Mr Nice. Говард Маркс
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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 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