Drenched, disappointed and a bit depressed, I ambled back to the waterfront. Through a clearing in the drizzle I could see a sunken tugboat lying in a sheltered inlet connected to the shore by a bridge. Walking towards the bridge, I could see the tug’s top decks were now the Club de Yates Micalvi. A few multimillion-dollar cruising yachts were tied up alongside, refuelling and provisioning, with gruesome sheep carcasses hanging from their rigging. I walked into a cosy lounge bar, its crackling wood fire warming and drying groups of yachties, hell-bent on sailing to Cape Horn and Antarctica, tourists cruising through the Chilean fjords, and Chilean naval personnel. One of the yachties, a large, pleasant, red-faced woman wearing a navy-blue baseball cap, hailed me as I went up to the bar. ‘How you doing? I saw you on the boat coming over.’
‘That’s right. I remember seeing you.’
‘You’re British, right? You remind me of someone. I’m Erin, by the way.’
‘I’m Howard. I’m just getting a drink. You want one?’
‘Here, let me get you one. I have an account here. I’m trying to think who you look like. What are you having, Howard?
The bar was stocked with hundreds of whiskies, including my firm favourite, an Irish brand named Redbreast.
‘Redbreast, please. No water, no ice.’
‘That’s a new one on me. I guess I’ll try the same.’
We took our drinks to a small unoccupied table overlooking the misty channel. The menu described Puerto Williams as a natural door to the white continent; it was not founded until 1953, and then just as a radio station. Puerto Williams later developed as a naval base, and service personnel had built the wooden homes I had just seen. It was baptised Puerto Williams in honour of Chilean naval hero Admiral Juan Williams. So there was a connection.
‘Weren’t those sea lions awesome?
‘Sorry?’
‘I said weren’t those sea lions we saw on the boat today awesome?’
‘Yes, they were. Sorry, I was just reading something interesting here.’
‘On the menu? It’s fairly regular chow. I could ask them if there was anything else you wanted. I know them real well. Hey! Look at the weather.’
The whiskey pounded through my temples as I watched the rainstorm turn into a snowstorm and back into a rainstorm. Mists swirled around like ghostly dervishes. The fog lifted. I saw what I had never seen or heard of before, a straight horizontal rainbow. Shrouded in mist, the multicoloured and spectral carpet played havoc with my understanding of optics. Then I saw something I had seen before, rows of towering granite needles pointing at the sky.
‘The Teeth of Navarino. Aren’t they just the neatest little hills you’ve ever seen?’
I was unable to speak. There was no doubt. They were the spiky hills in the photograph I had found alongside the baby’s caul in Kenfig Hill.
‘I didn’t realise the time. I must go. I’ve got to catch the boat,’ I whispered to Erin, halting over each word.
‘Time flies when you’re having fun. Bye, Howard. Nice to meet you. Have a good trip back to Ushuaia.’
Back in my room I checked my mobile. There were five missed calls from withheld or unknown numbers but no messages. Suddenly it rang.
‘Thank God, I’ve got through, I’ve been trying for ages. How’s it going, Howard? It’s Gareth it is.’
‘Gareth! You’re home already. Is everything all right?’
‘Not so bad, thanks. We had a good flight. It landed on time, fair play. Idwal met us at the airport and drove us to Blackwood. Very good of him, really, considering he’s eighty-five next year. I’ve got some news for you, Howard, very interesting news. Will this call cost me a fortune? It’s a bloody long way. Not a bad line, mind.’
‘No, Gareth; it’s on divert, so I have to pay the charges. It will cost me a fortune.’
‘All right, I’ll carry on then. You remember Idwal?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yes, you do. Idwal Jones. I told you about him when we first met in Buenos Aires. Bethan mentioned him to you first. He’s the one obsessed with Captain Morgan – goes on about him non-stop.’
‘Oh yes, I remember – the one who thinks Henry lived in your local pub.’
‘That’s him. Well, I was telling him about you and what you were up to, more to stop him from talking than anything else. It’s hard to get a word in edgeways. Tell me, Howard, was one of your relatives in Kenfig Hill called Morgan Marks? Everyone used to call him Mock Marks.’
