Laboué’s eyes narrowed as his vision was drawn back to the unsightly hair growth around his midriff: it simply would not do. Leaning forward, he lifted the electric razor that was on a nearby chair and set it to a 3mm setting, before turning it on. The buzzing of the device shattered the silence of the room as he placed it on his belly button and slowly moved it down. The hair came away from his skin with ease and dropped to the floor in a pile. He made light work of the fuzz around his gut and then proceeded to shave around his genitals. As the whirring device roughly stroked the skin around his penis, he felt the first stirrings of arousal. Gripping his manhood in his left hand, he tried to move the razor over the remaining hair as quickly as he could, but the more the device touched him, the harder he grew. He clasped his eyes shut, desperately trying to fight against it and was relieved when a change in the volume of the razor confirmed that the excess hair was now gone. Looking down, he was ashamed to see the erection and chastised himself for being so weak. ‘What was the point of it?’ he reasoned, ‘The Qur’an taught that Allah rejoiced with virgins, so why did he tempt man to be unholy?’
Laboué had anticipated the likely reaction to his trimming and so moved swiftly to the bathroom where an ice bath was waiting for him. He put his hands on the sides and, taking several quick breaths, he lifted his feet into the tub, willing himself not to scream as his skin made contact with the icy water. The sharp burning sensation he felt caused him to catch his breath as it did every time and, as if removing a plaster, he quickly lowered his legs and buttocks into the freezing liquid, letting out a small yelp as he did. He hated how cold the temperature was but he knew it was the only thing that would curb his urges and improve his tolerance levels. It would also cleanse his body in preparation for the task ahead. That had been why he had taken the razor to his body hair; he needed to feel clean.
A few thin hairs on his arms stood on end as goose-bumps formed on his skin. He fought the urge to shiver and clamped his mouth shut to resist the chattering of his teeth: it would all be worth it he told himself. The next stage of his cleansing would be the most difficult but concentrating his mind, he bent his knees and forced his back, shoulders, neck and head under the water. It felt like a thousand pins pricking at his spine but he reminded himself this was Allah’s way of washing away the dust of this earth.
He managed to stay under the water for sixty seconds before he began to feel light-headed and knew it was time to get out. He shot upright and in the same motion leapt from the tub, almost falling as his rested muscles failed to react. He decided to air dry, rather than risk dirtying his skin with the comfort of a towel, and moved back into the main room, for warmth. He still felt light-headed and began to stretch out his arms and legs in the positions that his mentor had taught him. It was probably some kind of yoga, the way each limb was carefully presented, he didn’t know what it was called, but he did know that the mentor promised it was ‘good for handling stress, warming the body and clearing the mind.’
He had met the man he referred to as ‘mentor’ outside of the mosque six months ago. He had not recognised the man as a regular attendee but he had approached Laboué nonetheless asking for a cigarette lighter. Laboué had apologised, advising he did not smoke and had then made to return to his flat. The bearded man had followed him and eventually catching up with Laboué’s pace he had asked him some questions about how often he attended the mosque and whether he was a ‘believer.’ Laboué had tried to politely disengage from the conversation, but the more the man had spoken on the twenty minute journey back to Ocean Village, the more Laboué had found himself listening.
By the time they reached the flat, Laboué believed he had found a kindred spirit. At first the mentor had claimed to be against some of the atrocities attributed to their religion but as the months had passed, his opinion had seemed to soften and, like a lamb to the slaughter, Laboué had willingly followed. When the mentor had first suggested the plan, Laboué had reacted with abject horror but he had continued to see the mentor weekly and eventually had come to see the sense in what was being suggested.
Laboué continued to stretch his limbs as he had been shown and he had to hand it to the mentor, it did do wonders to calm his mind and, as he relaxed his arms back down to his sides, he realised that he no longer felt cold. It served as a reminder that the mentor spoke the truth.
He moved across to the bed, the only area of the flat that was presentable, the duvet having been flattened so that his garments could be neatly laid out. The thin beige cotton trousers were new and well pressed, as was the long, dark green V-Neck tunic. The outfit was complimented by brown sandals and an Aligarh jacket in the same shade of green as the tunic. The clothes had been delivered by the mentor and were much better quality than any of the Galabiyyas he was used to wearing on holy days. The mentor had urged him to look his best when he met Allah. The whole outfit probably cost in the region of three hundred pounds which was probably the sum total for all the clothes hanging in his wardrobe.
And then there was the second package that the mentor had dropped off earlier. He had already tried it on twice that morning, a rehearsal for this moment; so that he could be certain that it was fitted correctly as well as ensuring each of the thin wires linking the explosives to the battery pack were connected. Taking a deep breath to curb his nervous excitement he picked up the navy blue vest and carefully placed it over his shoulders. The mentor had said it was made of Kevlar, ironically the same material that the U.K. police used for their stab and bullet-proof vests. It felt heavy but considering the number of items attached to it that was to be expected.
