The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley

by Jeremy Massey

  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.

  THIRTY

  10:40 a.m.

  Richie walked out of his mother’s brown roughcast house up in Drimnagh and stopped to give the old woman a hug.

  “Thanks for the tea, Ma,” he said, kissing the top of her gray head. Richie had been gone from his mother’s house for a good fifteen years, but that didn’t stop him from visiting the old woman twice a week for a feed. His mother’s was the only house on Rafters Road that had never been robbed, due to everyone in the robbing business knowing well they’d end up in a six-foot box if they even dared peer through the old woman’s window. She was like royalty on that street and loved her son all the more for giving her the protection and security she enjoyed, though nobody got a bigger kick out of the fear his name instilled than Richie himself.

  Walking down Mourne Road towards Paddy’s, Richie slipped a cigarette between his lips and sparked it. Watching the house numbers climb the high one hundreds, he couldn’t help marveling at the stupidity of this crazy undertaker or how easy it was going to be to pull him in, and when he got to thinking of what Vincent was going to do to Paddy, the smile on Richie’s face crept downward with a strange kind of malevolent pride as images of ritualistic torture flipped over in his mind.

  There were only a few houses on Mourne Road with garages, and Richie knew them all. At the end of a terraced block, he stopped outside a house with a light blue door and matching garage, and smiled at the fact that Paddy’s neighbor had a clear run through to his back garden, making for ridiculously easy access. Richie hopped over the sidewall into Paddy’s garden and had the back door picked and opened in under a minute. Closing the door behind him, he took a long pull on his smoke, checking out Paddy’s kitchen, and paused to let out a pitiful snigger when he noticed the Mickey Mouse clock on the wall. He put his cigarette out on the floor and moved through the washhouse into the garage before flicking on the light. There in front of him was the sparkling smoking gun. He took a dozen pictures of the car with his phone, went back into the kitchen for another smoke, and sat down at Paddy’s table to select the best photograph to send, which, as soon as he had it, he sent directly to Vincent’s phone.

  THIRTY-ONE

  11:15 a.m.

  After the two coffins had been lowered into the grave—Michael’s first, then Lucy’s—the priest went through the prayers with a hundred artists huddled around him. I’d positioned myself just behind the large pile of dirt on the border of the next row of graves, allowing the widest possible view of the space around me. I couldn’t see anyone watching me, but that didn’t mean a thing. For all I knew, Vincent had known all along and had been playing me like the scorpion played the frog and
was only now beginning to sink his sting in. Brigid stayed at the grave after the priest had finished while the mourners dispersed, and let her attention settle on me. As much as I felt pulled to her, I stayed where I was. This only made Brigid break away from the aging artists intent on minding her, and come to my side, making my heart skip as the arm of her coat brushed against me.

  “I’m having people back to the house for some lunch. Can you come?” She seemed so vulnerable, as if she could collapse in a wailing heap at any moment, and I desperately wanted to make even the smallest gesture to comfort her, but I kept my hands clasped behind my back and flashed a pained smile.

  “Can’t. More funerals to attend.”

  “I missed you after you left this morning,” she said, her longing for me evident to anyone who cared to look closer. I wanted to squeeze her hand, but I didn’t dare. I couldn’t take any chances now. Brevity was the name of the game.

  “I missed you, too. I’ll call you later on,” I said. I let the warmth reach my eyes briefly and I winked at her. She hesitated slightly before leaning in and tenderly kissing my cheek, her scent sending my head into a spin.

  “Talk to you later,” she said a little wistfully, and moved back to her friends. I watched them walk away from the grave, wondering to myself whether that was the last kiss we’d ever know now that I was effectively a hunted man. I adjusted my bowler hat and turned on my heels, keeping my head down until I was in my car and headed back to the city.

