Читать книгу Mr Nice - Говард Маркс - Страница 15

Charlie Radcliffe, Graham, and I were smoking joints and counting money in Graham’s Marylands Road flat. We were bemoaning our poverty. Although we were grateful to Mohammed Durrani’s Pakistani diplomats for smuggling hashish into Europe and giving it to us to sell, we were jealous of the amount of money they were making. We would make about 20% of the selling price in London. The diplomats and Durrani made the rest. We, or the Dutch, had to drive the dope into England and then deliver it to wholesalers in London. It was a risky business, particularly with road blocks now being set up all over the place to catch IRA activists. We were taking all the chances, while the Pakistanis were taking none. There was no chance of getting the hashish for a better price in Europe. The Pakistanis knew full well that there were plenty of buyers more than willing to pay at least as much as we were. We couldn’t beat them down.

‘If only we could find our own way of getting hash in,’ said Graham, ‘we would become so rich. Don’t either of you know anyone who works in a key position in an airport or in the docks somewhere?’

I didn’t.

‘I could try Cardiff, Graham,’ I suggested. ‘There are probably some old school friends of mine working in a freight department somewhere. I could go drinking in the pubs where dock and airport workers hang out. I’ll find someone who needs to supplement his income, I’m sure.’

‘Good idea,’ complimented Graham, but without much enthusiasm.

Charlie spoke up. ‘I’ve just met someone who I’m sure will be able to bring in some hash. I interviewed him for Friends, He’s an IRA guy. If he can smuggle in guns, he can smuggle in dope.’

Friends was an underground magazine. Its editor was a South African named Alan Marcuson. Charlie and his lady, Tina, lived in Alan’s Hampstead flat. Together with Mike Lessor’s International Times and Richard Neville’s Oz‚ Friends catered for the tastes and beliefs of 1960s drop-outs, dope dealers, rock musicians, acid-heads, and anyone with a social conscience. The underground press was unanimously opposed to the British presence in Northern Ireland. The IRA’s struggle was seen as championing the causes of the world’s downtrodden and poverty-stricken Catholics. How could one not sympathise? There were increasing doubts and worries, of course, about the violent methods used by the IRA, particularly the Provisional IRA, which had recently broken away from the Official IRA to form a terrorist splinter group. There was also discomfort about the IRA’s rather puritanical stance on smoking dope.

The current issue of Friends carried a very lengthy piece on the IRA, which included an interview with a Belfast member, James Joseph McCann. In the interview he admitted to a petty-criminal childhood in Belfast which led to an involvement during the 1960s with South London’s most powerful and feared gangster, Charlie Richardson. A spell in Her Majesty’s Prison, Parkhurst, Britain’s heaviest nick, had converted McCann into a poet and proponent of Irish nationalism. His poetry sucked, but his rhetoric seemed quite persuasive, especially when it took the form of explicit threat. McCann missed the criminal glamour and clearly felt there would be an even greater opportunity for money, deviousness, and deceit in becoming an Irish folk hero. He achieved this longed-for status by throwing Molotov cocktails at Belfast’s Queen’s University, declaring himself as an IRA man, giving himself up to the authorities, and subsequently escaping from Crumlin Road prison. It was the first escape from there since World War II. He was now on the run in Eire, presenting himself to press photographers in badly fitting military wear and brandishing a variety of lethal weapons, claiming to have smuggled them into Dublin. Belfast schoolchildren mocked and jeered at British soldiers patrolling the Andersonstown streets yelling, ‘Where’s your man McCann? Where’s your man McCann?’ He was a hero all right.

‘Would he go for it, though, Charlie?’ I asked. ‘You know what these guys are like about dope. They’d tar and feather someone for smoking a joint. They think it pollutes their youth. They aren’t going to help anyone bring it into Ireland, that’s for sure.’

‘Howard, Jim McCann actually smokes almost as much dope as we do. He’s got no problems with it.’

‘It’s a first-class suggestion,’ said Graham, this time with enormous enthusiasm. ‘Can you set up a meeting?’

A week later Graham and I landed at Cork airport, our first visit to Southern Ireland. We went to the car hire desk. It was called Murray Hertz.

‘Now! What are you?’ asked the Murray Hertz employee.

‘What do you mean?’ asked a very puzzled Graham.

‘Your profession. I’ll be needing it for my files.’

‘I’m an artist,’ stammered Graham.

‘Now! Tell me. Why would an artist be wanting a car on a day like this? And what about your man there? Will he be holding your brushes?’

We gave up and went to the Avis desk, where they tried harder. They gave us a car, and we drove through the misty night to Ballinskelligs, where some time ago Alan Marcuson had rented a fisherman’s cottage and placed it at McCann’s disposal. Its telephone number was Ballinskelligs 1, and it lay next to a former lunatic asylum for nuns.

‘Thank God you’ve arrived,’ said Alan, ‘but you mustn’t do anything with Jim, whatever Charlie said. The man’s a dangerous lunatic. He’s got a boot full of explosives in a car parked right outside, he’s stashed guns in the nuns’ nuthouse, he’s got me looking after this dog, he’s stoned or drunk all day, he keeps bringing IRA guys here, and every policeman in Ireland’s looking for him. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Humour him when he comes back from the pub, but don’t think of doing business with him. He’ll be busted in a flash.’

Jim McCann, drunkenly reeling and staggering, fell through the door and gave the sleeping dog a hefty kick up the arse. He ignored me and Graham, farted loudly, and stared at the dog.

‘Look at that fucking dog! What about you? You don’t give him any exercise, Alan. It’s wrong, I’m telling you. Look at that fucking dog!’

Alan, Graham, and I stared blankly at the still sleeping mongrel. So this was your man McCann. An Irish freedom fighter.

McCann’s eyes shifted from the dog to me. ‘You from Kabul, are you?’

‘No, I’m Welsh, actually.’

‘Welsh! Fucking Welsh! Jesus Christ. What the fuck can you do? Why are you here?’

‘I’ve got to help decide whether you could be of any use to us.’

‘Use to you!’ McCann screamed. ‘Listen. Get this fucking straight. I’m the Kid. The Fox. I decide if youse any fucking use to me. Not the other fucking way round. And youse better be of some fucking use. We need some arms for the struggle. You hear me, do you? Youse were followed from the airport by my boys. This place is fucking surrounded by the IRA. Any fucking around, and you’re gone, brother, gone.’

He turned and addressed Graham, ‘Are you from Kabul, then?’

‘Well, not exactly …’

‘Why have you brought me these two wankers, Alan? I thought you were going to bring me someone who could get me arms from Kabul.’

‘I’ve been to Kabul,’ said Graham, attempting to save the situation.

‘Can you get me some guns from there, then? Yes or no. Either shit or get off the pot. I’ve got John Lennon coming round here this evening. Time’s short.’

‘Kabul is not a place that sells arms,’ Graham explained.

‘What the fuck do you mean? Sell arms? I don’t buy fucking arms. I get given them for the struggle by people who want to insure their future when we finally kick you fucking Brits out of my country. What’s a fucking Welsh cunt doing selling arms anyway? You should stick to painting road signs.’

‘Jim,’ I said, ‘we’re a couple of hash smugglers. We want to know if you’re able to get the stuff in for us. We’ll pay you a lot for doing it.’

‘Where’s the hashish coming from?’

‘Kabul.’

‘Where the fuck’s that, you Welsh prick?’

