“The dog isn’t hurt and will remain that way. She’s with a person who’s got acres of land and nothing but love for the dog, and you’ll never find her. I never made the phone call an option because they’re not equipped to talk to you and I wouldn’t put them in the position.”
“And you organized this tonight, did you?”
“I made it happen tonight, but it occurred to me that it’d be the perfect life for the dog on Wednesday in your garden when I was petting Dechtire.” This was my last act, and knowing he could read the truth, I loaded my story with the truth of Christy’s right to live, which came straight from my heart. Everything else was just dressing. “If Christy walks, the dog will be delivered to Terenure tonight.”
“How will they know Boylan has walked?”
“Webcam, O’Connell Bridge.”
“You want me to take your word on all this, do you?”
“You know the truth when it’s uttered. I surrender, you’ve got me, and you get the dog back tonight, unharmed, once Christy has walked.”
I don’t know if Vincent expected me to tell him the dog’s throat was going to be cut or that she’d be drowned, but whatever it was about my answer, he climbed off me and spat on his hands to wipe the blood off while his men waited patiently for his decision. He took a grip of the trocar, which was sticking straight out of me, and pulled it out, leaving me bleeding badly and unable to sit up. Vincent moved across to Christy’s side and tapped the stainless steel table with the trocar.
“Get up,” he said. Matser and Richie released their grip, and Christy climbed down off the table and faced Vincent, who raised the bloodied trocar to Christy’s jugular.
“Now, Boylan,” he said. “Deirdre’s sixteenth birthday . . .” He let the words hang there for Christy, who just stared at him, horrified that his daughter’s name was known by Cullen, never mind mentioned.
“That’ll be a nice day for the family,” said Vincent softly, the picture of composure again. He stared at Christy a few moments longer. “Be wide now,” he said, and moved the trocar down by his side. Christy looked over at me, his mouth sealed, his eyes the saddest I’d ever seen them, and slowly shook his head.
“Get him out of here,” said Vincent. Sean pushed Christy out through the door into the selection room, and they were gone.
The glass-eyed man had cut another length of gaffer tape and was in the process of pressing it over my mouth when Vincent raised the trocar.
“Leave it off him. I want to hear him scream,” he said, looking at me, deadpan. It was reluctantly taken off me while Matser and Richie each took a hold of my arms and legs respectively, and stretched me out just like they had Christy. My shoulder ached badly, and the temptation to try to access my independent channel was enormous, but I held fast. This was my cross to die on, my rack to purge into; there’d be pain, and plenty of it, but not fear. And waiting on the other side was Eva.
Sean came back in and joined them all in looking down at me. I’d never been faced with such collected contempt in my life; the hatred in Scully’s eyes was matched by every other man standing, except Vincent, whose eyes contained something different: smoldering fury, a thirst for vengeance, and a resolution to uphold his code of honor. But not hatred. He slowly unbuttoned my shirt to expose my bare torso and gently ran his hand down my chest and belly. I tried to level my breathing, knowing it would only be moments now till I was joined again with Eva. I closed my eyes and imagined her waiting for me, whispering that everything would be okay, that this was just the slipping of the skin.
“Do his kidneys first,” said the glass-eyed man.
“Shut it, Geno,” said Sean. I kept my eyes closed and waited for the plunge, knowing the climax of pain would last only minutes; a few minutes of torture and then I’d disconnect like I had in my bedroom on Monday night and with Dechtire in Terenure tonight. The cold steel point of the trocar dragged across my belly and stopped at the point of entry. I stopped breathing and rolled my eyes to the top of my head as I anticipated the agony.
A door closed in the office, shifting everyone’s focus in an instant. It sounded like the back office.
“Vincent,” Christy called out, walking through the selection room. I opened my eyes to see everyone looking to the door, which was wide open.
“What the fuck!” said Sean, losing his patience.
Christy arrived at the door, looking pale but determined, and directed his attention at Vincent.
“The fuck do you want?” said Vincent.
“I’m not going without Paddy. You can kill me, too, but if you want the dog, you’ll have to let the pair of us go.”
Sean pulled a gun from the back of his trousers and walked over to Christy and pressed it hard against his head.
“Fuck off out of here, you stupid baldy cunt,” said Sean, continuing to press it into Christy’s forehead, trying to push him away.
“Shoot me then,” said Christy with a shaky voice, standing his ground. “I’m not leaving without Paddy.”
Vincent moved slowly away from me over to Christy, the trocar still in his hand.
“Put the gun away, Sean,” he said calmly. Sean put the gun back where he’d pulled it from but looked no happier about Christy’s presence. I could see Christy’s focus was on the trocar, and he looked like he was expecting to be stabbed with it. Every move Vincent made was controlled and measured, and when he spoke, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Christy, it’s a brave thing you did coming back in here, but pointless. My will is stronger than yours, so if it means me killing you and finding my dog at a later stage, then so be it. Paddy Buckley dies tonight. You can fuck off now with your life intact, knowing you did what you could to save your so-called friend, but the truth is he doesn’t deserve it.” Vincent was right next to Christy now and was slowly putting his arm around his neck. Christy looked back at Vincent like a defiant, beaten child. Vincent was holding the trocar in such a way that he could very effectively stab Christy with it at any moment, and his men all looked on like they were expecting him to.