‘Yes, for sure. He was my grandfather Tudor’s brother.’
‘There you are then.’
‘Morgan Marks died not long before I was born. In fact, it’s his grandfather in the photograph in the Touring Club in Trelew. Did that come out, by the way?’
‘Don’t know yet. I have to wait for my son to come back from holidays. He’s going to download it on a memory stick, whatever that is. Anyway, according to Idwal, Morgan Marks moved from Kenfig Hill to Pontypridd and became a friend of Edgar Jones, Idwal’s father. We’re going back a bit now, mind. I told you Idwal’s eighty-five next year, didn’t I? Morgan Marks used to say he was belonging to the Henry Morgan family and that’s why he was called Morgan. I don’t think too many believed him, but Edgar had a lot of time for Morgan, and they used to spend all day researching into Captain Morgan. As a boy, Idwal would help out sometimes, and that’s how he became so fanatical. So we’ve got your family to blame for Idwal driving me and everyone in Blackwood round the bend with his Captain Morgan stories. Small world, isn’t it?’
‘Yes it is, Gareth. I’m at the end of it. It’s snowing.’
‘Funny enough, we had a few flakes here this morning. I thought April showers were meant to be rain. Bethan says it’s something to do with global warming. I can’t see how, myself – it’s bloody freezing. Idwal has got Henry Morgan’s family tree if it’s any use to you.’
‘Does it show Morgan Marks?’
‘No, no. It’s just of his ancestors, not his descendants. Seems he was a descendant of Hywel Dda, the Welsh king who gave us all those laws.’
‘That’s really fascinating if it’s true, Gareth, because Hywel Dda was a direct descendant of King Arthur.’
‘Did King Arthur really exist, though, Howard? Idwal’s got his doubts. Thinks it’s a bit far-fetched.’
‘I’m sure he did. There’s even evidence that King Arthur is descended from Jesus.’
‘I never knew Jesus had children. With that Mary Magdalene woman was it?’
‘It’s complicated, Gareth, and apparently involves the Holy Grail.’
‘I’ll ask Idwal about it. Funny to think you might be descended from Henry Morgan and King Arthur, though, isn’t it, Howard?
‘And Jesus,’ I added.
‘Come off it, Howard. You’ll be saying you’re descended from Adam next. There was something else I had to say too. What was it? Oh yes. Bloody hell! I almost forgot the most important bit of all. Are you still there?
‘Yes, go on, Gareth. I’m listening.’
‘Morgan Marks used to go on to Idwal about his grandfather, Patrick McCarthy, who had made his fortune in South America, then changed his name to Marks when he moved to Kenfig Hill.’
‘That’s definitely him.’
‘Couldn’t be anyone else, Howard. Couldn’t be. I asked Idwal if the name might have been McCarty, not McCarthy, and he said yes, easily. I also asked him about Billy the Kid, but Idwal’s got no interest in cowboys whatsoever, even if they are Welsh, so it wouldn’t have meant an awful lot to him even if Morgan Marks had told him about it. It’s the sort of thing he’d forget.’
‘Does Idwal know how Patrick made his fortune?’
‘Yes, and this will make you bloody laugh. Patrick was doing all right for himself trading this and that and had some important friends including some big Indian chief and top brass in the Chilean navy. You mentioned something about that, didn’t you? That day you were poorly with the toad, when you had that funny turn.’
&nbs
p; ‘That’s right, Juan Williams was in the Chilean navy. Go on, Gareth.’
‘This is the bit that will make you laugh: the chief gave Patrick the Straits of Magellan.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I said. The Indian chief gave Patrick the Straits of Magellan for nothing. Didn’t charge him a penny. Then Patrick went up and down the straits collecting the bird shit and not letting anyone else have any. He collected tons and tons of it, made millions, but then had to scarper because he got caught up in the fighting between Argentina and Chile over the border.’
‘Gareth, there’s no way that can possibly be true. You don’t believe it, do you?
‘Idwal is never wrong. He might go on a bit, but he’s always right, always.’
