Damien was not an evil man
But he kept himself
To himself: this was expected
For the times that were in it.
When he said to me, we need you,
I smiled and said I can’t.
He smiled right back and said
We can do this the easy way
(producing the gun)
or we can do it the other.
So that’s how I joined ‘The Lads”
As a technical engineer;
My university education co-opted
To make better bombs.
I made very subtle bombs, so that
When Damien got blown to shreds
(thou shalt not mess with me!)
I found myself on the run.
After Munich and Prague
I went to ground in Vienna.
They will never find me here
I said to laughing Ilsa, so sweet,
So feminine, we had met in Schoenbrunn,
At the outdoor café, how was I to know
She was working for the Russians?
She had the grace to say she was sorry
When I was forced to go to Beirut
Under strict controls
To meet a guy called Hamid Ali.
The strangest thing about
Fanatical political idiots
Apart, of course, from their politics,
Is that they live in such
Stunningly beautiful countries:
Take Lebanon, for example.
I escaped, none too easily,
And made my way to Syria,
Intent on reaching the Turkish border.
Thanks to a few
Regrettable armed robberies
Things went rather smoothly
Until I reached Aleppo
With the Mossad hot on my trail.
I don’t know what it is with the Israelis,
Why can’t they leave well enough alone?
A couple of nerve-wracked incidents later
Shamir, Farouz, my exhausted self,
Went straight from the frying pan to the fire.
The guides who took us over the border
Pocketed the money, turned us in to the Kurds,
At war with the Turkish Army
And on the brink of a major action.
Nothing to do with us, you might think,
But the local lads thought otherwise.
Help us out or die. Unreasonable people.
So we helped them lay out a classic ambush
Knowing full well that government retribution
Would decimate all the local villages:
But they were so young and jumpy
And their elders not much better.
The ambush went well, why shouldn’t it?
Forty or fifty 18-year-old Turkish recruits
Blown to pieces. Can we go now?
Promises broken, as usual, in the end
We had to shoot our way out
And poor old Farouz got wasted.
Shamir hijacked a taxi
Which very quickly ran out of gas,
So we stopped a horse and cart
And good old Shamir traded stories
With a grinning, gap-toothed farmer.
Pleased to have such entertaining company
As we trundled across Anatolia.
Later, in Istanbul, at Sirkeci,
We parted with dry, knowing promises,
And my second or third passport
Brought me through to Athens,
Source and centre of our Western Civilisation:
Ahh, freedom, where the smog came down like thunder
And nearly killed me: I’d forgotten that.
The Greeks eventually would have roused themselves,
But you can count on at least three weeks;
I was long gone within days on the ferry to Brindisi.
Keep moving. Night-train to Venezia.
Jayz, this city looks just how I feel,
Sad-eyed, proud, passed-over, sinking.
Switzerland is always dangerous, they persecute
Transient unmoneyed foreigners, act as servants
To megarich depositors, never mind the source.
They have the best intelligence service in Europe
But refrain, typically, from sharing knowledge,
So you have 5 to 8 hours from border to border,
Once gone, deleted, they simply don’t care.
Bavaria. Not quite Germany, but German,
Friends took me in, assuaged my battered soul,
And for two weeks life was relaxed
With Max and Baerbl, with barbecues,
With cycling, mushroom picking, tennis matches,
And all the things that normal people do.
But then the black Mercedes came around
And when I saw it for the second time
I knew that was it; it was time to leave.
No more trains. If they are that close
It’s time for a change of plan. Aha!
Le bicycle, n’est pas? Two weeks later
I arrived, leg-weary, in the port of Sheveningen,
Coast of Holland, England just over the sea.
Ferry no good, so cycle down the coast
And walk into a little bar and meet Joost.
He looks astoundingly like my father.
“Well, my friend,” he says, “how much?”
“Let’s say 3000 Dollars ….”
He fell over laughing, said some things in Dutch.
“You are a bad man?”, he grinned.
“No, of course not, but … maybe, I am.”
We spoke. We drank. I told him everything.
I don’t know why. He resembled my dead distant father.
“OK”, said Joost, “last drink. Tide coming in. We go”.
Later in London, I never felt quite safe.
I was abruptly summoned to a club in St. James
And amid swirls of cigar smoke and breaths of brandy
The jovial Minister chuckled with sharkcold eyes:
“If all these things you say are true, dear boy,
“This might present HMG with a bit of a pickle”.
He gazed out the bower window with unseeing eyes.
“Yes, a pickle. Indeed, one might say it could be bloody awkward.”
I chased with my fork the remains of the Dover sole,
Cold upon arrival, now gelid and almost malevolent.
Why do they insist upon these meals from the nursery
Washed down with such exquisite expensive wines?
“They do a rather good bread pudding, by the way”,
Said the Minister, suddenly animated, almost human,
“With cold custard. Too rich for me. Can I tempt you?”
“You are most kind”, says I, “but what do you want me to do?”
“Do … DO??” He glared at me. “Do nothing, of course!!
“And above all, don’t even think about going to the bloody press!”
And I knew in that moment that this was the end.
“We can still reach you at the same address and number?”
“Yes, of course”, I lied, “but I’m running low on cash”.
“Ahh”, said the Minister, with an expression of weary contempt,
“That’s what it all comes down to in the end, doesn’t it?”
“Only when you don’t have it, Sir, I’m thinking of expenses”.
“To be sure”, he growled, “here is an address. You will be
expected here at 9 pm, and your … ah… financial needs will be met”.
He slipped a piece of paper across the table.
This was one address I would never visit.
It was now 2:36 pm. I had six hours and a bit.
“You don’t seem to be very curious about the amount?”
“I am sure, Sir George, you will be more than generous.”