“He doesn’t deserve this, Vincent,” said Christy, trying to reason with the wrong man. “It was an accident. He didn’t even see him.”
Vincent squeezed his arm around Christy’s neck and pulled him close, lining the trocar up to point into Christy’s left eye.
“It wasn’t an accident taking the money though, was it?” he said in almost a whisper. Christy’s fear diminished.
“Paddy didn’t take any money.”
“I didn’t take the money,” I said. Vincent turned around, lowering the trocar but keeping his hold on Christy, and looked right into my eyes.
“You took the twenty grand, Buckley,” he said.
“I never took a penny off him,” I said. Vincent’s eyes became very black as he released his grip on Christy and looked up to Geno, the glass-eyed man, who shook his head and smiled.
“Geno,” said Sean, with revelatory darkness.
“Don’t you fucking lie to Vincent Cullen!” said Geno, jabbing me hard in the neck.
“Geno,” said Vincent. “Look at me.” He looked at Vincent with the same smile, but he’d become nervous and shifty. Vincent kept moving closer, the trocar down by his leg now. Sean, Matser, and Richie were all looking at Geno, and I could feel Matser’s grip loosening around my arms. Christy was cowering by the wall, focused, too, on Geno.
“Hang on a minute now,” said Geno.
“For what?” said Sean.
“Stay where you are, Gene,” said Vincent. “Now, just tell me once that you didn’t lift the money.”
Geno swallowed hard and then, instead of saying anything, he pulled a gun from his belt and pointed it frantically at Vincent, then to Sean, who had his hands raised slightly, and back to Vincent.
“Back up!” he said, looking like he could shoot at any time. Both Matser and
Richie had fully released their grip on me, and I stayed there, as still as a stone. Vincent kept moving towards Geno fearlessly.
“Put it down, Gene,” he said calmly.
Matser shifted his weight to block Vincent and went to slap the gun away, but Geno squeezed off a shot, getting Matser in the belly, dropping him. The sound was deafening.
“Matser!” said Richie, rushing to his side.
Sean pulled his gun out and pointed it at Geno, but Geno shot first, spinning Sean back to hit the wall. Sean brought his hand to his head to press against the blood above his ear, but he seemed fine.
Vincent kept moving fearlessly towards Geno, who backed towards the selection room door. Sean had his gun raised now and fired a shot into the selection room after Geno. And then both he and Vincent were gone in after him.
Matser groaned, doubled up on the floor. “Get him,” he whispered to Richie, who rushed in after the others. There were more shots fired and more shouting.
Christy straightened up and moved quickly to the door out to the yard and silently opened it with his keys. I rolled onto my right side with my ears ringing and slightly deafened from the shots. Christy pulled me up by my right arm, and as gently as he could, helped me down to my feet. Matser’s back was to us and he was dealing with his own pain anyway, so we were able to hobble out into the yard unnoticed and make our way down towards the gate. As we passed by the opaque windows of the selection room, we could hear it all. The shots had stopped, and it sounded as if they’d disarmed Geno.
“Let’s start with the kidneys, Gene,” said Vincent, sounding like an animal again. As we staggered out the gate, Geno’s gurgled screams slowly subsided to soundless whimpering.
We made it to Christy’s Renault on Clanbrassil Street and sat into it, neither of us having said a word to each other since we’d left the yard. We were stunned just to be alive, and I think we were both still expecting to see Sean or Vincent come storming around the corner at any moment.
“Are you all right?” said Christy.
“I can’t really move my left arm, but yeah, I’m okay.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m parked around by George’s,” I said.
I was still getting my head around being alive. I’d resigned myself to death so completely that I hadn’t figured on life beyond the embalming room, and by life I mean powered by a beating heart. Yet I was alive, and all because of Christy. Feeling so close to being reunited with Eva had spun me out, too. I’d taken the leap but had landed here, and Eva and I were to remain separated. But I wasn’t out of Dublin yet.
We pulled up outside George’s beside the Fiesta to see the dog sitting up and looking right at us.
“You’ve got the dog,” said Christy, surprised that Cullen had nailed it.
“Yeah,” I said, not so sure what kind of reception I’d get now that I was covered in blood and Cullen’s scent.
“What kind of a dog is that?” said Christy.
“A special one,” I said, and got out of the car. Even covered in blood, I wasn’t carrying a trace of fear, and I was abundantly grateful for the help she’d given me, however unwittingly. I unlocked the door and opened it. The dog jumped out and stood there on the path beside me, looking up like she was my dog. I crouched down as best I could and rubbed her chest with my good hand. She closed her eyes and groaned and made me smile for the first time since I’d been with Brigid.
“You’re going to have to find your own way home, Dechtire,” I said, fully confident that she was up to the task—if ever I’d met an animal that could take care of itself even on the streets of Dublin, it was Dechtire. I gave her a final scratch on her snout and got in the car.
