‘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.
‘Here, calm down and let’s talk,’ I say.
She eyeballs me and lets an awkward silence settle between us before she accepts the glass, nodding her head as she does so.
‘Thanks.’
I take her by the elbow and lead her to the kitchen island.
‘Greta, the police won’t be able to do anything. The girls have been missing for what… a few hours? Don’t they have to be missing for, like, twenty-four hours at least before the police will get involved?’
She sits, takes her first sip of my Merlot, her hand a little shaky, and then nods her head.
‘Suppose you
’re right. I’m being a bit over-dramatic, aren’t I? That’s not like me.’
Yeah right that’s not like you.
I just smile back at her.
‘Nice house you have. You used your kitchen space really well. I keep saying to Terry that we should put a skylight in ours… you can’t beat a bit of natural light.’
I look up through our skylight, into the black sky.
‘I didn’t even ask Michael for permission,’ I say. ‘I just got it done, gave the builder Michael’s bank account details.’
Greta pushes out a small laugh. She seems to have relaxed. Wine works wonders.
‘Where is Michael?’ she asks, looking around herself.
I push out a huff.
‘In work, probably.’
‘On a Sunday night?’
I sip from my glass.
‘He never stops. He’s in that office more than he is here.’
She takes a fistful of that beautiful golden hair she has and tugs it over her shoulder, then rings her fingers through it.
‘I think we might share ambitious husbands as well as troublesome thirteen-year-old daughters,’ she says.
As I stare at her playing with her hair, I remember the amount of times Ciara came home to say that the Murphys would like to invite us to their house for dinner.
‘Yeah… we’ve probably loads in common. We should — for the sake of our girls — get to know each other a bit more,’ I say.
‘That’d be nice.’
The kitchen falls silent. Seems as if we’ve run out of things to say already. I lick at my teeth, a habit I have when I drink red wine because I hate the thought of my teeth staining, and then refill my glass. I don’t bother offering more to Greta; she’s barely touched what I’ve given her already.
‘Sorry,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I hate to bring it back up, but I just can’t understand why they’d run away from Brendan if he was giving them a lift home. It keeps coming into my head. I can’t relax.’
She stands up. And so do I.
‘There’s not much we can do; let’s just wait here until they come home.’
‘We could go out and look for them,’ she says.
I look down at my slippers.
‘Let’s think it through. Who else might know where they are? Do you know of any boys they hang around with at school?’ I ask.
Greta puffs out her cheeks, then shakes her head again.
‘No… jee. I thought they didn’t have any other friends, never mind boyfriends. I thought Ciara and Ingrid were just two peas in a pod.’ She looks up at me, her eyes widening. ‘Do you know if they have any other friends?’
I scoff. Then tug at my ear. Jesus. I don’t know anything about Ciara really. It’s just… it’s just so boring, parenting, isn’t it? I haven’t enjoyed any stage of it. I’m not quite sure what I would get out of questioning my daughter. It holds no interest to me. Not that I’d ever say that out loud.
‘No, sorry. Same as you. I thought they were just two peas in a pod myself. Ingrid is the only friend Ciara’s ever had. Well… apart from Debbie.’
Greta’s head cocks up again.
‘Debbie. The girl who minded Ciara for years right?’
‘Uh-huh,’ I say before taking another sip.
‘Think they might have called out to her house tonight?’
I shake my head as I swallow.
‘Course not, why would they do that?’
‘Well,’ Greta says, standing a little taller, ‘I’m wondering why they called out to Ingrid’s cousin. I know it’s late… but maybe you should ring Debbie. See if she’s heard anything from the girls.’
I sigh and hold my eyes closed for a couple seconds longer than I probably should.
‘Really?’ I say when I reopen them.
‘Please.’ Her hands are clasped, her eyes sad. I feel sorry for her.
So I place my wine back on to the island and shuffle my way to the phone.
Fitzpatrick has slumped back into a seating position on the stairs — his head in his hands — by the time Helen has hung up the call. She drops the piece of paper he had handed to her minutes ago with Abigail’s number on it and then spins on her heels to head out the door. But she stops, turns again, takes two steps towards Fitzpatrick and leans over him.
‘You better hope I catch up with these two girls before it’s too late, Brother.’ She breathes heavily at him, giving herself a moment to think of what to say next. ‘Bloody drinking so much when you have such an important job to look after young people. How dare you. I bet… I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re somehow responsible for these girls suffering with depression. I know you’ve got dark secrets — and I’m going to find out what they are. I’ll be back, Brother Fitzpatrick… and I’ll find out just what exactly it is you wanted to apologise for.’