“Quite. Won’t you change your mind about the pudding?”
“Not today, thanks. Perhaps the next time we dine together.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he chuckled, instantly restored to humour,
“I look forward to that, my young friend, with keen anticipation.”
b------.
Out in the street I can’t see them.
I know they’ll be running a six-man team.
There is no way I can spot all of them.
The thing is to lose them slowly,
To try to make it not look too obvious.
Perhaps I can spot two or three of them
Although I know they’ll be changing clothes.
This is going to take at least three hours.
I have to hope they won’t try to pick me up
Since they think I have to wait to get the cash.
The minute I walk in that door tonight they’ll have me.
This is what they expect, that’s the only good thing.
I amble down the Mall towards Trafalgar Square.
Let’s be having you. I circle the fountains
And inspect the Landseer lions at very close range.
OK, I’ve nailed two of you. A quick duck
Down into the Underground to buy a Day Rambler.
Back out at the southwest exit, circumambulate
The Square, feed pigeons, then across the street
To the grey sombre sadness of St Martin’s-in-the-Fields
With homeless care in the basement and a side exit
Down the sloping street to Charing Cross Underground
With a sharp left through the public gardens
Just south of the Savoy, and a quick dart into the Temple.
Nobody behind me, a quick sprint for the Strand, slow down
In the crowds, head for Holborn, Tottenham Court Road.
Into the Underground, quick, quick, shove in the prepaid
Ticket and disappear in the tunnels. Knightsbridge
Here we come: Muhammed Al Fayed’s emporium.
There are several ground floor exits from Harrod’s
And one of them is from the lady employee’s lounge.
Today being Saturday, Notting Hill is next, Portobello Road.
I’ve shaken three, maybe four, but all it takes
Is one relentless b------ to call in my location.
I stop for a pint at the Rising Sun. Thirsty work.
Time to amble down the market.
Time to buy new clothes.
I do that. There are several filthy pubs
With convenient side exits. The thing is to
Time it right and find a gypsy cab.
I’m beginning to get angry. These people have decided
To dispose of me, I am of no further use, Have the pudding, dear boy.
Right, there’s a taxi office across the street, an Asian saunters out,
Walks into a coffee bar, sits down alone at a table.
I walk in, sit down, and put fifty quid on the table.
“You’re a driver, right?” – “What’s this all about, then?”
“I have need of rapid transport and I’ll pay for it.”
“I don’t wanna know, mate, I don’t want no trouble.”
“Look, my girlfriend’s husband is chasing me down,
“I just need to move quick and here’s the money.”
He didn’t believe me. I could tell. It was too much.
“Orright, I’m lying. Here’s a hundred quid. Just get me out of here!”
“What you done, mate?” – “Been an incident, orright?”
“Right, then, give me that fifty to start and I’ll bring the cab around.”
“Will ye f---. Around the corner outside the video rental. Five minutes.”
“I don’t want no trouble, mate” – “Just get on it, OK?”
I grabbed him by the arm as he rose to leave and mumbled
“I’ll be wearing a blond wig and a yellow shirt and purple flares.”
“Y’what, mate, what f---in planet you from?” – “Just go!”
I made him drive for an hour or more, feeding him
Fivers when he flagged to keep him keen. In the end,
Like most Indians, he couldn’t help but lose the acquired London tone.
“Are you a major criminal, sir?” – “Yes, I am”
“O, jolly good, sir, may I be having your autograph?”
I thought it had been pretty slick and quick,
But you never can be sure. “Kumar, drop me here at the tube station.”
Back in the Underground, three trains, three platform changes.
Kilburn, at last, the side door to Paddy Doyle’s.
“What’ll ye have?” says the young lad, fresh off the boat.
“I need to see Paddy”, says I, “like, now, please.”
“O, but Mr Doyle’s gone home for a wedding, like.”
Yerra, f---. “Well, is Fergal here or Donal?”
“Sorry, sir, I wouldn’t be knowing dem fellas. I’m new at the job.”
“Listen, my name is …”Michael Clancy” …do you hear me now?”
“Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clancy. Was that a Guinness you were wanting?”
“Yeh, right … OK … listen, is there a package for me?”
“A package, sir? Jayz, I wouldn’t know an’ting about that, sure I wouldn’t.”
“Well, could you bloody well have a look!”
I couldn’t believe it. I could have shot him,
Fresh-faced young mammy’s darling and all as he was,
Because that was the whole point.
There was a gun, a passport, and five thousand pounds
And without it I was dead, gone and finished.
It would only take hours for these people to catch up with me.
“Would you look for the bloody package,” I snarled at him,
And he looked back at me with an open young lad’s face,
Innocent, concerned and deeply stupid.
“Is it yourself, Malachy,” said a voice at my elbow,
And I turned to see dark-eyed Sinead O’Riordan,
Skimpily clad, all decked out in her London warpaint,
This pious virginal Child of Mary
in her previous life in Ballinasloe.
“Ah, sure, it’s great to see you, Sinead”, says I.
In the face of disaster politeness is all.
“Paddy left me a package for you”, says she,
“Would you know anything about that, Mister Michael Clancy?”
“Isn’t that your name?” says the barman,
“So why is the lady calling you Malachy?”
“Ah, sure, I’m Malachy Michael,” says I, “and I never cared for it.”
“O, right”, says he, “I’m Francis Mary but the lads call me Frank.”
“You’re a credit to your nation, Frank,” says I,
“And could you bring us two large drinks?”
Scottish fishermen got me back to Ireland
With a reasonable chunk of money intact.
I live quietly out in the West
In a village where strangers are immediately noticed.
I have three dogs and several illegal weapons.
I don't really think they'll try to come.
