‘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