Chapter 27: It Only Hurts When I Laugh

As soon as the rolling door had shut behind me, I began to undress. The plastic segments that allowed in some sunlight were so badly scuffed nobody would be able to see inside. Not unless they pressed their face up against them, anyway.

My suit was in tatters. I wasn’t even sure why I wasn’t wearing my slacks and button down shirt. It’s think it may just be that wearing a suit seemed suitable for the occasion. If you’re going to commit mass murder, you should at the very least dress for it, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not defending anything about the Nazis here, but having worn one of their uniforms for a few months and learning what is involved in the upkeep, you do start to appreciate how easy it would be to let standards slide. But now a few thousand pounds of bespoke tailoring had been reduced to something you wouldn’t even use to buff a garbage truck. That was some of the finest Scottish worsted fabric, I’ll have you know. (Worsted wool is combed, not carded, and therefore has longer fibre strands. It’s a tougher thread and allows for a lighter fabric, which breathes better.) These shoes were a goner, too. Made to order in Italy, based on laser measurements of my feet. Sixteen hundred quid for this pair. And that cement crap had gotten into my eyes, so that hurt like buggery. I could barely see out of the left one. And so I left a trail of clothes on my way to the shower, which had originally been designed primarily to let Indian car mechanics give themselves a rinse if they got acid or oil on themselves, or somehow caught fire. So that wasn’t exactly the best Lefroy Brooks had to offer, if you catch my drift. Still, I made do. Ten minutes were enough to remove every last bit of cement from my orifices, and then I gave myself five more for a quick shave. I didn’t get rid of the beard, because if you’re making your escape it doesn’t do to be accosted by British expats asking for autographs, but I had ignored my jaw and my cheeks for a while. And if I’m perfectly honest, I didn’t exactly relish the last phase of my plan, either...

“Honey, I’m home! Start serving dinner and don’t spare the spare ribs!” I yelled, as I entered the small office where I had left Imam Musa. He was still securely tied to the clamps on the wall, but had obviously tried to get loose. The tie rips had cut into the skin of his wrists, and he was bleeding from both of them. Not much, though. And it looked as if the old darling had been crying, too.

He didn’t appreciate my joke, but then muslim clerics are not renowned for their sense of humour, or indeed their appreciation for Hanna-Barbera catchphrases. In fact, he didn’t say anything. But I was pretty sure he had saved up a mouth full of spit, so I didn’t come too close. I was currently dressed only in my underwear, which in my case still amounts to enough cloth to swaddle Gandi, plus socks and sneakers. In a corner of the room I had set up a table with some stuff I’d need. First I put on white, disposable painters overalls. Or rather coveralls, because these didn’t have those jaunty suspenders. Then I put on safety goggles and a cotton mouth cloth that stayed put via elasticated bands over my ears. And then I cranked up the AC, because obviously I’d turned that off during my absence. Go green or go home, right? I selected an instrument from a plastic toolbox, a lovely pair of six inch pruning shears that were sharp enough to cut through a broomstick, and walked up to him.

“Swallow that or I’ll cut off your balls,” I said, snipping the shears. He cringed and opened his mouth, so a nasty mixture of spit and some blood dribbled down his dishdasha.

“Please ... Don’t hurt me. I can get money. I’m not rich, but I can get money!”

Seeing him dribble like that reminded me that I didn’t want to make this any messier than it was going to be, so I used the shears to cut the tie-rips. He fell to the floor as soon as I cut the last one away, and rubbed his wrists.

“Thank you, thank you...” he mumbled, but then my foot connected with his head and he lost his train of thought.

“AAAAAAWHAAAAHHAAAAAA ... huuuu ... huuuu...”

“Stop crying, you fucking pansy. We’re taking a toilet break. That’s downstairs. Come on!”

He was quite surprised when I frogmarched him to the loo, but I figured I could do without the smell of urine and perhaps even faeces later on. His piss had dried up a little, but I tossed a pair of underpants and a shirt into the washroom and ordered him to wear that, and to stuff the rest of his clothes in a plastic bag. Five minutes later I had him back in the office and tied him up again. The wounds on his wrists were very shallow. Then I took off the safety goggles and the face mask and filled an electric kettle from a bottle of spring water. This worried him profoundly.

