‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Students? Which students?’
‘That’s what we need to find out,’ Charlie says.
‘Brother, we need you to look at this image and tell us if you know who this boy is,’ Helen clicks her fingers as she’s finishing her sentence. But when she looks at Charlie, she notices he has missed his cue again. He fumbles into his pocket, grabs his phone and thumbs through the screen until he comes to the fuzzy CCTV image.
Helen takes the phone from him and stretches it towards Fitzpatrick’s face.
Fitzpatrick squints, then blinks, before moving even closer to the phone and blinking again.
‘Shurr what am I looking at here? I just see black and white,’ he says, his glazed eyes narrowing.
Helen peers around at the phone, then points her finger at the screen.
‘This, here… this boy… can you make out the face? Do you know who he is?’
Fitzpatrick blinks some more, then falters his step backwards, so that he’s leaning against the wall again.
Helen puffs out a sigh and hands the phone back to Charlie.
‘Back in a sec,’ she says. She opens the door to the bar and holds up her hand.
‘Pint of tap water, please. Cold… lots of ice.’
The barman grabs at a glass, then turns to the tap.
‘Actually, make it two glasses,’ Helen says.
‘Brother Fitzpatrick okay?’ the barman asks.
‘He will be in a minute.’
The barman shovels ice cubes into both glasses, then hands them over to Helen who mutters a ‘thanks’ before storming back outside.
‘Brother Fitzpatrick?’ she says approaching him quickly. When he looks up at her, she flings her wrist, drenching his face.
‘Sweet Jesus, Mary and—’
‘Joseph,’ Helen says, finishing his blessing for him. ‘Here’s another glass, Brother Fitzpatrick; drink it up, sober up and take another look at this image. Two of your students are in grave danger and the clock is ticking. There’s no time for messing about.’
Fitzpatrick swipes at his face, removing as much water as he can. Then he holds out his hand, takes the full pint glass from Helen and swigs on it, slowly at first, then gulping until the ice rattles back into the glass.
‘Now let’s try again, Brother,’ Helen says, clicking her fingers. Charlie reads her cue this time. ‘I need you to look closely at this image and tell me if you know the boy in it.’
Charlie stretches the phone towards Fitzpatrick who wipes at his eyebrows before inching his nose closer. Then he begins to nod his head very slowly.
‘Yeah. I know him. He’s one of ours,’ he says. ‘Tommy Smith. He has some funny nickname they all call him… can’t quite remember it. All the boys have weird nicknames. But yeah… that’s definitely him. Little Tommy Smith. He lives in one of those bungalows up at the Harold’s Cross Bridge.’
21:20
Ingrid
I push my finger into the corner of my eye to try to stop a tear from falling out.
Harriet kneels down, wraps her arms around me and I lean my ear on the top of her head, looking up at Ciara. She widens her eyes. I know she’s feeling scared; scared that I will say too much and let Harriet change my mind.
‘Boys are feckin’ eejits,’ Harriet says into my chest. She pulls away from me and looks into my eyes. ‘Honestly, don’t let this little fecker bring you down. You’re better than that.’
She’s right. I am better than that. I know I am. It’s just… nobody else does; certainly nobody at school. And nobody at home. They all treat me as if I’m a bother to them. Or I certainly feel as if I am a bother to them. The only people who have ever treated me as I should be treated are in this little bedroom right now. These two and Miss Moriarty… that’s it. One friend. One cousin. One old teacher. I realised this morning as I was lying on my bed just how sad that is.
‘Y’know what I’ve been thinking about lately?’ Harriet says, getting to her feet before she plonks down on to the bed, pushing herself back so she’s lying, her legs hanging off the edge. ‘Girls don’t need boys; women don’t need men. They just don’t understand us. Never will. Besides, what the hell do boys offer the world anyway? We’re the ones who do everything. We do all the housework, all the cooking, all the… we give birth. A man can’t give birth, can he? All he can do is offer sperm and sure d’ye know what I read in a book once? There’s loads of sperm stored in hospitals and stuff, so much so that men are useless to women. The world doesn’t need ’em anymore.’