The conversation was in danger of getting out of control. Graham came to the rescue.

‘Kabul is the capital of Afghanistan. But we can also get it out of Karachi, Pakistan. Do you have any suggestions of how we could get it into Ireland?’

‘Put it into a coffin. You understand me, do you? They never search those. I’ll give youse the address to send it. My brother Brendan knows the priest. Our Gerard can drive the hearse, and our Peter will make sure no one touches it.’

Not the best scam. Not even original, but at least we were talking the same language. I brightened up a bit, but Graham seemed unimpressed.

‘Handling coffins has its problems in places like Kabul, Jim. It really does. There’d be all sorts of paperwork to do. They’d want to know the identity of the corpse, etcetera.’

‘Alan fucking told me youse could do anything from Kabul. Youse can’t get ahold of any guns there. Youse can’t even get ahold of a dead fucking body. I’ll send youse a dead fucking body with a fucking passport tied round his neck so those idjits in Kabul know who the fuck he is. Where the fuck’s John Lennon? He’s late again. Go upstairs and call him, Alan.’

Alan disappeared up the stairs, scratching his head.

‘He’s not getting a fucking penny,’ said Jim, pointing up the stairs. ‘That’s my first condition. Charlie Radcliffe doesn’t get a fucking penny either. That’s condition number two. Condition number three. I want £500 cash, now, to set everything up, and I want £5,000 for doing it.’

I spoke up, ‘Jim, if we just sent you some boxes, not a coffin, just some boxes, to the airport, would you and your brothers be able to get them?’

‘Of course we could, you Welsh arsehole. What do you think I’ve been telling youse for the last ten minutes? We run this fucking country. Give me some of that fucking joint.’

Graham, getting noticeably tired, reached into his pocket and said, ‘Okay, Jim, here’s £500. Let us know when you have an address for us to send you some boxes. I’m going to bed now.’

Graham and Alan passed each other on the stairs. Alan yawned and told Jim, ‘There was no answer from that number you gave me for Lennon.’

‘He must be on his way. You fancy a pint of Guinness, H’ard? Alan will wait here for John Lennon. A couple of the boys might be coming, too, so they’ll keep John company when we’re having a wee drink.’

We walked in total silence to a shop a hundred yards away. It was about 2 a.m., dark, and foggy. Jim banged at the door hard and long. It was opened by an elderly farmer, who led us through the shop into a bar at the back. About a dozen people of assorted sizes and professions were downing pints of Guinness and breaking into song. Jim had left just a couple of hours ago and was greeted by warm cries of ‘How about yer, Seamus.’ We sat at a table and were brought several pints of Guinness. Jim began telling me his life story – or someone’s life story. Essentially, his account was the same as what had appeared in Friends with even further embellishments. He asked me details of my past. I told him.

‘So, youse a fucking Oxford academic, are you? The fucking brains of this fucking crazy gang from Kabul. The Welsh wizard. Oxford? You’re not British Intelligence, are you? Coming to catch the Kid? Who do you sell all the dope to? Other fucking academics and hippie shit? Do you just carry a fucking bag down Brighton seafront and go to Hyde Park for big deals? I know people who can sell dope in Brighton. You know the Weavers, don’t you? Or Nicky Hoogstratten? You must know him, for Christ’s sake?’

‘I know of them, Jim, but don’t really know them.’

The Weavers were Brighton’s best-known criminal family. The capo was James Weaver, who had been sentenced to death for murder and kidnap but who had later been reprieved. The family were known for taking a dim view of any of its rank and file who succumbed to the temptation of selling recreational substances. Nicholas Hoogstratten was Brighton’s millionaire slum landlord. His heavies were continually evicting impoverished, dope-smoking hippies.

‘I could sell the dope for you. I could sell it here in Ireland. There was a bust in Dublin last week.’

There had indeed been a bust in Dublin. It was of half a pound of hashish, and a Dublin police chief had described it on television as Ireland’s biggest ‘burst’. I wasn’t at all sure if any dope-smuggling venture with McCann could possibly work. But if it did, it would definitely be a bad idea for him to be hawking our hashish around the streets of Dublin, gathering all the cash and probably getting ‘bursted’.

‘Jim, surely it would be better that none of the gear gets sold in Ireland. We don’t want the cops thinking that the dope’s being imported into this country. Once you get the gear, give it to me, and I’ll take it over on the ferry to Wales, drive it to London, and sell it. In a couple of days, I’ll drive back on the ferry with the money, if you want it here.’

‘I want my money in Amsterdam.’

‘That’s fine, Jim.’

‘Can you get me any guns, and bring those over on this fucking Welsh ferry? It would help the cause.’

‘No, Jim.’

‘What about pornographic movies? Bring all you can.’

‘Yes, Jim, I can do that.’

A record player was turned on, and some of the other drinkers began dancing an Irish jig. Jim joined them. I went to the bar and bought drinks all round. There was a telephone on the counter. Its number was also Ballinskelligs 1. The revelry continued until dawn. Jim and I were the last to leave.

We walked across soaking wet fields. The sea was a few yards away. Through patches in the early morning mist, we could see nearby small islands.

‘That’s Scarriff Island. John Lennon’s buying it. We probably missed him when we were in the pub. Still, it was good crack. Better than a fucking Welsh pub, I’m sure.’

Back at the fisherman’s cottage, Graham and Alan were still soundly asleep. There was no sign of John Lennon. Jim and I smoked some joints.

‘You know condoms are illegal in Ireland, Howard. But they won’t be for long. Once we get the Brits out, we’re getting rid of the fucking priests, and people will be able to fuck each other without having wee kids to support. It’s a British conspiracy to keep us poor. Charging us for sex, a kid a fuck. I’m forming a company called Durex Novelty Balloons, so Durex will have to call their condoms some other fucking name, and they won’t sell any. You hear me? Dan Murray did the same with Hertz. We’ll screw those fucking capitalists. But I have to get some money first. I might need you there, H’ard. Let’s go to the shop and buy something to eat. I’m fucking starving.’

We traipsed back over the wet fields, this time passing the nuns’ lunatic asylum. ‘That’s our arms dump‚’ said Jim. ‘We could hole up here for months.’

The same shop/bar we had not long left had now opened for its breakfast trade. A kindly lady was serving customers enormous breakfasts, and a young lad was selling groceries. At the back, last night’s mess remained uncleared at the bar, but five characters were propping it up and swallowing Guinness. The bar phone rang. It was for Jim. I looked aimlessly at the groceries, then sat down at a table in the bar. Jim walked back.

‘Was it John Lennon?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s Graham and Alan. They’re coming over now for some food. Don’t say a fucking thing about what we’ve been talking about. That’s important. You hear me.’

I was wondering how Ballinskelligs 1 could dial Ballinskelligs 1. Jim ordered four large breakfasts and four pints of Guinness. They were ready when Graham and Alan arrived. They said it was too early for them to drink, so Jim and I drank their Guinness.

‘Jim, we have to fly back to London today. Is there anything further to discuss?’ asked Graham.

‘No. I’ll see you in seven to ten days. I’m away.’

With that, Jim got up, shook our hands, and walked out of the shop.

‘So, what do you think?’ I asked Graham and Alan.

‘You’ve got to forget it,’ said Alan. ‘The man’s nuts. All this John Lennon nonsense. And he’s got no idea where Kabul is.’

