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I still can’t remember exactly what it was that I said to Fíonn. I do recall beginning by telling him that I had gone to Cambodia for a few days on my way back from Australia and that while I was there I went out into a field on the edge of a jungle on the outskirts of Phnom Penh and fired an M16, an AK47 and an RPG in exchange for a small fee. I also told him that I had made some discrete enquires and that getting some of this weaponry to Ireland would be relatively cheap and straightforward.

He looked at me like I was taking the piss. Luckily, I had decided to bring along the nearest thing to proof that I could think of, which was a well-thumbed copy of the Lonely Planet guidebook on Cambodia I bought off Ebay. When I showed him the page where it mentioned that people could, indeed, fire these weapons his skepticism seemed to fall away. He looked to have adopted the notion that if they could be fired – and he had credible evidence that they could – then surely they could be bought. He snatched the book out of my hand, told me he would be in touch and then trotted towards a dark-green Ford Mondeo that had sat, completely unnoticed by me, on the other side of the road. He jumped into the passenger seat and the motor moved off.

A deep, crippling panic grew inside me over the following days. In the absence of any additional information on whether or not Fíonn had bought my story I began to dread the worst. I dissected everything I could remember of our interactions and searched them for meaning. What the future held began to seem obvious. Fíonn must have saw straight through my pathetic attempt at deception and figured out I was trying to con cash out of his organisation. I convinced myself there was a bullet with my name on it.

Every time the sound of a car engine lingered outside my house I thought I was about to be dragged out and shot. I tried to convince myself that I was just being paranoid, but it was desperately difficult to present even the thinnest veneer of calm in front the turmoil that was going on inside me. After a week I decided to do a runner. My plan was to collect one last dole cheque, make my way to the Dun Laoghaire ferry terminal and then get a bus to London. I hadn’t a fucking clue what I was going to do beyond that. Except not get shot, I hoped. So I packed a bag, stashed it in my room and headed out to collect the meager few quid I could feasibly get my hands on for use on my now stripped-down getaway.

I somehow completed the 20-minute walk to the dole office without throwing up through fear. I was the first in, so I didn’t have to deal with a queue, but I could barely tell the bitch behind the counter my name when she slid up the shutter. I tried to sign for the cheque but I was shaking so badly that I left the form looking like an inky spider had ran across its dotted line. Luckily, the ugly cunt behind the counter didn’t give a shit about her job so she gave me the cheque and I was out and away down the road to grab my bag and ring a taxi to the ferry terminal.

The return trip was no easier and I only started to settle down when I was within eyeshot of my grubby little council house. Unfortunately, that was when a dirty, dark-green Mondeo pulled up beside me and rolled its window down.

“Jaysus Michael, you’re a hard man to find these days. Hop in son,” quipped Fíonn.

I wanted to sprint away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The terror I felt was so complete that I couldn’t do anything other than meekly comply. I ached for Noy. I swallowed hard. I got into the back seat.

To be continued

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