Siege

Eleven

16.28

THE FIRST GREAT Western from Bristol Temple Meads crawled snake-like into Paddington Station, two minutes behind schedule.

The young man was one of the first to his feet, picking up his rucksack from the floor in front of him. He hauled it over his shoulders, making sure the detonation cord was out of sight but within easy reach, and headed for the exit door at the end of the carriage, stopping to let out a couple of other passengers en route, wondering idly whether or not he was saving their lives by doing so or merely prolonging them for a few minutes. Most of his fellow passengers were business people heading back to town from their meetings in the provinces, or middle-aged theatregoers. He saw no children, God be praised. The young man was ready to do what he had to do, but he had no desire for kids to be caught up in it. He was, after all, a soldier not a butcher.

There was a bottleneck forming as the tiny corridor between carriages became thronged with passengers, and he was forced to stop next to the luggage rack, only feet from the trolley suitcase containing five kilos of explosives rigged up to a battery pack and mobile phone. No one had noticed him bringing it on earlier, and by the time anyone realized that it had been left behind it would be too late. He tried not to look at it, but couldn’t help giving it a glance out of the corner of his eye, wondering what damage it would do, and to whom, when it exploded.

The train came to a stop, its brakes emitting a long metallic shriek, and the doors opened. Immediately, the bottleneck eased as the passengers exited one at a time. When it came to the young man’s turn, he took a quick look up the platform at the wall of people pouring down the platform towards him from the rear coaches, then stepped down and joined them.

This was it. The time. He’d been building up to it for months now. Ever since the cowardly dogs of NATO had declared war on his country and tried to divide its peoples so that they could steal the oil that was rightfully theirs. And now he’d received the honour of being one of the few chosen to strike back.

The young man had been travelling on the train’s third carriage, and when he was level with the beginning of the first carriage, and some twenty yards from the ticket barriers, where already the passengers were slowing up as a new bottleneck formed, he took his phone from his pocket and speed-dialled the number on the screen.

The sound of the explosion was deafening. Even though he’d steeled himself against it, and was wearing noise-suppressing headphones, he was still pushed forward and fell to one knee.

For a long time, no one moved. This was the moment of shock, when everyone’s senses were so scrambled they didn’t know how to react. And then the screams started.

Slipping the phone back into his jacket pocket, he got to his feet and took a first look at the mayhem behind him.

Thick black smoke and claws of flame billowed out of a huge hole in the side of the train. There were a lot of people lying unmoving on the platform, while others were on their hands and knees, clutching at injuries. He couldn’t tell how many because his view was blocked by people – some trying to help, others simply milling about with shocked, terrified expressions, and a few sensible ones making a dash towards the exits and safety.

The young man took no pleasure from the scene, but he felt no guilt either. This was war. And in war, there were always civilian casualties. The British had been committing atrocities against his people with their warplanes and missiles for months now, and the people all around him supported their government’s actions with their votes and their tax money. All he was doing was restoring some balance.

The station staff had opened the ticket gates now and were yelling at people to get away from the source of the explosion, while a couple of overwhelmed-looking police officers shouted for people to leave the station but to stay calm, even though their own faces seemed to radiate panic.

Immediately, there was a rush for the exits. People were yelling and screaming, some leaping over the turnstiles rather than waiting to go through them, one man even trying to scale the roof of a shop selling ties. On the public address system an announcement started up, playing on a loop: ‘All passengers must evacuate the station now. Please follow the instructions of staff. All passengers must evacuate the station now.’

The young man knew where they were being sent. It was common knowledge that the meeting point in the event of a fire or related emergency was on the slip road next to the taxi rank on the southern side of the station. He also knew that having reached what they thought was a place of safety, most people would then stay put, wanting to be near enough to the unfolding drama so that they didn’t miss anything.

Which was exactly what he wanted them to do.

When it came to his turn, he hurried through the turnstile, following the barked commands of the police officers as they ushered him to the right, towards the exit.

His last walk on Planet Earth.

It wasn’t particularly inspiring, taking in the giant overhead signs carrying the arrival and departure times of the trains, the information centre, the bland-looking shops … all temples of a western consumerism he despised.

He wouldn’t miss this place. A far better one awaited him, as it awaited all good warriors.

He thought of his childhood. Playing football in the street outside his home with his brother Khalid and his friends; Friday lunch with the whole family, when everyone would be laughing and happy; his grandma bringing him and his brother candies hidden in the folds of her skirts. He missed Grandma, who’d been gone almost ten years. He missed his father, who’d been gone four. And he missed Khalid – dear, handsome Khalid – who’d been incinerated by a NATO missile fired by some coward hundreds of miles away as he fought against the mercenaries and traitors trying to divide and destroy his country. He hoped to see them all in paradise, God willing. Soon now.

Very soon.

A crowd of people were waiting on the slip road outside the station, many of them already on their phones telling others about what they’d just seen and heard, while a far smaller number of station staff in fluorescent jackets tried to keep them adequately marshalled.

The young man reached round behind his back and gently tugged the detonation cord free from his rucksack. His whole body throbbed with anticipation. His palms were lined with sweat, and he could hear nothing except the steady drumming of his heart. For the first time, perhaps in his life, his whole world was in perfect focus.

The crowd seemed to part naturally, allowing him to move inside it. One of the staff urged him to keep moving.

But he didn’t. He slowed right down. He was in the middle of it now, only feet away from a man talking loudly into a phone pressed hard against his ear. But he hardly saw the man. He hardly saw any of them. It was as if he was watching them through a rain-drenched windscreen.

This was it. The time.

He stood up ramrod straight, the detonation cord gripped firmly in his hand.

Someone saw him. A middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair. No more than five feet away. She cried out. One single, howled word: ‘Jesus!’

The man on the phone looked round and seemed to realize what was going on. Instinctively he moved towards the young man, his hand outstretched.

But he was too late. The young man was ready.

‘For God and my people!’ he cried out, and yanked the detonation cord with all his strength, embracing the eruption of noise and light as he was torn to pieces.