‘I’m not saying Idwal’s wrong, Gareth, but Patrick might have made up the whole story. Or Morgan Marks might have made it up or got it wrong.’
‘Idwal has seen the proof with his own eyes. Says it’s a matter of record. He made all sorts of notes about it. When Idwal’s not talking, he’s writing. And he’s meticulous about references and that sort of thing.’
‘Has he still got the notes?’
‘He’s looking for them now. It will take him a while, mind. His house is nothing but papers – Bethan thinks it’s a fire risk.’
‘Did Idwal tell you the chief’s name?
‘Something like Quasimodo. Not Quasimodo, of course; he was the hunchback of Notre-Dame, wasn’t he? But it was a name like that.’
‘Casimiro? He was a famous Indian chief from Patagonia.’
‘Casimiro, that’s right. You see, Idwal is never wrong. Funny to think you’ve been traipsing all round the bloody world looking for your ancestors, and the answers are all here in Blackwood, next door to Kenfig Hill. What are your plans now?’
‘I really don’t know, Gareth, especially after what you just said. There doesn’t seem much point hanging round here anymore, I’ll probably just come back to Britain.’
‘Well come down to Blackwood. Me, you and Idwal can have a drink at the Monkey Tree.’
Eleven
WALES
I arrived at Gatwick Airport and caught the express to Victoria. Stiff and jet-lagged, I could not face taking another no-smoking train, so I gave up my initial plan to go to Bridgend from Paddington and took a cab to the Groucho Club in Dean Street where I got a room for the night. I arranged to meet Bernie Davies for lunch the following day. He would be able to give me a lift to South Wales. I had already promised Gareth I would meet him and Idwal in Blackwood, and I wanted to visit Kenfig Hill. Looking forward to visiting my homeland again, I took some melatonin and passed out. I woke at 8.00 p.m., shook off the rest of the jet lag with a shower and went downstairs. A good friend, Piers Hemu, broadcaster, ex-editor of Front, currently working for the Mail on Sunday and no stranger to Soho’s watering holes, was drinking at the ground-floor bar. He told me Sean Penn was in the first-floor bar. Excusing myself, I rushed upstairs and found Sean.
‘Howard! I don’t believe it. How’s things? Did anything ever happen with the film?’
Talk of a film about my life originally came up when I met Rhys Ifans at Pontypridd Civic Hall during the spring of 1996. It was the first time I had seen the Super Furry Animals play live and the first gig I had attended since seeing Stevie Wonder in Taiwan ten years earlier. The hall was packed. I took my place anonymously and nervously at the back. The concert was fantastic, an innovative combination of almost every genre I had ever heard from Status Quo to Zappa and tunes that came from God knows where. The crowd bodysurfed, jumped up and down, and waved their arms in pure joy. I went backstage to meet the band. We got on, we giggled, and we enjoyed the booze, the spliffs and the novel experience of being the subject of photographers’ attentions. The Super Furry Animals’ debut album was about to be released with my photo on the cover as was my autobiography.
A few people asked for my autograph, including a tall blond man with a permanent smile, who held out a packet of king-size cigarette papers and a marker pen. ‘Can I have your signature, please, How?’ he asked in a quiet Welsh voice.
‘Sure. What’s your name?’
‘No, it’s your name I want. On these skins, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course it’s all right. I thought perhaps you might want me to dedicate it to somebody.’
‘How do you mean? Dedicate it?’
‘Well, like write “To Jack” or something.’
‘Jack who?’
‘Jack anybody.’
‘Fuck Jack. It’s for me. I bought these fuckers with my own money.’
‘Just my signature?’
‘Aye, that’s it,’ he answered, looking at me as if I was a simpleton.
I wrote a large signature across the packet.
He looked down at the scrawl with disgust. ‘I meant every one.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Can you please sign every skin? I’ll give Jack some of them.’ He started laughing. ‘Sorry, How. My name’s Rhys.’
I too burst out laughing. ‘Good to meet you, Rhys. How do you fit in here?’
