Of all Cullen’s men, Scully was undoubtedly the most cunning and thorough, and after I eluded him earlier, he’d be more desperate than ever for my blood. And Chris O’Donoghue, who had more egg on his face than any of them, having paved the way in for me, had a lot of atoning to do for endorsing me in the first place. I was backed into a corner, so close to escape I could smell the sea, but that was just the irony of it. My number was up.
I heard the back doors of the truck close and their voices become audible again.
“He wouldn’t be under there, would he?” said the driver.
Scully must have been on his back, underneath the body of the truck, checking every possible crevice. I only had moments left. My eyes locked on the entrance to my hiding place. Every sensation now became amplified by the horrible expectation of capture. My feet felt cold in my shoes. My hands clutched handfuls of coat. My head pressed against the fiberglass of the fin. The air was filled with smells of engines and oil and sea and brakes and rubber. The seagulls squawked above me. My heart pumped blood through my arteries and veins. And I held my breath.
And then in an instant, a hand gripped the side of the fin and Chris O’Donoghue’s head rose to become level with mine, and our eyes met. And with the composure of a poker ace, he jumped back down.
“Nothing,” he said conclusively, and they moved on. In that tiny moment between us, he’d saluted our friendship by delivering my reprieve and astonishing me with his kindness. Instead of seeing a killer, he’d seen an innocent whose dealings with the Cullens were accidental and reactive. I breathed again and tasted the sweetest air I’d ever known. I relaxed on the cabin top, humbled and exalted by a man without whose grace I would have been ravaged and killed, and whose code of clemency had given me my freedom.
Four hours later, I walked out of the rent-a-car office in Holyhead a newborn baby. It was all behind me now: the funerals, Cullen, and my ramshackle existence. I’d been delivered from them all to a new life. And I was at the very beginning of it.
I turned the key in the rented Vauxhall Astra and headed for a place where I’d be offered shelter and understanding. And a lot more besides.
DECEMBER
BUCKLEY (Dublin 12), November 8, suddenly in Manchester, Patrick (Paddy), beloved husband of the late Eva; deeply regretted by his relatives and friends. May he rest in peace. Funeral and cremation have already taken place in Manchester. Memorial Mass this coming Monday, December 29, at 10 o’clock at Church of Our Lady of Good Counsel, Mourne Road. No flowers by request; donations, if desired, to the Irish Heart Foundation.
Sean Scully walked out the back door of the house holding a newspaper and headed for the pen where Vincent was tending the pups. He stopped by the gate with a backward nod of the head and waited. Vincent had a male pup in his hands, examining it. Out of the eight, it was the biggest and most relaxed and, judging by the look in its eyes, the most intelligent. It was beyond any doubt the alpha male. As Vincent stroked its little snout affectionately, Dechtire lay beside him, utterly at ease with him studying her pups. It was there in that dark December morning while Sean stood patiently at the gate that he decided to keep the little dog. And he’d call him Setanta.
“Well?” said Vincent, knowing by Sean’s posture that he’d something important to tell him. Sean held out the paper, folded open on the death notices.
“I thought you’d want to see this,” he said.
Vincent walked over with the pup still in his arms and took the paper off him. Circled in blue ballpoint was Paddy’s death notice. He read it, handed the paper back, and returned his attention to the dog.
“What do you think?” said Sean.
Vincent looked him over. He could see that Sean didn’t know what to believe, that when it came to Paddy Buckley, he wasn’t about to take anything for granted.
“Fuck him,” said Vincent, turning his back on Sean, leaving him to walk away.
“Fuck him is right,” said Sean, and retreated to the house, knowing that Buckley wouldn’t be discussed again. Whether he was dead or not, that was the end of him as far as his boss was concerned.
Vincent let the pup down to observe its behavior around the others. It was a good-looking dog, with its rusty brown coat, bushy black tail, and eyes that shone like jewels, just like its mother’s. The pups were four weeks old now and itching to go beyond the confines of the pen. In another day or two, he’d let Dechtire take them out to the garden, and he’d enjoy the spectacle of their curious exploration.