She twists the back of her neck, so that she can look up at us. I don’t like the word sperm. It sounds horrible.
‘Lie down, girls, let me tell yis something.’
I push out my bum, then lay my back down so that I’m lying in between Harriet and Ciara; all of us gripping our hands behind our heads and staring up at the cool posters on Harriet’s ceiling. Moseley Shoals the one I’m staring at reads. Whatever the hell that means. I just know that it’s cool. It must be if Harriet likes it.
‘With me and Conor, even though it was me who dumped him, it still hurts me a lot. I’m not really sleeping that well at night; find meself thinking about him all the time. But I’ll get over it. I know I will. Because the books I read… they tell me that I don’t need a boy to make me happy. Here…’ she says, stretching her arm towards her windowsill. She grabs one of the books and then lays it on my stomach. ‘Backlash it’s called,’ she says. ‘Give it a good read. S’all about how women are going to take over the world. Feminism… ye know what that means?’
She lies back down after asking this, back in to the same position she was in seconds ago; her legs dangling, her fingers gripped behind her head.
‘About female-something?’ Ciara says, leaning up on her elbows.
‘Yep,’ Harriet replies. ‘All about how women are better than men and that, y’know, we don’t need them. Feminism… the movement for women to become king.’
‘Cool,’ I say, before turning my face to look at Ciara. She raises an eyebrow, then shrugs her shoulder. I turn my face, so I’m staring at the posters again. ‘You’re into the coolest stuff, Harriet,’ I say. ‘Wish I could be more like you.’
Harriet laughs out through her nose.
‘No you don’t. Jaysus, I wish I was like you. Any idea how much the boys are gonna be swarming over you when you’re older? You’re gonna be a model, just like yer mam.’
Ciara sits up.
‘But sure, what’s the advantage of being pretty and getting all the men if we don’t need men?’ she says.
That’s actually a good question.
Harriet tilts her neck so she can stretch her eyes to meet ours.
‘Exactly,’ she says.
Ciara stares down at me, her eyebrow raised again. I don’t think she’s getting what Harriet is trying to say. I’m not sure I get it either.
‘Ah, you’re too intelligent for us two, Harriet,’ I say.
‘You’ll understand when you’re older. Read these kinda books. They’ll open your eyes.’ She pats the book that’s lying on my stomach.
So I pull myself up to a seating position and look at the front cover.
‘Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women… hmmm,’ I say and then I begin to flick through it. It’s a long book. Very long. And the writing is really small in it. I can’t imagine I’d ever read a book like this.
‘The first chapter is called ‘Blame it on Feminism,’ I say. ‘What’s that mean…? I thought you said feminism was a good thing?’
‘Huh?’ Harriet says, sitting up. She takes the book from me and begins to read through the chapter. ‘Ah… it’s just some women think the feminism movement goes too far.’ Then she hands me the book again and lies back down. ‘It’s a warzone out there,’ she says. ‘But the truth is, we have to be strong. Everyone has to be strong. Especially women, though. Men have ruled the world for far too long and all they want from us is food and sex.’
I turn my face
to look at Ciara again. She squidges up her nose. And so do I. I always feel uneasy when the word sex comes up.
‘Sorry,’ Harriet says. ‘Some of the subject might be a little… what’s-the-word… mature for your age. But the sooner you learn all about this stuff, the stronger you’ll become. Do ye think you need that… strength?’ she asks.
I look over at her. She’s just staring up at the ceiling, waiting on my answer.
‘I’d love more strength,’ I say. I feel Ciara nudging me in the back but I ignore it. ‘How do I get more strength?’ I ask.
Harriet stretches her neck again to look up at me.
‘Read that book… and all these kinda books,’ she says nodding her head towards her windowsill. ‘They’ll help you understand what life is all about. And how you’ll find that the small things such as some little tosser calling you Fishfingers is so insignificant.’
I sit up straighter and run my finger down the front cover of the book. That’s interesting. If reading this book means it won’t hurt me anymore when somebody calls me Fishfingers surely I should just try to read it.
