The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley (12 page)

“Is this two veils?” I said.

“Getting there,” she whispered, and we kissed again. I moved my hands down her sides, over her hips, and just as they reached her jeans, the doorbell rang. We both sighed through our noses as the kiss ended.

“Saved by the bell,” I said, only half joking. She smiled while fixing herself up.

“I've no idea who that could be.”

While she went to open the door, I put my coat on. The sound of a sympathetic male voice came traveling in from the front door: the priest. I fixed my tie and moved out to the hallway where Brigid stood with the priest from Haddington Road church.

“Hello, Father,” I said, offering my hand. “Paddy Buckley from Gallagher's.” The priest, bent over with age, smelled of altar wine and decaying teeth, and had little tufts of unshaved stubble under his nose and at the sides of his mouth.

“Hello, Paddy,” he said, with a gaping smile.

“I'll leave you to it, Father. I know you've things to discuss with Ms. Wright.”

I turned to Brigid, taking her hand briefly in mine.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow, Brigid,” I said, moving to the door. She looked back at me a little disappointed, but also with the yearning that had been awakened in us both.

“Goodnight,” she said.

—

BY THE TIME
I got home, I was exhausted and still slightly love drunk. I rested my head down on my pillow and was fast asleep in moments. And then I dreamed, not of Brigid, but of being back on James's Street, driving, just as I had been on Monday night, only in the dream it was twilight and the road was flooded with rain, my car cutting through it like a slow-moving speedboat. I gripped the wheel, focusing madly on the street outside, filled with the dreadful feeling that something horrible was about to happen. I searched and scanned the street, but it was deserted. And then, just as I neared the accident spot, I noticed the church to my left had its doors open with the most beautiful pink and yellow shafts of light beaming out onto the street accompanied by strangely familiar and comforting music. This reduced the dread factor before replacing it with feelings of warmth and curiosity, which were dashed quickly by the dark figure rushing across my path from the other side of the street like a racing squirrel. I pounded my foot to the brake and pulled the wheel down, but to no avail: I kept careering towards him at increasing speed. I frantically looked to the floor and saw that there were no pedals anywhere, just carpet. I swerved again but the wheels stayed locked on course, moving ever closer to Donal's figure. And then, just at the unbearable point of impact, I sat bolt upright in my bed, saturated with sweat. There was a fleeting moment where I thought it was just a dream, but then reality came rushing, and I collapsed back on my bed.
It's over,
I told myself,
and there's nothing you can do to change it. Just bury him well.

October 15, 2014,
9:30 a.m.

I
f it weren't for one significant detail, being embraced into Vincent Cullen's world would have been a warm if slightly disquieting experience. But what I'd done had left me feeling like a fraud, a wolf in sheep's clothing, and not much of a wolf at that. If I was to be found out, I knew my days would end with a torture motif. And that was my sobering and very present reality.

I stepped out of the hearse to see Richie waiting by Cullen's front door, squinting at me. I noticed there were more cars than yesterday. Apart from Vincent's maroon Jag parked nose out, ready to go, there were two Subaru Imprezas and a navy Range Rover.

“He's waiting for you round the back,” said Richie.

“Okay,” I said, not sure if I was to walk through the house or around it. Richie jerked his thumb towards the side of the house like he was talking to a moron.

“Go round the side.”

I walked by the front bay windows around the side of the house, where I saw a hardwood kennel with a pitched tile roof and red door standing proudly beside a coal bunker. It was so grand, I had to look twice to make sure it was for a dog, which on closer inspection it must have been as the floor inside was lined with straw.

It was a big back garden and well loved. There were plum trees and apple trees and an abundance of roses and flowers. Vincent stood over by the greenhouse talking with another man. He waved me over. I was down to drive the hearse for the ten o'clock Mass in Walkinstown and had timed it so I'd have plenty of margin in making the twenty-minute trip from Cullen's.

Reaching the greenhouse, I stopped dead as I recognized the man sitting on the bench, smiling warmly at me. I'd made arrangements with Chris O'Donoghue seven years ago. A big round man with Celtic coloring and penetrating mystic blue eyes, Chris had come into Gallagher's in Uriel Street unannounced after his three-month-old son had suffered a cot death, and I'd looked after the arrangements for him. It was policy in Gallagher's not to charge for baby funerals, so I'd done everything for him gratis, Frank Gallagher believing a family suffering the loss of an infant had more to be troubling themselves with than having to consider what nobody should ever have to: buying a coffin for their baby. Out of the thousands of funerals I'd arranged over the years, there was only a handful that stood out in my mind, and my experience with Chris was one of them.

“Chris,” I said, breaking into an easy smile. “What a surprise.”

Chris got to his feet and ignored my outstretched hand, pulling me into an embrace instead. We slapped each other on the back affectionately.

