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

  ‘Well…’ Helen says. ‘How did your SI take the news?’

  ‘He eh… well, he’s not happy. They’re on their way here now to try and catch up with him. I’ve to get back to the station. Back to my desk. I’ll be dealt with in the morning.’

  ‘But sure, you were just doing your job. They gave you the job of looking into the calls as if they were legit—’

  ‘Helen!’ Charlie snaps, his voice filled with frustration.

  Helen shuts up, folds her arms, the leather of her coat squeaking as she does so.

  ‘I’m never gonna be a Detective, am I?’ Charlie says.

  ‘Course you will. They’ll keep you on. Just tell them this was all my fault. My husband is the SI in Rathmines Station. I’ll see to it that you’re looked aft—’

  ‘No, Helen,’ he says, turning to her. ‘I mean… I don’t have the bloody skills to be a Detective, do I? I don’t have the instincts, don’t have the—’

  ‘You do… you do,’ Helen says, reaching a hand towards his shoulder.

  Charlie laughs out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘I don’t though, do I? You walked right up to my desk about three hours ago, told me you were helping me out with this investigation, brought me to the tram station, to view CCTV footage at the Red Cow, to question two bloody Headteachers…’

  ‘Yeah — you’ve done a good job with me.’

  ‘Listen,’ Charlie snaps. ‘All that chasing around with you and y’know what? I never even asked you the first question I should have asked you when I first met you.’

  Helen narrows her eyes, then shakes her head at Charlie.

  ‘What question?’ she asks.

  ‘I should have asked you to show me your Detective badge, shouldn’t I?’

  Helen laughs.

  ‘I’m serious, Helen — if that even is your name. Show me your badge.’

  22:45

  Ciara

  Bleedin’ hell. Ingrid wants to go back and say goodbye to her mam and dad all over again. Jaysus. Last night she was all talk about staying at home to say a final goodbye to our families. Now she wants to go back to do it all again. Maybe she doesn’t want to go through with this. Maybe she’s not ready.

  I place my hands either side of her face again and stare into her eyes. I want to sound gentle.

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘Do you want to go home and say another goodbye to your mum? If you do, we can delay this a little bit…’

  She sucks in a breath, then shakes her head.

  ‘Nah. Let’s just say goodbye to Miss Moriarty, then we can just get this over with.’

  I nod my head slowly and wrap my arms around her; squeezing her in for another hug.

  ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ I whisper to her. ‘If you keep changing your mind and going back and forth about all this, you’ll just end up sad for years like me. The sadness never stops. It just keeps coming and going and coming and going. And every time it comes back, it feels worse. We’re nearly there, okay? A quick goodbye to Miss, then we’ll stop this pain forever.’

  She squeezes me even tighter and when we finally release I can see the sadness has gone out of her eyes. That sort of half smile is back on her lips. Same sort of look she gave me last night when we wrote this pact.

  I squint through the darkness of the side window, to try to make out where we are. Can’t see anything. So I stand up, walk slowly up the aisle and look out the front windscreen.

  ‘Almost at our stop, Ingrid,’ I say, strolling back to her. ‘I don’t know the door number, but I’ll know the house when I see it. It’s only a couple minutes’ walk from the stop.’

  ‘Can’t wait to see her face when she answers the door,’ Ingrid says.

  ‘Me neither.’

  We’ve both been back to our primary school twice since we graduated last June. Miss Moriarty was delighted when we visited. I’m not sure how she’ll feel about us knocking at her house late on a Sunday night though. But I’m pretty sure she won’t mind. We agreed last night that we’d just tell her we were in the area and thought it’d be rude to walk by her home without calling in to say hello. She’ll have no idea we’re actually calling in to say goodbye.