‘Do you wanna take that one home with you?’ Harriet asks.
I sniff through my nose, then find myself nodding my head.
‘Yeah… yes. I’d love to. Thanks, Harriet.’
21:25
Harriet
I stare up at my crappy posters, my hands creating a little pillow for the back of my head.
‘You’re into the coolest stuff, Harriet,’ Ingrid says. Jaysus. Cool? Me? If only. ‘Wish I could be more like you.’
I laugh.
‘No you don’t. Jaysus, I wish I was like you,’ I say. ‘Any idea how much the boys are gonna be swarming over you when you’re older? You’re gonna be a model, just like yer ma.’
Ingrid isn’t gorgeous yet. She’s pretty, definitely. But it’s so obvious that she will be stunning when she grows up. When she grows into her nose, when she develops her body shape, when her eyebrows thicken. Every bloke in school will regret the day they didn’t find her attractive. Whoever this Stitch guy is; he’s gonna be pulling the mickey off himself thinking about Ingrid in a few years’ time. And he won’t be able to touch her. She’ll be way out of his league by then.
‘But sure, what’s the advantage of being pretty and getting all the men if we don’t need men?’ Ciara asks me.
I look back her.
‘Exactly,’ I say. My answer doesn’t mean anything. But I hope it’s enough to shut her up. I don’t need her testing me on my beliefs. Because I don’t even know what my beliefs are. I’m a bullshitter. Always have been. If I’m good at anything — and I’m not good at much — it’s pretending I’m somebody I’m not. I constantly bluff. Constantly make up who I am. What I stand for. I try to be cool. But there’s absolutely feck all cool about me. These books… these posters… my nose ring… my clothes… my CD collection…. it’s all bollocks. I’ve never even listened to a full Oasis album in my life. I don’t even know who Kurt Cobain is. Give me a Take That record any day of the week. But Jesus, I wouldn’t let anyone know that’s the kinda stuff I’m into. These posters, this whole room. It’s just for show. It’s just all about a person I want to be seen to be. It’s not me.
‘Ah — you’re too intelligent for us two, Harriet,’ Ingrid says.
‘You’ll understand when you’re older. Read these kinda books. They’ll open your eyes,’ I lie, patting at the book I placed on her stomach. I’ve no idea what’s inside that book. Never read it. Never read any of em.
She sits up and begins to run her finger down the front cover. It’ll be fine if she asks me questions. Bullshitting to my little cousin is easy. It’s the bullshitting to my mates that’s difficult. I’m always paranoid that they’ll see right through me; that they know I don’t really know what feminism means, that they’ll know I couldn’t tell the difference between Liam Gallagher and Noel Gallagher if they were stood right in front of me.
‘The first chapter is called ‘Blame it on Feminism,’ Ingrid says. ‘What’s that mean…? I thought you said feminism was a good thing?’
‘Huh?’ I say before swallowing hard. I sit up and stare at her eyes. It’s always best to hold somebody’s eyes when you are bluffing. I take the book from her. ‘Ah… it’s just that some women think the feminism movement goes too far,’ I lie, then hand her the book back. ‘It’s a warzone out there. But the truth is, we have to be strong. Everyone has to be strong. Especially women, though. Men have ruled the world for far too long and all they want from us is food and sex.’
Shit. Maybe mentioning sex to my thirteen-year-old cousin wasn’t cool. Jaysus, Aunt Greta would kill me if she knew I was talking about sex with her precious little Ingrid.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Some of the subject might be a little… what’s-the-word… mature for your age. But the sooner you learn all about this stuff, the stronger you’ll become. Do ye think you need that… strength?’ I ask. It’s a genuine question. Jees, I’d kill somebody for more strength. I’m so weak. Bizarrely weak. Always have been. People think I’m strong because I took over all of the women duties in the house after my mam died. All of our family and the neighbours kept telling me how strong I was. They’d no idea I was crying my little heart out every night. Still do sometimes. Have been for the past couple weeks since Conor dumped me. Fucker was seeing somebody else behind my back. I miss him like crazy.
