — it’s all about you. All about us. A new life.’

  He brushes a strand of hair away from Helen’s face and the two of them grin at each other as wide as they possibly can.

  ‘C’mon,’ he says, gripping Helen’s hand. ‘Let’s get back down to earth.’

  They make their way to the steps and clunk down them with their arms wrapped around each other.

  ‘I’ll book the flights in the morning,’ Helen says. ‘When do you think we can leave?’

  Eddie puffs out a laugh.

  ‘I’m supposed to give two months notice, but Dickinson said he’ll do his best to shorten that for me and ensure I get the full pension too.’

  Helen squeezes her husband into her hip. It seems strangely eerie that Eddie would inform her of her new life at the exact same spot her old life ended. But she’s super excited. This is the giddiest she’s been in twenty-two years.

  ‘Okay then… well, I’ll book the flights for two months from now anyway. It’ll give us a chance to say goodbye to everyone, to get the house on the market.’

  Eddie releases his grip on his wife, then jumps down to the pavement before holding his two hands aloft. He catches Helen as she leaps towards him and they wrap themselves in a tight embrace again.

  ‘Did I get you into a whole load of trouble?’ Helen asks.

  Eddie sniffs out a laugh.

  ‘Not much more than usual. Nothing I can’t handle.’

  They smile at each other again, then Helen leans her head onto her husband’s shoulder, offering one more apology with body language rather than words as they stroll onto Rathmines’ main road.

  ‘I’m parked over here. Where’s your car?’ Eddie asks, pressing at his key ring, making his headlights flash.

  Helen squints her eyes a little, then holds her hand over her mouth.

  ‘What?’ Eddie asks as Helen takes a few steps onto the road.

  Eddie follows her, tracking her line of vision down a line of parked cars until he sees what she’s staring at; a cop car, its headlight smashed, its bumper hanging off.

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ he says.

  The End.

  Did you…

  …miss all of the clues to that twist ending?

  Well, watch this short interview with author David B. Lyons in which he talks you through each and every one.

  Get ready to kick yourself!

  www.subscribepage.com/thesuicidepact

  It is estimated that 1.3 million people will commit suicide this year.

  That means one person will die from suicide in the time it takes you to read the words on this single page.

  If you suffer with depression, please reach out and talk to somebody.

  Here is a list of helplines from certain regions of the world.

  Ireland: Pieta House 1800 247 247

  United Kingdom: Mind 0300 123 3393

  United States of America: ASFP 1-800-273-8255

  Canada: The Lifeline 1-833-456-4566

  Australia: Lifeline 131114

  New Zealand: Lifeline 0800 543354

  India: AASRA +91 22 2754 6669

  Or — from anywhere in the world — visit:

  www.befrienders.org

  For more information on David B. Lyons’s novels…

  Please visit his website:

  www.TheOpenAuthor.com

  If you could spare the time to leave a review on Amazon for this box-set the author would be very grateful.

  Acknowledgements

  Each of these books have been dedicated to a specific individual. My late father — Ben. My mother — Joan. And my daughter — Lola.

  However, the entirety of this boxset is dedicated to my wife Kerry without whom none of these novels ever would have been written. Every word I write, I write for you. For us.

  I owe debts of gratitude to a huge team of brilliantly patient people such as Barry O’Hanlon, Margaret Lyons and Hannah Healy who are always the first three sets of eyes to read my works (bad drafts ’n’ all).

  I am also grateful for the support of Rubina Gomes, Livia Sbrabaro, Susan Hampson and Maureen Vincent-Northam.