The Suicide Pact (The Tick-Tock Trilogy Book 3)

by David B Lyons

  ‘What… what are you talkin’ about, girl?’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Brendan; for getting you out of the house. And thank you for the lift this far. But… we’re gonna go, okay?’ I slam the door shut, then grip on to Ciara’s hand and we leg it out of the garage courtyard as fast as we can.

  ‘Ingrid! Ingrid!’

  I hear Brendan roar after us but I just wave my hand in the air and keep running.

  It’s crazy that I feel happy. I’ve been at my happiest all day when I am certain I want to do it. And the great thing about feeling happy now — just before I kill myself — is that this time I know there’s not going to be a come down. Because I’ll be dead. I know that I am doing the right thing; that we’re doing the right thing. All of this nonsense; the ups and downs, the stresses of school, the bullying, the heartache, the headaches… they’ll all be gone soon. Gone forever.

  ◈

  ‘Mind if I ask you a question?’ Charlie shouts over the siren.

  Helen removes the tip of her thumb from her mouth.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re a little bit nuts, aren’t ye?’ he says, his smile wide. He’s starting to relax in Helen’s company. Is really beginning to feel as if she’s the one taking him for the ride… even though they’re in his car. He believes she will foster him through to Detective status; help drag him from the dregs of administrative work.

  Helen lifts her head, slowly — taking in what was just said to her — and then eyeballs Charlie, her stare a little hostile.

  ‘Sorry. I mean. What I’m trying to ask is,’ Charlie says, as he shifts awkwardly in his seat, ‘Detectives… they have to be erratic, don’t they? You have to go beyond the line in order to investigate properly, right?’

  Helen squints at Charlie. He turns his face to her, then straight back out the windscreen. He’s desperate to engage her in conversation, but is also juggling his concentration levels with speeding seventy miles per hour down the canal straight.

  ‘Ye know…,’ he says. ‘The way you see on TV all these Detectives who go over the line to get what they want. You eh…’ he takes his hand from the gearstick, scratches at his hair. ‘You eh… you know the way you have kinda gone over the line; throwing the drink in Brother Fitzpatrick’s face… being off duty and being a bit sneaky with your role in this investigation… and when you said to little Audrey back there that she was being arrested for underage drinking when she wasn’t.’

  Helen takes her eyes from Charlie and stares down at her lap.

  ‘You gotta do what you gotta do in this job,’ she says.

  ‘So it is kinda like on TV? Like in The Wire or things like that; Detectives have to bend the rules?’

  Helen sniffs.

  ‘The Wire? Calm down, Charlie,’ she says, her voice loud. ‘All I did was splash a bit of water on a drunk man’s face to sober him up.’

  Charlie stiffens his grip on the steering wheel and holds a blink closed.

  ‘Fuck sake, Charlie,’ Helen roars.

  Charlie swings the car away from a cyclist.

  ‘Shit. Sorry. Sorry,’ he says to Helen.

  ‘Concentrate will you?’ she barks.

  Charlie puffs out his cheeks, then wipes at his brow, using the back of his hand.

  ‘I was just… I was just trying to learn, that’s all. I just really want to be a Detective.’

  Helen wiggles her bum on the car seat into a more comfortable position and then flattens down the seatbelt over her shoulder.

  ‘No harm asking questions, Charlie,’ she says. ‘You didn’t need to call me nuts is all.’ Charlie turns to her, his mouth ajar. ‘Just concentrate on the road for now,’ she says, waving his face away.