As they continued to play under the watchful eye of their mother, he turned his focus inward, to Buckley. He knew he wasn’t dead, but Paddy had announced himself dead regardless. A decision, no doubt, driven by fear and expedience.
Never before had someone invaded his fold so furtively, and in this regard, Paddy had set a new benchmark and provoked pledges of vengeance from every one of Cullen’s men. And when he’d slipped away after Geno had provided the perfect distraction before being disemboweled in Paddy’s place, the pledges had become more fervent, particularly from the convalescing Matser. Mowing down Vincent’s brother had been by far Paddy’s biggest mistake, but sitting with Vincent afterward like an ambulance chaser when he was grieving a brother was what laid down the cherry.
Vincent knew well that Paddy would stay gone now and leave it all behind—the house, the job, the life—but a man like him had only so many places he could go, and Vincent prayed for the day their paths would cross again.
He rested his hand on the pen gate, paused for a moment, and looked around to Dechtire only to find her looking right back at him. She’d arrived back to Terenure at one o’clock that Friday morning from wherever Paddy’d taken her, unharmed and unfazed. He’d wondered more than a few times how Paddy had bewitched her and got the collar off her, and he’d wonder many times again. It was something he knew he’d be curious about forever, unless, of course, he was to catch up with Buckley.
With a glinting eye, he walked away from the pen and moved on with the business of the day.
—
IT HAD BEEN a funny day for Christy. Paddy’s memorial Mass had passed without a hitch, everybody believing, with the exception of himself, Frank, and Eamonn, that Paddy had died of a heart attack in England. Being witness to the gathered grieving had felt peculiar and more than a little wrong, even though he knew it was vital that no one be privy to the fact that Paddy was alive and kicking elsewhere.
Mourne Road church had been packed to capacity, the urn supposedly holding Paddy’s ashes taking the spotlight at the top of the center aisle. Christy had been sitting beside Corrine and Jack, who were both demonstrably upset, and in an effort to fit in, he’d held his hand over his face, which had worked, not that he was being paid any undue attention.
And now here he sat at a table in An Capall Dubh, the ashes on the seat beside him, two pints on the table in front of him. As always, there was no more than a handful of old men sitting at the bar. Gerry had pulled a pint for Paddy along with Christy’s. “Both on the house,” he’d said. “We couldn’t have him in here and without a drink.”
Coming to the pub was Frank’s idea. “It’s what you’d do if he was dead,” he’d said. “Might as well do what people expect.” The others in the yard had already gone home, and Frank was on his way out to make arrangements, so it was a solitary affair for Christy, and a nice time to spend remembering his friend, even if these weren’t his ashes beside him.
Christy had put Frank in the picture the morning after Paddy had disappeared. Things had gone too awry to leave him in the dark, from the unexplained vanishing of his staff to the bloodstain on the carpet in the selection room and the bullet holes in the walls. Christy had gone back into the office after leaving Paddy and cleaned up the place as much as he could. They’d left their mark. The syndicate money had been taken from the front parlor, there were cigarettes stubbed out on the carpet, but the biggest mess to clean w
as in the embalming room where they must have eviscerated Geno. His body was gone, but the blood that was all over the tables and floor took Christy hours to clean up.
Christy had stayed the night and was there to greet Frank when he came in at seven o’clock. The more he learned, the less angry he’d become, and it wasn’t long before he was fully abreast of the situation and utterly forgiving of Paddy. In light of the new information, Paddy’s behavior throughout the week made perfect sense to him, and he was eager to help as he could, even if it was just to facilitate and endorse the bogus funeral.
While Christy sat daydreaming, swirling the end of his pint around in his glass, he became aware of a presence beside him and looked up to see Sean Scully pulling up a stool and sitting down uncomfortably close to him.
“Jesus,” said Christy, placing his pint down. “What do you want?”
“Here to pay my respects,” said Sean, reaching for the urn.