‘I think he can do it,’ said Graham. ‘He’s the kind of person who can get away with things. Look, we should leave now and get on the road. I have to get to London.’

On the way back to Cork airport, we passed near Blarney. I wanted to stop and kiss the stone to get some luck. Graham said there was no time. This was the area where my great-great-grandfather, Patrick Marks, then McCarthy, spent his young life. How Irish did this make me?

At Cork airport, I picked up a payphone and asked the operator for Ballinskelligs 1. A beautiful Irish voice said, ‘Now, who would you be wanting: Michael Murphy’s, the shop, the farm, or the strangers? Two arrived last night, but they’ve gone early this morning.’

‘To whom am I speaking?’ I asked.

‘Why now, I’m the Ballinskelligs operator.’

It all made a bit more sense now, but it was still weird.

There were things to do back home. The new AnnaBelinda premises included a self-contained flat. Rosie, Emily, and I were leaving both our Brighton and our London flats to go and live there and open the planned-for up-market boutique. I supervised, or rather smoked joints and watched, the extensive refurbishing of the one-time transport café. The dress-shop front was beginning to look good and was already attracting a great deal of the city and university’s interest. Pattern-cutting and other workshop rooms sprouted out of the timber and sawdust. The flat was comfortable, and there were separate offices. In one of these I had an interior decorating company which, with an accommodating local builder, Robin Murray, I’d formed primarily for the purpose of being able to fiddle the accounts when refurbishing the premises. Although money-laundering then was nothing approaching the problem it is these days, one still had to be a little devious if one ventured from underground. I definitely didn’t want the authorities to know how much money I had. Accordingly, I paid a lot of money in cash for the refurbishing, but the accounts showed an expenditure of considerably less. Another office was set aside to convert my hobby of collecting stamps into a philatelic business. My plan was to buy in my own name massive quantities of unsorted stamps, known in the trade as kiloware, at cheap prices. At the same time, expensive rare stamps would be bought anonymously by me for cash from reputable dealers in the Strand. My business records would state that these valuable stamps had been recovered from the kiloware after a painstaking, time-consuming search. I would then sell the valuable stamps to stamp dealers in the provinces and appear to be shrewdly making legitimate money. There would be some financial loss, but who cared? 6, Gloucester Street, Oxford, was shaping up to be a great headquarters. Only the large, empty cellar remained without a function.

A week after my return from Ireland, Alan Marcuson rang saying that McCann had set everything up. He said he had totally underestimated McCann’s abilities. He really had got it together. Graham and I should come over to Dublin right away. I pictured McCann standing behind Alan at some Ballinskelligs 1 location, threateningly prompting Alan’s every word.

Graham couldn’t make it; he was too tied up with his property and carpet businesses. I flew alone to Dublin and checked in at the Intercontinental Hotel. It overlooked the Lansdowne Road rugby ground, where just the year before the Irish had cruelly robbed the Welsh of the Triple Crown. There was a package waiting for me at the reception desk. An attached note said: ‘Read this. Seamus.’

I opened the package. Inside was a mass of detail about an airport I had never heard of. It was called Shannon and was situated on the Atlantic coast just outside Limerick.

The airport boasted a number of unique characteristics. It was the closest European airport to North America, and, as such, was a connection and refuelling point for European and Asian airlines on long hauls across the Atlantic. In 1952, Irish government and individual entrepreneurs, doing their utmost to exploit Shannon’s position as an airways cross-roads, invented the first ever duty-free shop where transit passengers could purchase alcohol, cigarettes, perfumes, and watches at bargain prices. The area surrounding Shannon airport had been declared a freeport, to which raw materials and other bonded goods could be shipped for use for manufacturing purposes provided the finished products were exported from Ireland and not offered for sale within the country. A massive trading estate housing numerous businesses anxious to take advantage of this incentive spread around the airport. Every day, several hundred cars and trucks drove in conveying factory employees and locally built machinery. I began to see the point. Gear could be sent into Shannon Trading Estate from abroad without going through customs checks and would, somehow or other, be taken out of the trading estate camouflaged by the exodus of factory workers leaving at the end of their shift. There were maps of every inch of the estate and airport and a variety of air-freighting/importation forms. I was very, very impressed.

The hotel room door opened, and Jim walked in accompanied by a hotel employee carrying a bottle of Paddy Irish whiskey and a bucket of melted ice.

‘You’re a good man, Damien,’ said Jim. ‘Sign the bill, H’ard, and give your man here a twenty-pound tip. He deserves it.’

I gave the whiskey-bearer his money.

Jim put his arms around me and squeezed tightly. I was very startled.

‘What do you think of the Kid, then? I’ve done it. I’ve cracked it. Send all the fucking dope you want.’

‘How did you do it, Jim?’

‘I pretended I worked for Fortune magazine and rang up the airport manager to ask for an interview. I went from him down, you understand me, till I got the man I wanted. Anything can be taken out of that trading estate there. Any fucking thing. As long as you got one of these.’

Jim grabbed hold of the pile of papers I’d been reading and displayed one entitled ‘Out of Charge Note’.

‘You can get these copied, can’t you?’

‘I should think so, Jim. Charlie Radcliffe worked in the printing and publishing business for years. He’ll know how to get it done.’

‘Don’t you tell Charlie Radcliffe what they’re for. You hear me.’

‘Well … Okay. Maybe I’ll use someone else. Who examines them?’

‘You wired up, H’ard? I just fucking told you I got the man I wanted. He fucking examines them. And, if he values his fucking Guinness, he’ll pass them. His name’s Eamonn. He’s a true Republican.’

‘Does he know we’re going to bring in dope?’

‘Of course he fucking doesn’t, you Welsh arsehole. He thinks he’s bringing in guns for the cause. He’s against dope.’

‘Where’s Alan, Jim?’

‘I’ve just sacked the no-good fucker. Him and Radcliffe had better watch out for their lives. And that fucking John Lennon. You ought to get rid of Soppy Bollocks, too.’

‘Who is Soppy Bollocks?’

‘That fucking Brit that was with you last week.’

‘Jim, we need Graham. I don’t know anyone else who can send stuff from Pakistan and Afghanistan.’

‘Well, fucking find someone, you hear me. You and me can go to Kabul. Did you bring those pornographic movies you promised?’

I had forgotten.

‘I didn’t want to bring them on the plane, Jim. I’ll get them brought over on the ferry very soon. This plan of yours seems brilliant. When do you want to start?’

‘Fucking now. I’m ready. I got it all together.’

‘How much shall we send?’

‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’

‘What address shall we send the stuff to?’

‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’

‘What goods shall we pretend to be shipping?’

‘I’ll let you know, H’ard.’

Jim clearly didn’t have it all together, but it did sound most promising. I wanted to see Shannon for myself. We rented a car and drove via Limerick to Shannon airport. The countryside was spectacular, a large and beautiful estuary surrounded by gentle rolling hills. In the middle of this idyllic setting lay a large industrial estate and airport. Jim was driving. He parked right outside the passenger airport terminal in an obvious no-parking area.

‘You can’t be parking there,’ said a quietly spoken Irish airport official.

‘It’s a fucking emergency. I’m picking up my boss’s luggage,’ said Jim in his loudest and most aggressive Belfast accent.

‘That’ll be grand. I’ll keep an eye on it for you.’

Jim then took me on a guided tour of the airport, including the Aer Lingus cargo terminal. Various employees nodded to him. He escorted me as if he owned the place. Then he got an Aer Lingus van driver to take us to the industrial estate. There appeared to be no check on anyone or anything. Jim asked a supervisor to tell me how the freeport worked.

