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equality.
    I said, ‘You must be in a poor way if you need my help.’
    He almost snarled, ‘Not for long, friend,’ and came nearer, crabwise, eyeing the bottle. I gave it to him. He gripped it by the neck as if throttling a chicken and took a powerful gulp, throat muscles working, holding his bundle close under his arm as if it contained either the crown jewels or a spare set of dentures.
    â€˜Is that your van?’ he asked, handing the bottle back.
    I nodded warily. There wasn’t a single thing I liked the look of about this character. I’d met his type in bars and always steered well clear of them. They were forever keen to do you favours to their advantage.
    â€˜Who’s with you?’
    â€˜My wife and daughter.’
    â€˜Just the three of you?’
    â€˜Yes, why, are you going to hijack us?’
    He didn’t bother or even pretend to grin. He said:
    â€˜I need transport. I have to get to London. I won’t give you any bullshit about my car breaking down, you’re an intelligent bloke, you can see that isn’t true. The police are after me, that is thetruth. I haven’t any money either. I’m asking you straight out to help me. Throwing myself on your mercy.’
    Nobody had ever thrown themselves on my mercy before; it had an antique ring to it that pleased me.
    â€˜If I refused you could always use force. Isn’t that what desperate men resort to?’
    â€˜Not desperate men who haven’t eaten for three days.’
    â€˜Would you consider it otherwise?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You are pretty desperate then?’
    â€˜To get to London quickly, – yes.’
    â€˜That’s my side of the deal, what’s yours?’
    He frowned, – almost glowered, – at me suspiciously, his eyes hooded and watchful.
    â€˜You said, ‘If you help me I’ll help you’.’
    â€˜Oh that. I could tell you things. I know what’s going on. Only a few of us know. You won’t read it in the papers or see it on TV. There are closely-guarded secrets that the man-in-the-street knows nothing about, would never imagine in his wildest dreams. But I’d tell you.’
    â€˜Not the ultimate mystery of the pyramids,’ I said, ‘or that we’re all descended from aliens. I know that already.’
    Still no grin.
    â€˜Secrets like these you could be killed for knowing.’
    â€˜How come that’s a help?’
    â€˜Knowledge is power.’
    â€˜Not if you’re dead.’
    â€˜Forget that. This is the real stuff. I’m not kidding. You’ll shit your clogs when you know what it is. You’ll be one of the few people who really knows what’s going on. That’s worth more than a measly trip to London, isn’t it?’
    I’d met loonies but never a real madman before. Was he mad? He sounded like a freemason. ‘What have you done?’ I asked him. ‘Robbed a bank or murdered someone?’
    He gave me a scathing, sneering grin (at last). ‘Petty stuff. I plant bombs. I kill people
en masse
. I’m a terrorist.’
    This was a conversation stopper, particularly in my befuddled state of tertiary intoxication. I suppose I gaped at him.
    â€˜I’m Number One on their hit list. They’d love to get their hands on me and stage a show trial. The
Sun
would have a field day.’
    â€˜By ‘they’ you mean the police?’
    â€˜The authorities. The panoply of the state with its judiciary and law-enforcement tentacles.’
    (What kind of jargon was this? Panoply and tentacles in the same sentence!)
    â€˜Dangerous to boast about it,’ I suggested.
    â€˜I’m not boasting, just stating facts. You want proof?’ He tapped the black bundle significantly with long dirt-rimmed nails. ‘Here.’
    â€˜Not a bomb?’ I said nervously.
    â€˜You think I’m stupid?’ He shook his head and his eyes narrowed and he