The final stage of the plan was supposed to proceed like this; Maloney was set to ‘flee the country in fear of his life’ aboard his boat The Little General. The vessel would be blown up dramatically half way across the Irish Sea, the last act of Bunny McGarry in his one-man demented killing spree which the Púca was supposed to be. McGarry’s body would be found in the wreckage, but Maloney’s or Wilde’s never would. That was because they would be in a South American country living under new identities with a great big pile of untraceable cash, having been picked up in a pre-arranged rendezvous with another vessel.
Only it hadn’t worked out that way. The Little General was currently still moored out at Howth Harbour, the marina having been evacuated for a day as the bomb squad dealt with the bomb hidden away in it.
Where the whole enterprise had seemingly come unstuck was with Maloney’s desire to use his grand scheme to exact revenge on Bunny McGarry. Apparently, McGarry had slighted him in some past life. Burns could well believe it. Everything she’d heard did indicate that McGarry had a unique ability to leave an impression. Maloney had wanted it all, the greedy little shit. It seemed Conroy and Mulchrone had some how tracked McGarry down. Burns was still unsure exactly how, but they were scheduled to come in to give statements tomorrow. For the second time in a year, this unlikely trio had cracked a massive case and made the Garda Síochána look bad while doing it. Not that the Gardaí had needed much help on that score; the inquest on the death of Father Daniel Franks had already been opened. Assistant Commissioner Michael Sharpe was about to suddenly retire due to an unspecified but pressing medical condition, quite possibly a terminal case of having his head rammed up his own arse.
There was a knock on her office door.
“Come in.”
The door open and Desk Sergeant Clarke, poked her head in.
“Need you now chief, suspicious package.”
“What the…? Why am I…?”
Burns realised she was talking to herself, Clarke’s head having disappeared from view.
Burns stood up, muttering to herself. “I’ve to do everything around here apparently. Nobody can even—”
She exited her office and shut up as she was greeted by a sea of beaming faces. They had a welcome banner up over the boards that were normally used for evidence. Clarke stood in the middle.
“We didn’t get a chance to welcome you properly, what with the—”
“Monumental shit-storm of biblical proportions?” finished Burns.
“Yeah,” beamed Clarke, “that. We even got you a cake.”
Clarke moved to the side to reveal Wilson standing behind her, holding a custom-made cake. On the top of it was a very realistic three-dimensional rendering of a Louboutin shoe that had seen better days. Wilson wore a nervous smile above it, clearly less confident than others about the appropriateness of the joke.
The crowd broke into a smattering of applause which Burns acknowledged with a gracious wave.
“Yes, very good. Thank you all very much.”
She watched the relief wash over Wilson’s face.
“By the way Wilson, your flies are undone again.”
“Ah for—”
“Made ye look.”
Epilogue 2
Four months later
Paul stood at the front of the church and fiddled with his dickie bow. He felt frankly ridiculous wearing the thing, but it hadn't been his choice. He looked down at the groom's side of the church. Bunny was supposed to be wearing a dickie bow too, but in typical Bunny style, he wasn't. Instead, he'd rocked up in one of his own suits, which looked remarkably like every other suit Paul had seen him wear. There were still some signs of the ordeal he'd gone through at the cement factory, but you had to look now to really see them. His face had healed remarkably quickly. There was still a slight limp to his walk, but the doctors had been able to save his foot.
Beside him sat Maggie. She'd been a lot more touch and go than Bunny. Luckily, Bunny had known a good vet who'd operated to repair the broken ribs and leg Maggie had suffered. She'd even been very understanding when Maggie had reacted unusually to the painkillers.
Paul ran his finger along the inside of his collar again. There was a stir of movement at the back of the church, and then the great doors at the other end opened.
Bright sunlight washed in, reflecting off the marble floors and casting a warming glow amongst the church's sombre twilight.
Paul held his breath as Brigit walked in. Dressed all in white, the sun dancing in her hair as a wide smile played across her lips. She was a vision.
His heart pounded in his chest.
He watched as she stepped to the side.
"Paul… Paul!"