  She was our teacher for two years in primary school. We had her when we were in fourth class and then again in sixth — our last year in primary. She really cared about us; about our learning, about our lives. I remember her telling me once that me and Ingrid were really lucky to have each other. She’s not wrong there. The teachers we have now in secondary school wouldn’t even know me and Ingrid are best mates. That’s the difference. They don’t look up from their desks. They’re only interested in doing their lessons; they’re not interested in knowing the students. I’m not sure any of them will actually be upset one little bit when they hear the news in the morning. I’d bet any money that the most asked question in the staff room will be ‘which two are they?’ But Miss Moriarty, well… she will be sad. She loved us; cared about us. I wish, so much, that she was a teacher in our secondary school. That’d probably save our lives.

  ‘C’mon,’ Ingrid says, getting up from her seat. She stabs her finger at the small bell on the back of the seat and I follow her as she stumbles her way towards the driver.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says to him when he pulls over.

  ‘You get home safe now, girls,’ he says. Then he pushes at a button that closes his doors and leaves us standing on the pavement. It’s starting to get really cold now.

  ‘This way,’ I say, wrapping my arm around Ingrid’s shoulders.

  I lead her around a corner just off the main Crumlin Road, and towards Miss Moriarty’s little cul de sac.

  Miss had told us she lived in Crumlin when she was our teacher. I managed to find the exact address when I was flicking through some paperwork in the Headteacher’s office sometime last year. I visited the street and stood outside her house for ages one day. I didn’t knock or anything. I just thought it was cool that I knew where my teacher lived. Her house isn’t as big as ours. Which is a bit weird. Surely teachers should be paid a lot more than anyone else? My dad runs a company that sells boring insurance. And he’s loaded. All Ingrid’s dad does is talk on the radio for three hours every morning. How the hell are they rich and Miss Moriarty isn’t?

  ‘It’s this one here,’ I say, pointing towards Miss’ front door.

  We walk towards the garden gate and then stop outside it.

  ‘Okay,’ Ingrid says to me. ‘We just say we were in the area visiting a friend and that we felt it was rude to walk by Miss Moriarty’s house without knocking in to say hello, right?’

  I nod my head.

  ‘Yup. You first,’ I say, pushing the gate open.

  Ingrid takes two steps into her garden and then lifts and drops her crooked letterbox a few times. Within seconds the door is opened.

  ‘Yes?’ a man says.

  ‘Oh,’ Ingrid says turning to me. ‘We eh… we thought our old teacher Miss Moriarty lived here.’

  The man scratches at his head, then turns over his wrist so he can look at his watch.

  ‘Brigid,’ he calls out over his shoulder. ‘There are two young girls here to see you.’

  22:55

  Ingrid

  I can see Miss walking down the stairs. She’s wearing a bathrobe and her hair is all wet.

  ‘Hey, you two,’ she says, smiling, ‘what are you doing here?’

  I laugh a bit awkwardly, then stand aside, leaving Ciara to do the lying.

  ‘We eh… we were visiting a friend around the corner and thought it would be rude to walk by our favourite teacher’s house without knocking in to say hello… so eh… hello.’ Ciara waves. And I laugh. Awkwardly again.

  Miss Moriarty looks a little lost for words. She doesn’t say anything; she just stands there, combing her fingers through her wet hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss. Have we come at a bad time?’ I ask.

  ‘Not at all. I’m just out of the shower… was going to dry myself off
and get into bed. It’s eh… it’s late… what time is it?’

  ‘Almost eleven,’ a voice from inside the house calls out. It must be the man who answered the door to us. I wonder who he is. She’s not married. Her name is Miss Moriarty. Not Missus Moriarty.

  ‘Eh… well, come in,’ she says standing aside and pulling the door a little wider for us.

  We step into a square hallway that’s no bigger than the welcome mat we have in ours. ‘How did you girls know where I lived?’

  ‘We eh… we’ve always known. Somebody pointed it out to us once,’ Ciara says. She lies so quickly. I’d be still scratching my head if it was up to me to answer that question.

  ‘We won’t keep you long, Miss,’ I say and then I lean into her and hug her. I miss Miss Moriarty so much.

  ‘Oh, Ingrid,’ she says, hugging me back. Then she reaches one hand towards Ciara and drags her in to our little huddle. This is what teachers should do; hug their students, care for them. The teachers we have now barely even know our names.

