“Now let him fly away.”
Just then it flew away, out the window. Neither one of us said anything. We drank our tea in silence while my father’s eyes smiled, his head nodding imperceptibly.
Back in my bed now on Mourne Road, I stretched out my hand and imagined all that I was, my soul, my mind, the totality of me, in its palm. And after about a minute or so, I felt the change. I felt my palm pulse. Every part of my mind was focused on it. I became the process. Then the perceiving part of me left its seat behind my forehead and traveled slowly down my arm until I was in my hand, looking back at my face. And what I saw on my face was rapt focus. And then an even stranger thing happened. I detached. I was released from my body and gently floated up to the corner of the ceiling where I rested in my suspended state. I thought I must have died, had a painless heart attack, and this was my ascent to somewhere else. But I wasn’t leaving the room, and my body didn’t look dead at all. It looked very much alive, still with its hand outstretched, still focused. I imagined moving my hand and relaxing it, and it did just that. I imagined changing position in the bed, and my body did exactly as I’d just imagined. This was oddly perfect. Independent Channel 24 like I’d never thought possible. All the panic and stress and fear and horror that I couldn’t escape just moments ago had gone. I didn’t feel any of it. I decided to say something, to see if I could get myself to talk, and then watched my mouth open down on the pillow.
“We’ll get through it like this,” it said. It all felt so certain, so effortless and easy, it was strangely euphoric. From this dislocated, suspended channel, I continued to watch myself watch the wall until the darkness was replaced by a room full of light.
Tuesday
TEN
October 14, 2014,
8:20 a.m.
Vincent Cullen was on his knees in the greenhouse in his back garden, planting pepper and tomato plants. He’d spent the last two hours in the outdoor vegetable patches in his back garden, weeding and planting, finding that having his hands in the soil was exactly what he needed this morning. After all, it was Donal who’d dreamed up and built the extensive greenhouse in the first place. It had been Donal, too, who’d established and expanded the vegetable garden, and planted and tended to the variety of fruit trees—apple, pear, plum, cherry, apricot, nectarine, and fig—scattered around the walled acre that constituted the back garden. Donal had even convinced his brother to let him build a chicken area at the back of the patches and raised boxes, which now housed fourteen chickens, whose eggs supplied both Cullen households. Before Donal had graced the garden with his imagination and talent for growing things, with the help of a team of gardeners, Vincent hadn’t known a cloche from a cold frame, but lately he’d been getting as much satisfaction from the growing abundance in his garden as his brother had.
Seven years his junior, Donal had been Vincent’s partner in crime since they were teenagers. Vincent was the leader, but Donal’s enterprising spirit and fearlessness were equally responsible for the sway and influence the Cullen brothers held over Dublin. Aside from being blood and a savvy business partner, Donal was Vincent’s best friend, his closest confidant, and his most trusted accomplice. Vincent knew he could rely on Donal for anything. Whether it was smoothing out a misunderstanding with a group from Belfast with his artful negotiation skills or putting together a deal with a pack of Serbs from Marseille, Donal’s input into the Cullen operation matched his brother’s, ounce for ounce.
And now somebody had plowed Donal down in the dead of night and robbed him in the bargain. Taken out in his prime when his star had just begun to rise.
The injustice of it deeply saddened Vincent and rankled him, fueling his hunger for retribution all the more.
The brothel on James’s Street that Donal had left just prior to his death was his brainchild. Impudently called the St. James’s Club, it was decked out like a five-star hotel, housing forty girls from as many different countries who were quite literally real-life fantasies for the top-end clientele. Since its doors opened four months ago, the place had become a bona fide goldmine for the Cullens, bringing in a fortune on a nightly basis. Its reputation was already luring high rollers from as far away as Stockholm, and incoming flights were being booked on a daily basis for clients across the water in London and Manchester. Of all Donal’s schemes and ventures, the St. James’s Club was the brightest and most flamboyant feather in his cap. It was one of life’s ironies that Donal had ensured only weeks before his death that the St. James’s clients would be spared being picked up on the cops’ street-surveillance cameras by bribing the right officials to have the cameras permanently pointed away from the club in the direction of Thomas Street.
