Part 8 (1/2)

I heard vehicles in the far distance and opened the farmhouse door. Across the dark, deserted Irish landscape, I heard McCann's voice yelling, 'Pull the f.u.c.king aerial out, you idjit.'

My Capri was the first to pull up. Inside was an una.s.suming young man fidgeting with the controls of a walkie-talkie. Then a Volkswagen van pulled up. Inside was McCann, still yelling into a switched-off walkie-talkie, sitting in front of a ton of boxed-up Pakistani has.h.i.+sh.

'Nothing but idjits, the f.u.c.king both of you. Let's get these guns unloaded,' ordered McCann.

We took the boxes into the farmhouse. McCann's a.s.sistant drove off in the Volkswagen. Jim and I unwrapped a box. The has.h.i.+sh was excellent. We switched on the television. It was the news. The British Emba.s.sy in Dublin had been burned down.

'Told you,' said McCann.

Then it was Gardai Patrol Gardai Patrol, the Republic of Ireland's equivalent to Crimewatch Crimewatch, the public's chance to gra.s.s. A stern-faced Irish policeman appeared on the screen: 'Some household equipment, electric kettles and toasters, have been stolen from O'Reilly's in Sean MacDermot Street ...'

'Can you believe that, H'ard? We're sitting on a ton of nordle worth a few hundred grand, and the cops are looking for f.u.c.king pots and pans.'

There were matters I now had to attend to in England: sending over empty cars and making arrangements for receiving full ones. I drove to the phone box and asked Marty to drive over another Ford Capri, bringing a projector and screen. McCann would wait guarding the has.h.i.+sh until he arrived. I flew from Shannon to Heathrow.

Apart from the members of the Tafia, other friends of mine had agreed to drive has.h.i.+sh from Ireland to England for a 2,000 fee. They included Anthony Woodhead, Johnny Martin, and several other university friends and their wives. I sent two such academic couples over to Ireland to be met by Marty. I prepared the Winchester car repair shop and garage to receive and destash returning cars and flew back to Shannon.

When I arrived back at the Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse, two university lecturers and their spouses were sitting in the darkened living-room staring with horrified expressions at a projection screen displaying a farmgirl having intercourse with a pig. Standing just off-screen was McCann. He had his d.i.c.k out and was masturbating. After vainly attempting to persuade my Oxford friends that the world hadn't gone mad, Marty and I stashed their cars, and they set off. I flew back to Heathrow to supervise the destas.h.i.+ng at Winchester. Graham had sensibly advised that I should no longer be actively involved in selling in London. I was already doing too much. He wanted James Goldsack to sell this load. I felt this was a bit unfair to Charlie Radcliffe, who had been instrumental in our meeting McCann and should, therefore, at least have some has.h.i.+sh to sell, but I went along with Graham. All 2,240 pounds of has.h.i.+sh were safely brought to Winchester and sold in London. I was 50,000 the richer, and everyone who had worked for me felt suitably rewarded.

My crude money-laundering structure in Oxford was cranked right up. AnnaBelinda 'sold' vast quant.i.ties of dresses every day. Dennis H. Marks, International Stamp Dealer, kept getting the most extraordinary good luck with 'finds' in his kiloware. Mythical individuals paid cash to Robin Murray Ltd., for their interior decoration. I had credit cards, life insurance, and many other trappings of an upwardly-mobile p.r.i.c.k. To many, my parents included, I was a hard-working and successful straight businessman who had come back to his Alma Mater to make his fortune.

Friends now asked me for bigger loans. They claimed to have wonderful business ideas: all they needed was the capital. I was persuaded to pay for the purchase and s.h.i.+pping from Rotterdam to England of ten tons of Dutch candles. As a result of the coalminers' strike, there were severe power cuts and candles were at a premium. By the time the candles were ready to hit the streets, I had decided that my ethics would not allow me to weaken the impact of the coalminers' strike. Virtually all the male members of my family either worked or had worked underground in the South Wales coalfield. There was a conflict of interest. The candle entrepreneurs.h.i.+p lost, and ten tons of plain Dutch candles occupied the otherwise empty s.p.a.ce in the bas.e.m.e.nt under AnnaBelinda.

