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.