“Follow me,” I said to Christy, and closed the door. I drove up the street with Christy trailing behind me, while the dog stood along the roadside looking after us until we were gone around the corner.
—
I DIDN’T PARTICULARLY like goodbyes, but parting with Christy after he’d just saved my life felt like a little funeral. A man who owed me nothing, who had willingly come face-to-face with the cruelest death and was ready to give up all that he had and die beside me on the small chance that we’d be freed together, had rendered me speechless and closer to tears than I’d like to admit.
We’d driven to a little strip of shops in Drumcondra on the other side of the city and bought a bottle of vodka from an off-license, which we used to soak my wound. The bleeding had largely stopped, but I’d been cut deep, so I had to keep my arm still to prevent it from opening, which we did by making a sling from strips torn from my ripped and bloodied shirt. For a bandage, I’d bought a Guinness T-shirt and another one to wear under my suit, and we’d bought takeaway coffees, which we sipped in silence in a car park under the neon sign of a Chinese restaurant.
Christy opened his coat and pulled out the money he’d wrapped in newspaper.
“I can’t take that, Christy . . .”
“Fuck you, Buckley, you’re taking it.”
“Christy . . .”
“Take the fucking thing,” he said, poking it at me. I took a hold of it, shaking my head.
“You’re an awful man.” I opened up the paper. It was a few grand. “Christy, it’s too much.”
“Better in your pocket, Paddy, than under my mattress. Yours to keep.”
“I’ll never forget it,” I said, and lobbed it into my car. “Come here, I’ve one more favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Swap coats?”
“Of course,” said Christy, slipping his off. Mine was saturated from being out with the dog. We exchanged them, and with nothing more to give each other, we fell silent. It was goodbye time.
“Well,” I said. “This is it.” Neither of us had properly digested what had happened over the last few days, but we’d undoubtedly remember little moments and beats in startling clarity as the days went by. And added to these moments were the myriad memories we’d shared over the years, which for Christy would be accessed daily when he’d visit the churches and hospitals and nursing homes of Dublin. As for me, I’d yet to make it out alive.
I wanted to hug him warmly, and with one arm, I could only give him half a hug, but I needn’t have worried. Christy hugged me tight and ended it with a slap on the back.
“Get out of here,” he said. “How are you going to drive with that arm?”
“I’ll manage. See you next time,” I said, and got into the car. And without another word, I drove away, leaving Christy standing there in my wet coat, waving goodbye.
FORTY
6:05 a.m.
It had been a long night, most of which had been spent horizontal on top of the cabin of an articulated lorry. When Liam Conway had told me on Tuesday that he’d a truck going to the UK on Friday morning, I never imagined I’d be hitching a ride with it. I’d driven up to Louth after leaving Christy and watched two men load up the lorry with coffins and caskets at midnight. And afterwards, when they’d gone back into the warehouse, I dragged myself on top of the driver’s cabin and tucked in tight to the fold of the aerodynamic fin, which gave me ample shelter. The warmth came from the money Christy had given me, which I used to line the inside pockets of my coat.
I’d known the Conways a long time and liked them. Liam’s father had been making Saturday visits to Gallagher’s yard since I was a teenager, and I’d regularly shared cups of tea with him, but to announce my intentions to them tonight was out of the question. The way out was to stow away.
Up until I’d been snared by Cullen in the yard, I’d been planning on catching the red-eye out of Knock, but now Cullen would have every airport in the land crawling with his men, so my only hope out was by ferry, and even that was unlikely. They’d been three steps ahead of me all along, but they’d more on their hands to deal with now than catching me. Matser was down, they’d Geno’s re
mains to dispose of, and they’d the cops to evade, who would have been called by somebody after all the gunfire.
The hour-long drive down to Dublin Port nearly lulled me to sleep, but knowing I was playing out my last chance of escape had kept me conscious and focused. And now the truck was parked in a line along with a few hundred other vehicles waiting to board the ferry to Holyhead while the early morning light began to filter through the grayness of the clouds. I was floating between two worlds, the old and familiar Dublin behind me and the bastion of hope that was England on the other side of the sea.
The lure of England gave rise to my fantasies of Hampstead, but the urgent knocking on the driver’s door below my feet put an end to them.
The driver lowered his window.
“Yeah?”
“Detectives Mangan and McMahon. What are you carrying?” It was the unmistakable sound of Sean Scully’s voice, whose confident and determined manner would discourage anyone from asking for identification, although for all I could see he had some.
“Coffins,” said the driver.
Sean didn’t miss a beat. “Open her up for me there,” he said. The driver hopped out.
“What are you looking for?” he said, taking them down towards the back.
“An escaped criminal,” said the other man with Scully, Chris O’Donoghue, who’d probably been pulled out of bed in the middle of the night by Cullen. And then they moved out of earshot.
The stress that came alive in me seemed to collect itself in my wound, which had paralyzed me again. If I’d been more mobile, I would have tried hopping down, but with my shoulder as bad as it was, I’d more than likely be caught and dragged away. I’d no choice but to stay put.
The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley Page 21