I was, however, sincerely attracted by one of my friends' ideas. Denys Irving, the Balliol man who gave me my first-ever joint, had spent the last few years living in New York's Greenwich Village, San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury, and other Meccas of the hip and cool. He had now married Jamaican actress Merdelle Jardine, and they lived in London in an enormous warehouse in St Katherine's Dock. Denys had one clearly definable short-term goal: to produce a hit song ent.i.tled f.u.c.k You f.u.c.k You. He'd already written the lyrics, the chorus of which was: a.r.s.e and c.u.n.tBack and frontI just want to f.u.c.k you,Baby.

None of the existing record companies would consider it for a second, so we formed our own record company called Lucifer. We made a single and an LP. The LP tracks other than f.u.c.k You f.u.c.k You were ent.i.tled were ent.i.tled P-R-I-C-K, Puke on Me P-R-I-C-K, Puke on Me, and suchlike. The music was a blend of the Who at their destructive best and raw Little Richard. No record shop or distribution centre would touch either single or LP. We ended up selling the single by mail order through Private Eye Private Eye. We sold 1,500 copies. I had spent 15,000. London wasn't ready for Denys's punk; it waited for Johnny Rotten's.

Behind the candles under AnnaBelinda, I set up a hydroponic marijuana cultivation research centre. Robin Murray Ltd., built the growing tables. Anthony Woodhead took care of the nutrient solutions and lighting. Apparently, a friend of his worked for BOSS, the South African secret service, and had obtained research doc.u.ments relating to United States government hemp production. The research concentrated on what chemical nutrients would make good rope and bad dope. Woodhead reasoned that by appropriate inversion, he could determine which chemicals would make good dope and bad rope. The electricity bills were enormous, but tolerable marijuana was grown.

Rosie became pregnant. Although each of us was still formally married to someone else, Rosie longed for a sister for Emily and longed again to be the mother of a baby. I knew Rosie was the lady for me. We were delighted. I bought her a quaint little cottage in Yarnton, a small, sleepy village outside Oxford, to enshrine our domestic bliss. We celebrated with a fortnight's luxury holiday at the Dome Hotel, Kyrenia, Cyprus. At the end of August 1972 I attended the maternity ward of Headington Hospital to witness the birth of my daughter Myfanwy. I have loved her dearly since the second she was born.

Myfanwy was two months old when the next Irish scam took place. The Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse had been abandoned because McCann had drawn attention to its location through his involvement with the dirty movies I had brought him. He had turned the farmhouse into the only place in the Republic of Ireland where one could partic.i.p.ate in orgies and watch and buy p.o.r.nographic movies. The Limerick police had stopped and searched a car leaving the vicinity of Newmarket-on-Fergus, frightened the occupants into disclosing the source of the p.o.r.nography, and busted the farmhouse. McCann somehow gave them the slip, but the newspapers carried the story the next day, claiming that the Limerick police had the p.o.r.nographic movies 'under observation' at the police station. McCann had found a replacement for the farmhouse in a curiously shaped country house situated in a tiny village with the unlikely name of Moone.

I still wanted to use my odd collection of Welsh drop-outs and Oxford academics to drive the has.h.i.+sh over from Ireland to England, but Graham was keen to use his Dutch connections. There hadn't been much work for the Dutch lately, and Graham felt that to keep them loyal, dedicated, and available, they should be given the chance to earn. I didn't argue.

According to McCann, there was some complication regarding s.h.i.+ft changes at Shannon airport, and the next load from Pakistan had to arrive on a specific Aer Lingus flight from Frankfurt. McCann and I were in a bar in Moone. I was talking to Mandy in London on the phone. She told me the load had left Karachi but would probably be delayed a couple of hours en route to Frankfurt.