Death made all the bullshit fall away for Vincent. All the stuff that had taken up hours of thought and conversation only the day before ceased to be of any consequence. Matters of the heart had taken their place. He thought of his own four-year-old son, Fiach, and his wife, Angela, and cherished the fact that they were alive and in his keeping. But that didn’t change the fact that Donal, who’d been around since Vincent was seven, had been robbed from him. Whoever the swine was who killed him had driven a knife deep into Vincent’s heart, and it was this particular matter he was consumed with today. Every bit of power he wielded was focused entirely now on catching and destroying Donal’s killer.
As Vincent finished tying up the last tomato plant to the stake beside it, Sean Scully arrived at the greenhouse door.
“Matser’s here,” he declared. Sean was a tall, wiry man with a permanently scheming brow and snarling nose whose loyalty to his boss was beyond question. At fifty, he’d been working with the Cullens since the early eighties and was as hell-bent as Vincent was on hunting down Donal’s killer.
“Bring him out,” said Vincent.
While Sean went to get Matser, Vincent wiped the dirt from his hands and got to his feet. Standing at a straight six feet, he’d the frame of a middleweight boxer. Under his T-shirt and tracksuit pants, his strength seemed to brood in muscles ever ready for quelling anything that came his way. At odds with his apparent manliness was a nearly feminine aspect to his face, a prettiness to his features, his unruffled forehead and high cheekbones, but his black menacing eyes and grown-out crew cut put paid to any trace of androgyny. It was an undisputed fact in Dublin that Vincent Cullen was the alpha male of alpha males.
He walked out of the greenhouse and watched Sean escort Matser from the house over to where he now stood. Sean looked like a midget next to Matser. Six-foot-seven and thirty stone, all Matser needed to do was show up to get his way. With a cleft palate and stick-out ears, Matser was far from pretty, but what he lacked in beauty he more than made up for in brute force and determination. He’d put his life on the line for his boss more than a few times and was willing to do it again to help find Donal’s killer.
“Sit down, Matser,” said Vincent, gesturing to the antique bench beside the greenhouse door. Matser sat down with his elbows on his knees, eager for his orders.
“Whoever hit him took the twenty grand he’d just taken out of the club. Geno heard the bang from inside, but by the time he got out there, the guy who’d hit him was driving away with no lights on towards Kilmainham, the reg plates already ripped off the car. It looked like a dark Toyota Camry, but it was pissing rain and it was gone before Geno could get a good look. I want everyone on that street talked to today, without exception. Got it, Matser?”
Matser nodded.
“Now, if you need to use the shooter, one shot only. Two shots, people start making phone calls. Right?”
“Right,” said Matser.
“Sean, get on to Gallagher’s. I want somebody up here straight away.”
Sean and Matser went back to the house, leaving their boss alone. As soon as they’d gone, Vincent let out a low whistle through his teeth.
“Dechtire,” he said.
From the far end of the greenhous
e, a large rust-colored dog raised its head and looked at Vincent. It rose and walked out slowly towards its grieving master and sat down next to him, allowing the back of its neck to be rubbed.
ELEVEN
8:45 a.m.
I’d no idea how I was still able to maintain this suspended midair state; it felt effortless, not to mention surreal and bizarre. But I never wanted to be back in my skin again. I felt more in control like this, more in tune with what was happening. I felt no pain. No tiredness. There was a part of me that wanted to call in sick and go to Phoenix Park or up the mountains and discover the world anew. But even more, I felt drawn to the yard in Uriel Street, and the idea of carrying on as I usually would to allay any suspicion of my culpability for Cullen’s death seemed like the most intelligent course.