‘I’m sleeping on Daf Ieuan the drummer’s floor until I get a job. I get nervous there, mind. He hits things for a living. Can I ask you something serious?’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m an actor, a bloody good one even when I’m pissed. If they ever make a film of your life, can I play you?’
‘Definitely.’ I meant it. ‘It’s a deal, Rhys. But you have to keep to it.’
‘Let’s shake on it, How.’
A few years later, Rhys starred in the first Welsh drug film, Twin Town, then went on to steal the show from Hugh Grant in Notting Hill. In constant demand from Hollywood, he is now a hugely respected actor. But we are keeping our promise to each other.
Shortly afterwards, Robert Jones, executive producer of The Usual Suspects, took me out to lunch. He had just bought the film rights to High Times – David Leigh’s book about my early life – and wanted to make a film about my smuggling antics in Ireland during the 1970s. He asked if I had any ideas about who should play me. I suggested Rhys Ifans, but he was still an unknown quantity. Robert went on to do other projects.
When Mr Nice appeared, many other directors and producers expressed interest in making films of my life. I heard from Frank Roddam, who directed the pioneering reality TV programme, The Family. He had gone on to direct Quadrophenia, often described as the best music movie of the 1970s, and The Bride, which is still being regularly screened twenty years after its release. Frank was confident he could interest Hugh Grant in playing me. I again mentioned Rhys Ifans, but to no avail. Hugh Grant turned down the opportunity. Frank blamed Hugh’s recent blow-job embarrassment; it was no time for him to be associated with a dope dealer.
During my 1997 general election campaign the BBC called and asked if I would be interested in selling them the TV rights to Mr Nice. I met Michael Wearing, who as head of serials had supervised the new era of BBC costume drama adaptations including Middlemarch and Pride and Prejudice. Michael and I got on very well and we signed contracts to produce a six-part series based on Mr Nice.
On the question of crooks benefiting directly from their crimes, public opinion is clear: banged-up bank robbers should not get to hang on to the cash they steal and hit men must not expect to keep their professional fees if caught. However, opinions vary on whether criminals should be allowed to benefit indirectly. Could a convicted paedophile write and publish something along the lines of Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita? Would Osama bin Laden, if caught and eventually released, be permitted to work as a paid consultant on an al-Qaeda film? Should criminals be able to publish and sell their autobiographies? Should gangsters receive fees for advising directors on films about the Mob?
Probably due to my having served a long prison sentence and showing no signs of reverting to dope smuggling, I was generally considered to have paid my debt to society. Accordingly, there was negligibl
e opposition to my writing Mr Nice. People could choose freely whether or not to buy it. The BBC, however, derives much of its income from the sale of television licences to the public, who have to cough up without having any say over what is broadcasted into their homes. So, if Mr Nice were televised, hard-earned cash would have come my way. This disturbed the BBC’s top echelons so much that the project did not progress beyond the script and music soundtrack stage over the next eighteen months, by which time Michael Wearing had left the organisation.
The lack of any visible progress caused many in the film industry to wonder whether some screen rights to Mr Nice might still be unsold. Between 1997 and 2000 I received well over a thousand emails from directors, producers, script-writers and actors enquiring about the possibility of making a film. The BBC had the TV rights but the film rights were still available, although they could not be executed until ten years after the first showing on television of whatever the BBC eventually produce. I painstakingly explained this to each person who contacted me, but enthusiasm did not abate. Scripts and offers of free lunches kept tumbling in. The BBC was bombarded with phone calls from interested parties offering money and expertise, but the corporation had other ideas: they wanted to reduce the six-hour series to one half-hour programme. Those who felt it was absurd to condense Mr Nice into thirty minutes of film kept on pestering the BBC and buying me lunches and dinners. I did not mind in the least; my social life was great. The BBC then scrapped the thirty-minute idea and put matters on the back-burner.
Performing at the Cheltenham Literary Festival in 1999 I had got to know James Perkins, owner of the highly successful Fantazia record label and the first person to produce and release a DJ compilation album. I enjoyed James’s company enormously, and we would often meet for a drink. I ran into him at a party in London at the end of 2000 and explained the state of play with the BBC.