‘This is like its own country,’ explained the supervisor. ‘No goods are allowed to leave this estate unless, of course, they’ve been specifically cleared to do so.’

‘What if someone tried to take them out?’ asked Jim, playing a bit close to the bone.

‘They can’t without one of these,’ said the supervisor, displaying an ‘Out of Charge’ note.

‘See what I mean, H’ard,’ said Jim as we were dropped off back at the terminal, where the obliging official was still keeping an eye on our car. ‘This place is wide fucking open.’

It was.

‘You’ll have to give me some more money, H’ard, to rent an office in Limerick and a small workshop in Shannon Trading Estate. How will you take the hash to London and Brighton? You want our Brendan to take it over for you? He needs to work and make some money, that’s for fucking sure.’

‘I’ll get friends to drive it over the ferry to Wales, Jim. We have a lot of experience driving across the European borders.’

‘Do you just put the gear in the boot and pray?’

‘No. We hide it in the door panels and under and behind the back seat. You’d be surprised how much you can get in. I’ll need a place, a cottage or something, or a garage, where I can stash the car before putting it on the ferry.’

‘I’ll get you one. Just give me the money to do it.’

‘Jim, if I give you another £500, will that cover down payments on the office, workshop, and a place for me to stash?’

‘It might just be enough, H’ard.’

We checked into the Shannon Shamrock, a kind of motel popular with airline pilots. The lobby smelt of peat and Guinness. I used my real name. Jim used the name James Fitzgerald. We had a drink. The pilots were narrating horrifying tales of near misses and bad landings.

‘You must never use your real name again, H’ard. It’s too dangerous. It’s fucking dumb.’

The next morning there was a direct flight from Shannon to Heathrow. I took it. An ‘Out of Charge’ note was in my pocket. I went straight to Graham’s. Charlie Radcliffe was there. One of Dutch Nik’s firm had brought over a hundred kilos of Lebanese from Sam Hiraoui. It had to be sold. That would give me and Charlie another £1,500, Graham £5,000, the Dutch £2,000, and Lebanese Sam, whose diplomats brought it to Holland, £20,000. If Shannon worked, we stood to make so much more.

‘Howard, we’ll have to do a dummy first. I can’t risk my Middle East connections just on McCann’s say-so.’

‘I don’t think Jim will go for that, Graham. He’s anxious to do the real thing.’

‘He’s got no choice.’

Charlie Radcliffe said he’d have no trouble making copies of the ‘Out of Charge’ note.

After Charlie Radcliffe, Charlie Weatherley, Jarvis, and I sold the Lebanese, which merely entailed giving it to James Goldsack and waiting for the money, I drove to Brighton. Although no longer living there, I’d kept on the flat and had given McCann its address and phone number. There was a telegram waiting for me. It was from Limerick. Jim had sent it about an hour after I’d left him. It stated: ‘Send sporting goods to Ashling Distribution Services, Shannon airport. I need more money. Fitzgerald.’

I had no direct way of getting hold of Jim by telephone. There was just a mail drop in Ballinskelligs. I phoned Graham, who suggested we just went ahead and sent a dummy consignment once the ‘Out of Charge’ notes were printed but not to tell Jim it was a dummy until the last possible moment. I didn’t like it. But it made sense. Graham got Patrick Lane to put a stack of London telephone directories in a box and air-freight it to Shannon. I telegrammed the eleven-digit air waybill number to Jim’s Ballinskelligs address and express-mailed some perfectly forged ‘Out of Charge’ notes. Jim telephoned many hours later.

‘Those fuckers in Kabul have ripped you all off. Fucking telephone directories. Don’t ever fucking bother me again, you Welsh arsehole. I’m going to Kabul myself. Fucking telephone directories. They could have at least sent some dirty magazines for the boys. Tell Soppy Bollocks his days are numbered. You hear me. Fucking telephone directories.’

‘Jim, we had to do a dummy first, and there was no way of letting you know. I couldn’t say in a telegram that this was a dummy, could I? You must give me a better way of getting hold of you.’

‘I want another £500 tomorrow, without fail. Soppy had better be on the next fucking flight to Kabul, and he’d better send something other than fucking telephone directories, otherwise he’ll be without his fucking kneecaps. What’s his fucking phone number?’

‘I’m not giving you his phone number, Jim, but I will be over tomorrow morning with the money. Did you find me a cottage or something?’

‘It’s all together, man. I do what I fucking say. I deliver. I’m the Kid.’

I reported to Graham. He agreed to go out to Pakistan in the next couple of days. I flew back to Shannon, rented a car, and, as arranged, waited in the lobby of the Shannon Shamrock. Jim came in accompanied by what appeared to be a giant all-in wrestler.

‘This is Gus, H’ard. He’s a member of the Belfast Brigade’s assassination squad. I want him to know your face. Okay, Gus, you can fuck off now. Don’t forget to get John Lennon’s London address. I’ll teach that fucking arsehole a lesson he’ll never forget. H’ard, I don’t want any more fucking games, you understand me, do you?’

‘It was a simple communication breakdown, Jim. There were no games. Here’s your £500. Where’s this cottage?’

We drove to a village called Ballynacally. At one of the pubs, we picked up a farmer with whom Jim had negotiated a rental the day before. The three of us drove up a winding road to a burned-down and abandoned stately home.

‘This is Paradise,’ said the farmer.

I mumbled puzzled agreement.

‘Are we renting that, Jim? There’s no roof.’

‘Colonel William Henn used to live in that very house,’ the farmer continued, ‘but it’s the cottage nearby you’ll be renting. I didn’t get your name, by the way.’

‘His name’s Brendan,’ Jim quickly interjected.

‘Brendan what?’ asked the farmer.

‘McCarthy,’ I said. ‘My family were originally from Cork.’

‘Welcome to Paradise, Mr McCarthy.’

We drove to the remote cottage. There was absolutely no passing traffic. It would suit our purposes admirably.

‘What’s the address of this place?’ I asked the farmer.

‘Paradise Cottage, Paradise House, Paradise. But if I were you, Mr McCarthy, I’d also put on the envelope that it’s near Ballynacally.’

Driving back in the direction of the Shannon Shamrock, I asked Jim why he had chosen the name Ashling for the Limerick company.

‘Can’t you even work that out with your fucking Oxford brain? Ashling means vision in Gaelic. It’s also a combination of hashish and Aer Lingus. We could go and see the Limerick office if you like.’

The rented office was squashed between a small car-rental company and a do-it-yourself shop. Jim unlocked the door. It was a simple room with a desk and a phone. The phone worked, but Jim did not know its number. It had been the previous tenant’s private line.

‘Has Soppy Bollocks gone to Kabul?’

‘Yes, he left this morning,’ I lied.

‘How long will it take him to send me the nordle?’

‘What the hell is nordle, Jim?’

‘You have to use codes, you stupid Welsh cunt. Codes and false names. Nordle is hashish.’

‘Oh! Okay. Well, Soppy will take about a week to send you the nordle.’

‘A week! A fucking week! Why so fucking long?’

‘I don’t know, Jim.’

We continued on our journey back to the Shannon Shamrock. There was plenty of time for me to make the flight back to Heathrow, so we had a meal in the hotel’s restaurant. Jim made a phone call, and a few minutes later Gus came in. He took a seat at another table in the corner. He ignored us. We ignored him.

