Helen stands up, stares at Eddie long enough to make everybody in the office cringe a little, and then turns back around to swipe her leather coat from the back of the chair. She folds it over her arm, stares again at her husband, and then storms towards the exit.
19:25
Ingrid
I don’t want to look at them. Any of them.
Ciara hasn’t stopped talking; about her mam, about school, about me. As if her life is all rosy. It’s mad how well she’s hiding it all. Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Ciara’s always hidden her sadness well. She hid it from me for years.
‘You’re hilarious,’ my mum says, laughing at something Ciara said that I didn’t listen to because I was thinking… thinking about leaving this house for the last time ever. I’m standing in the middle of the room, staring at my shoes, making a small laughing sound every now and then just to pretend I’m listening.
‘You right then?’ Ciara says, nudging me. I stare up at her, offer my best half smile and then nod my head. I decide not to look at them. Dad won’t notice anyway, he’s too busy studying his notes.
‘Okay, you two, enjoy yourselves. And don’t come back too late, Ingrid. School in the morning,’ Mum says as she holds her hand to my shoulder. I pause, just for a second, and place my hand on top of hers. And then it’s gone. I don’t say anything. I just zip up my tracksuit top up and head towards the door, passing Sven without looking at him. We were supposed to spend our last day at home with our family. But I just stayed up in my bedroom for most of the day.
I close the door slowly, still only half-believing that I’ll never set foot back in that house again; that I’ll never see my mum. My dad. Sven. But I know deep inside my own heart that this is for the best. They don’t want a mopey, depressed teenager living with them. Once they’re over the shock, they’ll be okay. They might even be happier without me. I’m pretty sure I’m a burden to them all anyway.
‘What did you say to your parents?’ I whisper to Ciara as we walk down my garden path.
She puffs a small laugh out of her nose.
‘Nothing. My dad wasn’t in all day — surprise, surprise. My mam was… go on have a guess, where was she?’
‘Sitting at the kitchen island drinking a glass of wine.’
‘A bottle. That’s what we say, Ingrid. A bottle!’
I sniff a laugh out of my nose this time. It’s so weird knowing what we are up to and still feeling as if I want to laugh. Maybe I feel relaxed enough to laugh because I know we’ve made the right decision. Or maybe I’m laughing because I don’t think we’ll actually go through with our pact. I’ve been changing my mind all day. Though most of the time I’ve been thinking the right thing to do is to end it all. I don’t enjoy living. I really don’t. It’s my thoughts. They keep getting on top of me. Dad. Mam. Sven. Stitch. Ciara. Every time I’m alone and thinking, I realise my life is really sad. Too sad to continue with.
‘So what did you say to her?’
‘I hugged her.’
‘You wha’?’ I say, hearing the thick Dublin in my accent. I never sound thick Dublin. My family are way too posh. They kicked all of the Dublin out of me.
‘Don’t know what I was thinking. I just told her I was going to your house and she didn’t even turn around to look at me. She just threw her hand in the air and kinda waved it. Bitch. I shudda just left then and there, but I couldn’t. So I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at the back of her head as she drank her wine. Then I just ran towards her, threw my arms around her waist.’
My mouth opens. I can feel my bottom lip hang out.
‘Sure, you’re not supposed to give it away. No suspicion, that’s what we agreed to.’
‘Don’t worry. She didn’t have any suspicion. She doesn’t think about anyone but herself.’
‘What did she say when you hugged her?’
‘She gave out that I nearly spilt her wine.’
I laugh. There it is again. Me laughing… as if everything is normal.
‘Then what?’
‘I walked away from her, threw my hand in the air and waved. Two minutes later I was ringing your doorbell.’
‘You were early. Thought you were coming to change your mind.’
‘None of that!’ Ciara says, giving me an angry look. ‘We don’t talk about changing our minds. It’s part of the pact.’
I hold my hands up, purse my lips and then stop walking.
