The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley (16 page)

8:45 p.m.

D
onal Cullen had spared no expense when creating his office and the corridor outside it on the top floor of the brothel. The tiles were marble, the chandeliers were Venetian glass, and the chairs in the corridor were like thrones, which made Geno smile as he sat on the one closest to Vincent's office waiting to be brought inside. It felt as if he'd inherited the club after Donal relinquished his crown, and that very soon the keys to the kingdom would be in his hands. Since Monday night, Geno's fantasies had extended beyond the realm of the sexual to the loftiest notions he'd ever held. Finally, thanks to his good memory, his patience and cunning were paying off. He'd been waiting there a while—
To show me who's boss,
he thought to himself. He'd no problem with Vincent being boss. Geno knew well he was no leader. He saw himself more as an adviser who'd get pleasure vicariously by watching Vincent implement his ideas, and that was fine. That'd be perfect. For now.

He was more relaxed now than earlier with Sean. He was over the initial rush of excitement. He'd tempered it with his resolve and ambition, and was perfectly happy to wait until midnight if they wanted to keep him that long. The way Geno saw it, his destiny had arrived, and he'd greet it with a steady nerve.

The door was opened by Sean.

“Come in.”

He walked into the office to see Vincent sitting over the side of the desk with a chair right up close to his knee.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing his finger briefly at the chair. Geno sat down and placed his hands on his knees. The only light on in the room was the desk lamp, and it was shining right into Geno's face. Vincent looked into Geno's real eye, seeing past the sham warmth to the deviant at the wheel. Vincent had never liked Geno from the start, but the club was Donal's baby and Donal had recruited him, so he hadn't argued with his brother. Ordinarily, if Vincent didn't like someone, they didn't get in. It was as simple as that. But Donal had assured him that Geno had the smarts he was looking for as well as the experience, and as it was turning out, it looked as if Donal's judgment was bang on. If Geno could successfully finger the killer, then maybe he was up to more than Vincent had given him credit for.

Vincent lowered his head slightly to look deeper into Geno's eye like he was viewing the contents of the man's memory, and then turned his focus to the suit. He rubbed his hand over it as if he were caressing the neck of a racehorse and then gently stroked the side of Geno's face like he was going to kiss him. Geno looked back as neutrally as he could. Sean stood against the wall, chewing gum, observing it all coldly.

“Tell me,” said Vincent.

Because of Vincent's elevated position, Geno had to crane his neck to look up at him.

“It was the undertaker.”

“What?” said Sean, like he was hearing nonsense. Geno looked from Vincent to Sean and back to Vincent.

“It's him, I guarantee it.”

“Which undertaker, Gene?” said Vincent.

“The hearse driver, the one who cleared the room.”

“Buckley?” said Sean, no nearer to believing him.

“I'm telling you,” said Geno. “I never forget a face.”

“When you talked to me on Monday night, you told me you didn't see his face,” said Vincent.

“I know. I saw the back of his head and only the very side of his face, but this evening when I was in the church, I saw him wheeling up the coffin from the same angle and I'm telling you, he's your man. Hair like a badger. Follow it up, I've never been more sure of anything.”

Vincent looked at Geno a few moments longer, checking for any cracks of doubt on his face. It was the first time since Donal had died that he'd felt his brother's presence, to the point where it felt like he was standing right beside him. Maybe Donal was reaching out somehow, using Geno to point to his killer. Vincent imagined his brother smiling at him with a sleepy knowing wink as he'd always done when he'd delivered the goods.

“All right, Gene,” he said. “Leave us.”

Geno got up from his chair and left the room while Sean smiled disbelievingly with his arms folded. “Paddy Buckley?”

Vincent's expression hadn't changed from the moment Geno had come in, save for his eyes, which had got blacker. He moved away from the desk, put his hands in his pockets, and walked a few slow steps before stopping in the middle of the room, thinking all the while of Paddy's panicky state on Tuesday morning and of the way he lied to him that afternoon about what time he'd gone home on Monday night.

“He did it,” Vincent said.

Sean looked at the floor searchingly, trying to find the sense in it.

“Paddy fucking Buckley,” he said beneath his breath, increasingly dumbfounded.

“Will I go up and get him?”

“No. As far as that pox bottle's concerned, we haven't a clue what's going on. And for the moment, that's the way it's to stay. But as soon as Donal is buried, bring that spineless fuck in to me.”

Sean just nodded while continuing to look at the floor, quietly seething that he'd been fooled by Paddy Buckley.

10:50 p.m.

T
he tears had stopped, and although there were undoubtedly many more in store, they'd been replaced by a mutual desire for us to be close to each other. After sharing more stories and pints together in our snug, we walked back to Pembroke Lane under the dripping maple trees in a Dublin that had just turned decidedly colder. But I was oblivious to the perils that awaited me, perfectly content in the coziness of the present and the warm possibilities it had to offer.