“Good to see you,” he said, and then pointed at Vincent. “When Vincent phoned me yesterday asking about you, I was only too glad to tell him what kind of man he's dealing with.”

“I'd never have put you together,” I said.

“He's my accountant,” said Vincent. “You'll have a cup of coffee, Paddy,” he said then, more as a statement than an invitation.

“I'd love to, Vincent, but I'm driving a hearse on a ten o'clock Mass and—”

“You'll have a cup of coffee, Paddy,” said Vincent again.

“Well, I'll have a quick cup then.”

“Sit down,” said Vincent, gesturing to the bench. Chris and I sat down as Vincent looked to the back door of the house where Richie stood, playing with his phone.

“Richie,” said Vincent, no louder than he'd been talking to us. He held up three fingers. “Coffee.”

“Do you have a garden at home, Paddy?” asked Vincent.

“A small one,” I said. He reached down to beside the greenhouse wall and picked up a potted sapling.

“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “It's a medlar tree, good for October planting.”

“Thanks, Vincent,” I said, touched by the gesture.

“Get your hands in the dirt, Paddy. It'll pull you into your boots.”

As I wondered was this kindness because of my sweaty panic yesterday, the dog came to the door of the greenhouse and fixed her focus on me. I was glad to be able to return the dog's interest this time without the fear and panic. I leaned forward, nodding her over and watched her come willingly. I rubbed behind her ears and the side of her snout, listening to her groan as she moved her face to facilitate a good scratch.

Chris looked up to Vincent, who matched his surprised expression.

“She likes you, Paddy,” said Chris, looking increasingly confounded.

“Do you think?” I said, enjoying the interaction as much as the dog.

“I've never seen her like that with anyone,” said Vincent.

“Neither have I,” said Chris.

I didn't understand what the big deal was. I'd always had a way with dogs, as did many people.

“Who's a good old bowler?” I said to the dog.

“That's no ordinary bowler,” said Chris, looking to Vincent, who gave him silent permission to continue.

“What kind of a dog is it?”

“It's a K1.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Nor are you likely to again,” said Chris, like he was holding a precious secret. “A K1 is a hybrid never believed possible before, but with the patience and tenacity of a Scottish friend of ours, it was brought into being twenty years ago. What you're looking at there is a mixture of wolf, fox, and Alsatian.”

I was able to see little bits of every breed mentioned.

“Dechtire here is expecting eight pups in a month's time.”

“Could you put me down for one?” I said, making both men laugh, but the joke was lost on me.

“I'll leave Chris to explain the story to you, Paddy. I'll grab you some clothes for Donal.” Vincent walked away while Chris momentarily held my arm.

“What I'm about to explain to you, Paddy, is highly confidential and can't ever be talked about to anyone. All right?”

“All right,” I said, massaging the dog's chest.

“Wolves have been crossed with plenty of dogs over the years, Alsatians among them, but never with a fox. It's still thought to be impossible, and if it wasn't for Angus Fitzconor, what's standing there beside you probably still wouldn't exist.”

Richie arrived with a tray of coffee and biscuits, which he set down on a little table beside the bench.

“I'll leave that there with you, gents,” he said, and left us.

“Thanks, Richie,” said Chris, picking up a biscuit.

“Who's Angus Fitzconor?” I said.

“A stubborn bollocks and a great man; a man who's become very dear to Vincent and me. He was a prominent figure in Glasgow in the seventies, responsible for a large portion of the prostitution and racketeering, building himself an empire and the fortune to go with it. He retired in the late eighties, leaving his sons to look after his business interests, which they'd largely legitimized by that stage, leaving Angus free to go to the Highlands, where he lives today in an old castle. He embraced the country life and got stuck into managing the hundreds of acres he had, getting to know over the years where the different birds had their nests and where the foxes had their dens. He became one with the place.

“One morning in 1990 he heard shots fired and went out to investigate. He found the hunters in question, made it clear to them they were never to trespass again by shooting over their heads, and sent them on their way. Then, while taking a walk later, he came across the fox they'd killed, or the vixen, to be precise, and took in her kits, four of them, and decided to raise them himself.”

I sipped my coffee while listening to his story, occasionally looking down to Dechtire, who was practically purring beside me.

“And that's when he got the idea. He'd a friend with a pet wolf and so organized himself a couple of wolf cubs that he put in with the fox kits.”

“I wouldn't have imagined wolf cubs would be that easy to come by,” I said.

“When you've the wealth and connections of the Fitzconors, Paddy, getting what you want can be very easy. But that's where Easy Street ended for him. From there on in, he came up against headache after hurdle. It nearly proved impossible. Angus had believed that the reason there'd never been a successful cross between the two breeds was because the animals were natural enemies. A wolf would normally kill a fox on sight, and a fox would never knowingly cross a wolf's path.

