Mr Nice

by Howard Marks

  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 le
d 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 to 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 a 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 s
ome 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 crossroads, 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 airfreighting/importation forms. I was very, very impressed.