The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley (18 page)

2:20 p.m.

T
he old woman had been living in squalor and darkness, and had probably been bedridden the last few months of her life. Whoever was making the arrangements had chosen the most expensive coffin, though it didn't necessarily follow that because there was money for old Deirdre, there'd be love, too. The curtains were drawn, the walls were stained, and there were empty food cartons and unwashed dishes that must have been months untouched.

Upstairs was worse. It looked like it had been ransacked sometime last year, and there was a pungent odor in the air, which was coming from Deirdre Hennesy's bedroom. I pulled back the curtains in her room and opened a window and breathed in deeply the air from outside. It was a bad case.

Christy stayed back by the wall with his hand over his nose, while Eamonn suffered the smell and took the lid off the coffin. The mattress she'd died on was so badly dipped in the middle that the rigor mortis had locked her remains in a crawling position.

“She's not going to fit in the coffin like that,” said Eamonn. The rigor mortis had to be broken. I moved to the side of the old woman's remains and knelt down by the bed, facing her feet. I took hold of her elbow in one hand and her wrist in the other, and then forced her arm open so that I'd straightened it, which took quite a bit of effort. I repeated the process with the other limbs until the rigor mortis had left her body and she was completely straightened. After that, we picked up the edges of the sheet she was lying on, hoisted her up off the bed, and lowered her into the coffin on the floor, covering her face and body afterwards with the corners of the sheet.

I moved to the wall to get the lid, and then, from the smallest glance out the window, my worst fears were confirmed. Matser and Richie were crossing the road with purpose in their step.

“Fuck,” I said, feeling the horror take hold.

“What?” said Eamonn, picking up on the resigned dread in my tone. Christy took his hand away from his nose as his eyes widened with fear.

“They're here,” I said.

“Who's here?” said Eamonn, while Christy moved swiftly to the window.

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Christy.

“What's going on?” said Eamonn, as alarmed now as Christy and I.

“No time to explain. Hide me!” I said. And without another word, each of us grabbed the sheet covering the old woman's remains, lifted her out onto the floor, and slid her under the bed. Then I lay down in the coffin while Christy slapped the lid down on top of me, and everything went black. They lifted me up, went out of the room, and descended the stairs. I was completely hemmed in but I could breathe easily enough. I began to experience the world through sound: the creaking of the individual steps under Christy's and Eamonn's hard leather soles; Christy's voice saying: “Don't move a muscle”; the air rushing steadily in and out of my flared nostrils; and my heart pounding relentlessly like a ceaseless drum.

In the darkness, I lay there mute, expecting gunshots to rip through the wood. I pressed my feet against the end of the coffin to keep myself straight and heard banging on the front door and the words “Open up!” The coffin stopped moving and was horizontal again. Christy must have opened the door. I stopped breathing and stared wide-eyed into the blackness in front of me. I heard Richie's voice.

“Is Paddy Buckley here?”

The coffin started moving again.

“No, he's up in Clondalkin meeting a family,” said Christy. I slowly started breathing. We were out of the house.

“We were told he was here,” said Richie.

“No, this is a two-man job. He's up in Clondalkin,” said Christy. The movement picked up.

The sounds and vibrations continued: footsteps on the pavement; the opening of the back door of the hearse; the base of the box hitting the deck; the rollers rattling beneath me, making my spine vibrate until the coffin thumped into place by the spuds; and the back door banging shut. The driver and passenger doors opened and clunked closed and the engine turned over.

“Where are they?” I said, the tips of my fingers touching the lid, ready to push it off at any moment.

“Searching the house,” said Christy. “Sit tight.” The hearse moved slowly down the street and then stopped.

“Why are we stopped?” I said.

“Red light,” said Christy. I lay there, contemplating the power of a red traffic light, and imagined it in front of me as if it were actually there, right up close, pulsating red, stopping everything.

“They're out!” said Eamonn. “They've seen us! Fuck!”

“Hang on,” said Christy. The hearse reversed two or three feet and then swung out and moved forward, slowly inching ahead. I heard the screeching of tires, the blasting of horns, and then my head hit the top wall of the coffin hard as the hearse roared up the street. Christy was an excellent wheelman and there was plenty of torque under the bonnet, but we were being pursued by men in a Subaru who wanted to kill me, and it was maddening not to be able to see them, never mind where we were going. I couldn't protect my head or hold on to anything, either. Every time Christy floored the pedal, my head would slam into the coffin wall behind me, and when he braked, he braked hard, and I had to keep my legs flexed rigid so my knees wouldn't hit the lid. The rapid accelerating was relentless, along with the swerving and bumping and braking. He must have hit an open stretch then because he gunned the engine so hard I thought it was going to pop. Instead, the speed decreased rapidly and the hearse skidded to a halt. I heard their doors opening and then knuckles rapping on the side of the coffin.

“Paddy, get out of there!” said Christy.

I violently shoved the lid away, flooding my eyes with light; flipped myself out of the coffin; and clambered out the back. The hearse was stopped on South Richmond Street in a bus lane behind a broken-down lorry, and there were cars stuck in traffic all around us, every one of the drivers staring at us, gobsmacked.