‘Ciara. I’m one hundred per cent in,’ I say. ‘I can’t… I don’t… I don’t want to live anymore. It’s… it’s…’ I shake. Not just my head, my whole body.
Ciara steps towards me, wraps both her arms around my shoulders and drags me in close. Our noses are touching. As if we’re about to kiss.
‘I know, I know,’ she says.
Of course she knows. We talked about nothing else all last night.
One thing’s for certain, Ciara won’t change her mind. She’s been suicidal a lot longer than me. In fact, I think she’s just been waiting on my sadness to catch up with hers so we could do this together. I didn’t say that to her last night. But I’ve thought about it a lot today. It doesn’t change anything, though. I think I still want to do it. I really want my mind to turn off. I know now how Ciara has been feeling for the past couple years. It’s horrible. Really, really horrible. It feels like such a heavy weight on top of your head. There’s only one way to lift that weight off. Stop the mind from working. Stop thinking altogether.
‘Ready for the last supper?’ I say.
Ciara’s eyebrows twitch. Then she laughs.
‘Been looking forward to it all day,’ she says.
She throws her arm through mine, swivelling into me and we link as we turn from Castlewood Avenue onto Rathmines’ Main Road.
‘It’s going to be really tough isn’t it?’ I say. ‘The whole saying goodbye without saying goodbye thing.’
Ciara turns to me, then shrugs her shoulder.
‘Once we know that we visited them for the last time and kinda gave them all one last hug, that’s enough. It’s why we’re doing it, isn’t it? So they know that they meant something to us. We just need to act cool, as if we’re just… y’know… dropping by. We’re the only ones who’ll know it’s our last goodbye. They won’t know a thing.’
‘Just dropping by to Miss Moriarty’s house?’ I say. Then we both laugh again. This is mad.
‘We discussed last night what we’d say at Miss Moriarty’s house. Y’know… that we happened to be in the area she lives in so thought we’d knock on her door.’
I poke out my chin.
‘Guess so,’ I say. ‘Gonna miss her the most probably.’
‘Yeah, I kinda love Miss Moriarty. That’s why she’s on our list of last goodbyes though, isn’t it? I’ll miss either her or Debbie the most. Or you.’
We stop walking to stare at each other and hold hands. Both of them. I can feel tears come up behind my eyes. I’ve no idea if Ciara is feeling the same. She doesn’t cry. Ever. I’ve done enough crying for both of us over the years.
‘I’m gonna miss you too. So much.’
Then we hug. Really tightly. I know we’ll hug again before we finally do it. But this feels quite final. We’ve been walking and talking for ten minutes now. Neither of us are backing out. Neither of us have let the day change our minds. This hug tells us everything. We’re both ready for this. Our pact won’t be broken.
‘Tell ye what I’m also gonna really miss,’ Ciara says.
I laugh before I answer. Because I know the answer.
‘Macari’s chilli chips.’
She drags me in close, kisses my forehead and spins me so that we’re both linking each other again. Then we head straight towards the chipper; towards our last supper.
19:35
Greta
‘That was weird.’
‘What was, love?’ he says, squinting over his glasses at me.
‘They’re up to something.’
‘Who, love?’<
br />
‘What d’ye mean who? Those two. Ingrid and Ciara.’
He just pushes back his glasses on the bridge of his nose and looks back down at his paperwork. Course he does.
I sit back in to the sofa, pick up the wafer I’d left on the side table and lick at a melting drop of ice cream as I sink into my thoughts.
‘She couldn’t look at us going out that door. Lying, she is. Saying she’s going over to Ciara’s house.’
Terry looks over the rim of his glasses at me again, then back down at his notes.
It’s not like Ingrid to lie. I knew she would eventually. I guess turning thirteen is the ideal time for little girls to start lying to their parents. I used to lie to my parents all the time as a teen. Couldn’t let them know I was off doing modelling shoots. They’d have killed me. Swedish households are much stricter than here in Ireland. Certainly much more strict than our house. Terry’s way too laid back as a father. Especially in comparison to mine. Even had he known I’d grow up to be a successful model, my father still wouldn’t have let me do the shoots back then. He was way too conservative.
