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

by David B Lyons

  ‘That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna do for me? Give me some obvious advice?’

  Terry takes the phone from me and rests his other hand around my shoulder.

  ‘Officer, this is the girl’s father — Terry Murphy… y’know, off the radio? We’ll eh… take your advice on board. Thank you very much.’

  Then he just hangs up. As if everything is okay.

  ‘Right-ee-o,’ he says, squeezing my shoulder a bit tighter and leading me back into the sitting room. ‘Ingrid and Ciara are clearly up to something. But I bet it’s all very innocent. This is all we have to do: Vivian, I suggest you go home and wait up until Ciara arrives home. Somebody needs to be there. Greta, you need to do the same here. It’s more than likely they’ll arrive home soon. The Gardaí have said this is the only thing we can do right now.’

  I watch as Vivian downs the rest of her glass, before handing it to Terry.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask my husband.

  ‘Well… I have an important interview in the morning. I’m going to go back to bed. Don’t wake me up when Ingrid gets home; I’ll deal with her tomorrow.’

  I switch my stare from Terry to Vivian and then back again.

  ‘That’s it? That’s all we’re going to do? We’re just going to wait for them to come home?’

  ‘It’s all we can do,’ Vivian says, reaching her arm to my elbow. And then she winks at Terry before turning on her heels and strolling down our hallway and out our front door.

  Terry leads me to the sofa and sits me into it.

  ‘Just relax, Greta… throw on a movie or something.’

  I stare up at him and then find myself nodding my head.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll just wait here until she comes home.’

  I take the blanket that hangs on the back of the sofa and drape it over me as Terry kisses me on the top of my head. Then I pick up the remote control and begin clicking through the channels.

  ◈

  Her hand trembles as she tries to place the key into the ignition; failing six times before finally finding the slot.

  ‘You’re a fuckin idiot, Helen. A fuckin idiot!’

  She stares over at the house she’s just left as she shifts into first gear, sees Louise and her mother staring out at her. They watch as the bumper scrapes off the road, sparks darting in all directions as the car pulls off.

  Helen eyeballs herself in the rear-view mirror, then shakes her head.

  ‘A fuckin idiot!’

  The speedometer’s dial begins to shake as it pushes upwards; the car now doing seventy miles per hour in the narrow streets of a tight housing estate.

  By the time she’s reached a stretch of main road, the speedometer is inching towards one hundred. Then Helen forces her foot on the brake, the car coming to a noisy, sudden stop; parts of the bumper cracking and flying free.

  And then she slaps herself in the face with both hands.

  ‘A fuckin’ idiot! C’mon, Scott, talk to me. Give me a sign. Are there or aren’t there two girls out there about to kill themselves?’

  She’s startled when she hears a rattling on her window.

  ‘Officer, officer… you okay?’

  A man with square-framed glasses is staring in through her driver’s side window, his nose practically pushed up against the glass.

  She waves her hand up at him. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You sure?’ he says. ‘Did you have a crash? Would you like me to ring an ambulance for you?’

  ‘I said I’m fine!’ she shouts.

  The man holds both of his hands up, then slowly backs away from her.

  Helen pivots her head around, looks out the back window, the front windscreen, each of the windows either side of her. It’s dark. Almost pitch black, save for a tiny street lamp about fifteen yards away that seems to only light the pavement directly beneath it. There are no other cars on the road, no sign of anybody but the silhouette of the man who had knocked on the window walking away from her.

  She breathes in through her nose, then pops the breath out of her mouth. She repeats this over and over; each time the sound of the pop growing in volume and frustration.

  ‘Nobody’s gonna kill themselves are they? The calls weren’t fucking suicide calls; they were distraction calls, Helen. You fuckin idiot!’ She slaps both of her hands on top of the dashboard. ‘As soon as I heard suicide I let my heart overrule my head.’

  She grunts loudly, before a cringe runs down her spine. Then she slaps her hands on top of the dashboard again and screams, an eerie shriek that echoes all the way around the car and back into her ears.

  ‘Fuck you, Alan Keating!’ she says. ‘Fuck you, Tommy Smith. Fuck you, Scott Brennan!’ Then she gasps in some air. ‘No… no… I’m sorry, Scott. I didn’t mean that, honey. I didn’t mean it.’

  Her shoulders begin to shake. She wipes a tear that had rested on one of the bags under eyes, and then looks around herself again. The night is dead. Eerie. Creepy. Until car lights shine in the distance, coming towards her. The lights slow down, then a horn beeps.

  Helen shifts into first gear, presses at the accelerator and drives off, waving her hand up in the air in apology to the driver behind.