Richie's Subaru was hammering down the bus lane towards us, Matser's huge frame nearly filling the windscreen. The three of us ran for all we were worth, leaving the hearse behind, and headed around the corner onto Harrington Street. Christy was beside me, his shirt hanging out and flapping madly along with his jacket, his face contorted with heavy panting.

“Where are we going!” said Eamonn.

“Just keep running!” I said.

I looked quickly behind us again to see Matser charging ahead in front of Richie, forty or fifty yards away. Out of the corner of my eye, down a side street, I spotted a woman holding a baby, standing by a car.

“Lads!” I said. Both men turned instantly and followed me down the little street up to the young mother, who was in the process of opening the door to her Volvo. I snatched the keys off her and hopped in behind the wheel, Christy and Eamonn scrambling in after me. The woman stood back, clutching her baby, horrified. I revved the engine alive and looked in the rearview mirror to see Matser galloping around the corner. I screeched off down the street, watching Matser diminish in size while clumsily stopping beside the woman.

I drove down Heytesbury Street at a normal speed, speechless and still breathing heavily. Christy sat beside me, wild-eyed and wheezing. Eamonn sat in the back, his eyes locked on the rear window. Now that we'd safely broken away from them, I fumbled for a cigarette and lit it with a shaking hand.

“Here, give us one of them!” said Christy, grabbing the packet. “How the fuck did he find out?”

“I don't know, but the knives are out now, anyway.”

I pulled into a multistory car park on Drury Street, parked on the third floor, killed the engine, and felt my back relax into the seat behind me. There was small comfort in knowing I wasn't paranoid or mad, even if it meant Cullen wanted my life. At least now I knew he wanted to kill me.

“What does Cullen want you for?” said a shaken-looking Eamonn.

“For knocking down his brother and killing him,” I said.

“Did you?”

“I did. It was a complete accident, but it was me that hit him.”

“And now Cullen wants you dead.”

“I'd imagine that's what he has in mind, yeah.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Forget about me for a minute, Eamonn, and think about yourself. You need to go away for a few days. Call Corrine and tell her you won't be in, and call your dad a bit later and explain the situation to him. But don't go in yourself, and don't go home. The fact that you helped conceal me won't have made you popular with Cullen. So split for a while, all right?”

Eamonn nodded numbly.

“You know how serious this is?” I said.

He nodded again.

“Right, get going.”

Eamonn opened the door an inch and stopped.

“What are you going to do?” he said.

“I don't know yet.”

Eamonn's chin tightened and his eyes watered slightly, prompting him to grab my hand eagerly and hold on to it.

“Seeya, Paddy,” he said awkwardly. “Good luck.”

“Thanks for sticking your neck out for me,” I said. He took his hand back, got out of the car, and scarpered, leaving Christy and me together in the front seat.

“So what
are
you going to do?” said Christy.

“Get out of the country. It's my only option.”

“With what and to where?”

“If I stick around here, I'll be strung up, so anywhere is the answer. If I can get my hands on my share of the syndicate money, that'll at least help me get out . . .”

Christy's brow lowered.

“Wait a minute, you're not saying you're going back to the yard . . .”

“Yeah, and without a bother. I figure Cullen will show up at some stage this afternoon to check it out and that'll be his last visit. If I head there at, say, eight o'clock, I can pick up the money and split.”

“And how will you get out?”

“Don't know yet. Maybe west to Knock, maybe south to Cork. If I get across to Knock tonight, I could catch a flight out first thing in the morning.”

Christy nodded like it was all making sense to him. “Okay,” he said. “I'll see you in the office at eight.”

“Christy,” I said, smiling, touched by his loyalty. “You don't want to be anywhere near me. We'll say our goodbyes here and now.”

“You said it yourself a minute ago, it's the last place Cullen is going to look, and I have a few quid at home I want to give you.”

“I'll have more than enough—”

“You're going to need every penny you can get, Paddy, so I'll see you at eight.”

“You're an awful man,” I said. “In the meantime, get your family out of the house.”

Christy got out of the car, gave me a wink, and walked.

3:30 p.m.

N
ow that Donal was in the ground, the theme of the day for Vincent was retribution. It was a word and concept he always liked. And it went well with another favorite. Tribulation. He stepped out of his Jag in Gallagher's yard and walked up past the stables towards the office under the hanging geranium pots while Sean and Matser drove in the gates past him in Sean's Chrysler. Vincent knew Buckley wouldn't be here. He was on the run now, running scared. He smiled as he flexed his jaw.
Run all you like, Buckley. You won't get away from me.

He stepped into the funeral office to see Corrine sitting at her desk alone.

“Hi,” he said with a friendly face. “Is Paddy Buckley here?”

The fear that often went hand in hand with a Cullen encounter was untraceable in Corrine, who maintained an air of perfect calm while talking to him.

“No, he's out with a family at the moment. Can anyone else help you?”

“Is Frank Gallagher around?”

