The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley (6 page)

“The dance of the seven veils?” I said.

“No, veils we use to hide and reveal ourselves. He said everyone has seven veils they use throughout their lives. When you're standing at a bus stop or waiting in line at the airport, you've got your seven veils on. Then if you pass by a neighbor on the street you know vaguely, you nod to her with six veils on. Then at work when you're around people you're familiar with but have no real friendship with, you drop down to five. With acquaintances, you alternate between five and four; with good friends, between four and three; with family, it's three veils and sometimes two, and with the one you love, two veils or, very occasionally, one. And the last one, he said, you never take off.”

I had the cat purring loudly now.

“When I'm painting people, I always notice how many veils they have on. When a model is standing naked in front of you, they very often—usually, in fact—have their seven veils on. And then you might find an old woman sitting on a bench, say, fully clothed; she could be lost in thought and be wearing only two veils. But you, as an undertaker, get to see people stripped of their veils every day because death does that. It's a privilege.”

I looked back at Brigid, considering what a privileged position I was in. I had the warmth and company of a purring cat on my lap, a glass of good red wine on the table in front of me, and a beautiful woman sitting opposite me who seemed, at the very least, to be a little attracted to me. And I was attracted to her. Then I considered the background to my being there, the intimacy and accidents that had brought about our getting together, and suddenly the feelings of warmth and comfort began to dissipate. I knew I'd eventually be able to forgive myself for sending Lucy on, but I'd have great difficulty in forgiving myself for bedding down her daughter in her wake. And then I considered what she'd just said about my seeing people at their most vulnerable and that it was a privileged position. And from such a position, I looked over at Brigid and made a decision.

“I've got to go,” I said, putting the cat gently down on the floor and getting up from my chair. It was an abrupt end to a conversation that was only beginning, and I could sense that Brigid felt slighted. She rose to her feet.

“I hope I wasn't going on too much there,” she said, following me to the door.

“No, it was a pleasure listening to you, and what you said hit a chord. It's true, it is a privileged position. When you said that, you reminded me that I have to get back to the office. I've so much to do.” She handed me my coat and offered her hand.

“Thank you,” she said. I shook her hand briefly while looking down at my shoes.

“If you can pick out some clothes for your parents, I'll pop around in the morning to get them if that's all right, and I'll give you the estimate then, too.”

“That's fine,” she said, while opening the door. The night had come. I walked out into the courtyard and headed for the road, feeling her eyes on my back. As I neared the door in the wall, something made me stop and turn around. She was still standing there under the courtyard light.

“Thanks for the wine and conversation, Brigid, it was a little slice of solace.” I watched the beginnings of a smile settle around the sides of her eyes, and then before she had a chance to respond, I opened the door in the wall and left.

7:30 p.m.

I
t had been a long time since I'd felt anything like the increasing sense of ease that had taken seed inside me. I had the worry of Lucy's autopsy hanging over my head like a precarious guillotine, yet I was strangely free of the habitual grief that hung on me. Everything seemed possible again.

I drove back slowly to the funeral home and parked the car in the yard and went inside the office to sharpen up the Wright death notices for Tuesday's paper. The place was in darkness. I checked my watch: half past seven—still plenty of time to get the notices into the
Times
. I phoned the church to confirm the times before writing the notices into an e-mail and sending them to the Family Notices section in the paper. These were death notices, not obituaries. They were to include the deceased's name, where they were from, when they'd died, family they'd left behind, and the funeral arrangements. If the deceased were deemed important enough in society's eyes or in the eyes of the
Times
obit editors to warrant an obituary, then one would appear over the next few days. But in the case of the Wrights, there wouldn't be one. As a rule, once I'd entered the notice into the body of the e-mail, I read it twice to check there were no inaccuracies before sending it. The funeral game was one where double-checking was never enough. Check, recheck, and recheck again was Frank Gallagher's maxim. The last problem an undertaker needed was a bereaved family taking legal action for being unnecessarily upset because some detail was overlooked.

With that done, I made my way across the road to the dingiest pub on Uriel Street, An Capall Dubh, to get something to eat. There were plenty of pubs along the street, but this one was favored above all by the old lads around the area, and I found their company to be what my soul needed, most of the time. An Capall Dubh was the only pub on the street that hadn't changed its décor since the seventies. Apart from the flat-screen television mounted in the corner, it was the same as it had been for forty years.

As I grew older, I'd become allergic to the more yuppified establishments and avoided them at all costs. I yearned for the simplicity and lack of brashness An Capall Dubh offered, and so, too, it seemed, did the old lads with their working-class hearts and Old Dublin values.