‘Remember, H’ard, no fucking games. Codes and false names. Then it will all flow like the grace of a Mozart concerto. You’re with me, kid. No one will bother you in Ireland. Anytime you want to get hold of me, call this number in Dublin. Don’t give it to anybody. I mean anybody. See you next time.’

A few days later, Graham still hadn’t left for the Middle East. The connection of his most suitably equipped to air-freight hashish was a man named Raoul, Mohammed Durrani’s man in Karachi. I had met him several times at Graham’s. He was a small, bespectacled, slightly overweight Pakistani about ten years my senior. Whenever I saw him, he was smiling broadly and counting large stacks of money. Graham and his Californian connection, Ernie Combs, a member of the Californian dope-dealing organisation, the Brotherhood of Eternal Love, had often sent vehicles of various descriptions to Pakistan to be filled up with Raoul’s hashish. They were then driven overland to Europe, and, in some cases, put on ships to be taken across the Atlantic. Raoul was a rich man and owned cinemas and numerous other businesses in Karachi. All Graham had to do was give Raoul instructions for air-freighting or sea-freighting., and the job was done. He could do what he wanted in Pakistan when he wanted, except in times of natural disaster and war. India was threatening to invade East Pakistan and free it from West Pakistan’s yoke. Serious war was inevitable. Visitors to Pakistan were discouraged. Raoul was unable to operate.

At least once every day, a very impatient Jim McCann rang up asking, ‘How much fucking longer are you going to take?’

‘Jim, there’s a war on out there. Karachi airport is surrounded by soldiers. It’s impossible to get anything out of there at the moment.’

‘A war! What the fuck do you think is happening in my country? I’m surrounded by fucking soldiers everywhere. It doesn’t stop me from fucking operating.’

‘Well, it stops some people, including our man in Karachi.’

‘Fucking Welsh academics. Can’t you get the nordle from somewhere else?’

‘Hopefully, yes. Graham’s got people in Beirut and Kabul.’

‘Kabul! You just said there’s a fucking war there and you can’t fucking do anything. Don’t play fucking games, H’ard. I warned you about that.’

‘Jim, the war is in Pakistan, which was where we were going to send the sporting goods from.’

‘What fucking sporting goods?’

‘The nordle, Jim. You know what I mean. Anyway, there’s no war in Afghanistan. So Graham should be able to do it from there.’

‘Tell Soppy Bollocks he’s got three days to deliver or he’s got a pair of busted kneecaps.’

‘Okay, Jim.’

There were several similar conversations. Eventually Mohammed Durrani said he could send an air-freight consignment from Kabul within a week. On the strength of this, I flew back to Shannon, taking with me Marty Langford, who had agreed to live in Paradise Cottage until the hashish arrived and then guard it until it was ready for onward transportation to Britain. Jim met us at the Shannon Shamrock. He was very subdued but still a bit scary. He addressed Marty.

‘This had better fucking work if you want to see Wales again. You hear me?’ Then he left.

‘I don’t want to be a hostage, Howard. I don’t mind sitting in a cottage all by myself, but I don’t like all this heavy stuff like Niblo’s on about, you know.’

‘Don’t worry, Marty. Niblo, as you call him, just talks threateningly. He never does anything.’

We drove a hired car to Paradise. Marty liked it. He was a widely read man of simple pleasures and looked forward to a period of reading books and pottering about. I left him there and flew back to London to see Graham. Jim had found out Graham’s number (probably by ringing directory enquiries but claiming he had done so through his Kilburn investigation unit), so Graham was not answering the phone. His wife, Mandy, dutifully informed Jim every time he rang that Graham was in Kabul.

While I was at Graham’s, Mohammed Durrani phoned. The consignment had left Kabul for Frankfurt, where it would be placed on an Aer Lingus flight to Shannon, and one of Durrani’s men had arrived in London with the air waybill. Graham and I went to a flat in Knightsbridge to pick it up. We examined it closely. The consignment was described as being one of antique carpets being sent by an Ali Khan in Kabul to a Juma Khan in Shannon. It did not look good. I called Jim’s Dublin number and left a message for him to call me at Graham’s in a couple of hours. He did so.

‘Well, it’s left, Jim. It’ll be with you tomorrow.’

‘About fucking time.’

‘There’s a few problems, though, Jim.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not sporting goods.’

‘You mean it’s not nordle?’

‘No. It is nordle, but the paperwork doesn’t describe it as being sporting goods as we instructed. It’s described as antique carpets.’

‘That’s no fucking problem. I don’t care what it’s fucking described as. It’s sent to Ashling, right?’

‘Well, that’s the other problem, Jim. It’s addressed to Juma Khan, Limerick.’

‘You stupid Welsh cunt. What did you put my fucking name on it for?’

It wasn’t until then that I realised the similarity in pronunciation between the names Jim McCann and Juma Khan. This was too ridiculous for words.

‘Have you got no idea about security? False names and codes. I fucking told you that a hundred fucking times, and you put my fucking name on it. What you fucking think this is? Amateur night?’

‘Jim, Khan is like Mister in the Middle East. And it’s Juma, not Jim. Juma means something like Friday in their language.’

Explanations to Jim fell on stony ground.

‘Jim McCann might fucking mean Man Friday in Kabul, but in Ireland Jim McCann means it’s fucking me, the Kid. I’ll still get the nordle, but because of your fucking cock-ups, it’ll cost me an extra £500. I need it right now.’

Early the next morning, I flew back to Shannon. This time Jim was waiting at the airport. He was fired up. He took the £500 and ran, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Wait for me in Paradise or the Shannon Shamrock. Check in as McCarthy.’

I hired a car and drove to Paradise. Marty was standing outside looking very relieved.

‘Thank God it’s you, Howard. I thought it was those Pakistanis again.’

‘Pakistanis? What Pakistanis?’

‘Two days ago, I heard a car pulling up. I thought it was you or Niblo from the IRA. The car stopped outside the gate, and two Pakistanis got out. You’d told me something about some Pakistani dope coming, and I remembered you telling me something about a pretend dead body or something coming from Pakistan, so I thought they were something to do with that, like. I thought they would either give me some dope or a coffin or something. In fact, they were selling shirts. Yeah, shirts! Then I figured you sent them as a joke. Then I thought Niblo had sent them to freak me out. Then I thought they were undercover Pakistani cops. I bought a couple of shirts off them. There they are. Not bad really for what I paid for them.’

The coincidences were beginning to get out of hand.

‘You’ve had any other visitors?’

‘No, that’s it. Everything has been as quiet as a mouse, except for the rats. Rats freak me out.’

We had a cup of tea and some egg, peas, and chips. Marty always made the best. I’d brought over a little hash, and we had a smoke. I drove back to the Shannon Shamrock and checked in as Stephen McCarthy. My mother had seriously thought of christening me Stephen, and my ancestor Patrick Marks used the surname McCarthy. I hadn’t yet graduated to using only false names that have absolutely no connection to one’s past. These were early days.

I had dozed off for a few minutes when the phone rang. It was Jim.

‘Come down right away, H’ard. Since when do antique carpets fucking rattle when you move them around?’

In the lobby, Jim was all smiles. I followed him to the hotel car park. In the middle was an unlocked, beaten-up Ford with a sack-covered cabin trunk on the back seat and a similar one in the boot, which, because of the size of the cabin trunk, had been left wide open. It stank of hashish.