That could be what Ingrid’s doing. Modelling shoots. Same lie as I had when I was a teenager. She certainly has the looks for it. Not sure why Ciara’d be going along though. Maybe for some moral support.
Nah.
That can’t be it. I bet they have boyfriends. It’s probably boyfriends. Ingrid would be starting to attract boys now. They’d love her long golden hair and golden eyebrows. She certainly got a lot more of my Swedish genes than the Irish genes of her father. Both our kids did. Sven’s hair is practically snow white.
I wonder if Ciara’s got a boyfriend too. I love Ciara. She’s a great character and I’m delighted Ingrid has such a close bond with a girl who only lives down the end of our avenue, but she’s not the prettiest. She’s slightly overweight and I’m not sure the sharp bob haircut does much to hide that. If anything, it makes her face look even plumper.
‘Bet it’s boyfriends,’ I say, before licking at my ice cream again.
Terry stares over the rim of his glasses.
‘Better fuckin not be,’ he says. That’s about the extent of his parenting. Laying down the odd opinion without so much as doing anything about it. I guess he’s used to it; giving opinions and then doing sweet fuck all about them. It’s what he does for a living.
‘Who’s on the show tomorrow?’ I ask.
He removes his glasses this time. That’s the only way I can ever get real engagement from him; ask him about his job.
‘We’ve got the transport minister on. Have to try and catch him out over these plans for the M50 upgrade,’ he says.
‘No better man,’ I reply, then take another lick.
‘Yeah — I want to get him to admit live on air that he’s blown the budget, that he’s overspent. Just trying to think of the best way to go about it.’
I’m not really that interested. Terry thinks he has the most important job in the world. So I play along. Would never admit that I don’t think he’s as much of a major player in society as he thinks he is. I used to love that he was a famous broadcaster. If he wasn’t, we never would have bumped into each other. We met at the Eurovision Song contest in Sweden seventeen years ago. He was doing a backstage broadcast for RTE. I was there as a guest of the promoters. Jaysus, I used to be on the guest list for everything back then. I don’t miss it. Not really.
Terry’s still talking interview tactics with me when I tune back into his words. When he stops talking, I nod my head.
‘Yeah good idea,’ I say.
That usually works; telling him that his plans are A-Okay.
I twist my neck and look over my shoulder at Sven playing with his action figures on the floor. Where else would he be?
‘Ten more minutes, Sven,’ I say to him. He doesn’t look around. Poor thing. I don’t know what he hears and what he doesn’t hear. I’ve researched his condition so many times but still can’t find definite answers to the questions I need answering.
‘Do you hear me, Sven? Ten more minutes.’
Nothing.
So I lick my ice cream again and think about my daughter. I wonder who her boyfriend is. She was at a birthday party last night. I bet she met somebody. That’s why they’re snooping around. Ah, sure I shouldn’t be worrying. I’ll leave them to it. Didn’t we all snoop around at that age?
Helen drums her thumbs repeatedly on the top of the steering wheel any time she’s impatient. Which is somewhere close to always when she’s driving. She automatically hates the stranger in the car in front of her, no matter who they are. She’ll find a reason readily; perhaps because they’re driving too slow, or maybe they forgot to indicate properly at a roundabout. Sometimes she’ll decide to hate them simply because she doesn’t like the colour of their car. No matter the reason, if you happen to be driving in front of Helen Brennan, you’re bound to hear her car horn blast every couple minutes.
‘Fuck sake,’ she mutters under her breath as she stops at another red light. She picks up her handbag, roots inside and pulls out a small tub. She’s staring up at the Rathmines Clock Tower, snarling at it as she always does, as she tries to pop open the lid. But the light turns green before she can, so she just throws the tub back into her bag, the pills rattling, and then steps on the accelerator. She wheel spins the car, turns on to the canal road and makes her way to Terenure Garda Station.
