sheeting, which became slippery with the mixture of fluids. Karim’s body writhed, his limbs flailed. Sarim kept the pressure on, pushing even harder so that the knife remained embedded in the throat. Karim’s body slid over the sheeting. His hands flapped against puddles of blood, which spattered over Sarim’s balaclava. Sarim was reminded of a fish flapping on the side of a river bank.
It seemed to take a long time for Karim to die, though in reality it was probably less than a minute. A grotesque gurgling came from his throat, like the noise a child makes when he’s sucking up the last drops of lemonade through a straw. The flailing limbs fell still. Sarim realised he was out of breath from his exertions. He let go of the knife, leaving the blade embedded in his victim’s throat, then stood up.
Jamal was standing on the other side of the sheeting, staring at Sarim. Only his eyes were visible through the balaclava, but they were full of fear. Abu Ra’id was still behind the camera. His arms were folded and he was quite expressionless, as though he were watching something boring on TV. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Move him in front of the stool.’
Sarim nodded at Jamal, who walked over towards him. Silently, they bent over and each of them took one of the dead boy’s legs. They dragged him across the sheeting, leaving a line of blood in his wake, until he was centre stage. Jamal picked up the stool and placed it back in its upright position. Instinctively, the two masked men stood on either side of the corpse, their arms folded like Abu Ra’id’s.
They remained like that for about 30 seconds. Then the cleric leaned over the camera and switched it off.
‘ Allahu Akbar ,’ he announced.
‘ Allahu Akbar ,’ Sarim and Jamal replied in response.
‘I did not expect him to be so weak when the moment came,’ Abu Ra’id said.
Sarim swallowed hard. Now it was over, he found that he was shaking. He was aware that blood was still seeping from the dead body, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at it. He felt nauseous – not that he would ever admit this to Jamal or the cleric. He told himself that it was the smell of Karim’s piss that was making him feel sick, but he knew deep down that this wasn’t true. Sacrificing someone with a bomb was easy. You didn’t have to be there. You didn’t have to witness the grisly reality of what you were doing. Sacrificing someone with a knife was different.
But then he looked back at Abu Ra’id, whose peaceful expression calmed him. Abu Ra’id, who had first set him on this path. Abu Ra’id, who promised him glory that members of Al-Qaeda or Al-Shabaab could only dream of. Abu Ra’id, who had first explained to him, as they sat together in the mosque after evening prayers, the pleasures awaiting him in paradise if he waged the holy Jihad in this world.
Those thoughts consoled him. Sustained him.
‘Jamal,’ said Abu Ra’id. ‘Will you please prepare the footage?’
Jamal nodded. He stepped over to the camera and removed it from the tripod. Jamal was good with computers. Soon he would have cut their little home movie together. Abu Ra’id had made it clear that he wanted it distributed that very day.
‘And Sarim. It will be your job to dispose of the body of this excellent martyr, who at this moment is looking down on us with gratitude. There is acid in the bathroom. Please make sure you clean up after you.’
‘Yes, Abu Ra’id.’
And as Jamal and the cleric left the room he started about his next task, rolling up the surprisingly heavy body of young Karim in the plastic sheeting, then folding up the ends of the resulting tube like gift wrap. Breathless, he stood up.
He was still wearing the balaclava, and his skin was sweating and itchy underneath it. He walked over to the cabinet from which Abu Ra’id had taken the knife. There was an old mirror above it, misty with age. Sarim stood in front of the mirror and slowly peeled off the balaclava. He stared
It seemed to take a long time for Karim to die, though in reality it was probably less than a minute. A grotesque gurgling came from his throat, like the noise a child makes when he’s sucking up the last drops of lemonade through a straw. The flailing limbs fell still. Sarim realised he was out of breath from his exertions. He let go of the knife, leaving the blade embedded in his victim’s throat, then stood up.
Jamal was standing on the other side of the sheeting, staring at Sarim. Only his eyes were visible through the balaclava, but they were full of fear. Abu Ra’id was still behind the camera. His arms were folded and he was quite expressionless, as though he were watching something boring on TV. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Move him in front of the stool.’
Sarim nodded at Jamal, who walked over towards him. Silently, they bent over and each of them took one of the dead boy’s legs. They dragged him across the sheeting, leaving a line of blood in his wake, until he was centre stage. Jamal picked up the stool and placed it back in its upright position. Instinctively, the two masked men stood on either side of the corpse, their arms folded like Abu Ra’id’s.
They remained like that for about 30 seconds. Then the cleric leaned over the camera and switched it off.
‘ Allahu Akbar ,’ he announced.
‘ Allahu Akbar ,’ Sarim and Jamal replied in response.
‘I did not expect him to be so weak when the moment came,’ Abu Ra’id said.
Sarim swallowed hard. Now it was over, he found that he was shaking. He was aware that blood was still seeping from the dead body, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at it. He felt nauseous – not that he would ever admit this to Jamal or the cleric. He told himself that it was the smell of Karim’s piss that was making him feel sick, but he knew deep down that this wasn’t true. Sacrificing someone with a bomb was easy. You didn’t have to be there. You didn’t have to witness the grisly reality of what you were doing. Sacrificing someone with a knife was different.
But then he looked back at Abu Ra’id, whose peaceful expression calmed him. Abu Ra’id, who had first set him on this path. Abu Ra’id, who promised him glory that members of Al-Qaeda or Al-Shabaab could only dream of. Abu Ra’id, who had first explained to him, as they sat together in the mosque after evening prayers, the pleasures awaiting him in paradise if he waged the holy Jihad in this world.
Those thoughts consoled him. Sustained him.
‘Jamal,’ said Abu Ra’id. ‘Will you please prepare the footage?’
Jamal nodded. He stepped over to the camera and removed it from the tripod. Jamal was good with computers. Soon he would have cut their little home movie together. Abu Ra’id had made it clear that he wanted it distributed that very day.
‘And Sarim. It will be your job to dispose of the body of this excellent martyr, who at this moment is looking down on us with gratitude. There is acid in the bathroom. Please make sure you clean up after you.’
‘Yes, Abu Ra’id.’
And as Jamal and the cleric left the room he started about his next task, rolling up the surprisingly heavy body of young Karim in the plastic sheeting, then folding up the ends of the resulting tube like gift wrap. Breathless, he stood up.
He was still wearing the balaclava, and his skin was sweating and itchy underneath it. He walked over to the cabinet from which Abu Ra’id had taken the knife. There was an old mirror above it, misty with age. Sarim stood in front of the mirror and slowly peeled off the balaclava. He stared
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