  —

  I REALIZED I was in so far over my head that my only choice was to carry on. Back at the office, I stepped up into the loft and sat down on the bier, surrounded by a legion of leering coffins. What advice would my father give me now? If he were there on the loft with me and fully abreast of the lie I was living, he’d probably place his hand on my shoulder and hang his head to join me in my shame. I could hear the words coming out of his mouth: “The chickens are coming home to roost.” I was a dead man.

  Christy arrived at the top of the stairs with his bowler hat and overcoat on.

  “There you are. Are you right?” he said.

  “He knows,” I said plainly.

  “Who knows?”

  “Cullen. He’s wide.”

  “How is he wide?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Then how do you know he knows?” said Christy.

  “I’ve been followed around town all morning.”

  “By who?”

  “I don’t know, Christy, a lot of motorbikes, for a start.”

  “A lot of motorbikes, in the courier capital of Europe?” he said, as if he were feeding back nonsense.

  “And then by six men in Haddington Road church who looked well out of place. I’m being watched and they’re making no secret of it.”

  “Are you being watched now?” said Christy.

  “Come on, do you think I’m making this up?”

  “I think you’re being paranoid,” said Christy, matter-of-factly.

  “I may be many things, but paranoid isn’t one of them.”

  “Then where are they now, Paddy? How come I can’t see them? I’m after buying a bottle of milk across the road, and there wasn’t a soul anywhere. Sure he’s giving you tips on horses, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t know a thing about it.”

  “Christy . . .” I said, beginning to feel exasperated.

  “Relax,” he said. “You’re letting your imagination run riot with you. Now come on, we’ve to get over there.”

  If ever I wanted to be delusional, this was the time. It was painfully clear to me that my secret was no secret anymore, but the only way to find out for sure was to look into Vincent’s eyes. Then I’d know for certain.

  —

  I STOOD WAITING on the curb outside the Pro-Cathedral on Marlborough Street, feeling like I was on the end of a wavering plank. Cullen didn’t get to where he was in life by letting people get away from him. His reputation for thoroughness was legendary; I knew I was no match for him. He’d snap me in two without a second thought if he decided to. My guilt was reason enough, but presenting myself to him as an innocent on top of it was enough to incite him to wipe out my whole family, if I had one. And standing there, waiting for the limousines to roll up with a possible window into my fate, I felt blessed that I didn’t. Christy was in the sacristy, handing over the church offering to the sacristan, so I was alone when the first limo pulled up beside me at two minutes to the hour. I opened the doors and stood aside. Sean Scully was the first to get out, immediately followed by Richie and Matser. They made their way up the steps, buttoning their suits closed, each one of them ignoring me completely, not giving me as much as a glance.

  Then Vincent stepped out. I stood there, three feet away from him, with my hands gripped together behind my back, waiting for him to look at me so I’d know. He stopped briefly to pick a bit of breakfast out of his teeth, then walked by me as if he hadn’t even seen me, continuing up the steps until he’d disappeared inside the cathedral. Never before had I been so blatantly snubbed.

  The other four limousines pulled in behind the first while I stood, numb, rooted to the ground, watching the drivers open the doors for their passengers. It was while these mourners were making their way up the steps that I noticed Chris O’Donoghue moving swiftly past them into the cathedral. If I’d needed confirmation that my head was on the block, then here it was. A man who’d demonstrated such warmth and kindness to me only the day before practically skipping up the steps to avoid me. If I’d had leprosy, they’d have given me no wider a berth.

  I sat in the back of the first limo alone, feeling a dreadful sinking sensation in my stomach. Christy opened the door and sat in beside me.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “Are you still being watched?”

  “Worse. I’m being blanked. By them all. Even Cullen. Even Chris O’Donoghue, who yesterday had his arms wrapped around me, slapping my back, ran up the steps so he wouldn’t have to talk to me.”

  “When was that?” said Christy.

  “Just now, a few minutes ago.”

  Christy checked his watch.

  “A few minutes ago, Paddy, the Mass had already started. He was probably concerned with getting inside.”

