chaotic nights that I can ever remember, and/or, kind of not remember. Suffice to say, we conquered Stab City. The three of us took over a pub, all in the name of Gerry Conlon. He was a hero to these people and it was a joy to bear witness. Courtesy of his devilish charm, he owned the place. It was a riotous celebration. The following morning, I awoke in an unfamiliar room, in what appeared to be an old hotel. Complete with red-eyes and full-on throbbing gristle somewhere within whatever had been spared of my brain, I somehow managed to contact Gerry in the adjoining room. “Where is the Lord Mayor of Limerick?” I asked, referring to David, who had been bestowed the honor the night previous. “He’s taking a shower” Gerry said, in a pained drawl. Apparently he woke up with some chick. He didn’t know where he was, let alone who she was. Gerry went on to tell me that David had said good morning and asked the girl very simply, “Did we fuck?” “I’m not sure,” came the reply from the sweet lady to the armless thalidomide, whose pincer claws had been hurled across the room. David thought for a moment, before calmly stating, “Well, we had better make sure …”
After picking myself up off the floor, we again made for Dingle, where we finally met Fungie. The three of us were in no state to do anything whatsoever, let alone get in a fucking boat with a bunch of tourists. I can recall us being looked down upon by our fellow shipmates, especially the children, for some reason. I felt dirty. But Gerry was as excited as an eight-year-old, as we clipped through the water watching out for the dolphin to occasionally rear a head and deign us with its glory on this most joyous of grey days that I can ever recall. Gerry always possessed the magical ability to ensure such miracles.
The pain of losing his father never left Gerry. He blamed himself for Giuseppe’s death and nothing I, or anyone else, could say to him would shift that blame. In quieter moments, he would tell me of his pain, of how troubled he was at having confessed to the Guildford pub bombing. In his mind, if he hadn’t confessed, his father might still be alive and the Maguire family, who were also wrongfully convicted of the pub bombings, would never have been sent to prison. He might have been dealt the torturous methods employed by the authorities to haul out the counterfeit admissions, but in his rush to self-condemnation, he set that aside. He could not forgive himself.
Gerry Conlon was a leader who became the central figure in the struggle to have the Birmingham Six released from prison, even addressing a Congressional Committee on the matter. Gerry was also an international human rights activist and he highlighted the harsh treatment meted out to the Australian aborigines and Native Americans. His activism didn’t stop there: he protested capital punishment wherever it reared its ugly head. For prisoners around the world, many of whom had been wrongfully convicted, Gerry Conlon was their only hope.
Yet, by his own admission, this man was a flawed character, as so many of us are. He often told reporters that he took drugs to ward off his demons. In 1998 he took the decision to go clean, but what followed was a six-year struggle, during which he repeatedly goaded himself to commit suicide. But he beat the monster; he got off his knees and he beat the monster.
This book is a tour de force, a warts-and-all depiction of the life of Gerry Conlon from the minute he walked out of the Old Bailey. Knowing him as I did, he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. On every page, the colourful characters that inhabited Gerry’s life reach their hands out to the reader and invite them into a world rich in pathos, humour and irony. This is not a sad story. No, far from it. This is a chronicle of the triumph of the human spirit over extreme adversity. It is a story of hope. It is the story of a man I loved and would have taken a bullet for, as I know he would have done for me and all his loved ones. It was an honor to have known Gerry Conlon and to call him my friend.
Once we’d just left a bookstore in Dublin. Me with a handful of Brendan Behan’s books, and Gerry with a present – a beautifully handworked leather wallet, with one word etched onto it … “Saoirse”, meaning Freedom. It’s in my pocket as I write these words.
Johnny Depp
Vancouver
August 2017
Acknowledgements
About a year before he died on 21 June 2017, Gerry Conlon and I were having breakfast in a Belfast city centre café. Afterwards, as we casually strolled along Royal Avenue, he asked me to write his biography from the time he was released from the Old Bailey in October 1989: ‘I’ve a great story in me, O’Rawe.’ I believed him; Gerry was one of life’s adventurers. But there was no great hurry, we’d get around to it … little did we know that the clock was ticking.
When Gerry was in hospital he sent for me. It was a week before he tragically passed. He reminded me of our agreement and I reaffirmed my commitment to write his story.
The first person I approached about fulfilling my promise to Gerry was his sister, Ann McKernan. She never hesitated. She gave me interview after interview and handed me four large grip bags containing prison and medical records, as well as personal notes from Gerry. In this book, I called this invaluable source of information, ‘The Gerry Conlon Papers’. To my friend Ann I express my warmest thanks.
Special thanks go to Johnny Depp who, when asked if he would write the foreword, never hesitated, replying that it would be ‘an honour’. Huge thanks also to Stephen Deuters.
Others who helped and who were very generous with their time were Joey Cashman, Gearóid Ó Clei, Finola Geraghty, ‘Minty’, Marion McKeone, Siobhan MacGowan, Fiona Looney, Shane MacGowan, Victoria Mary Clarke, Paddy-Joe Hill, Bridie Brennan, Martin Loughran, Mary-Kate McKernan, David Pallister, Darragh McIntyre, Sandy Boyer (deceased), John McDonagh, Mark Durkan, Margaret Walsh, Barry Walle, John McManus, Peter Ong, Seamus Doherty, Kevin Winters, Brendan Byrne, Henry McDonald, ‘Angie’, Frank Murray (deceased), Noel Doran, Hugh Russell, and the staff in The Irish News, Niall Stannage, ‘Celtic Pat’ McDonnell, Malachi O’Doherty.
I am especially indebted to Conor Graham of Merrion Press and his staff: Fiona Dunne, Myles McCionnaith and Maria McGuinness.
I am much obliged to Peter O’Connell Media for the great job they did in publicising this book.
To my literary agent and teacher, Jonathan Williams, I express my deepest appreciation.
My special thanks go to my daughter Berni, who accompanied me around the UK and Ireland.
As ever, my wife Bernadette gave unconditional support, as did my daughter Steph and son Conchúr.
Now that I wrecked my brain trying to remember everyone who helped me with this book, it strikes me that there is someone out there whom I have forgotten. If that someone is you, please forgive me – and let me know. If you can prove that I missed you, I’ll buy you a pint!
Prologue
On the night of 21 March 1994, two limousines pulled up at Hollywood’s Chateau Marmont hotel for the contingent of In the Name of the Father. The film’s producer, Jim Sheridan, screenwriter Terry George, Gerry Conlon and his friend Joey Cashman all climbed into the back of the same limousine. Knowing they would never again be back at an Oscars ceremony, Conlon and Cashman were determined to make the best of it. As soon as the vehicle had taken off, Cashman asked if the driver would stop at a drinks store so he could buy Tequila. It would be surprising if warning bells did not ring in Jim Sheridan’s head at Cashman’s request. Giving these two boys access to bottles of hard liquor on the way to the biggest awards ceremony in the film-producing world was questionable at best. Prudently, Sheridan said he did not think that was a good idea. Predictably, Gerry sided with Joey: ‘If Joey wants to stop at an offie [an off-licence], we stop at the fucking offie.’
The limousine
