The Walking Dead

In the kitchen, Syed — pathetic and unworthy of a place in the cell — was sourly studying the washing-machine manual. He had measured out the soap powder and spilled enough of it on the floor. Beside Syed, not acknowledging him, Faria — arrogant, full of herself, too ready to argue — was cutting vegetables on aboard. Jamal was up the drive and out in the trees…and the car had not come back…and he was in his room…and he could see the shape of the man's back1 hunched in anger, as he strode on the grass like the caged animals he had watched on school trips to zoos.

He slipped from the chair. He did not think Syed or the girl had seen him move. He padded, tiptoe, across the carpet and into the corridor. He counted his way past the doors, then his fingers dropped to a handle. He turned it and the door, unlocked, opened. When the man had surged out of the room to demand an end to the dispute, he had come in explosive fury and Ramzi had not heard him turn the key…and that had created the chance.

What was it like? His home was swamped by women, his mother and sisters, and they watched the satellite channels from the Middle East, and they cooed together in a sort of keening wail of excitement when the last video message of a martyr was played. What was the feel of it? His sisters idolized the young men whose faces flickered over the satellite, and each time the message of sacrifice to the Faith was complete they would look across the room at him. It was never said, but was implicit: he, too, could gain their especial love and esteem. What did it weigh? He. thought his sisters would have flushed with pride, not wept, if it had been their brother whose face was on the television and whose words were played on the speakers, but the opportunity had not been given him. What was the size of it? His elder sister had downloaded a document — The Virtues of Martyrdom — from the Internet, and his younger sister had read to him: 'There is no doubt that the sacrificing of one's soul for the sake of Allah in order to defeat His enemies and support Islam is the very highest level of sacrifice.'

What was the shape of it?

It lay on the table. It was inches from his hands.

He skirted the table and the bed, went to the window and gently held back the curtain. He saw the man striding, relentless, as if he tried to lose devils that trailed him. The face was knotted with fear or anxiety — but the man had not lost them and would walk more.

He was back at the table. There was an envelope and on it were two tickets. On opening out their leaves, he saw the printout for ferry sailings, noted the port of departure, the dates and times different — and names he did not recognize. He closed the tickets because they did not seem of importance to him, and his eyes roved on across the table.

It seemed so simple, so ordinary. Ramzi thought it something that children could have put together, like a school's project. He had read in the newspaper of a school in Palestine, in Gaza City, where teenage boys were taught the virtuous lessons of the bomb on their bodies, the journey to Paradise and the welcome of the virgins…a school for martyrs. The quiet clung round him. He reached out. He had the right to touch, to learn. He was treated with contempt. He did not particularly admire any of the others; but the same level of contempt was shown to them all. A bomber, a martyr, should be revered, not forgotten — it was what the maker of the waistcoat had said — after one minute. His sisters did not forget and could recite names from Grozny, Jenin and Baghdad. In secrecy, he would tell them of what he had seen, would whisper in their ears how it had felt, the weight, the size and the shape of it.

He touched the material and the coarse stitching was against his fingertips. They ran on over the wires and the taping, and flies buzzed round him. He could see, inside the plastic bags, the clusters of nails and screws, the small ball-bearings. He touched the batteries, then moved to the switch. He lifted it and dared to allow a finger to brush, so softly, against the button. In Palestine there were posters in schools and on the walls of public buildings of the smiling young men who were martyrs. He eased a stick from its cloth socket. He was careful not to tighten the wire, to break the taped connection. He held the stick in his hand and it was smooth, moulded, with a tackiness on its surface. He let it lie in the palm of his hand. The weight of the stick rested there. He bent, put his nose close to it and tightened his grip on it, suddenly fearful that it might drop and wrench clear the web of wires, but it had no odour. He replaced the stick.

He lifted the waistcoat.