The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley (10 page)

12:20 p.m.

W
ith all of the problems I had on my mind, it was a blessing to have been able to put the Hayes predicament into check and refreshing not to have been morally compromised by the circumstances. To choose between the Hayeses having their already upside-down world turned inside out and being able to bury their son and grieve normally was no choice at all. We'd prevented a disaster, enabled the proper path of grief, and saved a man's livelihood in the bargain. But Dermot Hayes's coffin wasn't in the ground yet.

I had promised to get over to Brigid Wright to pick up her parents' clothes, but the Cullens and Hayeses had kept me from her. And now I'd Kershaw to assuage before I could do anything.

I opened the Hayes sheet in the comfort of the middle office and dialed Kershaw's number. He answered it himself after one ring.

“Hello, Kershaw's?” He was a little less frantic but no less relaxed, and still drunk.

“Derek, it's Paddy Buckley here.”

“Yes?”

“You're clear, as long as you don't mind sending out that other crowd the wrong ashes.”

“. . . What?”

“I've convinced the Hayes family to have a closed-coffin funeral. Now, as it stands here, Christy Boylan and I are the only ones who know about it, is it still yourself and your son who know about it at your end?”

“Yes, yes, it is, oh, my God . . . how did you . . . thank you . . . thank you . . .” Kershaw was overwhelmed with relief.

The door opened and in popped Christy, pointing out front urgently.

“Vincent Cullen's standing out there with two of his men.”

“Listen, Derek, I've another family here, I've got to go. Remember, not a word to anyone. Good luck.”

I put the phone down and exhaled. I'd planned on getting up to Brigid Wright before dealing with Cullen, but I could scratch that now. She'd have to wait.

I checked myself for the fear. The experience with the Hayeses had given me some of my confidence back, and getting the all clear on Lucy Wright's postmortem had also given me a boost. Even still, I'd be better equipped to deal with Cullen if I could get out of my skin again. But I'd no time to try that. I had to meet him in the flesh.

Vincent Cullen stood in front of the main desk, wearing an overcoat like his brother's, while Sean Scully and Richie flanked him.

“Mr. Cullen,” I said as I approached them, noticing that the menace I'd seen earlier on was largely absent now, replaced by an unexpected warmth that seemed to be directed at me.

“Nobody calls me Mr. Cullen, Paddy. It's Vincent.”

“Vincent,” I said, never happier to be on first-name terms with anyone. “Come and I'll show you the coffins.”

Leaving his men behind, Vincent followed me out past the back office into the selection room where the range of coffins and caskets were mounted and on display. He walked up and down each line of coffins, considering each one as if he were a furniture critic, and then stopped at the most expensive casket in the room.

“You had a situation in here a while back, a few lads in trying to scam Gallagher's son,” he said, letting the words hang in the room. Then I saw him smile for the first time. “I heard you sorted it out fairly nicely.”

I had no clue where he'd been getting his information from, but whoever had filled him in had done a top-class job.

“It's true,” I said, wondering what else he knew.

He turned to the oak casket.

“This Irish?”

“Yes, it is, down from County Louth. Solid oak,” I said.

“That's the one then, in the mahogany. Now show me the parlor,” he said, walking out of the room ahead of me.

While Vincent looked over the front parlor, I sat down on the couch to take down the remaining details I needed.

“Vincent, did you think about transport on the removal and funeral?”

Vincent continued to face the painting on the wall he was inspecting, depicting fishermen at sea at night dealing with a violent storm.

“Five limousines for both days,” he said, moving on to take a closer look at a marble-topped table.

“And what about clothes, do you want Donal dressed in a suit?”

“Yeah, call by in the morning and I'll have it ready for you.” He was back on the move again, only now his focus was on me.

“I've a question for you now,” he said, placing his right foot up on the bier in the center of the room. I looked up from the arrangement sheet to see him no longer smiling.

“You were in An Capall Dubh last night, weren't you?”

I got flashes of being in his study with him earlier, awash with fear.

“Yeah, I was,” I said.

“Didn't see any strangers there, did you, maybe someone who looked out of place?”

The memories rushed at me: the old guys at the bar; Gerry pulling pints; the crunching thump of Donal hitting the windscreen.

“No. Just the usual crowd, you know.”

Vincent sat himself down beside me on the couch, taking up more than his fair share of space, stretching his arm so it reached around my shoulder and crossing his legs in such a way that his foot leaned against my shin. I tried to remain calm, but I was unnerved by how close he was to me.