‘I’d love more strength,’ Ingrid says. ‘How do I get more strength?’
Jesus, Ingrid, I wish I knew.
‘Read that book… and all these kinda books,’ I say tilting my head towards my windowsill. ‘They’ll help you understand what life is all about. And how you’ll find that the small things in life such as some little tosser calling you Fishfingers is so insignificant.’
That’s actually not bad advice. Jaysus, if only I could listen to my own advice.
Ingrid sits up. I think she’s intrigued by the book. I must be selling it well; even though I don’t even understand what the title of that one means exactly.
‘Do you wanna take that home with you?’ I ask her.
‘Yeah… yes. I’d love to. Thanks, Harriet.’
‘No bother,’ I say. And then I continue to stare up at these old posters on my ceiling. I get them out of Rolling Stone magazine. Seven quid every month that bastarding magazine costs me — just so I can continue to lie to everybody that that’s the sort of shit I’m into. I don’t know why I plaster my walls and ceiling in these posters, nobody really comes up to my room anymore anyway.
‘Have you decided if you’re going to college?’ Ingrid asks.
Yep. I have decided. And no I’m not going. Can’t afford to.
‘Yeah… thinking about doing a course in music in Ballyfermot College. Supposed to be a really cool course there.’
I don’t know why I’ve lied about that. She’ll find out soon enough that I’m not going to college; that I’ve taken a shitty shelf-stacking job in the local supermarket for the summer. I just need to keep up the pretence that I’m cool; to Ingrid more than anyone. She looks up to me. It’s nice to have somebody look up to you.
I’d love to go to college. But we need money coming into the house. Dad hasn’t worked for years… over a decade. Not since mam died. He’s on benefits. It’s all we have to live on. Which is why paying seven quid on Rolling fucking Stone magazine every month makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. I’m a fuckin loser. Always have been.
‘Yeah — you should totally study music,’ Ingrid says. ‘That’d be so cool. Everything you do is cool.’
Charlie has the engine revving, the blue lights flashing and his finger resting on the switch to start the siren’s wail by the time Helen has hobbled into the car. She started sprinting, as soon as she got the name of the boy from Brother Fitzpatrick but waned before she had even reached the laneway. From there, she slowed down — into a jog, then a trot — before she finally huffed and puffed herself into Charlie’s passenger seat.
‘Jesus; I’m wrecked,’ Helen says, leaning her head back on the rest.
Charlie smiles on one side of his face then nudges the car into gear and speeds off.
‘You’re doing great, Detective,’ he says. ‘You were so right in thinking we should go to the local Headteacher first. That was genius investigating. Course the Headteacher would know all of the teenagers in the area.’
Helen nods.
‘Wonder if the others have found out the name yet?’ she says.
Charlie stares over at her as he nudges the stick into fifth gear, the car now speeding.
‘Huh?’
‘The others; the other dicks… Detectives. I wonder if they’ve managed to get the name yet… Tommy Smith.’
‘Oh… yeah, lemme ring that in, in case we’re ahead of them,’ Charlie says.
He reaches for his car’s radio but before he can lift the receiver, Helen’s hand is on top of his.
‘Let’s look after our investigation first,’ she says. ‘We’ll pass on all of our information once we’ve caught up with this fella.’
Charlie’s eyes narrow, the nub of his nose so pronounced that it forms into a perfect square.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah… if they get to him before us, we’ll never get a chance to speak to him. They’ll be questioning him all about Keating. They’ll take the wrong path. We need to get to him first and find out the name of these two girls without playing games with him. We’ll pass the other dicks on any information we get after we’ve caught up with Smith first.’
She turns her face, to gauge Charlie’s reaction. But he remains motionless and expressionless, his foot heavy on the pedal.
‘Trust me,’ she says, touching his shoulder.
‘They might be ahead of us already, Helen,’ Charlie says.
‘Hopefully not.’
They both stretch their necks when they pull into the bungalows, on the lookout for any other blue flashing lights ahead.
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 61