At a quarter to nine in the morning, I pulled Eva’s car to a halt in the yard while hovering somewhere above the radio. This was the first time I’d driven her car out since she’d crossed over. I’d left it in the garage for fear I’d be overcome by the faint smell of her scent, but now with everything that was happening, my feelings and memories of Eva had been put in perspective. They were still there, but there was no more pain or expectation or longing attached to them. When I thought of Eva now, of seeing her grinning at me on Grafton Street or fitting her hand into mine as we strolled along the South Bull Wall to the Poolbeg Lighthouse, I felt nothing but fondness and gratitude. And love.
As I walked from the back office down the corridor towards the front office, I floated four or five feet ahead of my body. It happened effortlessly: Almost before I had a chance to think about it, there I was. Before my body had caught up, I joined the buzz of activity around Frank, who sat behind the main desk, with Christy and Eamonn standing by his side, looking over the list of runners, while Jack sat in the corner, listening.
“Christy,” said Frank. “The Hayes remains from Manchester is being delivered here from the airport in an hour’s time. Can you bring it up to Walkinstown before lunch?”
“Sure I can, yeah,” said Christy.
Over at the reception desk, Corrine, Frank’s secretary, put down the phone and turned to Frank.
“Vincent Cullen’s brother was killed last night . . .” The very mention of Cullen’s name silenced the room.
We’d got the call. Of course we had. It stood to reason. But the fear that had entered the room by Cullen’s name being uttered didn’t touch me. It should have, but I was impervious to it.
“They want somebody up to the house in Terenure straight away to make arrangements,” Corrine said.
Just as she said the last word, my body stopped at the old grandfather clock by the parlor door. Frank’s face lit up as he looked at me.
“Paddy, right on cue. Vincent Cullen’s brother is dead. Can you go up and make the arrangements?”
I watched myself looking back at Frank. And then the words came.
“I’ll just get a coffee,” I said, unwilling to commit to anything.
“We’re doing Donal Cullen’s funeral,” said Jack, with so much pride you’d swear we were burying Bono.
I moved towards the back office again, wondering would the fear find its way into my removed state now there’d been mention of the lion’s den. I searched for any sign of it, any trace, and found none. I was fear-free.
As I was tire-kicking my fearlessness, Frank came in holding out the address on a bit of paper. Even though I was feeling invincible, I figured it was probably better if I stayed away from Cullen. He did have a reputation for being impossible to lie to, after all.
“Frank, is there any chance you’d go up and make those arrangements yourself? I’m feeling a little odd this morning.” I looked at myself along with Frank. The picture of health.
Frank smiled at me.
“To Vincent Cullen’s? There’s nobody I’d send up there but yourself, Pat. And you look good to me—in fact, I don’t remember seeing you as relaxed.”
He handed me the address as well as the keys to his Mercedes.
“Take my car up,” he said, and left the room.
TWELVE
9:25 a.m.
The Dublin I knew was different from the one sold on the tourist brochures. The Dublin I knew had teeth and needles and lots of tears. It wasn’t devoid of smiles or charm, but it had more than its fair share of deviants. It didn’t lack magic, and it had its heroes and class acts, but for the most part, it was dirty, depressive, and corrupted. Drimnagh, the suburb where I lived, with its terraced houses cramped side by side and its dreary similitude, was right beside Crumlin, a well-known breeding ground for villains and thieves that was the birthplace of the Cullen brothers. But Vincent Cullen didn’t live there anymore. He’d moved to the more affluent suburb of Terenure, with taller trees, bigger houses, and loftier ideas. Comprising every class and creed, Terenure played all houses to all men and was renowned for its Edwardian architecture. Cullen’s house was one of its finest examples.
I stopped the car outside Cullen’s electric gates and got out. The house was on a two-acre plot and was well hidden behind a high stucco wall. All I could see from the gates was a long drive lined by white oaks. I pressed the intercom on the wall and waited. This was it. Time to sit down with the man. My task was simple: take down the details for the funeral. Nothing more. I’d sit with Cullen, nod at all his requests, then split, and go about implementing them, just like I always did. I’d walk through it by treating it just like any other job.