“Yes,” she said, picking up the phone. “I'll just get him for you.”

A few moments passed before Frank emerged from the middle office, looking like a model undertaker.

“Mr. Cullen, Frank Gallagher,” he said, offering his hand, which was accepted and shaken.

“Vincent.”

—

DOWN THE BOTTOM
of the yard, Jack was sitting in the back of Frank's Mercedes, vacuuming the carpets. So engrossed was he in his chore that he didn't notice Sean leaning over the open back door watching him until he was satisfied that the floor was clean, whereupon he raised his head to see Sean's piercing gaze and Matser behind him, leaning against a limo, peeling an orange.

“Sorry,” said Jack, turning off the vacuum cleaner. “I didn't see you there.”

Sean smiled at him ruefully. “I didn't mean to frighten you. Tell me, do you know where Paddy Buckley is?”

Despite the fact that Sean was quite blatantly boxing Jack in, his body language was lost on his subject, who sat back in his seat, blissfully unaware.

“No,” said Jack. “I don't.”

“That's what your friends came out with,” said Matser, as he shoved half an orange into his mouth.

“I'm sorry?” said Jack, not sure he'd heard him right.

“Where's Paddy Buckley?” said Sean.

“I don't know where he is.”

“Bollocks, if I ever heard it,” said Matser, swallowing down the other half.

Jack was a little affronted that he wasn't being believed, but the penny was slowly dropping that something untoward was happening.

“I'm telling you,” he said. “I don't know where he is.”

In an instant, Sean's manner changed from avuncular to vicious.

“You're not telling me a fucking thing,” he said, pulling Jack roughly out of the car. Jack stiffened with fear as Sean head-butted him hard in the face, which sent him stumbling backwards to the wall, terror stricken. Matser moved away from the limo and reversed Sean's car down beside Frank's.

“Give me your phone,” said Sean, pulling it out of Jack's hip pocket before kneeing him hard in the groin and again in the face. Jack fell to the ground, holding his nose as the blood ran freely over his hand and down his shirt. Sean opened the boot of his car, wiping the spittle from his mouth.

“Put him in,” he said to Matser.

—

FRANK SAT BEHIND
the desk in the middle office, watching Vincent. He'd already written him out a receipt for the cash he'd been paid but Vincent stayed there, and all he seemed interested in was Paddy Buckley. Frank's thoughts had been trained solely on Donal's funeral, but the longer he spent with Vincent, the more he got the feeling that he had some niggling gripe with Paddy.

“Was everything all right on the funeral?” he said.

“It was perfect.”

“And Paddy Buckley . . . you were happy with the way he handled everything?”

Vincent sat back in his chair, resting his hands together on his lap. Besides paying the bill, he'd come in to check if Frank Gallagher was sheltering Buckley, but he could see in the man's eyes that he knew nothing of Paddy's involvement in his brother's death. Here was an honest man offering a top-class service. He had no gripe with Frank. He respected him.

The way Vincent saw it, if Frank Gallagher knew that Paddy had killed a man and subsequently buried him, he'd eject him from his company immediately and have his head on a plate. The truth was that Paddy Buckley had been ostensibly operating under both men's noses as a dutiful servant and employee while behind the mask he was a conniving Judas.

“The funeral couldn't have gone off any better; there wasn't a single hitch. I've just heard that Paddy might have some information on who killed Donal, and I wanted to talk to him about it sooner rather than later.”

Frank became instantly concerned.

“Right,” he said, letting the weight of Vincent's words sink into the room. “Well, as soon as I see him, I'll make sure he gets on to you straightaway.”

“I'd appreciate it,” said Vincent, rising to his feet. Frank moved around from behind the desk and saw him out.

As soon as Vincent had turned into the yard, Frank closed the door and rested his back against it, suddenly seeing Paddy's behavior of late in an entirely different light. He remembered what Paddy had said in the boardroom yesterday after the Hayes funeral, that he was having the strangest week he'd ever had, that he felt like he was halfway down a birth canal. And now Vincent Cullen thought Paddy knew something about his brother's death. Frank was worried about him. Deeply worried. And then, as if to augment his anxiety, Corrine turned to him with an expression to match his own.

“The police have been on from Harcourt Street. One of our hearses has been abandoned on Richmond Street with all its doors open and an empty Last Supper oak in the back.”

“What?” said Frank, disturbed now.

“I've sent three men up to retrieve it and do the bring-back from the South Circular. But that's not all, I'm afraid, Frank . . .”

The horror Frank felt had eclipsed his outrage. “Go on,” he said.

“Paddy, Christy, and Eamonn have all been on, saying they won't be in for a couple of days. Eamonn said he'd phone you shortly, he said that he was fine, but better off staying away . . . some kind of emergency, he said.”

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” said Frank, with as level a tone as he could manage. Apart from his concern for his son and staff, and his growing suspicion that the abandoned hearse was connected in some way to Vincent Cullen, he had the more imminent problem of having funerals to man.

“Get on to Neligan's,” he said, grim-faced. “We're going to have to borrow some men.”