The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley by Jeremy Massey Read Free Book Online Page A

glistening eyes as she continued to look at me without saying a word. I felt a deepening attraction to her as each minute closed and I wondered if I was deluding myself by thinking that maybe the feeling was mutual. I felt guilty and remorseful and wondered if this was what sleep deprivation did to a man. I started running a mantra in the back of my mind: You’re arranging the funeral of this girl’s parents because your prick killed her mother, you fucker.
    â€œRegarding transport, Brigid, to save you from the headache of having to drive and park, would you like me to put a car down for you on the removal and funeral?”
    She nodded again.
    â€œYeah,” she said, “do that.”
    I worked hard to keep my focus trained on the funeral.
    â€œYour mother ordered a floral spray for the top of your father’s coffin. Would you like me to put the same on top of her coffin?”
    â€œThat’d be nice,” she said, watching me write on the arrangement sheet.
    â€œAnd music, would you like me to get an organist and singer for the funeral Mass?”
    Brigid thought about this for a minute, looking at me all along. I remembered her mother looking off while thinking, allowing me to study and admire her; but being here now with Brigid, it was she who was studying me as I moved through the questions. I waited for her answer while looking back into her gaze, which was a warm and comfortable place.
    â€œYeah, let’s have music. Can I talk to the singer?”
    â€œOf course. I’ll get them to ring you. Would you like a male or female singer?”
    â€œWhich is nicer?”
    â€œFemale I find much more beautiful.”
    â€œOkay then,” she said, “female.”
    â€œYour mother compiled a death notice for your father that she wanted put in
The Irish Times
. Would you like me to duplicate it and make the necessary changes for her own?”
    Brigid nodded. “That’d be perfect.”
    â€œThe church offering, which is obligatory, is usually about two hundred euro. Will I put down four hundred and have it paid on the day for you, or would you prefer to look after it yourself?”
    â€œNo, you look after it. Four hundred is fine.”
    I pulled out the coffin catalog and placed it on the table, unopened.
    â€œAnd the last thing: the coffins. Do you want to take a look at them?”
    â€œSure,” she said, and held out her hand. I passed the catalog over. Pictures of coffins often brought the finality of death tumbling home like a thumping reality check and usually turned on the waterworks, but the coffin had to be chosen.
    â€œDid you show these to my mother?” she asked.
    â€œWe hadn’t reached this stage.”
    She looked through them, turning the pages over one by one, eventually stopping on a simple oak coffin. She turned it around to me like it was a menu in a restaurant.
    â€œThis one here, is it unpolished?”
    â€œYes, it’s unpolished. That’s a limed oak.”
    â€œThat’s the one then,” she said, handing back the catalog. I put it back in my briefcase and marked down which coffin she’d selected before throwing a cursory glance over everything I’d written. I put my pen away and folded the sheet closed. I breathed easy. I’d got through it.
    â€œThat’s it, Brigid,” I said, intending to walk out the door in a matter of moments, but Brigid’s focus remained fixed on me.
    â€œI know my mother would have loved you, Paddy. You must have sensed that she liked you,” she said. I was riveted to my seat.
    â€œYeah, we . . . definitely got on,” I said.
    She got up from her chair.
    â€œHave dinner with me,” she said, as she cleared the table of the cups.
    I slammed myself hard into undertaker mode. “That’s very kind of you, Brigid, but I’m on call for the night. I’ll have to be getting back to the office,” I said, and went about