She’s still mumbling to herself in frustration when she steps out and paces — in her own unique robotic way — to the entrance, not hiding the sigh she produces when she steps inside to see a young woman struggling to contain her two children at the front desk. The young woman’s trying to get information on a boyfriend. Something about a raid at their flat this morning and his subsequent “unfair” arrest.
Helen shuffles her feet from side to side, her attempt to get the attention of the officer dealing with the woman — and her two snotty little brats.
One of the kids turns around, drops his bottom lip open when he stares at the vision behind him. Helen sure does look intimidating to a child. To anyone really. Her upright posture makes her stand out, but more so because she always tries to hide it under a long leather overcoat. The coat falls all the way down to her ankles; just her red Converse sneakers on show under it today. And her hair doesn’t help blend her into the crowd either. She doesn’t have the patience to allow her brown hair dye to soak into her greying strands for the full hour as is recommended on the bottle. It means her short bob is a streaky shade of rusty oranges.
She stares back at the kid, his face smudged with stickiness, and then scoffs.
‘Sorry,’ she says eventually, taking one large stride forward. ‘I’m Helen Brennan; Detective from Rathmines Garda station,’ she lies. ‘I’m here to talk with the Detective looking into the phone call that was made about two eh…’ she stops herself, looks at the young woman and her two snotty little brats, then leans forward to the officer behind the desk and whispers, ‘the eh… hoax suicide call.’
The officer raises his eyebrow.
‘Let me buzz you through, Detective Brennan,’ he says, reaching under his desk. Helen hears the double doors to her left release and then pushes through them without even turning to thank the officer who opened them for her.
When she steps inside, she gasps. Terenure Garda station is a helluva lot more modern than Rathmines. Rathmines has barely changed in the thirty-seven years she’s known it. Aside from maybe the office chairs. They needed to be updated to comply with modern health and safety requirements a few years ago, but the desks are still the same old-school oak desks she sat at on her very first day.
Here, though — in Terenure — the desks are a modern white. As are the walls. They look as if they’ve just been painted. She can’t remember the last time anyone painted the walls at Rathmines Garda station. They’re supposed to be magnolia, but time has turned them dirty yellow.
She stops a young plain-clothed officer who was about to w
alk past by holding up a hand.
‘Detective Helen Brennan from Rathmines,’ she lies again. ‘I need to speak with the Detective who’s looking into the two girls reported to be planning suicide tonight.’
‘The hoax call?’ the woman says.
‘No, well… I want to find the Detective looking into the two girls. As if the call is legitimate.’
‘Oh,’ the young woman says, tugging at her ear. ‘It’s not a Detective looking into that. This is definitely a hoax call. So eh… Charlie, I think… yeah Charlie Guilfoyle is taking care of that.’
Helen raises both eyebrows and then shrugs her shoulders.
‘Who?’ she says.
‘Oh, he’s eh…’ the woman looks around the room. ‘That guy there; the spikey hair.’
‘The uniform?’ Helen says, all high-pitched.
The woman huffs out a small snigger as she nods her head, then walks on.
Helen sucks her lips, making a pop sound before she strides towards the spikey hair. She can’t believe her eyes as she nears; the face below the spikes is way too fresh. Way too young. There isn’t a trace of even light stubble on it. Plenty of acne, but no hair.
‘Charlie Guilfoyle,’ she says standing over him. ’I’m Detective Helen Brennan from Rathmines Garda station. Believe you are looking into the phone call.’
Charlie swallows a lump down his throat when he sees the woman hovering behind him, then he coughs into his hand.
‘Yeah… well, kinda… yeah.’
‘Kind of?’ Helen hisses.
‘Well, I’m just, well eh…’ he looks down at his lap, then back up, ‘all the intel leads us to believe this is a hoax call, right? Alan Keating.’
‘Intel?’ Helen says, nodding her head sarcastically.
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 51