“And what time did you leave at?” he said softly.

“Jesus, you've got me thinking now,” I said. “What time would it have been? It must have been about half nine or ten.”

“And straight home to bed then, yeah?” said Vincent, almost whispering, well aware of how close he was to me.

“. . . Yeah, I went home then,” I said hesitantly.

“Good,” said Vincent, and he smiled again before rising to his feet.

“I hear you've got a syndicate going here,” he said. If it had been anyone else, I would have shown my astonishment and asked how they knew, but this was Vincent Cullen. If he'd told me my wife's maiden name at this stage I wouldn't have been surprised.

“Yeah,” I said. “We like to keep an eye on the horses.”

“Well, I'll give you a winner you won't need your pals for. Liberty Girl, running down the Curragh on Saturday week, a rank outsider.”

The extent of the U-turn was profound and unexpected, considering my earlier performance with him. Still, I was intrigued to know who he'd talked to.

“Liberty Girl, thank you.”

Vincent smiled magnanimously. I appreciated the spirit of the gesture; it wasn't every day I got a tip like that. I walked out ahead of him into the front office only to see Frank entering the office from the corridor.

“Paddy.” He smiled regretfully. “I heard about the flat tire.”

I was taken off guard. “Huh?”

“Three o'clock this morning after the bring-back . . .”

Vincent appeared behind me, making Frank instantly raise his hand in apology.

“Oh, I didn't realize you were with Mr. Cullen, I beg your pardon,” said Frank, and he continued on towards Corrine's desk.

I turned around to face Vincent, whose eyes were darkening with anger.

“What's this about three o'clock this morning?” he said evenly.

“Just part of the job. I didn't want to bother you with details of other funerals—it's something I never do. I had to bring a remains back from a nursing home last night, a call that came in well after hours, and when I got back, I had a flat.”

Every word I'd just told him was true and I knew he could feel it.

“That Merc yours?” he said.

“No, it's Frank Gallagher's.”

“What do you drive?”

“A Renault Clio,” I said, deadpan.

“Out in the yard, is it?”

“It is, yeah.”

The change in Vincent hadn't been picked up by Corrine or Frank, but his men were watching us like a couple of surveillance cameras. No doubt they were well used to the implications of such a shift in their boss's behavior. I wasn't used to the silent staring games, but neither was I nervous because I knew I'd been truthful with him except for the omission of details of the bring-back, which I believed he appreciated.

“I'll be on to you,” said Vincent, before turning and walking out the front door, his men following after him.

Frank looked up from his desk. “Well?”

“A hearse and five for removal and funeral, and a mahogany casket.”

“Excellent,” he said.

2:15 p.m.

I
'd been through half the coffins in the loft by the time Jack wandered up, and I still hadn't found a casket for the Cullen job. Ninety-odd percent of the funerals we did were furnished with coffins rather than caskets, the latter being significantly more expensive, but we still stocked them. And I couldn't find one anywhere. Of all the funerals I'd ever looked after, there was none I could less afford to balls up than Cullen's.

“Are you looking for a flat-lid for that houser?” said Jack.

“No,” I said, “a mahogany casket for Cullen.”

“You won't find a mahogany casket up here,” said Jack. “The last one went out in August.”

“Don't tell me that, Jack.”

“We've oak caskets, there's one up in the selection room, but no mahoganies.”

I pulled out my phone and sat down by the workbench, in need of a very good turn. I punched in the numbers and waited.

“Hello, Conway's,” said a deep male voice in a County Louth accent.

“Liam, it's Paddy Buckley here from Gallagher's.”

“What can I do for you, Paddy?”

“Sorry to be asking you at this stage of the day, Liam, but I've a big favor to ask.”

“What do you need?”

“A mahogany casket.”

“Today?”

“Today.”

“Out of the question. I'll be heading across to the UK early Friday morning with a load, I could drop one into you then.”

“Nah, it's today I need it . . .”

“Sorry, Paddy, not happening.”

“It's for Vincent Cullen's brother,” I said, knowing well the effect it would have.

Silence of the golden kind.

“Why didn't you tell me it was for Cullen in the first place, you prick?” said Liam. “I'll be down this evening with it.”

“Thanks, Liam. See you later.” I might as well have said
abracadabra
.

