‘Let’s start with the Molotov cocktails,’ Anton said, knowing this would make Gunnar happy. He would be relieved to have the petrol out of the way so he could concentrate on the serious stuff without an overexcited Gunnar constantly prodding him.

Anton pulled out the four vodka bottles he had taken from under the kitchen sink – his mother no longer bothered taking the empties down to the basement to the recycling box – and unscrewed the caps. He held the funnel and Gunnar poured the petrol. With the bottles filled, they stuffed rag strips into each one.

‘Ready?’ Gunnar asked, clicking the lighter in his hand.

‘Hold on!’ Anton said. ‘This is how we do it; you light one and throw it as far as you can, and we go behind those boulders up by the cliff. All right?’

‘OK,’ Gunnar agreed as he lit the first rag.

Soaked in petrol, it burned fast.

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Anton muttered, as he ran for the rocks. He hadn’t expected Gunnar to be in quite such a hurry.

There was a clatter of breaking glass followed by the rush and roar of the petrol igniting. He just managed to throw himself behind the rock, a hand over his head. He was considerably more frightened than he had expected to be.

‘Woohoo!’ Gunnar whooped, performing a joyous war dance a few metres away. He hadn’t got behind a rock, but had turned to see the explosion. ‘It rained sand, man!’ he crowed. The grin on his face stretched from ear to ear. ‘Did you see that?’

Anton had to admit that he hadn’t seen the explosion, so, to make amends for his own fear, he picked up the next bottle and took his lighter from his pocket.

‘We throw two at once,’ he said. ‘One, two, three!’

They lit the rags and threw the bombs together. Anton had to call on all his willpower to stand and watch the explosion and not to run away. The bang was twice as loud this time, as the bottles smashed one after the other and dissolved into a firestorm, which subsided as a black cloud rose into the air. It was more impressive than he had imagined. He felt his face burn with shame as he thought how he had run as fast as his legs would carry him away from the first explosion. Gunnar, on the other hand, appeared to be in his element. He picked up the last bottle, lit it and hurled it.

It had just gone off with a bang when an angry voice rasped behind them.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

There was a furious expression on the man’s face. Again Anton had the urge to run and hide.

‘We’re just messing about,’ he said apologetically, reaching for his backpack and shouldering it.