  ‘Let me get the two of you a quick drink. Squash?’

  Me and Ciara look at each other, then both nod at the same time.

  ‘Thanks, Miss,’ Ciara says.

  ‘Hey, you don’t have to call me Miss… it’s Brigid, now that you’re no longer students of mine.’

  She waves her hand to make sure we follow her into the kitchen and then she begins to pour us both a raspberry Ribena.

  ‘So, how you getting on in secondary school?’ she asks.

  Me and Ciara look at each other again.

  ‘Not great,’ I say.

  Miss squints her eyes at me as she hands us our drinks.

  ‘What do you mean “not great”?’

  ‘Well… well…’ I stumble, fidgeting with my fingers.

  ‘The teachers barely know who we are,’ Ciara says. ‘It’s not like primary school where you’re with the same teacher all day. We change classrooms every forty minutes and… I don’t know. It’s just hard.’

  ‘Oh… everybody says that about secondary school when they start,’ Miss Moriarty says. ‘You’ll get used to it. It’s only been… what’s-it?’

  ‘Eight months and two weeks,’ Ciara says.

  Miss Moriarty smiles.

  ‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘It’s nothing. By next year you’ll be used to it. Don’t worry. It’ll get better.’

  Ciara looks at me. I decide to just drink from my glass while staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to be a secondary school teacher?’ Ciara asks, looking back at Miss Moriarty. ‘You’d be great at it — and you could join our school. Be our teacher forever.’

  Miss smiles again.

  ‘Oh you’re so sweet, you two.’

  She runs her hand through her wet hair again. I don’t think she likes us being here. We called at a bad time. Her conversations are very short. She’s definitely not her usual self.

  ‘Who… eh…’ Ciara says, looking back over her shoulder. ‘Who was the man who opened the door for us?’

  ‘Ciara!’ I say. She can be so rude sometimes.

  ‘It’s fine, Ingrid,’ Miss says, ‘that’s Jamie. He’s my partner. My boyfriend.’

  ‘Didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Miss,’ I say.

  She smiles again. I miss that smile so much.

  ‘I don’t tell my students everything,’ she says, patting the top of my head. ‘C’mon, come with me.’

  She leads us out of her tiny kitchen, into another room.

  ‘Jamie, these are two of my former students: Ingrid Murphy and Ciara Joyce.’ Jamie stands up and reaches up his palm for us to high five. ‘Ingrid is Terry Murphy’s daughter.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Jamie says, ‘Brigid told me she had taught Terry Murphy’s daughter before. How is your old man?’

  I shrug my shoulder.

  ‘Fine… I think,’ I say and then everyone laughs a little. ‘He eh… works a lot, I don’t think I get to see as much of him as most people get to see their dads.’

  Jamie and Miss look at each other and then Miss turns to us.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she says. All four of us sit in their small sitting room, the tele turned off, just a lamp in the far corner on. The chat goes silent; nobody quite sure what to say.

  Then Ciara taps me on the hip. I look at her and see that her eyes have gone really wide. She’s trying to mouth something to me. I’ve no idea what she wants to say. So I shake my head and squint my eyes at her.

  ‘What?’ I whisper.

  She locks her fingers together, holds them out in front of her and tries to mumble something between her teeth.

  What the hell is she trying to tell me?

  ◈

  Charlie’s hands are gripped to the top of the steering wheel, his head hanging between his elbows.

  ‘There’s no need to be that upset with yourself,’ Helen says. ‘I used to be a Detective. I was a Detective for five years before… before…’ she swallows. ‘Before my life got turned upside down. After Scott’s suicide I just… I couldn’t continue working. I was in and out of therapy, in and out of hospital…’ She looks over at Charlie. He still hasn’t lifted his head. ‘I do work at Rathmines Garda station. As I said, my husband runs the shop. He saw to it that I was taken back on in some capacity.’

  She hears a puff, the first noise Charlie has made since Helen admitted she wasn’t who or what he believed she was.

  ‘In what capacity?’ he asks, peeling his back up vertebrae by vertebrae until he’s sitting upright.