Before he could get near it, Christy snatched the urn away and moved to get up, but Sean had him pinned to the wall in an instant, twisting his collar around until his face was dangerously red. Every head in the bar turned to watch the awkward tussle.
“Drop the box,” said Sean through gritted teeth, but Christy held fast to it.
“Fuck off,” he said.
Sean’s knee jolted heavily into Christy’s groin, doubling him over with a low moan.
“Drop the fucking thing,” he said. Christy let the urn drop to the seat beside him and Sean released his grip, sending Christy sliding to a sitting position. Before he could sit down himself, he turned to the bar to see Gerry coming around with his sleeves rolled up.
“Out!” said Gerry. “Get out!”
“Just a minute now, Gerry. Paddy Buckley killed Donal and this bald prick was in on it, so get back behind the bar and mind your business.”
Gerry stopped just short of Sean.
“Paddy Buckley didn’t kill anyone and that’s a certainty. Now get fucking out of here!”
Sean turned to Christy.
“Tell him he did it,” he said, but Christy just sat there, shaking his head.
“Tell him!” said Sean, but Christy stayed mute, prompting Sean to step in close and belt him hard in the mouth, splitting his lip and knocking his glasses off.
That was enough for Gerry, who grabbed Sean by the shoulders to drag him outside. But Sean was bigger, stronger, and angrier. He shrugged Gerry off before dropping him to the floor with a single punch to the chin. The old lads just sat there with their eyes wide. Satisfied that Gerry was staying down, Sean took a seat in front of Christy and pulled the urn close.
“Now, let’s see what we have in here,” he said, lifting the lid off. Christy stayed put this time and observed, swishing his blood between his teeth. Sean scooped up a handful of ashes and examined them closely for a moment before letting them fall back inside. Minor disappointment registered on his face before he snorted back the contents of his nasal passages, creating an ample ball of phlegm in the back of his throat, and then while looking at Christy, he spat into the ashes before putting the lid back on. Then he rose to his feet, winked at Christy, and walked out of the bar.
On the outside, Christy looked like a beaten man, and he was a bit shaken, but on the inside, it was a different story. He felt triumphant. Cullen and Co. had been outdone and he’d been at the wheel of it. The plan had worked. The lengths they’d gone to had been worth it; the bogus funeral had fooled them. He felt an urge to laugh rise inside him but stifled it immediately.
The other patrons helped Gerry to his feet and Christy to a hankie to nurse his bloodied lip, which was already starting to swell. He pressed the hankie to the wound and relaxed into his seat while Gerry walked back behind the bar.
“This one’s on the house, lads,” he said, regaining his composure, and went about getting everyone a drink.
One of the old men stayed with Christy.
“Where was he going, accusing Paddy of killing Cullen?” said the old lad, with his despairing amber eyes and deeply wrinkled head. “And spitting in his ashes? It’s a bleeding disgrace that crowd is.”
“Don’t mind them,” said Christy. “They’re lashing out in all directions.”
“That’s just plain wrong,” said the old lad, and he walked back to the bar, leaving Christy alone with the ashes, his swollen lip the safety catch on a smile he’d otherwise find impossible to contain.
The ashes in the urn were the real thing all right, but collected from twelve different urns, made up by skimming little portions off the top of each one. As nasty a full stop as it had been, Sean spitting in the ashes like that was still the end, and for Paddy’s sake, the desired one.
He wanted to call by Paddy’s house to sit down and tell him about how perfect it had been. The two of them would laugh so joyously. But Paddy wasn’t there.
As a fresh pint was placed in front of him, Christy swallowed down the little knot of excitement, realizing he’d have to keep it to himself. There was no one he could share it with. Not even Frank would appreciate it properly. And this made him feel lonely.
It was going to take time to get used to Paddy being gone. He’d been there too long and had been loved too much to be forgotten overnight. But while the others would continue to think of him as dead, Christy would think of him standing by the barrier at the track in some sunny place, eyeing up the horses at the starting gates, and it gave him comfort.
Behind the bar, Gerry raised a pint of stout and looked down to Christy.