‘You see, H’ard, the Kid’s done it. The Kid delivers with the grace of a Mozart concerto. I want my two grand, and another five hundred for extra expenses. And next time I don’t want my fucking name on the paperwork, and I don’t want fucking carpets that rattle, and I want some pornographic movies. But between me and you, Howard, it was a fucking good job the carpets did rattle. It convinced them they were bringing in guns. They knew they weren’t fucking carpets. You understand me, do you? Here’s the keys. Take this shit to Paradise. When do I get my fucking money?’

‘Do you still want it in Amsterdam, Jim?’

‘What the fuck use is it to me there, H’ard? You say some fucking stupid things sometimes. I want it here.’

‘I’ve got a couple of hundred on me which you can have right now. The rest will arrive tomorrow.’

‘Give it to me, and give me the keys of your car, H’ard. I’ll drive it over to Paradise in about an hour. I’ve got to see some of my people. Don’t open those fucking boxes till I get there.’

Jim tore off in my rented Volkswagen. The old Ford he’d left me was difficult to start. The gauge registered less than an eggcupful of petrol. The body of the car almost touched the ground. I drove to a nearby petrol station and was comforted to discover that most other vehicles on Irish roads also look suspicious. No one gave me a second glance on my journey to Paradise. Marty and I unloaded the car and, abiding by Jim’s instructions, left the trunks unopened. Soon the aroma of the packaged hashish filled Paradise Cottage. Jim wasn’t long. The three of us unpacked the trunks. There were two hundred pounds of the finest hand-pressed Afghani hashish. We smoked joint after joint. Marty and I giggled nervously as Jim tore around the room screaming, ‘I’ve done it. I’ve done it. The Kid’s done it.’

Marty and Jim collapsed into a deep sleep. I drove the hired Volkswagen a few miles to the nearest phone box and telephoned Graham with the good news. He was pleasantly surprised and told me that Patrick Lane would drive over right away with the balance of the money owed McCann and drive back with the hashish. Leaving the phone box, I noticed that the boot of the car was very low. I opened it. Inside were stacks of London telephone directories and boxes of plastic-covered chemicals. A little confused, I drove it back to Paradise. Jim was waiting outside the cottage door.

‘You didn’t go over any bumps, did you? That car’s full of fucking explosives.’

‘Well, take them out of there, Jim. Stick them in your wreck.’

‘What’s wrong with you? You only deal in fiction. Nordle is fiction. Fucking explosives and arms are non-fiction. That’s reality, man. I deal in non-fiction. Not this fucking hippie shit.’

He threw away his half-smoked joint into the Irish night, transferred his odd cargo of telephone directories and explosives from my car to his, and drove off.

Twenty-four hours later, Patrick Lane checked into the Shannon Shamrock. I was waiting in the lobby. I took the keys of his rented Ford Capri and drove it to Paradise while he had a sleep. Marty looked agitated and said, ‘Niblo’s just been here. He took away about twenty pounds of the hash. He said he’d be back very soon. He wants his money. And some dirty movies. He’s a bit funny, Howard.’

We stashed the rest of the dope into the car, in the front door panels, the rear panels, and under the back seat. It fitted in easily enough, but the stench was overpowering. Jim arrived.

‘Where’s my fucking money?’

‘You just took it, Jim. Twenty pounds of nordle is worth about £2,000. You’ve been paid.’

‘You can have all of that hippie shit back right now.’

He went to his car, pulled out a bag, and gave it to me.

‘That’s only about ten pounds, Jim. Where is the rest?’

‘That’s all I fucking took.’

Then I realised I had forgotten to get the money off Patrick. I tried to explain to Jim, but he was most unreceptive.

‘I’m getting it myself right now. This had better not be another of your fucking games. Wait here till I get back.’

Several hours later, Jim and Patrick arrived at the cottage. They were drunk and extremely angry with each other. Patrick had refused to pay Jim without my authorisation. Jim had threatened Patrick with Gus and other assets of the Belfast Brigade. Patrick, for the first time realising that there was a possibility of IRA involvement in the scam, had exploded. His grandfather, Patrick Murphy, a Catholic policeman in Belfast, had been murdered by the IRA. Jim said he must have deserved it. They were a hair’s breadth away from coming to blows. Patrick gave me the money. I gave it to Jim.

‘H’ard, I’m holding you personally responsible to make sure this man never comes to Ireland again. He’s got an amnesty to drive back tonight, but that’s it. I’ll be in touch. I’ll be in touch with you, brother.’

Patrick was still fuming but insisted on leaving immediately for the ferry. Within a day, Jarvis and the two Charlies had sold all the hash and had collected over £20,000. A number of people had to be paid. Given all the expenses, particularly Jim’s, no one had made a fortune. But Jim, undoubtedly, could deliver the goods. It was we who were experiencing problems sending them. We’d have to get our act a bit more together to take advantage of this extraordinary opportunity.

On January 1st, 1972, Graham made a New Year’s Resolution. He was going to get things together and personally oversee matters in Karachi in readiness for the next load to Shannon. The intention was to do a ton, a big increase. This time there’d be no mistakes.

Marty Langford had two old art college friends who owned a car repair and sales business in Winchester. With their assistance, we examined various cars to see how much hashish could be safely stashed in each. The two-door Ford Capri was perfect. It could hold at least 200 pounds just in the rear panels and under the back seat. We bought a few. There never seemed to be any eyebrows raised when cars were paid for in cash.

There was tremendous wrangling about how the next deal would divide up. McCann was getting wise to how much money could be made in this business. Finally, it was settled that he would be paid £30 for every pound of hashish he imported.

Durrani and Raoul’s costs in Karachi amounted to £35 a pound. We would pay £10 a pound to anyone prepared to drive a stashed Ford Capri on and off the Irish Channel ferry. There would be some other small expenses. Hashish was selling in London for about £120 a pound. On a ton load, Graham and I should make £50,000 each. McCann would make more, but that was a pain we had to suffer.

Pretending to be arranging a farm-equipment salesmen’s conference, McCann rented a remote farmhouse near Newmarket-on-Fergus, about twenty miles from Limerick. Shannon airport could be seen from some of the bedroom windows. I bought a stack of pornographic films and loaded them into one of the doctored Ford Capris. I drove from London to Swansea, on to the British & Irish ferryboat to Cork, and from Cork via Limerick to the Shannon Shamrock, where a room in the name of Stephen McCarthy had been booked. I was at the check-in desk about midday when a loud Belfast accent screamed in my ear, ‘Don’t fucking bother. We can stay at the farm. We’ll go in your car. Gus has just taken mine to Dublin. We’re going to burn down the British Embassy.’

We got into the car.

‘So, how’s about you? Did the academics on Brighton seafront like the nordle the Kid brought in?’

‘They’d never heard of you.’

‘You didn’t fucking tell them I brought it in, did you? You fucking Welsh arsehole.’

‘I’m kidding, Jim.’

‘I got no time for games, H’ard. You know that. There’s a fucking war on. Last Sunday, youse fucking Brits killed thirteen innocent Irishmen in cold blood. You think you got problems, man. I’ll give you some fucking problems. And that fucking John Lennon is dead meat.’

‘What’s he done, Jim?’