  “Just a nod, Christy, that’s all I was looking for.”

  “I wish you could hear yourself. Back at the yard, you were complaining that you were getting too much eyeball, now you’re not getting enough. Paranoia, Paddy, it has you. You’re home and fucking dry, man.”

  Trying to convince Christy was pointless.

  “Sure what could I do, anyway?” I said. “If Cullen wants to kill me, then who am I to stop him?” I straightened up and resigned myself to my fate. “I’m dead.”

  “Do me a favor,” said Christy, with his reasonable face on. “Come inside and let me be the judge of that.”

  With six priests and four altar boys on the altar, you’d be forgiven for thinking the Archbishop himself had died. In Italy, the Pope had excommunicated the Mafia, but in Dublin, the treatment of their Irish equivalent was a different affair. When it came to the Gospel, the priest read the passage from Luke about the Good Thief; and in the eulogy, brief though it was, he heaped praise on Donal for the charity work he’d done over the years for the youth in Dolphin House, Fatima Mansions, and Teresa’s Gardens in Dublin 8. There was nothing mentioned about the heinous nature of the countless crimes he’d been convicted of, never mind the myriad others he’d walked away from. But I suppose the Church was no stranger to honoring crooks: It had been sheltering far worse for centuries.

  Looking at the collected heads around the church was like viewing a rogues’ gallery made flesh. And as Fauré’s Requiem played throughout the Mass, with a chamber orchestra brought in especially for the occasion, I couldn’t help feel that this was, in a strange sort
of way, my Requiem Mass. And Gabriel Fauré’s music the soundtrack to my demise.

  There were people crying around the church, but nobody was more demonstrative in their grief than Donal’s wife. The poor woman wailed throughout the Mass, tucked away behind Vincent’s crew, relegated to the third pew.

  As the soprano scaled the aria “Pie Jesu” in Latin, I waited in the wings of the packed cathedral with Christy and the five limo drivers while the priests went through the closing prayers in front of the casket. For the duration of the Mass, we were paid no attention whatsoever, which only augmented Christy’s reluctance to believe me. At twenty-five past the hour, Frank joined us and waited with us for our cue to step out, upon which I led the men to genuflect before turning the casket around on its trolley.

  I needed to look into Vincent’s eyes. There was the tiniest possibility that Christy was right. I paused in front of Vincent and leaned in for a word. He had his head bowed like a wounded emperor and his focus trained firmly on the floor. He had every chance to look up at me—it was the natural thing to do—instead, Sean reached his head out from the pew behind.

  “All right?” he said quietly.

  “Would you like to carry Donal out?” I said.

  “No. You do it,” he said flatly.

  I wasted no time in getting the drivers in place and the casket raised to shoulder height before carrying it down the aisle with them behind the priests, ahead of the family.

  Outside, I stood at the back of the hearse with Frank while the crowd mingled, and not a single member of Cullen’s crew came near either one of us, or anyone else in the firm. I could forget about looking into Vincent’s eyes. He probably never wanted to see me again and would have me done away with by people I’d never met. Maybe I wouldn’t even see it coming and be woken by a bullet to the back of the head.

  It was going on half past one when I drove the hearse through the front gates of Mount Jerome Cemetery. Once inside, everything slowed right down while the superintendent took over. Mount Jerome ran like a well-choreographed ballet. Its crematorium was the busiest in the country, and the cemetery itself, which was probably the prettiest, dated back to the early nineteenth century. The funeral traffic was conducted by the cemetery superintendents, who all wore morning suits and top hats. They met each hearse at the gate and, carrying their silver-topped ebony canes, led the cortège to its designated grave while the mourners walked behind the hearse and limos. I could see in the side mirror that Matser, Richie, and Sean were out of their limo and walking right behind me, only now they didn’t seem to mind watching me so much. Every time I checked the mirror, I could see Richie looking in at me, deadpan.