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

frantic.
    â€œHello, who am I speaking to, please?” It was an English accent, and familiar.
    â€œPaddy Buckley here.”
    â€œOh, yes, Paddy. I talked to you yesterday . . . this is Derek Kershaw in Manchester . . .”
    â€œEverything all right, Derek?”
    â€œNo . . . no, I’m finished. I’m afraid I’ve made the most dreadful mistake . . .”
    â€œWhat happened?” I said.
    â€œI’ve sent you the wrong body . . .”
    â€œThat’s not good, Derek. The Hayes family is expecting him up at the funeral home at lunchtime. How soon can you organize a flight?”
    â€œNo, it’s quite irredeemable . . . there’s another remains whose people didn’t want a funeral at all, just a straightforward cremation without a service . . . she had no family, just a nephew who hardly knew her . . .”
    Kershaw had been drinking and was slurring his words.
    â€œDerek, can you organize a flight today?” I said clearly.
    â€œI’ve not only sent you the wrong body,” said Kershaw, in tears now, “I’ve cremated your man . . .”
    Something inside me came alive. Ordinarily, this would have been enough to send the whole office into complete turmoil, me included, but a deep equanimity took a grip of me in an instant, and for the first time since I fell back into my body at Vincent Cullen’s, it felt like I belonged in my skin again.
    In every industry, horrible things go wrong every day, things incendiary enough to close down a business; and more times than not, somebody manages to keep a lid on it; and nobody the wiser. By some crazy cosmic decree, this happened to be a week full of lightning strikes in the same place, and I, for some unfathomable reason, was attracting them. Yet paradoxically, instead of being fried to a crisp, I’d been thrown into the eye of the storm.
    I listened to Kershaw’s defeated whimpering in my ear. I looked at the crimson wool fabric on the carpet. I watched Corrine’s hand steadily place the mug of tea down on the desk in front of me. And I saw the grandfather clock keeping time as it had for forty years in exactly the same place.
    It was then that I realized everything was perfect.
    I turned away from Corrine, who’d just answered another call, and lowered my voice.
    â€œDerek, let me understand you. You sent us the wrong body and the Hayes remains we were expecting you’ve cremated in Manchester. Is that it?” I asked in a calm, level voice.
    â€œThat’s it,” Derek whispered.
    â€œWho knows about this?”
    â€œNo one, just my son and I,” he said.
    Christy came in from the middle office and sat down in front of me.
    â€œRight, keep it to yourselves. Tell no one. Can you do that?”
    â€œYes, but what good—”
    I cut him off. “Just give me an hour. Don’t do anything or tell anyone. Sit tight. I’ll ring you back in an hour.” I put down the phone.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” said Christy, with a lowering brow.
    I winked for his complicity.
    â€œCorrine,” I said, “has the Hayes remains been delivered?”
    â€œIt’s in the side parlor,” she said, sipping her tea while studying the
Times
’s Simplex crossword.
    Christy followed me into the side parlor where the closed Hayes coffin rested on a bier. I closed the door behind us and spoke very quietly.
    â€œNow, I need you to keep a level head and your mouth shut when I tell you this.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œKershaw has cremated Dermot Hayes in Manchester.”
    â€œStop it,” said Christy.
    â€œI’m telling you,” I said.
    â€œNone of your fucking messing now, Buckley,” said Christy defensively, but he knew by my eyes that I was serious. He brought his hand to his head and sat slowly down on the couch.
    â€œMother of fuck,” he said,