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Don’t ask me why, as I can’t understand it myself.
    Once, she was questioned by the homicide squad over me for five hours — and stuck rock solid. She was questioned by the Internal Security Unit three times running for hours at a time over me — and remained rock solid. She has withstood death threats too many times to count — over me. She sat through my murder trial. She has never failed me, let me down or betrayed me. She’s got more heart, guts and dash than any man I’ve known.
    I cannot explain how I really feel about this woman. I’m not a great romantic or a playboy. I’m not the hearts and flowers sort of man — and until Margaret I strongly believed that love of a romantic nature was never to find me. I was a lone wolf all my life until I met Margaret. To say that I love her seems a feeble way to describe my feelings. I owe this lady more than I could ever pay in 100 life times. If I could put my finger on one reason for why I am really walking away from it all, Margaret would be the reason.
    But a love affair with a crim with a price on his head is not all hearts and flowers, sometimes it’s more like a war movie than a romance. Being covered in tattoos and hated by half the underworld has its drawbacks. Like when you want to go swimming, for instance.
    Margaret and I used to love going to the beach — but we had to pick nice out-of-the way spots, as I am covered neck to ankle in tatts. And then there’s the matter of security, which is why we had to take along quite a bit of hardware.
    That consisted of a .25 calibre automatic handgun in Margaret’s beach bag — along with a .32 calibre five-shot revolver, a .32 calibre automatic pistol, a .410 sawn-off shotgun, a .357 magnum revolver, a .44 magnum revolver, a .38 automatic pistol — and a .22 calibre 30-shot fully automatic cut-down machine gun fitted with a silencer.
    That’s eight firearms. I used to carry all I could with me, so ‘beach time’ was ‘paranoid time’. I used to have a small esky that floated on the water. I’d pop some ice and beer cans in it along with the cut down machine gun and take it out with me and swim and dive around near it.
    I took no chances at all. Margaret had been taught to use the .25 automatic pistol. God, she looked great in her teeny weenie bikini. I loved taking her to the beach. However, if anyone else came to the beach I’d swim back and get ready for battle. Beach time could have turned into a nightmare, and I wanted to make sure no-one was going to gun me down without a fighting chance.
    If something had happened, I had full faith that Margaret would have blown them to hell. Like all Maltese women, she has a terrible temper. The first reaction of the Maltese female when angered is to head straight into the kitchen to the knife drawer. Once I had to run out the front door into the street with dear little Margaret in hot pursuit, carving knife in her hand and screaming at me.
    I used to have to hide my guns after she picked up my .32 revolver and tried to pull the trigger on me. However, it was a stiff trigger and she couldn’t make it work, thank God. Throwing heavy objects at me was another favourite. Mind you, I was always in the wrong, and no doubt needed telling off. But her temper was quite frightening. Once, while Margaret was driving me down Sydney Road, Brunswick in thick traffic, with me carrying several guns and a bag full of assorted other guns and ammo, we had an argument. She stopped the car in the middle of the traffic, got out, took the keys and stormed off down the street — leaving me sitting there, paranoid, expecting to be arrested any moment, and with other cars blowing their horns at me. Luckily, she took pity on me and came back. I’ve always found it wise never to anger little Margaret too much.
    Her bad temper — and blood loyalty — were part of the reasons I love her so much. That and her teeny weenie bikini.
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    Two more friends I have to mention are ‘Mad Micky’