  They’re almost there. At Cue. Helen had been thinking about how to play it with Tommy Smith before Charlie started shouting stupid questions at her over the blare of the siren. Tommy’s family and friends didn’t seem like the most welcoming bunch. It’s unlikely he’s going to be any different. The apple very rarely falls far from the tree. She’d been wondering if he’ll want to talk to them at all; she’s still coming to terms with somebody ringing in a suicide warning without giving any names. She was stewing — before Charlie asked if she was a “bit nuts” — the realisation that Tommy is more likely involved with gangland crime than he is some kind of good Samaritan concerned by the welfare of two girls from his school. Still, she isn’t taking any chances. She knows this is the greatest opportunity she’ll ever have of ensuring Scott didn’t take his life in vain. Helen’s awareness of suicide — and how those who commit suicide think — is what gave her the gut instinct to follow the phone calls up as legitimate. If she’s right, and the rest of the Garda force is wrong, she’ll be a hero in a multitude of ways. Her face would probably be splashed all over the newspapers. Might be invited on to The Late Late Show for an interview. Might even be offered her old role as a Detective back until Eddie finally decides to retire and whisk her away for her dream life in Canada.

  ‘Here we are,’ Charlie says, slowing down the car.

  Helen looks out her passenger side window at graffitied shutters. Then she allows her eyes to flitter towards a red neon light above them.

  ‘Cue’, it reads, the ‘e’ flashing.

  ‘Looks like a lovely place,’ she says over the top of the car after they both get out. ‘Kinda place I used to hang out in when I was a kid.’

  Charlie puffs a laugh out.

  ‘Told you you were nuts,’ he says, before holding his hands up in mock apology.

  Helen stops walking and stares at the back of Charlie’s head. She’s still wondering how to react to his quip when he spins to her again, his palms back up, his laugh loud.

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ she says, mock swiping at his face. ‘Jesus, you’ve grown in confidence over the past couple hours, huh? I couldn’t get a word out of you earlier.’

  Charlie’s still laughing when he pushes at a door that provides entry to a narrow, steep staircase. The only light inside is coming from the top of the steps; an eerie bright red bulb that suggests there may be more than a game of snooker on offer upstairs.

  ‘Creepy,’ Charlie whispers as they take the first step. Each of the thirty-one steps creeks under their feet as they climb. When they reach the top, Helen bends down again, her hands on her knees.

  ‘Nobody can say playing snooker isn’t a work out if you’re playing snooker in this kip,’ she says, while trying to catch her breath.

  Charlie laughs again; is really beginning to think this is the best shift of his career so far. He’ll be glad of the experience, regardless of what the outcome is by midnight.

  ‘This way,’ he says to Helen when she stands back upright.

  Charlie pushes at another door and the sound of nineties Brit Pop begins to crackle out of cheap speakers. He pauses at an empty bar, then rattles his knuckles against it.

  ‘Hello?’ he calls out.

  Helen steps to the side, takes in the entire snooker hall. It’s the first time she’s been in one since she was a teenager. She does a quick calculation; two banks of eight tables. Sixteen in all. Yet only two are in use right now. Two middle-aged men playing at the one closest to them. And a group of guys in the back corner. She thinks a couple of them are only teens. But they’re too far away for her to be certain. So she squints up at the black and white monitor over the bar, at live CCTV footage of them, but that gives no clarity on whether a couple of them are young enough to be Tommy Smith or not.

  ‘The guy running the place is down there,’ one of the middle-aged men says to her.

  Helen tilts her chin upwards, acknowledging the heads up. Then she begins to walk, in her own unique way, between the two banks of tables and towards the group.

  ‘This way, Charlie.’

  ‘Oi, oi,’ a man sweeping his hand up and down a snooker cue says as he watches them approach. ‘How can we help you, officers?’

  ‘I’m Detective Brennan. This here is Officer Guilfoyle.
We’re looking for a boy we believe hangs out around here.’

  The man takes a step towards them, resting the butt of his cue into the carpet.

  ‘Who?’ he asks.

  ‘Tommy Smith.’

  The man looks back over his shoulder at the group who are all perched on a bench that runs around the back corner of the hall. When he turns back, his bottom lip is sticking out, his head shaking.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ he says.

  ‘Sir, we believe two young girls’ lives are in grave danger. Tommy Smith can lead us to them. We need to speak with him as a matter of urgency.’

  The man’s cheeks rise high as he produces a fake grin.

  ‘I’m serious, Sir. I don’t want to speak to Tommy about anything other than the fact that he made calls to two Garda stations a few hours ago saying two of his friends are planning on dying by suicide tonight.’