  She thinks back through the night as she drives in no particular direction at all; back to when she bluffed her way into Terenure Garda station to meet with Charlie; to when she took him to the Red Cow Luas HQ to view CCTV footage; to when she went to Patrick Tobin’s house; to when she went to Brother Fitzpatrick’s local pub and ordered him outside. Twice. To when she splashed his face with water. Twice. To when she confronted Tommy Smith in the snooker hall; to when she pinned poor Charlie up against the shop shutters and bullied him into lying to his SI; to when she sat on his desk and gripped onto his car keys; to ramming that car up the back of a Land Rover; to entering the house of an innocent school girl and telling her mother she was there to save her from killing herself.

  She stops the car near the canal, its lights reflecting off the calm water. She’s often thought about ending her own life. She wanted to do it straight after hearing of Scott’s suicide. It was Cyril who woke her and Eddie up one Monday morning, just gone four a.m.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Cyril said. Helen knew by the look on his face that something awful had happened. ‘It’s Scott, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Scott! Scott!’ she yelled up the stairs.

  ‘He’s not up there,’ Cyril said approaching her slowly. He threw his arms around her, hugged her as firmly as he could. ‘He’s dead, Helen. Him and two friends. They took their own lives. I’m so sorry.’

  She’s replaying that moment now as she stares out of the windscreen and almost feels tempted to press down on the accelerator, drive straight into the canal. The car would probably take about twenty minutes to sink fully under the water. Two minutes after that she’d be gasping for breath.

  ‘That’d be a fuckin stupid way to do it,’ she mumbles to herself. ‘Horrible. At least Scott and his mates did it quick. They were breathing in fresh air one second, the next they were gone. Forever.’

  She sighs, then presses the balls of her palms into her eye sockets and wiggles her wrists.

  ‘Wake the fuck up, Helen,’ she says. ‘Think. Think!’

  She switches off the ignition, kills the lights that were shining onto the canal’s ripples and then pulls at the lever beside her chair, so that it flicks backwards, allowing her to slouch into a lying position. Then she begins to suck on her lips; a tic she always produces when she’s floating deep into her mind.

  ‘It’s so quiet,’ she says, leaning up to peer out the windows. ‘It wouldn’t be this quiet if Alan Keating was up to something. If he’s pulled something off, there’d be sirens all over this neck of the woods. Think, Helen. Come on. Think for fuck sake!’

  She shakes her head with frustration, clenching her hands into a ball.

  ‘Uuugh, what am I doing?’ she says, pressing at the lever beside her seat again and pumping it back to an upright position.
‘There can’t be two girls out there… there just can’t be. Why did Tommy Smith run away? It doesn’t make sense. Does it? Come on, Scott. You’re the only one who can tell me. Please. Give me a sign. Give me a sign, son.’

  Her jaw drops open when she feels her phone vibrating in her pocket. She reaches for it, stares at the screen and notices a strange number. Her finger is trembling as she presses at the green button; almost as if she thinks Scott will be on the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello,’ she says tentatively.

  ‘Helen,’ a familiar voice says.

  She sits upright.

  ‘Charlie… is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Helen. Listen… we’ve just had a phone call made to the station a couple minutes ago. I thought the right thing to do was to ring you as soon as I heard.’

  23:50

  Ciara

  Ingrid tilts my head up so she can look at my face. I think she felt one of my tears when she was running her fingers through my hair. I smile up at her, then shift to sit more upright, resting my ear on to her shoulder. Neither of us says anything; we just stare out the front window.

  I wonder what she’s thinking about. Probably her parents and Sven. Why wouldn’t she? She’s going to miss them. And they’re going to miss her. They’re worth thinking about. Not like my family. I’m not going to miss one thing about my parents. I know they’re the reason my head is so messed up. They shouldn’t have had me. They clearly didn’t want me. That’s why I’m depressed. It’s why my mam sits at the kitchen island every evening drinking wine and why my dad never comes home. None of us like being with each other. All of us are trying to escape in some way; him by working as much as he can, her by getting drunk. And me. By dying. At least I have the courage to end it all and get away from my crap life. Not like them. Chickens.

  Won’t be long till we get to our stop. Ten minutes or so. I knew it’d be around midnight when we finally did it. Me and Ingrid talked all of this through. It’ll be over in the blink of an eye. No pain. No suffering. Then somebody will find our bodies. They’ll ring the police. The police will ring our parents. There’ll be lots of crying; lots of drama. It’s the thoughts of that drama that drives me to suicide more than anything. They’ll deserve all the pain they’ll feel when they’re told the news.

  I let out a sigh, then lift my head off Ingrid’s shoulder and wipe at both of my eyes. I’m really tired. Though it doesn’t matter. I’m almost asleep forever. The whole weight of tiredness that being depressed brings will no longer bother me; the whole stresses in school about being the short fat one will no longer bother me; the pressure of passing exams will no longer bother me; being lonely in my own home will no longer bother me.

  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.