“To Paddy,” he said, prompting everyone to raise their drinks.
“To Paddy,” said everyone together, and at last, Christy could smile.
—
SURROUNDED BY white-chopped ocean and slate-colored mountains, Brigid’s lonely figure marched wearily along the shore, her hair tossed behind her in the wind. Her father was born in Mayo so she’d come down to Louisburgh to feel that bit closer to him. Of all the counties in Ireland, Mayo was her favorite even though she seldom made it down anymore. But here today, with the mist being whipped from the waves beside her, she vowed to come back every December, in remembrance.
The days since Dublin hadn’t been easy on her. Losing both her parents had dealt quite a blow, regardless of how romantic their tandem passing may have seemed to her. While Paddy had been there tentatively wooing her, the punch of her loss had been dissipated by the promise of love, but now that it was just herself and the sandpipers sharing their beach walk, her only solace was the wind that wiped her tears away.
When Paddy hadn’t rung her the week following the funeral, she’d called Gallagher’s for a contact number only to be told that he’d died of heart failure in Manchester, having gone there to visit a friend. Whatever hope she’d held for a fruitful and emotionally secure future with him was crushed by that single sentence, and it was then, as she gripped the phone in her Hampstead home, that her heart shattered inside her.
She’d known Paddy for all of four days, but crammed into those few days was a chemical charge of such magnitude that her feelings for him had amplified and her heart had fully bloomed. To have it punctured so violently had robbed her equanimity and compounded her grief.
She was alone again. And if she was to be alone, then she’d go somewhere she could honor the order. West.
She’d set her studio up in a little cottage just up from White Strand, and she’d stay there for the foreseeable future, painting, walking, grieving, and being alone. She was lucky she could pour her pain into her pictures and make them all the richer for it. However dark they’d turn out, they wouldn’t be bereft of hope. The hope would be evident in its different guises of sorrow and grieving, processing and moving on.
She knew she’d get over Paddy, just as she’d get over her parents’ deaths, but she also knew she’d never forget him or the way he made her feel, or those kind eyes that seemed to know
more than they should. Whatever it was about the way he looked at her, she missed it terribly. He’d be in her heart now, forever, like a perpetually burning candle, which she’d occasionally cup her hands around to feel the glow of their fleeting brush with love.
The tide was going out now, leaving pools deep and wide for her to negotiate her way around, and the light was fading. With her hands rooted deep in her pockets, she turned herself towards the cottage and her thoughts to a painting of a man in a dark suit and bowler hat, with a gentle heart and a burgeoning affection bubbling beneath his funereal veneer.
—
THE VIEW FROM the open doorway is a perfect one. Endless acres of green fields peppered with poplars and giant oak trees, lending shelter to the horses and cows that graze there under the morning sun. The French countryside has always appeased my soul, particularly in Nantes, where I now stand, cradling a whiskey in my hand, and breathing in the moistness of the dewy air.
Patrice and Blandine, Eva’s parents, are behind me at the kitchen table doing their post-breakfast ritual: he puffing his pipe, she gathering the plates. The whiskey is Patrice’s idea, to warm us for our morning walk. It reminds me of the days I used to go fishing with my father on Lough Mask, casting our flies back and forth, waiting for a rise. Whenever my attention would wane and turn from the fly on the water, Shay would say, “Any minute now,” which always brought me back to the fly. And when the weather was harsher than usual, we’d pass Shay’s hip flask between us, the taste of Bushmills never failing to give my mouth the touch of a smile.
Patrice knows his whiskey, and for the occasion, he’s pulled out a bottle of Midleton Very Rare, which he rubbed reverently while displacing it from its spot beside the Pernod in the cupboard. I know that my coming here has meant the world to them. It’s the first time they’ve seen me since the funeral. They knew I’d crumbled under the loss of their daughter, and while dealing with their own grief, they’d worried deeply about mine. To have me turn up on their doorstep during the run-up to Christmas, unannounced, has gladdened their hearts and opened their wells of kindness.
The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley Page 22