He fastened the Velcro straps at the side, making it a snug fit, all the time watching himself in the mirror, so that he could be certain he was doing it right, as he had been instructed. The small brown packets, that he assumed were the explosives, had small thin metal pins protruding that he was to wrap the thin red wires around. It was essential that the battery pack was turned off while he carried out this task, as one spark and it would all end in the dingy flat. Satisfied that the first wire was secure, he then wrapped a small piece of black insulating tape around the pin so that there was no danger the wire would slip. He then coiled the other end of the wire around the small metal pin in the bottom of the trigger switch, again securing it with a piece of black tape to prevent slippage. He let out a breath: so far so good.
From the second pin in the trigger switch was a thin yellow wire that he tightened around the spring that jutted from the battery pack. Due to the odd shape of the spring, it wasn’t feasible to secure it with tape, so he wrapped the wire around an extra time to be sure. There was a small black switch on the battery pack that once he turned it on, the vest would be armed. The mentor had told him not to press this switch until he had reached his target, as, once the vest was armed, turning the switch off would detonate the pack.
He held the switch in his left hand and proceeded to tape the cable to his lower arm so that he would be able to release his grip on the switch without losing control of where it was. He stared back at his reflection and was pleased with the results. He ran through a checklist in his mind to satisfy himself that he had followed all the necessary steps. Once complete, he quickly put on his trousers and slid the tunic over his head. Sitting tentatively on the edge of the bed, he placed his right foot in the first sandal and fastened the strap tight. It dug into his skin, causing a pinching sensation that he knew would sting with each step he took, but he reasoned that this was Allah’s test for his final journey. He added the second sandal and stood to look at his reflection. The lightweight material of the tunic hid most of the vest’s bulk as the mentor had promised it would. This was important as he did not want anyone to suspect his intentions before he reached his destination.
12
Laboué completed his attire by sliding on the Aligarh jacket and slowly fastening the buttons. He was determined to commit this picture to memory so that later on he would be able to relive the experience with A
llah. The velvet jacket was a snug fit but only because of the extra padding of the vest. As he again checked himself in the mirror, he was comforted by the fact that in no way was it obvious what was hidden beneath his clothes.
He moved across to the computer desk. There was a small, jewelled box next to the monitor that he now reached for, opening the hinged lid in the way a child would a music box. Inside the lined wooden box was a small piece of paper. He removed the page and unfolded it, his hands shaking in nervous anticipation. The note was a speech that he would read aloud when the time was right. It was something his mentor had prepared and passed to him last week. Laboué had already recited it to himself several times, trying different intonations to relay the importance of the message, as if just by repeating the words, it gave his mission more meaning.
He returned to the position in front of the mirror, and, holding the piece of paper at arm’s length so as not to soil it, he began to read, annunciating each word with authority. As he did, he would glance up occasionally to assess his own body language. The mentor had specified that the speech had to be delivered with confidence; the people had to know that the cause was serious: there could be no doubt.
Laboué had doubted his own ability to be the man that the mentor wanted and had wrestled with his conscience and self-belief for weeks. Even now, when he was under an hour from carrying out his task, the doubts lingered. The mentor seemed to want him to be the face of the cause, a poster-boy for fanatical religion, but he was just a simple young man. He had been studying history at university and had breezed through his fresher year. This subsequent year had not been so easy, and the more time he had spent in the company of his mentor, the less time he had spent on his studies. However, as he had learned more about what was to become of him his studies had taken a deserved second place.
He took a deep breath, forced his shoulders back to expand his frame and began to read the speech with renewed purpose.
‘I believe in you, Youssef,’ his mentor had told him countless times. ‘Allah believes in you.’
The words brought him comfort as he remembered them. The speech was written in English but quoted passages from the Qur’an to emphasise the truth of the action he was taking. His mentor had told him that some would fail to understand the significance of what he was doing, which was why he had pledged not to tell anyone of his intentions, not even his closest friends. He had also promised that he would not leave any remorseful notes for family to find after he was gone.
He could feel beads of sweat forming along his hairline and realised that his body temperature had risen significantly since he had dressed. He needed to appear as calm as possible on the journey to his destination, and putting the note down on the bed he turned on the rotor fan in the ceiling and allowed the cool breeze to wash over him.
It was only a short journey from his flat to his target destination, but he had decided to catch a bus, to save him time and to help maintain a calm appearance. If he walked the mile or so, when he arrived he might seem hot and bothered and that would not effuse the authority required. The ‘X4’ bus would pull up across the road from the flat in a few moments and would take him the five minute ride to the city centre.
Satisfied that he had corrected his body temperature and was now ready, Laboué picked up the dark satchel that had been by the front door, and slipped it like a sash over his head and shoulder. He had been given detailed instructions on how to use the equipment inside the satchel and he just had to hope that it would do its job. He re-checked the room, and comfortable that everything was as it should be, he offered up a small prayer of thanks and headed out of the door.