While Gerry the barman organized some tea and a toasted sandwich, I sat down in my usual spot in the corner, with nothing but old guys drinking Guinness around me. I'd buried most of their relatives over the years, so I got nods of recognition from the different stools at the bar. But it wasn't their relatives that were on my mind. It was Lucy Wright and her fast-approaching autopsy. I considered it now with a relaxed and level head. Her autopsy, if it was to be carried out with no suspicion of foul play, wouldn't include any probing below the naval. People died every day in their houses and public places, more often than not with no other people around them, and when there was no question of foul play, then the autopsy would be carried out as normal. The only time this wouldn't apply would be if the pathologist was demonstrating to a student how to thoroughly carry out a full postmortem, in which case they'd investigate every orifice.

As dreams go, mine had just changed from a simple nightmare to the surreal. In all my years undertaking, I'd never even touched a family member, never mind have sex with them, and then the one time it happens, the woman in question ends up dying on top of me. And afterwards, her beautiful daughter makes my heart flutter.

Gerry placed my tea and sandwich down in front of me.

“There you are, Paddy.”

“Great stuff, Gerry.”

Every time I took my mind out of gear now, my thoughts conjured the image of Brigid sitting across the table, looking back at me. I definitely liked her more than I'd first imagined, but what was far more remarkable was that my mind wasn't naturally turning to thoughts of Eva. It was like I'd brought my shackles of grief to Pembroke Lane and had them unlocked by mother and daughter.

I walked back into the night, overcome by a tremendous wave of tiredness, which sent me back in the direction of the funeral home. I needed to sit down and rest. It had been a strange day.

But it turned out I was only in the ha'penny place. The night was going to get a lot stranger.

1:55 a.m.

I
woke up to my phone vibrating in the pocket of my overcoat. I pulled it out and snapped into wide-awake mode from the armchair in the front office.

“Hello,” I said, knowing it could only be one person.

“Paddy, it's Frank.”

“Bring-back?”

“From Lia Fáil. Can you do it?”

“Of course.”

Lia Fáil was the most decrepit nursing home in Dublin, run by the Liberties Health Service, which skimped on basics, never mind luxuries. There were no private rooms, just three floors of open wards divided into male and female. There wasn't even a mortuary, which was why bring-backs had to be done at all hours of the night. There were bring-backs and there were deliveries: the former was when you picked up a remains and brought it back to the embalming room to be worked on; the latter was when you brought a coffin to where the remains was and coffined it and left it there.

“I'll get Eamonn and Christy in to do it with you. The deceased's name is Harry Roche.”

“Right. What time is it?” I said, yawning.

“Nearly two.”

“Okay, see you in the morning.”

—

I PULLED
the hearse up outside the kitchens at the back of the nursing home with the two boys sitting beside me. Gallagher's fleet was made up of Mercedes hearses and limousines. Mercs had become the accepted standard in the Dublin funeral trade over the years, with most companies' fleets being made up of E-Class hearses and limos. But Frank, of course, insisted on the best, and prided himself on having the only S-Class fleet in the city, upgrading them regularly with up-to-the-minute models.

The nursing home used to be an old military hospital at the beginning of the last century. Whatever esthetic merits it may once have had had long since been defaced by an abundance of rust-covered fire escapes and a hundred years of soot. I rang the bell and waited for the night matron while Christy and Eamonn got the stretcher out from beneath the deck in the back of the hearse. The matron opened up the double doors without a word or a look at us. She was middle-aged and dumpy, and smelled of sour sweat and cigarettes. I wasn't sure if it was her job she resented or us. Either way, she wasn't happy, and if she wasn't happy, then she made sure the patients weren't either. I suspected she treated them more like inmates than residents.

She led us into the lift and pressed the button for the second floor while sighing heavily. Christy and I ignored her, but Eamonn was quite open about how much she amused him. Eamonn was Frank Gallagher's son and, as heir to the throne, had a more cavalier attitude to the whole business, not quite considering it his plaything, but he knew he could skirt close to the edge of the line and remain untouchable. He smiled at her rakishly.

“Sister, how about breakfast in the morning? You and me.”

She turned around slowly and glared at him. Eamonn smiled, looking her up and down.

“I've got a thing for uniforms,” he said, his smile getting bigger. As the matron turned her back on him, Christy flicked his hand out, hitting Eamonn's side, giving him a little warning nod. But it was futile.

“Did you know Jack does the ironing at night while his wife sits on the couch in front of him watching television?” said Eamonn.

“I know,” said Christy, nodding to the floor. “Unbelievable.”