  The man’s eyes narrow. Then he looks back over his shoulder again. Charlie tries to track his line of vision, to see who or what he’s looking at exactly. There are only two in this gang who could possibly be Tommy Smith; only two of them look to be in the appropriate age range.

  ‘Are either of you Tommy Smith?’ he asks, stepping forward.

  The two boys look at each other, then back at Charlie.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ they both say, almost in unison.

  The man with the cue bends over the table, misses a red to the far corner pocket.

  ‘Bollix,’ he says, standing back up. ‘Yis are putting me off my game. Do yis wanna have a game of snooker? Or…’ he rolls his shoulders.

  Charlie swallows, then looks over to Helen for support. He notices that she probably didn’t hear what was said, is too busy sticking her nose into her phone. Then she holds the phone to her ear.

  A ringing sounds out; an annoying tone that sounds more like a crackling vibration than an actual ringtone. It’s coming from one of the teenage boy’s jeans pocket.

  Helen presses at her screen, hanging up the call, then takes a stride forward.

  ‘Tommy, we need to speak with you right now!’ she says.

  Tommy pounces to his feet, races past Helen and through the two rows of snooker tables before reaching the top of the stairs.

  22:25

  Ciara

  I spin the bus stop timetable round and round the pole after I’ve caught my breath back.

  ‘It says there’s one due at half ten, but ye can never really go by these things, can you?’ I say to Ingrid.

  She’s got her arms folded and is leaning her back against the glass of the bus shelter.

  ‘Nah… they just get here when they get here… normally two or three at the same time,’ she says.

  I stare down the road, waiting to see the light of a bus number coming towards us. Nothing.

  It’s starting to get cold, so I turn around and hug my best friend; for a bit of warmth more than anything. Ingrid rests her chin on my shoulder while I stare at a fuzzy reflection of myself in the glass of the shelter, neither of us saying a word.

  It’s mad that we’re getting close to the last hour of our lives. I know it’s sad that we feel we have to do this. But I feel happy because I know we’re going to do it. Being alive might be good for some people, but it’s never been for me. I was born into sadness… can’t remember either of my parents laughing in our home. Not in each other’s company anyway. No wonder I’m bleedin’ miserable.

  The only person I ever remember laughing in our house was Debbie. And now I know why. She was probably out of her face on cocaine. I can’t believe it. She was the only adult who I ever felt really liked me, really. I’d no idea she was so stupid that she would take drugs. Doesn’t matter anyway. Whether I saw cocaine or not in her house tonight, we were still going to do this; still going to end it all. I just never thought I’d end it all while not loving Debbie anymore. I guess you never really know people — even the ones you love the most. Makes me wonder if Miss Moriarty has any dark secrets.

  ‘You think Miss will be happy to see us?’ I ask, still staring at my reflection.

  ‘She’ll be wondering what the hell we’re doing knocking to her house on a Sunday night but… yeah… she’ll be happy to see us. She loved us.’

  I nod my head.

  ‘Our very last goodbye, huh?’ I say. And then I feel Ingrid nodding her head on my shoulder.

  Her nose sniffles. I bet she’s crying. Her mind better not be bleedin’ changing again. Wouldn’t surprise me. The two of us were giggling our little heads off as we ran to the bus stop. It wouldn’t be unusual for me to be crying straight after I’ve been laughing. I think depression works that way. Does for me anyway.

  I lean off her, place my hands either side of her face.

  ‘You okay, Ingrid?’

  She smiles her eyes.

  ‘Fine,’ she says.

  ‘You sure?’

  She looks downwards, at our feet, and then nods her head again.

  I put my hand under her chin and lift her face towards me.

  ‘Ingrid.’

  ‘Yeah — I’m fine,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘Just over an hour left. Quick visit to Miss Moriarty’s, then a bus ride back to Rathmines…’ I arch an eyebrow.

  She nods again.

  I grab her in for another hug; this time to feel her love as much as the warmth.