Armed with a bottle of red wine, Brigid led the way across the back garden to her father's loft studio that was his refuge and sanctuary when he'd been active. She had told me that he'd disappear up there for months sometimes to get lost in his work, and that on occasion, he'd cut himself off from the world for significantly longer periods, only emerging for alcohol, tobacco, and painting supplies.

It didn't look like much from the outside: darkly stained wooden walls around what appeared to be a dust-filled garage. But once we'd shifted through the cluttered entrance, past an old MGB roadster and a collection of ladders and tools, we climbed the steps to the loft. I could see why her father considered it his sanctuary. From the moment I set foot in it I didn't want to leave. It was like the attic of his mind manifested in a studio space. It was an old building, maybe a hundred years old, and the loft itself was bigger than I'd expected. There were wooden beams protruding from the ceiling. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with books and sculptures. There were paintings hung on the little spaces of wall remaining, and others leaning against the bookshelves or stacked together, and more again sitting on easels. There was a futon covered with a bloodred blanket and a little fireplace on the back brick wall beside a bureau with a wooden swivel chair. And probably what made it most special was the window, which took up a whole wall and looked out onto the rooftops and chimneys of Wellington Road, illuminated this evening by street light and a waning moon.

Brigid leaned down by the fireplace where a little turf fire had been prepared and struck a match to it.

“My father always left the fire ready to light. That must be like that five years.”

“The smell of a turf fire,” I said.

Brigid smiled. “He was from Mayo and grew up with a fire constantly burning in the house. I remember him driving to the west with a trailer and returning with it piled high with turf every September.”

She straightened up and opened the bottle of wine as the smoke climbed the chimney.

“It's the first time I've got any real sense of your father,” I said. “Your mother's so special, I imagined that your father played second fiddle to her.”

“My father was the artist,” said Brigid, filling two glasses. “Don't get me wrong, my mother's art is first-rate, but she wasn't as prolific as my father. I always thought of my mother more as a work of art herself, even though she unequivocally was an artist—some of her paintings make me cry, they're so loaded. My father's art is more serious, I suppose; there are deep-seated themes behind each painting. He drew heavily from myth and archetype, from the works of Jung and Campbell, even from fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales?”

“Yeah, the feminine mysteries of life and death; the masculine mysteries of wounding and growth.” She handed me a glass of pinot noir and moved to the paintings leaning against the bookshelf and leaned down to file through them, completely unaware of her allure while her attention was on the paintings. As she unconsciously pushed her hair behind her ear, my eyes traced the outline of her figure beneath the black silk of her dress tightening over her hips and thighs as she crouched.

“Here are the ones I wanted to show you,” she said, pulling out three canvases and placing them side by side against the wall. They were powerful pieces all right, each one depicting a horse.

“These were the last paintings he worked on. The three stages of man: the red horse, white horse, and black horse. Shame he didn't get to finish them.”

I could freely appreciate Brigid's beauty while she gave her attention to the art. I watched her hands as they pointed to the different aspects of the paintings, her contained passion as she explained the subtleties of each one, and how sexy her mouth was when she talked. As interested as I was in her father's paintings—and I was interested—the intimacy between us was active in the space between the words, where we were really meeting.

I put down my glass while she talked about the representations of intensity on the red horse, the engagement of the white, and the humanity of the black, and sat myself down on the floor in front of the paintings and crossed my legs. The warmth from the fire had removed the chill from the place, and the wine, which was already room temperature from being in the house, was keeping alive the little buzz we had in the snug. It had been a while since I'd been in the intimate zone emotionally, and now here I was in its cupped hands with a woman so exceptional it felt like a fantasy. The pillow talk I used to share with Eva had always been the most treasured part of my day, and its absence had made my grieving all the sharper. But now my heart had swollen for another woman, whose affection, though I suspect matched mine in intensity, I knew I wasn't entitled to. Yet who was to say you couldn't polish a tarnished gem?

Brigid pushed her shoes off with her toes and sat down opposite me on the rug so that our knees touched, and we settled into what was becoming one of our signature silences. The desire between us was center stage now and unbridled, any doubt or hesitancy was behind us, and we were safely hidden away up in the loft, beyond intrusion from priests or anyone else. Brigid reached behind her head and pulled out the pins holding her hair up, quickening my pulse as it fell loose and our legs folded around each other's.

We kissed slowly, exploring each other, undressing one another, and got lost in whispers and moans for the next few hours, making love again and again, drunk by the end on the love and sated desire between us.

Afterwards, spooning Brigid on the futon while she slept for what must have been the first time in days, it became clear to me how well matched we were mentally and spiritually, and physically we fit together like a perfect jigsaw, which only strengthened the bond between us and quickened the promise of love's possibilities.