“Unbelievable?” said Eamonn. “It's bleeding scandalous.”

The matron's jowls reddened as the doors opened in front of her. I smiled as we followed her, Eamonn beside me, rolling his tongue in his cheek.

“You're in good form, Paddy,” he said quietly, noticing the change in me.

“Bit of rest,” I said. Eamonn and I had always had three-veils access and knew each other well as a result. He'd first started working in the yard when he was fourteen, during his school holidays. Frank had him polishing the cars, painting the walls, and doing mutes.

It takes at least three men to carry a coffin in a funeral—one at the head, two at the feet—the hearse driver, who leads the cortege, takes the head, the limo driver takes one side of the feet, and the mute takes the other. He also carries in the flowers and collects Mass cards. He's called the mute because he doesn't talk to the family; he has no need to. All he needs to do is look solemn.

I'd taken Eamonn under my wing early on and taught him everything I knew. His father was making sure he understood and could work at every level of the business, and at the moment, that meant embalming, which Eamonn hated. I'd been the embalmer for years, but was only too happy to hand over the reins to Eamonn. He was twenty-two and could probably do anything he turned his hand to, but why build a business from scratch when he'd a ready-made empire waiting for him to walk into? As close as we were, the day that sealed the bond for us happened a year ago when Eamonn was twenty-one.

Frank had gone away on business for a few days to Birmingham to source some new limousines and had left Eamonn in charge of the place for the first time. I'd been bringing a remains back from a hospital, and when I returned, I met an embarrassed and worried-looking Eamonn out in the yard.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Paddy?” he said.

“Of course.” We went into the middle office, where arrangements were usually made, and shut the door.

“You're going to find this hard to believe, Paddy, but . . . it happened—I mean, I let it happen.” He looked utterly ashamed of himself and was finding it difficult to divulge his story. “I can't believe I've done this . . .”

“What happened?” I said.

“I was having a smoke out in the yard during lunch when a red Audi convertible with Northern Irish plates drove in. There were four guys in it. I knew by looking at them they were dodgy. They got out of the car and walked up to me. Three of them said nothing; one of them did all the talking, called himself John. He was older than the rest, in his forties. He looked dangerous but he was relaxed and friendly, reminded me of Dean Martin. He said I'd looked after his aunt's funeral a few months ago and that he'd heard I was a bankable guy with a lot of savvy.”

I could feel where this was going. “Go on,” I said.

“He said they were bringing a vanload of Armani and Versace suits through Dublin Port from England illegally and had been stopped by a customs official who wouldn't release the vehicle unless he was paid off. They would have paid it themselves, he said, but all their money was in the impounded van. He said they needed five grand to pay off the customs official, and then they'd return my five to me with another five on top of it for my trouble.”

I smiled at him. “You didn't fall for that, Eamonn.” The border scam was as old as the three-card trick.

He buried his face in his hands. “I did, Paddy. I can't believe it but I did.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I couldn't help saying. Poor Eamonn, his first day in control of the company, thinking he was the big man, swaggering so much that word of his green cockiness had got out to the wolves. Easy pickings.

“I went up to the bank on Thomas Street with them, withdrew the money, and gave it to him.”

“Five grand?” I said, still finding it hard to believe. He nodded shamefully.

“I knew what was happening, Paddy, but somehow I couldn't stop myself. My curiosity as to how it would all unfold was too great not to follow . . . and I always loved Dean Martin. The last thing the guy said to me when I'd given him the cash was ‘You're well thought of in high places.'”

“Well, I'm afraid you're fucked, Eamonn. That's the last you'll be seeing of them. And your dad's five grand.”

“What am I going to do?” he said miserably.

Our only chance of getting it back, I knew, was if they got greedy. The fact that it had been so easy for them could well bring them back in for more.

“There's a chance they'll be back again.”

“Do you think?” said Eamonn.

“They might. That was probably the easiest score they've ever made.”

“But what would we do?”

I didn't want to tell Eamonn any more than he needed to know; he was in over his head as it was. These guys were brazen and wily and lived on their wits and had already taken Eamonn to the bank.

“If they come back in, just bring them in here to the middle office and close the door, and then I'll come in and take over.”

“But what'll you do?” asked Eamonn.

“See if we can get the money back,” I said.

Sure enough, within another half hour they phoned the office. Frank's secretary told Eamonn that there was a John looking for him, so into the middle office we went.

“Just make sure you get them in here. No matter what they say, tell them to come in and discuss it in private. Don't tell them directly you'll give them the money, but give them the idea that you will. Can you do that?” I asked.

