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