“He separated the male and female wolf cubs and put them with the fox kits and watched them grow. When the time came, the wolf bitch wouldn't let the fox anywhere near her, nearly killed it at one stage; and the wolf successfully covered the vixen, but nothing came of it. But Angus kept at it, and even though he was getting nowhere, he still believed it possible. Then on a spring morning in '92, the biggest, meanest-looking fox he'd ever seen came out of the woods and just stood there, staring at the wolf bitch caged in her pen. Angus called him Zulu because whatever it was about him, he had that wolf bitch hypnotized. He let her out and watched her vanish into the woods after the fox, only to return two days later, panting and pregnant. She gave birth two months later to five of the most beautiful little pups he'd ever seen.”

“That's some story, Chris. How come I've never heard of them?”

“It doesn't end there, Paddy. The offspring ended up being too highly strung. One in particular, which Angus described as the most demonic animal he'd ever encountered, killed another one of the cubs in a fight. After that, he had to intervene in their scraps. So to introduce a little street savvy to the mix, he added the Alsatian, a champion dog from a top breeder in Mělník in the Czech Republic. But take a look at something that's always intrigued me. See Dechtire's eyes? They're the same as a fox's. They've survived each cross, they're serpentine.”

I looked into the dog's eyes and noticed for the first time that they had vertical-slit pupils, like a cat's.

Vincent arrived back with a garment bag and picked up his coffee from the tray.

Chris continued his story. “But the most remarkable thing about the dog turned out to be not its eyes, but its intelligence, along with how well it bonded with its master. The connection is nothing short of extraordinary.”

“So they're bright,” I said.

“Beyond bright,” said Vincent. There was clearly much more to the story, but as interested as I was, I had a hearse to drive and was out of time.

“I'd love to stay longer, but I've got to go,” I said, picking up the plant Vincent had given me. He handed me the bag of clothes.

“Will you see his shoes in the coffin?” said Vincent.

“No, but I can still put them on him. It's up to you.”

“Put them on him. Let's have him fully dressed.”

Chris got up from the bench.

“I'll walk you out, Paddy.”

As I moved away from the dog, she grunted urgently for my attention and succeeded in turning all three of our heads. She looked at me and licked her lips quickly, as if she wanted another scratch. I smiled and winked at her affectionately.

“Dechtire,” said Vincent, in a commanding tone, and she turned from me and moved to his side.

We left Vincent with the dog and headed for the hearse.

“So how much are you selling the pups for?” I asked him.

“A hundred grand, sterling.”

I smiled at him.

“Come off it.”

“We could probably charge double that and not meet the slightest resistance.”

“Who pays that kind of money for a dog?”

“Mainly Saudi princes and sheikhs, and people with money to burn, who, like yourself, have an affinity with dogs and an appreciation for the kind of bond I'm talking about. The potential is vast, Paddy.”

I opened the hearse and put in the clothes and plant.

“What do you mean, exactly?”

Chris leaned in close to the hearse, resting his arm on the roof, and changed his tone to conspiratorial.

“You know what kind of guys these are, right?” he said, with a backward nod.

“Of course.”

He lowered his voice even further. “Two years ago, Vincent and I were away on business together, so Donal was left in charge. Vincent had a warehouse over by the North Wall filled with electrical goods, that kind of thing, and had five rottweilers guarding it at nighttime. The old guy who looked after it used to drink in The Port Jester after work—rough house—he was a simple little guy who took pride in his work and used to talk in the pub about how secure the place was because of the dogs. Anyway, to prove a point or to just shut him up, one of the younger guys in the pub hopped over the gates one night with nothing but a spade in his hand and killed every one of the dogs, leaving them in a pool of blood. The warehouse was well monitored with cameras and Donal watched the footage a couple of times. One tough bastard the guy was, a total animal. Donal makes enquiries and finds out the guy's into hard-core porn, so he gets information to the guy through his dealer that the warehouse is a distribution center for porn and snuff movies, and that a key to the place is kept hanging on a hook above the door in the outside jacks in the yard. It took nine days for the guy to come in, but he did come in. Now bear in mind Dechtire's been with Donal all this time. He takes her everywhere with him—she was there with him the morning they found the dogs dead, she inspected it in detail along with Donal, and is with him each evening while he waits for your man, right?”

“Go on,” I told him.

“So, the night in question, Donal has Dechtire waiting in the toilet for your man, and come half one, the guy hops over the gate, walks down to the jacks, opens the door to get the key, and Dechtire springs out on top of him, pushes him to the ground, and bites the Adam's apple out through his neck in a matter of seconds.”

“Killing him?”

“Stone dead. Now, as gruesome as it is, that's not the extraordinary bit, Paddy. Here's the thing: Donal had been in a fight in Limerick three months prior to the North Wall incident, which he ended by biting the Adam's apple out of the guy's throat, killing him. With Vincent out of the country, Dechtire spends her days and nights with Donal, during which time they bond and deal with the North Wall situation together. And that's just one story.”