I pulled out my smokes and mused on the black-and-white nude on the wardrobe, her Rubenesque figure and comely smile the antidote to many an ail. But not mine. Here I was, up in the loft with Jack, whose sole noble concern was tacking a crucifix and nameplate onto old Harry's coffin, while my own mind was filled with maintaining deceptions. Brigid Wright was still waiting for me, I knew, and I felt a growing reluctance to go out to her. I was out of the woods with her mother's autopsy; she'd never be made to suffer the truth now of Lucy's far from romantic exit. Yet still I faltered. I was attracted to Brigid, deeply attracted to her, but I knew I wouldn't be able to pour out to her what she'd stirred inside me. However attractive she was, I could never build something special on foundations of duplicity.

And on top of that, as well as my second meeting with Cullen had gone, I still felt a burning need to confess to Christy what I'd done.

“Jack, can you do something for me?”

“Sure,” said Jack, ever willing to help anyone out.

“I have to go up to Walkinstown to see the Hayes family. Could you head around to Pembroke Lane and pick clothes up for me?”

“Certainly,” said Jack. “Now?”

“If you can, Jack, yeah. They're for Michael and Lucy Wright. Their daughter will be there. Tell her I'll see her when I bring their remains out this evening at half six or so.”

When Jack had started in the yard, I'd given him enough money to get him going in the syndicate, and no matter how many times I told him to, he never forgot it, claiming me afterwards as his number one ally. He rubbed his hands together as if relishing the task.

“I'll leave them in the embalming room for you,” he said.

—

CHRISTY WAS SO NERVOUS
he was chewing the inside of his bottom lip. The Hayeses agreeing to a closed coffin had sent him into a terribly stressed state, and he wouldn't be able to sit still till the grave was filled in. As Christy saw it, I was the cause of his trouble. I'd shifted the blame from Kershaw to ourselves and, in doing so, had gone against the grain and raised Christy's blood pressure considerably. He gripped the wheel tightly as we drove up Windmill Road. Never a better time to take his mind off it.

“I've something I'm going to tell you, and when I say you have to keep this to yourself, I mean you can never tell another soul, all right?”

“Right,” said Christy.

“I knocked Donal Cullen down last night and killed him.”

Christy stayed looking at the road ahead while a sarcastic curl took hold of his mouth.

“You're in flying form, Buckley. It's lovely to see you back in the game, but I've had enough of your bollocks for one day.”

I turned around in my seat.

“Christy, I'm serious. After you left me last night, I headed home through Kilmainham, and when I drove down James's Street, I hit him.”

“Fuck off,” said Christy, not having a bit of it.

“Christy, I'm deadly fucking serious. Look at me,” I said. He turned his head briefly to smile at me then turned back to the road.

“You won't get me, Paddy, no matter how hard you try, so give it up, I'm not buying it.”

“I didn't have my lights on, and I was shattered tired. I was tuning the radio; I'd taken my eyes off the road . . . I didn't even see him.”

“You've put some thought into it anyway, fair play to you, but fuck right off, Buckley, you're beginning to annoy me.”

With Christy in this mood, there was no talking to him. I'd have to take another tack.

—

OF GALLAGHER'S
six premises, the funeral home in Walkinstown was the busiest. Purpose-built in the seventies and freestanding on the corner of a busy intersection, it had become a landmark in Dublin 12 and was known to everyone within a five-mile radius as Gallagher's corner. We'd come up to make sure the Hayes coffin stayed shut and to make the family feel fussed over.

During the three days it usually takes to have an Irish funeral, a family's emotions are prone to peaking at a number of stages, and the triggers that precipitate these crescendos are well defined and known to anyone working in the trade. One of the more pronounced ones is when the coffin is removed from the funeral home or house or hospital and put in the back of the hearse and taken to the church. When the coffin is open with the family sitting around the parlor and the undertaker comes in to tell them it's time to go, knowing that this is the last time they'll ever see their loved one, the emotional upheaval that follows can be quite upsetting to witness, never mind experience. And it's not unusual for family members of an emotionally delicate disposition to throw their arms around their loved one, sometimes even trying to pull them out of the coffin, often screaming proclamations of undying love, unbreakable bonds, and intentions of following soon after.

The danger with the Hayeses was that at the last minute, if the father was momentarily absent, the mother or one of the sons or daughters would get their way and have the coffin opened. Usually we stayed out of the parlor to give the family as much privacy as possible, but on this occasion, we stayed at the back of the room for the duration of the family's time in the funeral home. To my relief and particularly to Christy's, not a word was said to us, and old Mr. Hayes's order went unchallenged.