The gates leaped back from me, continuing steadily away until the path was cleared. As I got back into the car, I clocked the little camera on a pole by the nearest tree. Seen and attended to, and silently ushered in.
The house was enormous. It was magnolia white with large shadowed windows and a steeply sloped roof with wide eaves, and was beautifully sheltered by a scattered assortment of giant trees. I parked on the gravel drive, and as I got out of the car, the front door was opened by a young man in a tracksuit.
“From Gallagher’s, right?” he said.
“That’s right,” I said, and followed him into the house. In the front hall, the young man disappeared but two old men dressed in suits stepped forward. This was Old Dublin reaching out to me, these old guys with their weathered skin and Brylcreemed thinning hair. Without opening their mouths, their stoic faces spoke a thousand words of endurance and loyalty, and of another Dublin in a simpler time. One of them took my coat while the other knocked on a door off the darkened hallway, which was opened by a slim man around the fifty mark, also dressed in a suit, only this guy looked dangerous. He had a devious face and lucid eyes. When he saw me, he moved towards me with his hand outstretched.
“Sean Scully,” he said.
“Paddy Buckley, from Gallagher’s,” I said, shaking his hand. Sean nodded towards the door he’d come out of and led the way in.
This was the test. This was make or break. I was about to meet the man whose picture I’d seen in the paper a hundred times, the man whose very name instilled fear throughout the city, the man who, by all accounts, never missed a trick. And I didn’t doubt it. My salvation, I hoped, would be served through my removed state.
I walked through the door, moved to the center of the room, and waited. It was a big study with mahogany paneling, chesterfield couches and chairs in front of the fireplace, a large antique desk by the window, and a bookshelf lining one of the walls. The room was lit solely by daylight.
“This is Paddy Buckley,” said Sean, before sitting down on a seat in front of the desk.
Vincent, who’d been standing by the fireplace, stepped forward and clamped his hand around mine, which nearly disappeared in his. He was a big man in his late forties. He wore a suit with an open-necked shirt, and he smelled of oil, leather, and menace. His broad forehead was underpinned by hard-boiled black eyes and an equanimity loaded with malice and fortitude.
“All right, Paddy,” h
e said.
“Hello,” I said with a nod.
“Sit down.”
I sat down in the chair beside Sean’s, took out an arrangement form that I placed on my closed briefcase, and uncapped my pen. Vincent moved behind the desk but remained standing. He stayed there saying nothing for a few moments, just jingling the change in his pockets. The two men looked directly at me with no emotion, no apparent expectation, just indifference. I was a little thrown. Usually, I’d be the one opening the proceedings as people would have no clue where to start—I was the one with the questions after all—but with Vincent Cullen, I thought it would be wiser to wait to be dealt with. I observed all this from just above the three of us, where the top of the wall met the ceiling.
“How long are you in this game?” said Vincent eventually.
“The undertaking?”
Vincent nodded.
“Twenty-odd years,” I said. Vincent nodded again while continuing to look at me.
“Right,” he said softly, and then as an afterthought: “Will you have a cup of coffee, Paddy?”
“Yeah . . . thank you,” I said. Vincent glanced at Sean, who got up and left the room, and then he stayed standing for another few moments before sitting down in his chair, relaxing a little.
“There’s going to be a lot of publicity surrounding this funeral. I want everything to go off smoothly with complete precision. Understood?”
“Yes,” I said, my pen still at the ready. Sean came back into the room and sat back down. From my aerial perspective, I could see that the top of Sean’s head was practically bald; only the little tuft on top gave the illusion that his hair was only receding.
“Now, you want to ask me a few questions,” said Vincent.
“Just a few details I need. Now, when were you thinking of having the funeral?”
The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley Page 7
