A dark and unexpected novel about a Dublin undertaker who finds himself on the wrong side of the Irish mob. Paddy Buckley is a grieving widower who has worked for years for Gallagher’s, a long-established—some say the best—funeral home in Dublin. One night driving home after an unexpected encounter with a client, Paddy hits a pedestrian crossing the street. He pulls over and gets out of his car, intending to do the right thing. As he bends over to help the man, he recognizes him. It’s Donal Cullen, brother of one of the most notorious mobsters in Dublin. And he’s dead. Shocked and scared, Paddy jumps back in his car and drives away before anyone notices what’s happened. The next morning, the Cullen family calls Gallagher’s to oversee the funeral arrangements. Paddy, to his dismay, is given the task of meeting with the grieving Vincent Cullen, Dublin’s crime boss, and Cullen’s entourage. When events go awry, Paddy is plunged into an unexpected eddy of intrigue, deceit, and treachery. By turns a thriller, a love story, and a black comedy of ill manners, The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley is a surprising, compulsively readable debut novel. "Massey has an eye for black humor and the details of a life fully inhabited. … He’s got the natural voice of a storyteller." — NPR “Refreshing... It takes the subject of death and turns it into an adventure that is both funny and thought-provoking… A mix of black comedy, adventure and hilarious love story,  The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley  is smart storytelling from a writer whose knowledge of the undertaking business shines through.” — The Irish Times "Jeremy Massey does for Ireland what Carl Hiaasen does for Florida." — The Charlotte Observer "This is what we call ‘a nightstand book’ at our house: It will joyfully make its way from my nightstand to my husband's. The gifted Jeremy Massey has created a complex, fascinating and hilarious Irishman in Paddy Buckley, the delightful center of a novel brimming with passion, humor, poetry and wisdom that only comes from the Emerald Isle, where the best stories are born." —Adriana Trigiani, author of The New York Times -bestseller The Shoemaker's Wife  “Jeremy Massey puts a fresh and intriguing spin on the Irish crime novel with the tale of an ordinary man drawn into a deadly conflict with a Dublin mob boss.  The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley is both a cleverly constructed thriller and an unforgettable story of friendship, love, and loyalty.  It’s sharply written, darkly comic, and full of heart.” —Harry Dolan, author of the New York Times bestseller Bad Things Happen "[An] intelligent and suspenseful debut novel ... A hilarious funeral home scam and a quirky dead body mix-up add to this exciting, morbid tale." — Publishers Weekly “Highly readable and entertaining…the novel benefits especially from Massey's mostly restrained, deadpan Irish sense of humor.” — Kirkus Reviews “[Massey’s] dark and zany humor is anchored by some serious reflection.” — Library Journal Jeremy Massey is a third-generation undertaker who worked with his father for many years at the family firm in Dublin. A screenwriter by training, Massey has lived in London and Los Angeles. He currently lives with his wife and three children in Australia.  PREFACE There’s a Mickey Mouse clock hanging in my kitchen, probably still ticking. I’ve taken quite a bit of stick about it over the years. Mickey Mouse on its face, with his big open smile and wide eyes, walking in place with boundless joy and enthusiasm, surrounded by numbers. My friend Christy used to shake his head when he’d see it. “The clock’s got to go, Paddy,” he’d say. It’s probably not the right clock to have on your wall when you’re forty-two years old; but for me, Mickey’s the patron saint of getting out of the soup with your spirit intact. No matter what’s thrown at him, no matter how hairy things get, his happy demeanor never fades. He walks away with a whistle and smile every time. I’ve been to quite a few funerals in my time. More than most people, having been around the trade all my life. My father was a coffin maker for one of Dublin’s largest undertaking firms, and I followed him into it, ending up making the arrangements and running the funerals. I always liked listening to the eulogies delivered after the Mass was finished and the congregation was settled back into their pews waiting for a few words. A few years ago, I stood at the back of the church with my boss, Frank Gallagher, listening to a guy talk about his brother, who’d died at the age of twenty-eight in a drowning accident. Everyone was pretty cut up over the loss, but this guy, beleaguered though he was, had a glow about him. Probably a few years older than his deceased brother, he stood at the pulpit with his John Lennon glasses and long hair. He told the church that we were all in a dream and that his brother had woken up. This misery of a gig called life is just a dream from which we all event