The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley by Jeremy Massey Page A

while.
    Desperate, I looked to the floor, feeling the burning heat of Vincent’s disapproval along with my shame and the river of sweat collecting on my collar. As irrational as I knew it was, I was convinced that somehow Vincent knew I’d mowed his brother down and that he was about to announce it to me. I waited, knowing full well the funeral arrangements we were making had come to a grinding halt.
    When Vincent spoke, he spoke much slower than he had up to this point.
    â€œWe’ll come down to the funeral home later, Paddy, and finish the arrangements then. All right?”
    â€œOkay,” I said, my mouth so dry I’d whispered the word. I accepted the catalog back from Sean and put the arrangement sheet away. Both Vincent and Sean were on their feet before I’d closed the briefcase. Sean held the door open as I walked out of the room with my head bowed, and then he closed it behind me.
    I felt like I’d just been squeezed through a mangle. Was this what I’d been reduced to: a muddled, sleep-deprived mental patient with the biggest secret in Dublin? I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I had to tell someone.

THIRTEEN
    10:50 a.m.
    I closed the door to the back office behind me and sank to my knees, gripping my hair in despair. Vincent Cullen was going to check up on me, that was a certainty. I could only hope he’d write me off as a pathetic loser, but after my panicky display in his study, how far would his suspicions extend? I’d never felt guiltier than I had in his study, and there was no explanation for my collapse into panic, unless he’d put it down to the dog. Maybe he’d just request to have somebody else run the funeral. But considering the way my luck had been going, I wasn’t expecting him to let me off the hook.
    I needed to talk to Christy, to tell him what I’d done, to share the burden of my horrible crime, which I hoped would alleviate some of the mortal fear I found so impossible to shake. The relief of owning up, of admitting the truth, couldn’t be mine. It was a road I knew I couldn’t go down. Never in my life had I shirked the blame when it was mine. I’d always put my hand up no matter how severe the repercussions would be. But now something had changed in me. I don’t know if fear had taken hold of my soul or if I was frightened by the hellish consequences I’d face if I admitted everything. I only knew that with the Lucy Wright situation and the far larger one of Donal Cullen, both of which I was one hundred percent culpable, I couldn’t take the rap. It would destroy me.
    Corrine arrived in with an empty cup and stopped in her tracks. I was no longer sweating like I’d been up in Cullen’s house, but I still must have looked like I’d run all the way from Stephen’s Green.
    â€œAre you all right?” she said.
    I took out a cigarette and lit it.
    â€œI’ll be all right in a minute,” I said. Corrine was a smart woman. She didn’t ask questions. She kept to herself and never got involved in anyone’s dramas, preferring instead to live her life privately away from the land of funerals.
    â€œIf you mind the phones for me, I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she said.
    â€œDeal,” I said, and moved out towards the front office.
    â€œOh, and Paddy!” she shouted after me. I cocked my ear. “Eddie Daly was on. Lucy Wright is clear.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. Incredible how inconsequential it seemed now beside the Cullen conundrum. Granted, Lucy’s death was on my head, but the price for my crime, had I been made pay, would have been my reputation. Not my life.
    I popped my head into the middle office to see Christy on a call. I signaled for him to join me when he was finished, and then went to answer the ringing phone in the front office.
    â€œGallagher’s Funerals, good morning,” I said.
    The voice on the other end was