‘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 them 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 station from one of 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 and 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.
‘My brother-in-law offered to give them a lift home, but he only got half-way with them before they got out of the car and ran off. There’s definitely something going on. Do you know much about the party they were at last night?’
I rest both of my hands on my hips and stare at Vivian as she shakes her head, folding her bottom lip out.
‘No, sorry,’ she says. Then she walks by me, into her living room. ‘C’min.’
I follow her; across their massive TV screen, over the expensive rug and past their Chesterfield sofa until we’re in the kitchen.
‘Cup of tea… anything like that?’ she asks as she grabs at the stem of a wine glass and swigs from it. ‘Or,’ she gasps after she’s swallowed, ‘this is an expensive Merlot. My favourite. Fancy a glass?’
I blow out an unsteady breath and then find myself squinting at Vivian, trying to work out just how many glasses of that expensive Merlot she must have had tonight. There’s a certain unsteadiness to how she’s standing in front of me; her eyes almost narrowed.
‘No,’ I answer in what I know is an irritated tone. ‘We need to find out where our daughters are. Vivian… we need to ring the police.’
23:35
Ciara
The two of us are facing each other, holding each other’s hands, staring into each other’s faces while we wait on the bus to come and pick us up to take us to our last stop.
‘Whatcha think our parents are doing now?’ I ask.
Ingrid rolls her eyes up to the stars.
‘Probably be in bed. Dad will be anyway. He goes to bed around eight o’clock.’
‘Eight o’clock,’ I giggle. ‘Does he stay up later than Sven?’
Ingrid smiles back at me.
‘He’s got to get up at five a.m. to do his show, doesn’t he?’
I nod my head.
‘Of course. And your mum?’
‘She’ll probably be going to bed about now. I think she stays up until around eleven-ish, watches movies and stuff. What about your parents?’
‘Well… I’m pretty sure my dad is out somewhere, probably still working. Or that’s what he’ll be telling my mam he’s doing anyway. I never know where he is up to be honest. My mam… well… we both know where she’ll be right?’
‘Sitting at the kitchen island drinking a glass of wine.’
‘A bottle, Ingrid!’
Ingrid closes her eyes and shows me her teeth.
‘Sorry. Of course, a bottle. I always get that wrong.’
‘I’m not sure what time either of them go to bed at,’ I say. ‘They don’t have a routine. It’s not like your house.’
Ingrid grips my hands even tighter and the two of us leave the talk of our parents there.
I’m not going to blame my parents for my death. I only blame them for my life. I never asked to be born. Nobody does.
I think having kids is the most selfish thing anybody could ever do. It’s one of the main reasons I don’t want to become an adult. Adults tend to do so many selfish things. They never think of others. I’ve often lay down on my bed and thought about it; there actually can’t be anything more selfish in this world than deciding to have children. How can anybody be so bloody selfish to do that! Look at Ingrid’s little brother. Poor Sven is going to be a vegetable his whole life. He can barely talk. He never asked for his life. But you don’t even have to have a sickness to wish you were never born. I’ve never been ill, aside from the odd cold here and there, and I certainly wish I was never born. Unless you count depression as a sickness. Though nobody has ever offered me a pill for it. I did wonder once whether or not I should go see a doctor and ask him about my feelings. But I just wouldn’t know what to say. I rang a Childline number once as well, but hung up as soon as the questions got a bit tough for me. Suicide is the only way out. It makes total sense.
‘How long’s the bus ride back to Rathmines from here?’ Ingrid asks.
‘Bout fifteen minutes this time of night. There’ll be no traffic. You all set?’ I squeeze her fingers tighter in mine as I ask my question.
She looks down, nodding her head.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ she says. ‘Mad to think we only have about fifteen minutes left though, isn’t it?’
I squeeze her fingers again.
‘Suppose it is. But that’s a good thing, right? Only fifteen minutes left of being depressed, fifteen minutes left with the bad thoughts going round and round our heads.’
She looks up and smiles at me with her eyes. Then nods her head slowly again.
‘I can’t wait for it to be over,’ she sighs out of her mouth. And then, over her shoulder, I see our bus coming.
‘Isn’t it mad to think nobody has any darn clue what we’re up to? Just me and you, buddy; that’s all. Everybody will be totally shocked in the morning, won’t they? I don’t think one person we know will say they saw it coming. I read about that once y’know,’ I say.
‘Read about what?’
I stop talking as the bus pulls in and its doors flap open.
‘Two fares to Rathmines,’ Ingrid says to the driver. He doesn’t say anything; he just fiddles with his little machine until our tickets come out and then he holds his hand out for Ingrid to pour her coins into.
There are four people sitting downstairs, so we decide to head to the top deck. We sit at the front,
right against the window and when we sit down I finally answer Ingrid’s question.
‘I read about suicide. It was in one of my mam’s old magazines. It said loved ones never see it coming. And that it’s usually the people who act happiest that end up doing it.’
‘Not sure people would call us the happiest, would you?’ she says to me.
I puff out a small laugh.
‘Suppose so. But they’ll all be surprised won’t they?’
‘Definitely,’ she says.
23:35
Vivian
I curse. But only inside my head. This is the last thing I need. They’ll be fine for fuck sake. They’re teenagers.
‘C’min,’ I say, leading her through the living room and out into the kitchen. I don’t mind her seeing me drink; it’s not as if it’s eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning; it’s a weekend night. Nothing wrong with that.
‘Cup of tea… anything like that?’ I ask as I grab at my glass. ‘Or… this is an expensive Merlot. My favourite. Fancy a glass?’
She looks me up and down.
‘No,’ she says abruptly; as if she’s angry with me. I knew she’d be a bitch. You can’t be as attractive as she is without being a bit of a cunt in some way. ‘We need to find out where our daughters are, Vivian… we need to ring the police.’
I place my glass back down on the kitchen island and walk towards her.
‘Aren’t you overreacting a bit? They’re just teenagers having some fun on a weekend night.’
‘They’ve school in the morning, Vivian. Besides, they lied to us. They told me they’d be here, they told you they’d be at my house. This is…’ she turns around, holding her hand to her forehead as if she’s some God-awful Hollywood actress, ‘serious. Something is definitely going on between them.’
I don’t know how to handle this level of drama. This is why I like to drink alone.
I find myself turning around, pulling at my cabinet and reaching for another glass. I half fill it with Merlot and then hand it to her.
The Suicide Pact (The Tick-Tock Trilogy Book 3) Page 21