Ocean Village was an area of Southampton that was restored early in the new millennium to make it into a trendy area to live, with upmarket bars and restaurants aimed at the young professionals and students in the city. Several high rise apartment blocks overlooked the area, all custom built to be luxurious with sea views. Following the financial implosion, several years later, the area was still relatively smart in comparison with other parts of the city, but the vibrancy was no longer the same, and too many apartments sat vacant. Some of the shop owners had subsequently let out their upstairs flats to students like Laboué who were studying at the nearby campus.
His flat was above a Ghurkha restaurant, across the road from a cinema complex, and on the bus route into the city centre. He was able to cross the road and was soon at the bus stop. He glanced nervously around at passing vehicles and pedestrians, keen to identify if any of them were watching. There was one older woman at the bus stop, smiling away to herself and he was pretty sure she wasn’t all there. She nodded in his direction when she caught him watching her but he was confident she was harmless.
The ‘X4’ turned the corner of the street and pulled up at the stop. A couple of men got off the bus, headed for a nearby Wetherspoons, even though it had only just turned midday. It was because of people like that, he thought to himself, that the world today was in such disarray.
He boarded the bus waving his season ticket at the scanner, and then stood in the space allotted for wheelchairs and pushchairs. While he had faith that the vest wouldn’t detonate if he sat down, he didn’t want to risk that his judgement was mistaken. Two more passengers boarded the bus after him and then the driver pulled back out into the traffic. They had hardly travelled twenty yards when the driver pulled up suddenly as the traffic lights turned from green to red. The sudden jolt caused Laboué to crash into the handrail he had been holding. For the briefest of moments he thought that was the end. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before eventually exhaling. The bus started moving again but such was the volume of traffic, it stopped and started every fifteen yards or so as it made its stilted journey along the road, each time he was convinced that the explosion would be premature. He had heard numerous stories from his mentor of brothers who had failed to reach their targets as their vests had gone off on the way. Whilst these brothers would still be revered for the action they had taken, they would also be secretly mocked for being so naïve. He cursed himself for not just walking the journey as he was starting to perspire more than he had expected.
The old woman who had been waiting at the bus stop earlier was now on the seat nearest him and said, ‘Everything okay, dear?’
He wondered whether she suspected, but as he considered her, he was sure that she had no idea what he was really doing. He nodded to pacify her question and she returned to humming away to herself. If only she knew the truth.
The bus eventually turned onto Castle Way, the road which ran parallel to the main High Street. The bus driver pulled up at the designated Bargate stop and then switched off the engine as it had reached its destination. A cold breeze greeted Laboué as he disembarked. A man pushed past him, eager to alight the bus also but did not even stop to apologise for barging him in the back. Laboué watched the man walk along the pavement and enter the West Quay Shopping Centre at ground level. He told himself to remain calm and that there was every chance the passer-by would soon receive his comeuppance.
Laboué held back and then followed the same course to the shopping centre. As he walked in through the automatic doors, the tingle of excitement that he had felt as he had dressed returned and it was all he could do not to press the trigger button now. He remembered his mentor’s words; everything had to be done in the right way if the mission was to mean anything. Laboué glanced at his watch. It was nearly quarter past twelve, so he had another fifteen minutes until show-time. On his left was a Waterstones and to his right a Costa Coffee shop. His mouth felt dry but tea and coffee were not what he desired. Moving further into the shopping centre he looked for the spot where he had been instructed to stand, and was relieved to spot a market stall selling fresh fruit smoothies. It seemed almost poetic that his last drink in this life should be something as natural as a fruit drink and he moved across and bought a tropical concoction of guava, passion fruit, mango and orange, mixed over ice. It was sweet but he immediately
felt the benefit as he sucked through the straw.
He next moved across to a row of benches near a pair of escalators. Still uncertain about sitting down, he leaned against a rail and casually looked around. The shopping centre was set over three floors, the lower two levels filled with consumer-driven retail shops selling everything that you could want but not need. Shops with the latest fashions, a John Lewis on one side, a Marks & Spencer’s the other, it was commerciality at its worst. There must have been thousands of people bustling from shop to shop. On the top floor were various food and drink outlets ranging from spicy food, to pizza and more oriental offerings. The usual fast-food chains were also up there and when the mentor had first said the target was the shopping centre, Laboué had suggested standing within the glow of the ‘golden arches’, but the mentor had dismissed the idea stating that greater damage would be achieved if he were on the ground level. If positioned just right, those not killed in the initial explosion would still be caught by the complex imploding on itself.
He watched as a couple with hands full of plastic carrier bags argued with each other, neither watching as the child who was with them wandered over to a sweet stall, next to the smoothie stand. When the mother eventually noticed that her son had wandered off, she shouted louder at the man for failing to notice. Laboué pitied them.
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