‘He promised to give a free concert in Derry, and I set it all up. Now, after last Sunday, he says he won’t fucking do it. He’s just going to write a fucking song about it. We got enough fucking songs, for fuck’s sake. It makes me look bad, man. All the kids on Derry’s streets were looking forward to it. I’m sending our Brendan to John Lennon’s house in St George’s Hill, Weybridge, to burn the fucker down. No one messes with the Kid. When’s Soppy Bollocks sending the nordle? What’s the fucking hold-up? What the fuck does he think this is? Amateur night? I got things to do, man. I just got back from Amsterdam buying some guns for the Provos. That’s pressure, you understand me, a lot more fucking pressure than selling stamps and dresses.’

‘I don’t sell stamps and dresses. They’re fronts to satisfy the authorities.’

‘Fuck the authorities. Where the fuck are you at, H’ard?’

‘It’s security, Jim. It keeps them off my back. When I arrived at Cork today off the boat, I was asked what I was doing in Ireland. I said I was a stamp dealer specialising in 1922 overprints. It’s like using a false name or cover. You told me that was important.’

‘You’re right, H’ard. Security’s very important. Take one of these.’

He brought out a hand-held walkie-talkie.

‘This time we do things to military precision with the grace of a Mozart concerto. When I pick up the nordle from Shannon, I want you to be alone in the farmhouse with one of these walkie-talkies. When I’m on my way to you I’ll send you a coded radio message like “I’ve got the nordle.”

‘What’s the point of that?’

‘So you’ll know precisely what time I’ll be delivering the nordle, you stupid Welsh cunt.’

‘Why do I have to know precisely? If I know to the nearest few hours, I’ll just stay at the farmhouse until you get there.’

‘H’ard, just do as you’re fucking told. I’ll be calling you on one of these walkie-talkies.’

Following McCann’s erratic directions, I drove us into the farmhouse grounds. The property was ideal for clandestinely stashing cars. We got out of the Ford Capri. McCann looked at it in disgust.

‘That fucking car sticks out here like a pork chop at a Jewish wedding.’

‘What did you expect me to come over in, Jim, a fucking tractor?’

‘Don’t be fucking facetious, H’ard. I told you this was a farming front operation.’

‘Well, the Ford Capri is an excellent car for hiding things. There are about fifty dirty movies under the back seat.’

‘About fucking time, Howard. I’ve been asking you for ages. Let’s take them into the house. We can watch one now.’

‘Do you have a screen and projector?’

‘Of course I fucking don’t. Since when does a farmhouse have those in it? You mean you didn’t bring any?’

‘I didn’t know you wanted to watch the movies here. You can buy them in Limerick, can’t you?’

‘I’ve told you before, H’ard, pornography is illegal in Ireland.’

‘Projectors aren’t pornographic. But if you have a problem, I’ll get one put in the next car to come on the ferry.’

‘See that you do that, H’ard. It’s important.’

I left Jim looking at the lavishly illustrated film boxes and drove to the nearest phone kiosk. I called Mandy. Graham had sent the ton load from Pakistan on Pakistan International Airways from Karachi to London, where it was booked on an Aer Lingus flight to arrive in Shannon that day. I took down the air waybill number. I went back to the Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse. McCann was holding up one of the 8mm pornographic films to the light trying to figure out the images. I gave him the particulars of the air waybill for the hashish load.

‘I’ll call you on the walkie-talkie at exactly 10 p.m. tonight,’ screamed Jim, and climbed into my Capri.

‘Don’t you fucking leave here, mind,’ he yelled out of the car window.

‘I can’t, Jim. You’ve got my car.’

Nothing happened at all until just after 10 p.m., when an inaudible crackling emitted from the walkie-talkie followed by a gentle Dublin accent whispering, ‘I can’t hear you, Jim. I’m not used to these gadgets.’

Then silence.

I heard vehicles in the far distance and opened the farmhouse door. Across the dark, deserted Irish landscape, I heard McCann’s voice yelling, ‘Pull the fucking aerial out, you idjit.’

My Capri was the first to pull up. Inside was an unassuming young man fidgeting with the controls of a walkie-talkie. Then a Volkswagen van pulled up. Inside was McCann, still yelling into a switched-off walkie-talkie, sitting in front of a ton of boxed-up Pakistani hashish.

‘Nothing but idjits, the fucking both of you. Let’s get these guns unloaded,’ ordered McCann.

We took the boxes into the farmhouse. McCann’s assistant drove off in the Volkswagen. Jim and I unwrapped a box. The hashish was excellent. We switched on the television. It was the news. The British Embassy in Dublin had been burned down.

‘Told you,’ said McCann.

Then it was Gardai Patrol, the Republic of Ireland’s equivalent to Crimewatch, the public’s chance to grass. A stern-faced Irish policeman appeared on the screen: ‘Some household equipment, electric kettles and toasters, have been stolen from O’Reilly’s in Sean MacDermot Street …’

‘Can you believe that, H’ard? We’re sitting on a ton of nordle worth a few hundred grand, and the cops are looking for fucking pots and pans.’

There were matters I now had to attend to in England: sending over empty cars and making arrangements for receiving full ones. I drove to the phone box and asked Marty to drive over another Ford Capri, bringing a projector and screen. McCann would wait guarding the hashish until he arrived. I flew from Shannon to Heathrow.

Apart from the members of the Tafia, other friends of mine had agreed to drive hashish from Ireland to England for a £2,000 fee. They included Anthony Woodhead, Johnny Martin, and several other university friends and their wives. I sent two such academic couples over to Ireland to be met by Marty. I prepared the Winchester car repair shop and garage to receive and destash returning cars and flew back to Shannon.

When I arrived back at the Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse, two university lecturers and their spouses were sitting in the darkened living-room staring with horrified expressions at a projection screen displaying a farmgirl having intercourse with a pig. Standing just off-screen was McCann. He had his dick out and was masturbating. After vainly attempting to persuade my Oxford friends that the world hadn’t gone mad, Marty and I stashed their cars, and they set off. I flew back to Heathrow to supervise the destashing at Winchester. Graham had sensibly advised that I should no longer be actively involved in selling in London. I was already doing too much. He wanted James Goldsack to sell this load. I felt this was a bit unfair to Charlie Radcliffe, who had been instrumental in our meeting McCann and should, therefore, at least have some hashish to sell, but I went along with Graham. All 2,240 pounds of hashish were safely brought to Winchester and sold in London. I was £50,000 the richer, and everyone who had worked for me felt suitably rewarded.

My crude money-laundering structure in Oxford was cranked right up. AnnaBelinda ‘sold’ vast quantities of dresses every day. Dennis H. Marks, International Stamp Dealer, kept getting the most extraordinary good luck with ‘finds’ in his kiloware. Mythical individuals paid cash to Robin Murray Ltd., for their interior decoration. I had credit cards, life insurance, and many other trappings of an upwardly-mobile prick. To many, my parents included, I was a hard-working and successful straight businessman who had come back to his Alma Mater to make his fortune.

Friends now asked me for bigger loans. They claimed to have wonderful business ideas: all they needed was the capital. I was persuaded to pay for the purchase and shipping from Rotterdam to England of ten tons of Dutch candles. As a result of the coalminers’ strike, there were severe power cuts and candles were at a premium. By the time the candles were ready to hit the streets, I had decided that my ethics would not allow me to weaken the impact of the coalminers’ strike. Virtually all the male members of my family either worked or had worked underground in the South Wales coalfield. There was a conflict of interest. The candle entrepreneurship lost, and ten tons of plain Dutch candles occupied the otherwise empty space in the basement under AnnaBelinda.

