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MARCHING POWDER

about to smile so I tried to make it look like I was very proud of being a terrorist.

‘Terrorism?’ he looked surprised.
‘Yes. Terrorism.’ He wrote the word down in his notepad, with a question mark after it.
‘What exactly did you do?’
‘Well, I didn’t really do anything. I mean, I hadn’t done anything yet when they caught me. It was more about what we were going to do.’
‘Can I ask what?’
‘Sure man, but be careful what you write. I’m trusting you with this information.’
‘Of course. There’s no need to worry about that at all. I always protect my sources.’
I was beginning to enjoy this interview. He was solemnly writing down almost everything I said as though it were gospel. It would have been the scoop of his short career, except that none of it was true.
‘OK. They got us with some explosives. We were in the street –’
‘OK, slow down there please, Mr . . .’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘Macfargyen. Who is “we” and what sort of explosives?’
‘With some friends. We had dynamite. The cops got us with sticks of dynamite. Although I didn’t have any on me.’
‘How much was there?’
‘Oh, a lot, man. Enough.’
‘Where did you get the dynamite from?’
‘Hey man, I’m not going to tell you that. I have to protect my sources, too. I’m not going to put my cause in trouble. What kind of journalist are you? Do you want this interview or what?’
Someone should have been filming me. I was playing the part to perfection.
‘Sorry. You’re right. Would it be all right if I asked you what you were going to do with the dynamite?’
‘Hey man. That’s a stupid question. What else can you do with dynamite? Are you stupid, or what?’
‘Sorry, you’re right. What I meant to ask was what was your target, your mission objective, if you like?’
This guy was also really getting into the interview; he had even started using terrorist terminology.

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