Spoiler
This story is in no way reflective of my views. It is only a story. I wanted to explore the issues that confront suicide bombers. At first I wanted to look at Kamakaze pilots from WW2 and look at the nationalist devotion, the delusion on patriotism, that lead to self sacrifice. However I opted for Modern Al Qaeda suicide bombers simply because I feel I can be more empathetic with the more modern form of suicide bombers. I feel the religious aspect is easier to explore. So before you read, if you have been effected by terrorism or are sensitive to such issues perhaps this story isn't for you.
For Critics
Spoiler
I am looking for feedback on style and narration. Are there any factual errors? Can you relate to Salem? Is there any information I can do with out? Also nitpicks are welcomed as I am yet to fully mastered GPS (especially punctuation.)
The Death of Ahmed Salem Mohammed
His name is Salem. In his Suitcase are clothes, shoes, the Karan and fifty kilograms of semtex explosives. He walks through the revolving door, eyes averted, jaw down. He waves away the concierge, and makes his way through the hustle-bustle of porters and guests; a family sits on lobby seating, luggage at foot.
The young made-up receptionists pause, lips still shaped to the last words they spoke, they eyed the tall dark figure pacing across the lobby. As he arrives forced grins draw across their faces, they ask questions then hand over the room key. After calling the lift with a long calloused finger, he turns and watches the front desk; over a shoulder and tucked against shoulder length blonde curls is a tiny pink face capped in azure wool. The mother takes her room key from the desk walks near Salem, his gaze meets hers, and she smiles, amongst the full black beard his mouth moves to smile.
The room is fitted with all the luxuries a capitalist world can grant with half a wall worth of flat screen television and enough bed for a village. The bathroom is sterile and, set in marble, is a deep spa-pool. A room in the Ritz wasn’t easy to get, nor was it cheap, but money means nothing anymore.
He looks out from forty stories, squinting against the last of today’s sun passing through the huge glass windows. He calculates due east then pulls a chair to the foot of the bed, far away from every wall. Sitting with legs crossed at the ankle the divine recital begins.
***
Praise Allah.
He finds the control. Television offers nothing until he sees the round ball moving about the pitch. The red team is the most revered in Eritrea, Arsenal. No more than ten years ago, long before he was taken across the red sea, football was all he knew, not on grass, but on the blood dusty plains of Northern Africa. The boys of his village gathered and at random decided two to become the captains of two teams, one Arsenal, the other Chelsea. Picking one at a time, they were divided; Salem had always been picked first, even before the taller older boys.
Sometimes, his mother would stand in the goal, her legs like stilts, moving about precariously. That was when her hands were steady and her eyes worked, before they rolled back, one looking left and one looking right, neither seeing.
Allah will greet him with open arms as his crusader.
He realises how remarkably calm he is, hands steady, eyes fixed.
It is dark outside, and almost as dark inside. The game ends in a scoreless draw, which is not to say Salem hadn’t spent every moment inching closer to the edge of the chair. Now he finds the light switch and opens his suitcase. After carefully removing one full change of clothes, the tightly packed explosives are exposed.
Salem undresses and for the last time looks himself over in a full-length mirror. His body burns wherever those black-beetle eyes wander, the scars, the dead still hands, and finally they burned themselves.
He will leave this vessel behind.
***
Praise Allah.
The plans were set over a year ago; it could only me Salem, he was chosen. Others will expel the infidels in the nation of Islam; his work was here in London, his time is now.
First, the vest comes over his spider arms. With sculptors’ care, he places the semtex in each pocket, back and front. The charge is positioned, but not attached, not yet. The manual detonator tails from the vest to his pant pocket. With languid precise twists like tuning a violin, he moves up each individual button, neatly closing the plain white shirt over the vest and suddenly looking plump. A tie shuffles up to his throat and finally a long dark over coat.
Six o’clock arrives. He draws a full chest of breath, exhales. One hour to go.
***
Praise Allah.
The Ritz Restaurant has a two-month waiting list. The interior brims with guests, genteel-class caricatures. Waiters in waistcoats, groomed and exotic, move about with noses high. Plump cheeks are stuffed with pumpkin veloute and braised duck. Haughty accents ring from table to table except at an empty lone two-seat reservation at the centre of it all.
When the lift stalls twelve stops short of the restaurant, Salem’s heart jumps up his throat. The pram juts into the glossy elevator and he lets out an audible breath. The blonde smiles, reaches across Salem and presses ‘Lobby.’
The baby wakes, its marshmallow arms, ending with tiny fists, move about amorphously. She opens her toothless mouth, screams a breathless scream, it echoes like a banshee.
“Oh I’m sorry, did the big elevator scare you.”
The baby’s screams come in staccato, punctuated with short gasps. After only a few hushes and moment of rocking, its mouth closes then its eyes.
Salem watches, wonders if they were going for dinner. Then he considers if his sweat would soak through this thick coat, it doesn’t matter anymore.
***
Praise Allah.
Conversation heeds and most eyes stalk the tall black man with the beard as he follows the maitre d to his seat. When his waiter arrives Salem points at the menu selecting Leek Vinaigrette with Crab and Lovag. A four-piece string and brass band begins, gently filling the room with muzak. Someone laughs loud.
Salem marches towards the bathroom, finds an empty stall, connects the charge, and closes his shirt again. He stops in front of the mirror, framed like art. His skin dark, his eyes darker still. Sweat beads all over. He checks his watch to find it’s time. He moves to the door in long confident strides, eyes wide. Tomorrow the world will know his name.
Praise Allah.