I was, however, sincerely attracted by one of my friends’ ideas. Denys Irving, the Balliol man who gave me my first-ever joint, had spent the last few years living in New York’s Greenwich Village, San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury, and other Meccas of the hip and cool. He had now married Jamaican actress Merdelle Jardine, and they lived in London in an enormous warehouse in St Katherine’s Dock. Denys had one clearly definable short-term goal: to produce a hit song entitled Fuck You. He’d already written the lyrics, the chorus of which was:

Arse and cunt

Back and front

I just want to fuck you,

Baby.

None of the existing record companies would consider it for a second, so we formed our own record company called Lucifer. We made a single and an LP. The LP tracks other than Fuck You were entitled P-R-I-C-K, Puke on Me, and suchlike. The music was a blend of the Who at their destructive best and raw Little Richard. No record shop or distribution centre would touch either single or LP. We ended up selling the single by mail order through Private Eye. We sold 1,500 copies. I had spent £15,000. London wasn’t ready for Denys’s punk; it waited for Johnny Rotten’s.

Behind the candles under AnnaBelinda, I set up a hydroponic marijuana cultivation research centre. Robin Murray Ltd., built the growing tables. Anthony Woodhead took care of the nutrient solutions and lighting. Apparently, a friend of his worked for BOSS, the South African secret service, and had obtained research documents relating to United States government hemp production. The research concentrated on what chemical nutrients would make good rope and bad dope. Woodhead reasoned that by appropriate inversion, he could determine which chemicals would make good dope and bad rope. The electricity bills were enormous, but tolerable marijuana was grown.

Rosie became pregnant. Although each of us was still formally married to someone else, Rosie longed for a sister for Emily and longed again to be the mother of a baby. I knew Rosie was the lady for me. We were delighted. I bought her a quaint little cottage in Yarnton, a small, sleepy village outside Oxford, to enshrine our domestic bliss. We celebrated with a fortnight’s luxury holiday at the Dome Hotel, Kyrenia, Cyprus. At the end of August 1972 I attended the maternity ward of Headington Hospital to witness the birth of my daughter Myfanwy. I have loved her dearly since the second she was born.

Myfanwy was two months old when the next Irish scam took place. The Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse had been abandoned because McCann had drawn attention to its location through his involvement with the dirty movies I had brought him. He had turned the farmhouse into the only place in the Republic of Ireland where one could participate in orgies and watch and buy pornographic movies. The Limerick police had stopped and searched a car leaving the vicinity of Newmarket-on-Fergus, frightened the occupants into disclosing the source of the pornography, and busted the farmhouse. McCann somehow gave them the slip, but the newspapers carried the story the next day, claiming that the Limerick police had the pornographic movies ‘under observation’ at the police station. McCann had found a replacement for the farmhouse in a curiously shaped country house situated in a tiny village with the unlikely name of Moone.

I still wanted to use my odd collection of Welsh drop-outs and Oxford academics to drive the hashish over from Ireland to England, but Graham was keen to use his Dutch connections. There hadn’t been much work for the Dutch lately, and Graham felt that to keep them loyal, dedicated, and available, they should be given the chance to earn. I didn’t argue.

According to McCann, there was some complication regarding shift changes at Shannon airport, and the next load from Pakistan had to arrive on a specific Aer Lingus flight from Frankfurt. McCann and I were in a bar in Moone. I was talking to Mandy in London on the phone. She told me the load had left Karachi but would probably be delayed a couple of hours en route to Frankfurt.

‘Jim, it’s not going to get to Frankfurt in time to be loaded on to our Aer Lingus flight.’

‘It’s got to be, H’ard. I’ve told you that a dozen times.’

‘Well, it isn’t going to be, Jim. Are you going to do anything about it, or shall I go home and write this one off?’

‘Are you fucking crazy? I’ll get the fucking nordle. But I want £50 a pound. £30 a pound won’t even cover the Kid’s expenses given the extra hassle you and Soppy Bollocks have caused me and the boys.’

‘Forget it, Jim.’

‘Put it this way, H’ard. You either pay me £50 a pound, or I’ll rip off the fucking lot and become a legend. Give me the fucking phone. What’s the number for international enquiries? I need to get hold of Aer Lingus in Frankfurt. Get me some coins, H’ard.’

I wondered what on earth he could be up to.

‘Aer Lingus, this is yer man Jim McCann of the Provisional IRA. My boys have just put a bomb on your next flight to Shannon. You’ve got twenty minutes.’

Jim put the phone down with a broad beam of self-congratulatory delight.

‘That should slow them down, H’ard, and give time for the nordle to arrive from Kabul and be loaded. You understand me, do you?’

‘It’s from Karachi, not Kabul. But they’ll know it’s a hoax, surely, Jim?’

‘I used the code, H’ard. I’m authorised to use the IRA code. They know it’s not a hoax.’

‘What do you mean, Jim? That a bunch of Provos and British Army Intelligence guys secretly sat down and agreed that if the Provos began a bomb threat with the words “This is yer man”, the Brits would take the threat seriously; otherwise, they wouldn’t?’

‘Don’t be facetious, H’ard. It’s a bad fucking habit.’

Whether or not the Karachi to Frankfurt flight was critically delayed and whether or not McCann’s hijack threat was taken seriously remain unknown. My own belief is that there never was any vital requirement for the load to come into Shannon on a specific flight. This was all part of McCann’s theatre, as indeed was his call to Aer Lingus in Frankfurt. He was probably talking to the speaking clock.

The load arrived, and the Dutchmen’s cars were stashed in Moone. Dutch Nik took the first of several Volvos on the ferry and on to the Winchester stash. Dutch Pete followed. Then other Dutchmen. Then Dutch Nik again. The final load was brought over by Dutch Pete.

James Goldsack and Jarvis were about a third of the way through selling the hashish when Marty called me from Winchester. It was early in the mornings, and I was feeding Myfanwy a bottle of milk

‘Howard, this is going to blow your mind, right?

‘Go ahead, Marty.’

‘All the nordle has gone. Someone has stolen it.’

I drove to Winchester. Marty was, of course, right. Well over half a ton of dope had disappeared from the garage. Bits of door locks and latches lay on the ground. In my mind there was only one possible explanation. Graham’s Dutchmen had come in the middle of the night and ripped it off. Graham wouldn’t accept this and suspected everyone else. After a few days of stunned inactivity, McCann rang.

‘Where’s my fucking money?’

‘The nordle’s been ripped off, Jim.’

‘By who? Those fucking Dutch hippies?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I told you, man, not to trust those Dutch cunts of Soppy’s. They’re treacherous. In future only your Welsh road-sign painters and academics can come over here. You understand me? But don’t worry, H’ard. No one fucks with the Kid. I’ll get the nordle. I’ve got the registration numbers of all those Dutch cunts’ vehicles, and I’ve got their passport numbers. Gus and a couple of the boys from Belfast will track them down.’

‘Jim, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.’

‘Who said anything about anyone getting hurt? I just want what’s mine. I’m taking it.’

The only accounts I’ve heard of what then transpired have been those of McCann, and each one differs greatly from all preceding ones. It is certainly the case that McCann ended up with significant Dutch assets. It is very likely, of course, that McCann himself had persuaded Dutch Pete to do the Winchester rip-off in the first place, paying him a pittance to do so. He’s that kind of guy.