We were due at the Assumption church in Walkinstown at five o'clock. At five minutes to the hour, we carried the coffin out of the parlor and placed it in the back of the hearse, Christy visibly relaxing as he firmly shut the back door and knocked on the side of the hearse to send it on its way. The Hayes family, tucked in the back of their limousines, was ferried down to the church behind the hearse. Their focus was safely on their grief and the coming prayers, well away now from the fact that they were denied their open-coffined farewell.

—

I'D TOLD CHRISTY
I needed to pick something up at home, knowing full well there was nothing else I could say to him that would convince him of my guilt. He pulled up outside my house.

“Come in for a minute, I've something I want to show you.”

“Buckley, if this is more of your messing—”

“Christy, I want to
show
you something . . . all right?”

Reluctantly, he gave in to the sense being made to him.

“Fair enough,” he said.

I led him in through the kitchen and down the step into the darkened garage, and turned on the light. There was my Camry. If he'd seen a child getting shot beside him, it could hardly have had a more profound effect on Christy's composure. He winced as he slowly placed one hand on his belly and the other to his mouth. The shattered windscreen sparkled like a thousand diamonds in front of us, and the bonnet was even more crumpled than I remembered. Christy just looked at me, bereft of anything to say. All he could do was look increasingly pained.

“I didn't see him. I didn't even brake till after I'd hit him,” I said.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Christy, saying each syllable with whispered emphasis. “Did you stop?”

“Of course I did. I got out and leaned down over him to see was he breathing, but he was gone. He died instantly, I'd say. I took out his wallet, which was hanging out of his coat, and it was then I saw his name. Now there was no way I was hanging around there—”

“Fuck no,” said Christy emphatically.

“For what, a slow death? Accident or no accident, Cullen would have me killed. No thanks. I got back in my car, left the lights off, and came back here. And I didn't sleep a wink. Not a wink.”

“And nobody saw you?”

“I don't think so. I looked around and the street looked as dead as he was. When I was nearly out of sight, somebody rushed out of a building to his side, but he couldn't have seen me or got the reg.”

“Holy fucking Mary,” Christy said to the car. “And what about Cullen, how are you getting on with him?”

There was a part of me that wanted to tell Christy about my Independent Channel 24 experience. My father had taught only me about it, and I'd never shared my knowledge of it with anyone. Even though it had taken up quite a bit of the last twelve hours and had in some ways been my saving grace, telling Christy about it now, on top of what he was already struggling under, would be unfair and unnecessary.

“Started off shaky when I went up to the house. Man, was I scared in there, but then when he came down to the yard, he was all over me, like best buddies. I don't think he knows, though.”

“Paddy, you wouldn't be standing here talking to me if the man knew. But if you get as much as a dirty look, skate the fuck out of town immediately.”

“I already got one.”

“What?”

“Frank nearly let it out earlier on,” I said.

“Does Frank know?”

“No, he doesn't, but he came into the front office talking about me getting that flat at three in the morning after me telling Cullen that I went straight home after the pub . . . and Cullen overheard it.”

“So what you tell Cullen?”

“I told him it was part of the job and I didn't want to bring him in on other funerals I was looking after.”

“Did you tell him you were in the pub?”

“No, he told me, that's what has me shaking. The fucker knows everything.”

Christy's shock was now replaced by deep concern.

“You should never have made those arrangements, Paddy. What possessed you to go up?”

“I don't know, Frank insisted on it, and I felt strange this morning, and numb, so numb I couldn't feel a thing, so I just went up. I was getting on grand till I spotted his dog at the end of the room, and whatever that did to me, it put an end to my numbness. All I could feel then was panic and fear.”

“Fear of the dog?”

“No, of Cullen and the other guy in the room, Sean Scully, who were both playing silent staring games, and I had this notion that I couldn't shake that Cullen somehow knew that I'd killed his brother and was about to tell me . . . it was terrible, my whole body was trembling and I was sweating like a horse.”

“Paddy, call in sick, that's what you do, I'll look after the rest of it for you.”

It was comforting to have Christy's understanding and concern, but that's all he or anyone else could give me.

“No, he'd seek me out, I know he would. And this is where he'd come to,” I said, indicating the car. “I've no choice but to see it through.”

Christy's eyes widened behind his glasses as it sunk in that this wasn't a family like the Hayeses, whose trusting nature could be manipulated. We were dealing with the violent world of Vincent Cullen and the terrifying and bloody implications of such a man's vengeance.

“I'm shoulder to shoulder with you, Paddy,” he said.