“No problem,” said Eamonn. He took the call while I held my ear next to his to listen. With the right coaching, Eamonn was back on form, sounding perfectly confident in his compliance.

“All right, John?” he said.

“Eamonn, how's the man?” said the guy who called himself John in his silken voice.

“Good, how'd it go?” said Eamonn.

“Well, we definitely have him onside, but he's got wise to the worth of the stock we've got. He wants more money, Eamonn.”

I smiled at Eamonn. Greedy bastards.

“How much more?” asked Eamonn.

“Another two grand and he'll release it immediately.”

“Right then,” said Eamonn. “You'd better come in so.”

“Right you are. Be there shortly.” And they ended the call. There was hope back in Eamonn's eyes, but he was nervous now, too.

“Okay,” I said. “Now when they come back in, bring them in here and wait. Just listen to them tell you their story, then after two minutes, I'll come in and take over. You get out of the seat, stand back, and tell them I'm your associate and that I'm taking over. All right?”

“Right,” said Eamonn.

I waited down the end of the yard by the stairs to the loft and watched them drive in ten minutes later in their unblemished Audi A5 coupé. Only two of them this time: a guy wearing a suit with no tie—presumably “John”—and another guy in jeans and a purple anorak. Cocky as you like. They walked out onto the street to come in the main entrance where Eamonn would meet them. When they'd turned the corner, I quickly walked up to the top of the yard and locked the cast-iron gates. Then I went inside.

I opened the door to the middle office and went in. As soon as I'd closed the door, Eamonn got up from the chair behind the desk and stood back. The two men ignored me and would look only at Eamonn.

“This is my associate, Paddy, he's taking over now,” said Eamonn, stepping further back to stand at the wall.

“It's much better if we keep this between ourselves, Eamonn,” said John, like he was as close as a brother to him. “Eamonn . . .” he said again, looking for eye contact, but Eamonn had shut down.

“You're talking to me now, lads,” I said. Reluctantly, they turned their gaze to me. John had a fair belt of charisma about him; he was probably a traveler and knew well how to work his charms. And he did look like Dean Martin—minus the magic. He was fairly well built, too, and so was his friend, who looked more physically imposing; no surprise then who they'd picked to do the talking. Neither of them would be beyond playing the violence card if it came down to it. But I had my ace.

“We want the money back, lads,” I said.

“We don't have it,” he started.

“Don't even try and pull it.”

“The customs official has the money—”

I cut him off fast. “I don't want to hear it. We want the money back now, or I'll have the law down here in a flash.”

He looked at me, still relaxed, but no longer playing his role.

“You wouldn't like to see a man go down, would you?” he said.

“My only concern is the money. Nobody needs to go down as long as it's handed over.”

“We don't have it,” he said, turning his hands up, empty.

“Then get it. We're finished talking here,” I said with finality, opening the door. I walked out with Eamonn close behind me. “We'll let you out the back, lads,” I said, leading them into the back office and opening the door out into the yard. It wasn't until they followed us outside that they realized they were snared. No way out. John looked directly at me for a moment, fox to fox, then back to the locked gates, and then down to the ground. Dino wasn't happy. His friend waited for his move and, like an obedient watchdog, would look only at John. After weighing up his options, John pulled out his phone and called a number. I could only hear him mumbling, but it was clear he was giving instructions. He ended the call and turned to me.

“Right,” he said, capitulating. “You'll have it back in a minute.” Ten minutes later, Eamonn met one of the other two thieves at the main entrance and was handed back the money, and then I opened the gates.

Frank never found out. Eamonn learned a lesson, and he also knew that I'd always have his back.

The matron in Lia Fáil led us into a ward of old men, twenty in all, most of them asleep, and stopped by the bed of the deceased. There were old screens on either side of the bed that must have been fifty years old and shielded the view only from knee to chest.

“I'll be in my office,” she said, and walked out. Eamonn watched her backside sway from side to side as she waddled away.

“Would you look at the state of that,” he said.

The corpse was still warm. And terrified-looking. All these guys were—dead or alive. And all so skinny—they must have been fed soup and nothing else. The funerals that followed these bring-backs were known within the company as “housers,” as they were effectively on the house. Gallagher's had the contract with the Liberties Health Service, and did however many there were each year for a nominal flat rate. These were the forgotten people whose funerals consisted of veneered chipboard coffins, which arrived for the removals hours earlier than normal, and had their funeral Masses and burials before any of the company's regular funerals so they wouldn't interfere with them, timewise, as they were serviced by the same vehicles and men. There were seldom more than two or three people at these funerals. Most times, none. Except for Shay. And when Shay had gone, Frank.