  Helen sucks air in through the gaps of her teeth.

  ‘I do admin work.’

  Charlie puffs a darting laugh out of his nostrils as Helen reels backwards in embarrassment.

  ‘Listen, just… just drop me back at your station,’ she says, her face reddening. ‘My car’s there. Please.’

  Charlie looks at her, then back out through his front windscreen before he turns the key in the ignition.

  ‘Admin work,’ he whispers to himself, shaking his head.

  He drives in silence, Helen now the one hanging her head; her fingers forming a diamond shape on her lap.

  ‘I’ll take the blame for everything. My husband will understand. I’ll be able to talk him around,’ she says.

  Charlie makes a clicking sound with his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry you lost your son,’ he says. ‘And I get it… why you… why you were trying to track down these two girls. Suicide. It can’t be… it can’t be easy to deal with.’

  Helen purses her lips at him.

  ‘It never leaves you,’ she says as she stares back out the window at nothing in particular. ‘I didn’t have one darn clue. Not one clue he was gonna do it. Him and his friends. I guess they were just depressed. But I didn’t see one sign of depression in Scott. Not one bloody sign of it. I know he wasn’t the best kid in the world. His teachers used to say he could get distracted at school. But at home he was just… just normal. A normal teenager. It’s one hell of a body blow to lose your son. But to lose him to suicide… well… the worst thing is I still don’t know why they did it. What I wouldn’t give to know what happened that night. You know what my husband says to me all the time… he says “you never will know”. Imagine having to deal with that your whole life?’

  She holds her hand to her face, her shoulders shaking. Charlie reaches a hand over to her, gives her shoulder a light squeeze. She’d already informed him how her husband has dealt with the reality of Scott’s suicide compared to her. It was just as gut wrenching for Charlie to hear the second time around.

  ‘Don’t cry, Helen,’ he says.

  She waves him away. But he keeps his hand on her shoulder, only taking it off every now and then to change gear as he navigates all the way back to the station; not a further word passed between them.

  It’s always eaten at Helen that she will never know what happened to her son and his two friends the night they decided to end it all. She’s tried her best to get to the bottom of i
t. She discussed it with the other two sets of parents. None of them could come up with answers. One of them blamed Scott… argued that he must have orchestrated it all. The frustration of never knowing what happened has always prolonged Helen’s grief. She believes — and has done for a long time — that only a new life in Canada will ever ease her depression.

  When Charlie kills the engine outside Terenure Garda station, he waits on Helen to lift her head, but she doesn’t move.

  ‘Well I guess it was an adventure at least, huh?’ Charlie says, allowing a little laugh to sniff its way out of his mouth. But his joke hasn’t hit its audience.

  ‘Helen,’ he says. ‘We’re here.’

  She wipes her hand over her face, then leans her head back on to the rest.

  ‘I need to take a leak,’ she says. ‘Where are the toilets in there?’

  Charlie cocks his head while taking the keys from the ignition.

  ‘C’mon, I’ll show you.’

  They stroll solemnly across the tiny car park and then into the front desk of the station.

  ‘Charlie,’ the man at the desk nods, ‘Detective.’

  Charlie looks back at Helen then twists his face into an awkward smile.

  ‘Through here,’ he says to Helen, pushing at a door. ‘The Ladies is in the corner.’

  Helen smiles with her eyes at Charlie, then holds her arms out.

  ‘You’re right, Charlie. It has been an adventure. It was… it was good to investigate with you. You’re gonna make a helluva Detective one day. I’m sure of it.’

  Charlie raises his eyebrow as he leans in to accept Helen’s hug.

  ‘I’ll see ye around, Helen.’

  He releases and then turns away, swirling his key ring around his finger as he makes his way back to the desk Helen first met him at three hours ago. She stares at the items on his desk; it feels like a hell of a lot more than three hours since she picked each of them up and inspected them for no real reason at all.

  She strolls to the corner Charlie had pointed her towards and pushes at a door that leads into a pokey toilet with two cubicles.