Rouben Waletzko splashed the last of the gasoline around the police station. His comrade was round the back, keeping a lookout, and with a grimace Rouben drew a lighter out from his pocket and lit it.
He then started running. It was all he knew for two or three seconds, those two or three seconds before the gasoline would ignite the soaked dynamite around the back and destroy the police station, before he could die. His friend began running from his place at the gate, and the two tore down the pitch-black street, as suddenly the ground and the air rolled and there was a horrific bang, and they were almost thrown forwards, Rouben stumbling under the white light.
There was shouting, and windows and doors were opened. –Fuck, people are coming out,– shouted his friend.
–Keep running! Just until we get home!
They ran down the street, but the crowd of people coming out to investigate was getting obstructive. Something tripped Rouben and he crashed to the floor, scraping both his elbows. He was soon surrounded by people.
–What the hell happened?
–Did you come from prison?
–Why'd you do that? Was it you?
Rouben was helped up. –No,– he said, panting, his lungs burning. He couldn't see anything of the wreckage of the police station apart from the raging flames. –No, all right...– He suddenly began to feel dreadfully claustrophobic. –Fuck it. Get out of my way!– he shouted, and the people spread out. –Give me some space!–
There was relative silence but for the distant shouts of people near the fire. –Of course it was me,– said Rouben, panting. He couldn't see his friend. He looked around at the people around him, some of their faces illuminated orange by the fire, and raised an exhausted hand. –Hi. I'm Rouben Waletzko. And yeah, that was me.– He paused for a moment, his breathing becoming more normal. –I did it not because I'm a terrorist, no. I'm just an ordinary thief, criminal, like lots of people I know, I don't have a proper job because of the crisis.– Bloody hell, he was tired. He'd drunk a pint of vodka before this, and it was talking.
–I did it,– he told them, –because it's the police's fault I do what I do.–
Somebody pushed to the front. Rouben Waletzko didn't recognise the face, but he remembered the knife, that the young man now held in front of him. He was panting heavily. Rouben gave him a nod.
–You're wrong,– said Dragomir Possehl suddenly.
–About the police. It isn't their fault.
–What the fuck are you saying?
–I'm saying that it isn't the police. Who controls the police?
–Fuck, I don't know.
–The Government, stupid. The Police aren't your enemy...well, they are, but they're like a limb of your enemy. If you want to kill the entire thing, you'd want to get rid of the Government.
The people looked at Dragomir Possehl. He looked about as pissed as Rouben Waletzko. –Six o'clock, my house,– panted Dragomir. –I'll talk to you then.–