It was after two by the time I felt myself drifting off. And then I dreamed the dream again: Driving through the flooded, twilit street, I moved slowly towards the accident point, only this time beside me was Lucy, even though she looked exactly like Brigid from head to toe, and she was smiling, well happy to be there with me, sitting with one leg curled up beneath her and the other bent with her knee pointed towards the roof, and wearing nothing but an open blue shirt. Her happiness was infectious and took my panic away, making me feel safe. To the left again, I noticed the church with its open doors and the light spilling out onto the street, shimmering on the surface of the shallow water. The music was a little louder this time, making me raise my eyebrows happily as I recognized what it was: cheerful carousel music; and though I couldn't see what was emitting the colorful beams of light, I knew it was a merry-go-round, and it made me smile, having both Lucy and me transfixed, until Lucy pointed across the road, and I remembered Donal. I punched for the brake with my foot as the trotting figure moved steadily into place for the killing; but there was no brake, nor could I move the wheel this time. It was locked on course. I looked at Lucy in my panic, but she just smiled serenely at me. All I could do was look back at the figure and wait, but instead of the figure remaining oblivious to his oncoming fate as he had before, this time he turned his head to look at me. And I saw that it was no longer Donal running, it was me, looking right back at me, into my eyes. The beautiful light emanating from the church was surely where my trotting self was headed, and the feeling it gave me was a strange mixture of panic and hope and horror and comfort. Just before the moment of impact, I threw myself awake, heaving my lungs up and down, my heart at full gallop, my neck and chest rushing with sweat.

It's only a dream,
I told myself.
You're just processing.

I sat there a good five minutes, leveling my breathing and calming my thoughts, before returning to the warmth of the woman beside me. I got up and put more turf on the fire, then snuggled in beside Brigid and nuzzled my face into the back of her neck and meandered my way back to sleep.

October 16, 2014,
5:40 a.m.

T
here's nothing nicer for a man than getting his hair washed by a woman: reclining comfortably with your head craned back into a basin, warm water softly flowing over your head, and female hands gently working the lather through your hair, massaging your scalp. It spells heaven, and it's how Eva and I met twelve years ago. I'd called in to a hairdresser's salon on George's Street for a trim, and after I was directed to a basin by the guy at the front desk, Eva appeared by my side. She said the smallest hello and slowly started washing my hair. I knew she was French the moment she'd opened her mouth; she also looked like she'd just walked off the set of a Godard movie, and having her hands move over my head and through my hair made me feel as if I'd fallen into the arms of a goddess. On the few occasions I looked up, she was looking down directly into my eyes, always relaxed and at ease. Then as she cut my hair, it was more of the same: lingering looks; the way she touched my head or my chin while she made the cuts; her breast pushing against me when she cut around my ear while leaning over my head. The energy between us was smoldering and undeniable. After she'd finished the haircut, she went to lead me to the cash register, but I asked her if she'd mind washing my hair one more time. It was then that she smiled, revealing the gap between her teeth, which was the point of no return for me. She spent even longer washing my hair than she had the first time, focusing more on the massage than the washing. It was a defining moment in my life. “Have dinner with me,” I said, when she gave me back my change at the register. “Okay,” she replied, smiling. And I walked out of there with a feeling that never went away. Until that Monday in December when my heart was pruned in full bloom. But now the bloom was back, and love was within reach once again.

Brigid's fingers tightened around the hair on my scalp as I moved deep inside her, both our bodies utterly exhausted from the sheer pleasure of being unable to pry ourselves away from each other. Such was the connection between us that we climaxed together every time and then could somehow summon the energy to do it all again. I don't think either of us wanted to come down from that loft for at least a month, but there were funerals to attend, more tears to be shed, and I still had Cullen to contend with.

I was in the process of rekindling the fire so that Brigid could stay warm while I prepared to leave, but she insisted on coming inside and making me coffee before I left. While the coffee brewed in the kitchen, we ended up on the table, giving it one more go. We just couldn't get enough of each other, coming back for one more taste, one more fill, one last time, exhausting and energizing ourselves simultaneously.

I tucked in my shirt and buckled my belt while Brigid poured the coffee. The quality of her stare, along with each tiny movement and gesture, was informed by love. We could both feel it. This wasn't wanton lust or escapism. I was long enough around and experienced in matters of the heart to recognize the real deal when faced with it. And the truth was I felt the same way.

I downed the coffee and left with just enough energy to walk out of there, pausing in the hallway briefly to take a photo of Mac Giolla's picture with my phone. Maybe Lucy was my talisman after all.

—

BY THE TIME
I pulled up on Mourne Road, it was half past six. The sky was cloudless and getting brighter, the buses were running, and the street was coming alive with the red-eyed brigade emerging for the day. There were two men sitting on motorbikes, talking with their helmets off right opposite my house, but apart from remarking to myself that they were there, I gave them no further thought and disappeared inside for a shower and change of clothes.