Paul snapped out of his reverie as Auntie Lynn appeared in his eye-line.
"What?"
"What do you mean 'what'?"
Paul glanced behind him. "Oh, shit!" He made brief eye contact with the priest, "Sorry, Father," before darting across to the Sacristy door and knocking on it. "Phil! Phil!"
The door opened and Phil was standing there. "Sorry, Paulie, nervous wee. How do I look?"
"Fantastic. I mean, I'd probably close your flies, but other than that…"
"Oh, right." Phil turned around and then back again, this time with the cage well and truly closed.
"Right, then," said Paul, "let's go get you married."
To the surprise of everyone bar Phil, after he'd sent the money off as requested – to a man, who knew another man, who knew whom to bribe, and another person with a truck and… long story short, the very much real Da Xin and her family – parents, two sisters and grandma – had indeed made it out of China and moved to Ireland. They were in the process of being granted political asylum, Da Xin's father being quite the celebrity. Paul didn't think poets could be celebrities, but apparently, if they stand up to corrupt government officials and then have to get their whole family snuck out of a country in a turnip truck, they can be. The wedding had been organised in quite a rush, to fit around the family's campaigning commitments. They'd been in Paris last week meeting the Dalai Lama. Apparently Phil had spent quite a lot of time explaining to him what a chicken ball was.
Important Message Number One
Hi there reader-person,
Thanks for taking the time to read The Day That Never Comes; I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to find out more about the mysterious Maggie and how she ended up in the possession of Bunny McGarry, the answers are contained in How to Send a Message – the exclusive short story collection you get FOR FREE for joining my newsletter. Just go to www.whitehairedirishman.com/free/ – to sign up and get your copy. I’ll also keep you informed on future releases etc. You won't be spammed, I promise, gobshite’s honour!
Thanks again for reading and if you enjoyed it, please do leave a review because there is absolutely no better form of advertising than people seeing that a fellow reader enjoyed the book.
If you’ve any questions, please do drop me a message via www.whitehairedirishman.com
Thanks,
Caimh
Important Message Number Two
At the start of this book, as with pretty much every other novel, there’s a bit of legalese saying how it is entirely fictional, and it absolutely sincerely is. Something kind of weird has happened though…
I was back in Dublin in late December 2016 preparing for a family Christmas while going through the final proofs of this book. As you’ve read it, you’ll know that in it a bunch of homeless people take over an office building in Dublin city centre that has been left empty by the Irish government. Then, as I sat in my parent’s back room, triple-checking the notes from my editor… a bunch of homeless people took over an office building in Dublin city centre that has been left empty by the Irish government. It is called Apollo House – and it is a five minute walk over the Liffey from where the fictitious Stander Building aka ‘the Ark’ is located in my head.
First and foremost, I want to point out that while the coin
cidences are frankly a little freaky, they are just that – coincidences. Secondly, I entirely support the actions of those fine charitable organisations that have taken control of Apollo House; Home Sweet Home and the Irish Housing Network do brilliant work and the Irish Government and Dublin City Council should hang their heads in shame for allowing a situation where hundreds sleep rough while the Irish people pay for the upkeep on empty buildings.
To find out more about the work of the Irish Housing Network visit: http://irishhousingnetwork.org
Thanks
To Elaine, for more reasons than I could possibly count.
To Scott Pack for his clear head, incisive insight and patience.
To Penny “The High Priestess” Bryant for being the Queen of Proof.
To Clare Campbell-Collins and Brendan Dempsey for taking one for the team and wading through the first draft.
To the eagle-eyed Nick Kaayk, Amanda Wragg and Paul Savage for spotting the un-spotable.
To all the bloggers whose enthusiasm for my first book encouraged so many to take a chance on it and encouraged me to write another one.
To Sarah Millican and Gary Delaney for having me support them and then supporting me by letting me flog some books to their wonderful fans.
And to all the members of the London Irish family for being the generous and supportive bunch that they are, especially Big Bob, Paddy, Michael and Tom Court for helping bang the drum. Legends!
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 32