  It was almost twelve hours ago that we came up with this plan. Around eleven o’clock last night. I’d never seen Ingrid so upset; had never seen anyone so upset. I couldn’t stop her sobbing, no matter how hard I held her close to me. Her chest, her shoulders, her head — everything was shaking quicker than I ever thought body parts could shake. It took ages for them to stop.

  ‘Here we go,’ she muffles into my ear.

  I turn around and see a bus coming towards us.

  ‘I’m gonna ask you one more time, Ingrid. You sure you are okay?’

  Ingrid looks at me, then looks towards the bus.

  ‘Ingrid!’

  She releases her grip on me, strolls slowly towards the curb and places her hand in her pockets. When she steps on to the bus, she reaches a fistful of change towards the driver.

  ‘Two fares to Crumlin,’ she says.

  The driver stares at both us of us, then taps away at his tiny little machine before scooping the coins out of Ingrid’s hand.

  ‘There y’are, girls,’ he says, passing Ingrid two paper tickets, ‘hope yis are havin’ a good night.’

  We both nod a thank you to him and head up the aisle, towards the back of the bus.

  ‘Ingrid?’ I say again as we sit down.

  ‘Yes!’ she says. She sounds a little bit annoyed. ‘You don’t have to keep asking me, Ciara. Yes. I’m fine.’

  I hold her knee, squeeze it a little and then we both sit in silence as we stare out of opposite windows at nothing because the night is too dark.

  ‘It’s just,’ I say turning back towards her, ‘I don’t want you doing this just for me.’

  She turns her head to face me, then tilts it sideways. But she doesn’t say anything. I hold my eyes closed and try to think everything through as the bus rattles its way down the canal road. I’m one hundred per cent certain I want to do this. And I’m one hundred per cent certain I want to do it this way; me and Ingrid doing it together. But I’m not one hundred per cent certain she wants to do it. I know she’s really sad now. Last night broke her little heart. But she might be okay in a couple weeks time; just like Harriet said. Whereas I know I won’t be. I’m depressed. And I’ll be depressed forever… until I kill that depression by killing myself.

  But I don’t want to keep on asking her if she’s okay and I certainly don’t want to break the pact by asking her if she still wants to go ahead with it. So I bite my tongue. Literally. I hold it between my teeth and try to not say anything more about it.

  The bus heaves over the speed bumps and our bums are lifted up and down on the seats but we keep our faces straight and
our mouths closed. I try to look out the window again… see if I can make anything out in the dark. But all I can see is my own reflection staring at back at me. And I can almost hear my mind screaming at the reflection.

  You have to ask her, Ciara. Go on. Ask her!

  I bite my tongue, hard this time; until I can taste a bit of blood. Then my teeth unclench, my head spins around and my hands reach for Ingrid’s pretty little pale face.

  ‘Ingrid Murphy, I love you very much.’

  She squints her eyes, then reaches her hands either side of my face, cupping my cheeks.

  ‘I love you too,’ she says, her eyes heavy.

  ‘I need to ask you — I’m sorry to break the pact.’ She holds her eyes closed and I swallow. ‘Do you want to do this? Do you want us both to commit suicide as soon as we’ve finished saying goodbye to Miss Moriarty? I need to know you’re ready.’

  22:35

  Ingrid

  We sit in silence, except for the roaring of the bus engine every now and then when it struggles over the speed bumps.

  Then Ciara turns to me and places a hand to each side of my face.

  I know she’s going to ask me if I still want to go ahead with this. I know she’s going to break the first rule of our pact. And I get it; she knows me too well. She knows my mind was changing when we were in Harriet’s bedroom.

  ‘Ingrid Murphy,’ she says, ‘I love you very much.’

  I give her one of those half smiles, then hold my hands either side of her face too; just to let her know that it’s okay to ask the question she’s desperate to ask.

  ‘I need to ask you — I’m sorry to break the pact. Do you want to do this? Do you want us both to commit suicide as soon as we’ve finished saying goodbye to Miss Moriarty? I need to know you’re ready.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, without hesitating; without allowing any silence between her asking the question and me answering it.