bent down, pressed a button, and then nodded.
Karim licked his lips again. His voice cracked slightly as he started talking, but now the camera was rolling, Sarim had the impression he did not want to appear cowardly. But his words were quiet and stilted. A child, reciting his lines by rote.
‘My name is Karim Dahlamal. I was born in Hatfield. My parents are Raniyah and Yussuf Dahlamal. They will not understand what I am about to do. They do not understand the world.’
He wavered slightly on the stool. For a moment Sarim thought he was going to fall, but he kept his balance, raised his head again and continued to speak.
‘Four days ago, my friends struck a glorious blow in the holy Jihad.’ He looked left and right to the masked figures of Sarim and Jamal. ‘It is the first of many. We will not stop until the sins of the infidel are washed clean by their own blood.’
He paused again and breathed deeply.
‘The bombs will continue until all your sons and daughters have died. You think you can stop us, but I tell you that you cannot. Because unlike you, we are willing to die. We welcome death. We embrace it.’
Another pause. And then, in scarcely a whisper: ‘ I embrace it.’
Karim’s eyes were wide, now, and more than a little wild. He raised the knife to his throat. It wavered in his trembling hand. Abu Ra’id said nothing, but gave a slow, encouraging nod from behind the camera.
The blade touched Karim’s Adam’s apple. As soon as it made contact, a trickle of blood seeped down his throat and collected at the hem of the dishdash . But then he moved his trembling hand away again. Sarim saw a dab of blood on the knife. He looked over at Abu Ra’id whose face was, for a moment, expressionless. But then the cleric’s eyes narrowed. He looked directly at Sarim and nodded sharply.
Sarim understood what he meant.
If the teenager couldn’t do it by himself, he would need some help.
Sarim grabbed the hand with which Karim held the knife. The teenager panicked. He tried to throw himself off the stool, but Jamal had already gripped his left arm and held him fast. Sarim forced the blade towards the kid’s throat. Karim leaned back and tried to push Sarim’s arm away. But Sarim was the stronger of the two, and the blade eased inexorably towards the already bleeding throat.
The scream, when it finally came, was ear-piercing. Karim roared for his mother. ‘Mum! Mum! Help me! I don’t mean it! I don’t want to do it! I DON’T WANT TO DO IT! ’ At the same time, a foul smell wafted towards Sarim’s nose, and he heard urine dripping on to the plastic sheeting. Sarim felt himself sneer under his balaclava and found that, all of a sudden, his fear had turned to anger. He wanted to dispatch this cowardly, so-called jihadi – as much for pissing near him as for anything else. He strained harder to get the knife to Karim’s throat, but as he did so, the kid fell backwards off the stool.
Sarim fell heavily to the floor with him, as did Jamal. The stool toppled. To Sarim’s revulsion, he felt moisture on his skin as the kid’s urine ran along the sheet and soaked his trouser leg. The camera was still filming, but he couldn’t help that. With his free hand he grabbed Karim’s hair and yanked the head back. His other hand was still wrapped around Karim’s. He gripped it tighter and, with one final effort, forced the blade back down onto the fleshy part at the side of the kid’s throat.
The blade was sharp enough that he didn’t have to swipe. It slid easily into the skin and didn’t stop until it was a good inch into the flesh. Karim eyes widened with shock, and he opened his mouth to scream. But no sound came.
Only blood.
Sarim realised he must have cut an artery. The blood didn’t merely seep out of Karim’s throat. It pumped out, with the sturdy regularity of a heartbeat. There was so much of it. Sarim hadn’t expected such a quantity. It washed over his hand and gushed on to the plastic
Karim licked his lips again. His voice cracked slightly as he started talking, but now the camera was rolling, Sarim had the impression he did not want to appear cowardly. But his words were quiet and stilted. A child, reciting his lines by rote.
‘My name is Karim Dahlamal. I was born in Hatfield. My parents are Raniyah and Yussuf Dahlamal. They will not understand what I am about to do. They do not understand the world.’
He wavered slightly on the stool. For a moment Sarim thought he was going to fall, but he kept his balance, raised his head again and continued to speak.
‘Four days ago, my friends struck a glorious blow in the holy Jihad.’ He looked left and right to the masked figures of Sarim and Jamal. ‘It is the first of many. We will not stop until the sins of the infidel are washed clean by their own blood.’
He paused again and breathed deeply.
‘The bombs will continue until all your sons and daughters have died. You think you can stop us, but I tell you that you cannot. Because unlike you, we are willing to die. We welcome death. We embrace it.’
Another pause. And then, in scarcely a whisper: ‘ I embrace it.’
Karim’s eyes were wide, now, and more than a little wild. He raised the knife to his throat. It wavered in his trembling hand. Abu Ra’id said nothing, but gave a slow, encouraging nod from behind the camera.
The blade touched Karim’s Adam’s apple. As soon as it made contact, a trickle of blood seeped down his throat and collected at the hem of the dishdash . But then he moved his trembling hand away again. Sarim saw a dab of blood on the knife. He looked over at Abu Ra’id whose face was, for a moment, expressionless. But then the cleric’s eyes narrowed. He looked directly at Sarim and nodded sharply.
Sarim understood what he meant.
If the teenager couldn’t do it by himself, he would need some help.
Sarim grabbed the hand with which Karim held the knife. The teenager panicked. He tried to throw himself off the stool, but Jamal had already gripped his left arm and held him fast. Sarim forced the blade towards the kid’s throat. Karim leaned back and tried to push Sarim’s arm away. But Sarim was the stronger of the two, and the blade eased inexorably towards the already bleeding throat.
The scream, when it finally came, was ear-piercing. Karim roared for his mother. ‘Mum! Mum! Help me! I don’t mean it! I don’t want to do it! I DON’T WANT TO DO IT! ’ At the same time, a foul smell wafted towards Sarim’s nose, and he heard urine dripping on to the plastic sheeting. Sarim felt himself sneer under his balaclava and found that, all of a sudden, his fear had turned to anger. He wanted to dispatch this cowardly, so-called jihadi – as much for pissing near him as for anything else. He strained harder to get the knife to Karim’s throat, but as he did so, the kid fell backwards off the stool.
Sarim fell heavily to the floor with him, as did Jamal. The stool toppled. To Sarim’s revulsion, he felt moisture on his skin as the kid’s urine ran along the sheet and soaked his trouser leg. The camera was still filming, but he couldn’t help that. With his free hand he grabbed Karim’s hair and yanked the head back. His other hand was still wrapped around Karim’s. He gripped it tighter and, with one final effort, forced the blade back down onto the fleshy part at the side of the kid’s throat.
The blade was sharp enough that he didn’t have to swipe. It slid easily into the skin and didn’t stop until it was a good inch into the flesh. Karim eyes widened with shock, and he opened his mouth to scream. But no sound came.
Only blood.
Sarim realised he must have cut an artery. The blood didn’t merely seep out of Karim’s throat. It pumped out, with the sturdy regularity of a heartbeat. There was so much of it. Sarim hadn’t expected such a quantity. It washed over his hand and gushed on to the plastic
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