Fitzpatrick takes his hands from his face and sits into a more upright position just as Helen is pulling at his front door.
‘It’s not that bad!’ he shouts after her as she storms down his narrow pathway, towards the Garda car she stole half-an-hour ago. ‘It was only a few quid I stole from the school funds. I’ll pay it back. I swear.’
Helen doesn’t bother to look back at him. She’s fully focused on saving these two girls. She got names, got addresses — all from Abigail — and is intent on being their hero; the hero she failed to be for Scott.
She speeds off from outside Brother Fitzpatrick’s house, noticing curtains twitching in a couple neighbours’ windows as she does so. By the time she’s at the end of the road, she switches the sirens on, the sound blaring, the lights flashing.
‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’ she instructs the car, tapping her palms against the steering wheel.
She dips her head slightly, to see the digital clock on the dashboard. 23:36. Then she smiles.
‘You’re gonna do this, Helen. You’re gonna catch them. You’re gonna save them. You’re gonna save yourself. By the time the morning comes around, nobody will be bothered that you stuck your nose in, nobody will be bothered that you stole a police car. They’ll be lauding you, offering you your old job back. Eddie might even ask you to help him run the station. Just as you and he planned when you first joined the force and fell in love.’
She eyeballs herself in the rear-view mirror, the grin widening across her face.
Two girls. Both thirteen. Both being bullied at school. Both have parents who don’t give a shit. The information Abigail gave her over the phone wasn’t surprising — not to Helen. She’d been researching teen suicides for over twenty years. Is obsessed with the subject. Boys are more likely to commit suicide, though not until they’re in their twenties. That’s when they realise they haven’t met the expectations society has placed on them. They become disillusioned, begin to compare themselves to their peers — believing everyone else’s bullshit — then they top themselves because they’re confused and too proud to speak out about how they feel. Girls on the other hand are much more mature than boys from an early age. They realise as early as their teens that they might not be meeting expectations placed on them. They look to their peers, especially the popular ones, and feel mightily inadequate. Whereas males are most likely to end their own lives in their mid-twenties, females are more likely to want to do it in their mid teens. Though, fortunately, they’re less brave than the opposite sex; less likely to carry out a suicide attempt to full fruition.
But it seems — to Helen — that these two girls are beyond that. They’re not looking for attention. They want to do this. They’re going to end their lives tonight. They’ve made a pact; just like Scott and his friends did twenty-two years ago. And they’re not going to change their minds.
Helen knows all of this information from studying statistics released by the National Suicide Research Foundation every year; has noted the rapid increase in numbers across both genders with every report that gets published. Each year she tuts as she reads the latest figures, and on each occasion she thinks to herself ‘
if only I could have talked to one of them before they did it, it might make up for me losing Scott.’ That’s why her adrenaline is rising now; she is certain that tonight is the night — is adamant she’s finally gonna save, not one, but two teenagers from doing exactly what Scott and his friends did.
She screeches the car on to the canal road, swerving around those who have pulled in to let her pass; her heart racing as quickly as the speedometer, her mind flashing forward to tomorrow when she will receive plaudits of heroism from all around her.
Then her eyes blink back to the present. But it’s too late.
Her car comes to a sudden stop, crashing into the back of the Land Rover in front of her. She jerks forward, then back in her seat.
‘Ah for fuck sake!’ she yells, yanking at her door handle. She gets out, at the same time a middle-aged man gets out of the Land Rover.
‘Jesus, did you not hear my siren?’ she says.
The man holds both of his palms up towards her.
‘I did, officer, I was trying to pull over, you just came too fast… way too fast.’
They meet where their cars met, and both bend down to survey the damage.
‘It’s not too bad, the man says… your car took the brunt of it. These things,’ he says patting at the wheel arch of his Land Rover, ‘can take a bashing.’
‘You really need to be more careful when you hear emergency services on the roads,’ Helen scoffs. The man stands back up straight, stares at her, his eyes squinting.
‘You okay?’ he says. ‘You didn’t hit your head, did you?’
Helen tuts.
‘I’d feel better if you moved your bloody car so I can get on with my job.’
The man swivels his head, taking in the two pedestrians who have ran towards them.
‘Don’t we need to swap insurance details or whatev—’
‘Contact Terenure Garda station tomorrow, we’ll sort it out then,’ Helen says as she strides away from him
The Tick-Tock Trilogy Box Set Page 70