When I reemerged, there was only one man, and he was putting his helmet on. I noticed him doing it but made little of it. It was rush hour, after all, and the swelling in my heart had permeated my every thought to the point where all I could think about was Brigid and getting back up in that loft with her. I didn't care about motorbikes or guys on motorbikes, so when the very same guy followed me all the way to work but kept going when I turned into the yard, I put it down to the fact that more people than I knew the quickest route from Drimnagh.

I got myself together for the morning's funerals with a smiling dreaminess. Opening my locker and pulling out my bowler hat and leather gloves, I remembered little moments from last night like they'd just happened: holding Brigid's waist, kissing her neck, moving my hands through her hair, and inconsequential things she said. I had it bad. Gone was the worry I'd been plagued with over the last few days. It was replaced now by a state I never dreamed I'd feel again: rhapsody.

Polishing my shoes in the back office, it was the same. The idle chatter among the drivers sitting around me drinking tea went right over my head, my thoughts concerning themselves solely with Brigid and the road before us.

—

OVER ON HADDINGTON ROAD,
as I approached the steps of St. Mary's church, I noticed another motorbike driving by, the driver looking in at me this time as he passed. I took my bowler hat off, fastened up my coat, and moved inside the church, feeling slightly unsettled. I wondered for the first time could there be a connection between the bikes and Cullen. Surely I was clear at this stage. I was considered a friend by Vincent. Chris O'Donoghue had vouched for me. I was safe. And Dublin was chock-full of motorbikes, anyway.

I moved through the people gathered at the back of the church and sidled up to Jack, who was warming his hands against the radiators amidst dozens of people who'd arrived late and missed out on a seat. The church was crammed, which stood to reason. Michael and Lucy were well-known artists, and good people, and were being mourned by the most genuinely stylish crowd I'd ever seen gathered under one roof. There were famous musicians and actors, broadcasters, and probably dozens more high-profile folk I wouldn't recognize, all focused on the two oak coffins resting side by side in front of the altar. But my focus was on Brigid, whose head was bowed in sorrow. What we had between us went far beyond any chemistry we might be sharing. We cared deeply about each other. And though the love felt all pervasive, it didn't take away from the mourning Brigid was steeped in, but rather it was a warm and utterly respectful accompaniment to it.

As the priest shook the incense from the thurible and holy water from the aspergillum, I, and the five men with me, moved slowly up the side aisles and waited at the top of the church for the closing of the prayers. As soon as the priest turned the mike off, I led the way out from the wings and picked up the photographs from on top of the coffins and placed them down beside the wreaths on the steps of the altar. I got Jack and two other men in place to wheel Michael's coffin down behind the priest. Then I took the head of Lucy's coffin with the remaining men and stopped briefly to wait for Brigid. She stood there looking at me with tears filling up her eyes, not quite sure of the exact protocol to follow, and seemed so utterly alone. If ever she needed me to hold her, this was the time—but not the place. So I extended my hand to her, which she took and let me lead her out of the pew while the soprano soared the beautiful heights of Schubert's “Ave Maria.” With Brigid behind me, the flow from altar to hearse could move along unimpeded. These were automatic moments for me where my mind could freewheel, locked as I was in my funereal role, and in my mind I returned to the comfort of the loft on Pembroke Lane.

I hadn't taken ten steps down the aisle when my daydream was ended by four men who didn't belong at the funeral but were interspersed among the rest of the mourners. They were of another breed, the kind I expected to see at Donal's funeral, and their focus wasn't on the coffins or on Brigid or on the priest or on anyone else. It was firmly fixed on me.

My thoughts immediately leaped to one thing: Brigid's safety. To protect her, I had to distance myself from her completely now.

Outside, after we'd secured the coffins in the hearses, I stood collecting Mass cards while the other men went about retrieving the wreaths from the church, and, again, I clocked two wily-looking men standing together by the gate, watching me.

The voice in my head was active again. It said:
However he found out, now he knows. Paddy, you're fucked.

Brigid was kept busy talking to a never-ending stream of mourners lining up to commiserate with her. I couldn't bring myself to even look at her now. Her worth as a pawn in Vincent's game would prove priceless if he knew of our love. And now that they weren't letting me out of their sight for even a moment, I was going to have to blank her to keep her safe. So instead of waiting to check if she was okay and see her into the limousine, not to mention stopping the traffic for the cortège, I turned to Jack, who was driving the first hearse.

“I'm going to head over to Glasnevin ahead of you,” I said.

“Are you not going to see me out?” said Jack.

“I'll see you over there,” I said, already walking away from him. I kept my head down as I left the church grounds and made my way to my car.