I want to tell you a story, but I’ve got a job to do. This endless bloody paperwork!

Now: there are these two blokes sitting at one of those small round tables in the back of the Dog & Duck – yeah, I know it sounds like the start of a bad joke. These fellers have their heads together and are deep in discussion. If you listen carefully you can catch snippets of stuff about radical left-wing politics and counter insurgent protest groups and anti-globalisation demonstrations and… well, you know the sort of thing. They’re quiet and intense and keep glancing around furtively – thick as thieves? Sure it’s a cliché, but it works. Thick as thieves – all unshaven, darting eyes and tight, controlled hand movements. The one on the left – let’s call him Lefty – is a big chap – not quite overweight, but working on it. He’s wearing a 70s style, belted leather jacket and a black polo neck Gap sweater. He’s dark: dark hair, dark eyes, dark thoughts. Thinks he’s a bit tasty and no doubt one for the ladies.

The other feller – I’m going to call him Ned, after a character in a poem I once read about two gormless bankrobbers – is shorter, wiry, thinning sandy hair and little rodenty eyes. He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a beret and is waving a filterless French cigarette. All he needs is one of those T-shirts with a print of Che Guevara’s face – you know the type? Course you do. He looks like he thinks he’s the boss – the brains – in a De Montfort University type way. I don’t know, maybe he’s not, but he’s got that ‘smart arse’ look about him – probably because he’s insecure and suffers from chronic low self-esteem. I’m sure you’ve met his type before: probably selling Socialist Worker.

Right: they’re getting more and more animated and less and less careful and if you crane your neck you can just about make out what they’re saying…

Lefty: Who?

Ned: Can’t tell you old son – need to know, init?

Lefty: Shat ahp – who is it?

Ned: Ask me no questions, me old china.

Lefty: Who the fuck is it you runty little fuck, and drop that mockney bollocks before I slap ya.

Ned’s irritated and his prides been hurt. He needs to reassert his dignity and dominance.

Ned: That chap Craig we met at the Justice for Afghanistan demo last weekend. Called me up, offered us a grand for a night’s work. I told him we weren’t interested in personal gain. Told me to consider it a donation to the cause.

Lefty: That skinhead geezer? You twat! He don’t know nobody – he’s pulling yer plonker, in he?

Ned: Is he? Is he indeed?

He pulls out a creased once white envelope from his inside jacket pocket, opens it, thumbs a respectable wad of used twenties and looks very pleased with himself as he does so.

Ned: I’ve got a thousand reasons for thinking he’s not.

Lefty reaches for the envelope, but Ned tucks it safely away.

Lefty: [whistles softly] Nice one. So, what’s he want done then?

Ned: Wants us to torch that big warehouse on Peartree Road.

Lefty: He’s givin’ us a grand to [makes exploding noise]?

Ned: Yup! All for a tiny little pyrotechnic displ-----.

Lefty: Shhhhh!

Lefty looks round the room, stares at you briefly, sharply. You look away, take a sip of you pint, turn back to Page 3 and have another look at those tits. Lefty turns back and glowers at Ned. Ned’s eyes flick over to you and he nods, almost imperceptibly. Shit! You shrug, down the pint, tuck the paper under your arm and leave.

I tighten my focus and continue…

The pair of them are hunched over the table, heads together, anxious. Lefty looks stubborn, square jawed – keeps shaking his head; short, jerky shakes: no. Ned’s wheedling, trying to sell him something. Never a salesman though: negativity writ large. The conversation stops – they both sit there, brooding. Then, OK, Lefty shrugs. What the fuck. They get up, leave their drinks and go.

I bang on the glass partition. You nod and start the engine.

They’re back at Ned’s flat and are planning this job that ‘Craig the skinhead’ (have to keep an eye on him) has put them on to.

Lefty: Hold on a sec, what’s in this warehouse anyway?

Maybe this one’s brighter than he looks.

Ned: Craig reckons it’s where they keep all like police files and government records and all that – we’re gonna be bringing down the system, Comrade.

Lefty [looks levelly at Ned]: And you believe that do you?

Ned: Sure, course. They’ve gotta keep them somewhere, haven’t they?

Lefty [shakes his head slowly and sighs]: You pillock! Everything’s on computer these days. They don’t keep their records in a bloody warehouse in bloody Hackney!

Ned [sulky]: That’s what they want you to think.

Lefty: Well for a grand I suppose it doesn’t fucking matter what’s in there, but don’t you go blagging yourself it’s for the good of the cause. That Craig’s about as dodgy as they get. [pause] So how we gonna do it then?

Ned: Right, well, its got to look amateur, you know – sort of like, spontaneous, you know? Part of the demo. So I suggest Molotovs. They’ll do the business, they won’t look professional and well; it’s the revolutionary’s incendiary device of choice, init? Marx’d proud of us.

Lefty: Yeah, yeah. Well, I suppose that’d work. OK, yer on.

Ned produces a three-quarters empty bottle of Famous Grouse, two glasses and a red plastic petrol canister. Under the table is large metal canister containing more petrol and about a dozen empty bottles. He pours them both a generous shot of whiskey and swigs back the little that remains in the bottle: Your very good health. Lefty knocks back his shot and unscrews the cap of the petrol can. He sniffs at it and then carefully starts to pour it into the empty whiskey bottle.

Ned has put a tape into an old cassette player and is dancing round the kitchen to the strains of Going Underground. He lights one of his Gauloise and joins in with Paul Weller, Na na na na, na na na na. Lefty wipes the rim of the bottle with a kitchen jay cloth and then conscientiously mops up the spilled petrol on the tabletop. Finally he wipes his hands and drops the now sodden cloth into the ashtray. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ned apparently about to flick his cigarette stub into the self same ashtray, but of course not even Ned’s going to be that stupid…

The cigarette arcs end over end between them and in his rush to stop Ned, Lefty’s arm knocks over the bottle that once contained Famous Grouse whiskey.

****************************White noise***********************************************