'Jim, it's not going to get to Frankfurt in time to be loaded on to our Aer Lingus flight.'

'It's got to be, H'ard. I've told you that a dozen times.'

'Well, it isn't going to be, Jim. Are you going to do anything about it, or shall I go home and write this one off?'

'Are you f.u.c.king crazy? I'll get the f.u.c.king nordle. But I want 50 a pound, 30 a pound won't even cover the Kid's expenses given the extra ha.s.sle you and Soppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks have caused me and the boys.'

'Forget it, Jim.'

'Put it this way, H'ard. You either pay me 50 a pound, or I'll rip off the f.u.c.king lot and become a legend. Give me the f.u.c.king phone. What's the number for international enquiries? I need to get hold of Aer Lingus in Frankfurt. Get me some coins, H'ard.'

I wondered what on earth he could be up to.

'Aer Lingus, this is yer man Jim McCann of the Provisional IRA. My boys have just put a bomb on your next flight to Shannon. You've got twenty minutes.'

Jim put the phone down with a broad beam of self-congratulatory delight.

'That should slow them down, H'ard, and give time for the nordle to arrive from Kabul and be loaded. You understand me, do you?'

'It's from Karachi, not Kabul. But they'll know it's a hoax, surely, Jim?'

'I used the code, H'ard. I'm authorised to use the IRA code. They know it's not a hoax.'

'What do you mean, Jim? That a bunch of Provos and British Army Intelligence guys secretly sat down and agreed that if the Provos began a bomb threat with the words ”This is yer man”, the Brits would take the threat seriously; otherwise, they wouldn't?'

'Don't be facetious, H'ard. It's a bad f.u.c.king habit.'

Whether or not the Karachi to Frankfurt flight was critically delayed and whether or not McCann's hijack threat was taken seriously remain unknown. My own belief is that there never was any vital requirement for the load to come into Shannon on a specific flight. This was all part of McCann's theatre, as indeed was his call to Aer Lingus in Frankfurt. He was probably talking to the speaking clock.

The load arrived, and the Dutchmen's cars were stashed in Moone. Dutch Nik took the first of several Volvos on the ferry and on to the Winchester stash. Dutch Pete followed. Then other Dutchmen. Then Dutch Nik again. The final load was brought over by Dutch Pete.

James Goldsack and Jarvis were about a third of the way through selling the has.h.i.+sh when Marty called me from Winchester. It was early in the morning, and I was feeding Myfanwy a bottle of milk.

'Howard, this is going to blow your mind, right?'

'Go ahead, Marty.'

'All the nordle has gone. Someone has stolen it.'

I drove to Winchester. Marty was, of course, right. Well over half a ton of dope had disappeared from the garage. Bits of door locks and latches lay on the ground. In my mind there was only one possible explanation. Graham's Dutchmen had come in the middle of the night and ripped it off. Graham wouldn't accept this and suspected everyone else. After a few days of stunned inactivity, McCann rang.

'Where's my f.u.c.king money?'

'The nordle's been ripped off, Jim.'

'By who? Those f.u.c.king Dutch hippies?'

'Yeah.'

'I told you, man, not to trust those Dutch c.u.n.ts of Soppy's. They're treacherous. In future only your Welsh road-sign painters and academics can come over here. You understand me? But don't worry, H'ard. No one f.u.c.ks with the Kid. I'll get the nordle. I've got the registration numbers of all those Dutch c.u.n.ts' vehicles, and I've got their pa.s.sport numbers. Gus and a couple of the boys from Belfast will track them down.'

'Jim, we don't want anyone getting hurt.'

'Who said anything about anyone getting hurt? I just want what's mine. I'm taking it.'

The only accounts I've heard of what then transpired have been those of McCann, and each one differs greatly from all preceding ones. It is certainly the case that McCann ended up with significant Dutch a.s.sets. It is very likely, of course, that McCann himself had persuaded Dutch Pete to do the Winchester rip-off in the first place, paying him a pittance to do so. He's that kind of guy.

Five.