“What ... you do?”

“I’m making tea. I’ve had a bit of a day, actually. There was an explosion.”

“Where?”

“Near your house, I believe. I tell you about it later.”

I made tea in a cardboard cup and booted up my laptop, which I turned so he would be able to see it.

“Let me tell you a little story. And do pay attention, because there will be a test. About two months ago, on June eleventh to be precise, I was on a London underground train with my wife, my son and my sister. And my friend Diana. There was an explosion, caused by this man: Muhammed Fakhoury.”

I showed him a picture. In fact, I had prepared a little Powerpoint presentation.

“Do you know him?”

He did. He had to. And even if he said ‘no’, he couldn’t possibly believe my next move would be to go: ‘Oh dear, my mistake, I’ll call a cab for you. My treat.’ But he said ‘no’ anyway, because that’s how these things work.

“No! I never see him!”

“Really? That’s odd. Because his picture was on a notice board I found in your office.”

I think he expected as much.

“I don’t know...” he whispered.

“Muhammed, not the prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, killed a London Underground employee. Mr. Rajesh Areef, who was also a muslim, by the way, acted heroically by pulling Muhammed, not the prophet, into his ticket booth. There the bomb went off, killing Rajesh and injuring his co-worker whose name I don’t have here. He was Jewish, so you’ll like that part. Mr. Rajesh leaves behind a wife and three children. If all muslims were like Mr. Rajesh, you and I would not be having this conversation. His action saved many lives.”

Musa swallowed.

“However, not all muslims are like Mr. Rajesh. Another one, a Mr. Zayaan Rahman ... Let’s see, what is his religion ... I had it written down here ... oh, Presbyterian! That’s odd? Let me have another look. Ah! Muslim. Thought so. Right, so Mr. Zayaan Rahman took out a machine gun and shot two people who were running out of the station hall. He killed Neil Roper, 43, widower and father of a daughter, and Emily Steadman, 21, a student. I don’t have a picture of her. She was going to be nurse. That’s as far as Zayaan got. Now, I was actually at the platform with my family and my friend. So here is what I dealt with; first of all this chap: Muhammed Masood. He had a gun. And this lovely fellow: Farook Suleiman. He had a machete. And between them they killed a Mr. Victor Wilson, a bachelor, Mrs. Leslie Dubonnet, four months pregnant, an Icelandic gentleman who had a fifteen year old son and Elizabeth Pandit, a mother of four. And a wife, I might add. So that’s ... seven. Seven dead so far. But we’re not there yet. Also among the dead were Mr. Robert Wright, father of two, who was shot as he fought with your man Muhammed, and ... and...”

Oh, great. Great timing! Up next was Diana. I had her picture lined up but I couldn’t even press the arrow button. And now I was starting to cry!

“And ... fuck ... pffffff ... this was ... uhm ... Diana. My friend. Ooooh ... I’ll need a minute. Don’t go anywhere.”

I pressed the button without looking at the screen and disappeared through the door. I sat on the top rung of the staircase and had no other option but to let it all out. I had cried over her before. More than once, actually. But not since I had found myself at her grave and decided to find whoever was behind this attack, and hurt them. And now I was here, after having separated myself from my family, from my young child, for over two months. I had killed people. I had set off a fire. I had in fact killed more people so far than had been struck down in this attack. But this was not the time to stop. I chastised myself for being such a pussy and went back inside.

“You okay?” asked Musa.

“Shut the fuck up, you evil cunt! Don’t try empathy with me! Here! Look at her! Diana Albinson. Mother and wife. And my friend. When that bastard Farook came at my WIFE and my SON with a fucking SWORD, she stopped him. If not for her, I would be a widower and I’d have lost a child. And she’s victim number nine. Nine dead. Thirty injured. Fourty-one husbands, wives, sons and daughters lost a loved one. Because of the men whose pictures I found in YOUR office!”

I walked up to Musa and sucker-punched him in the gut. He gasped for breath.

“I ... am sorry for you,” he said, as soon as he was able to.

“THAT’S A BIT LATE, ISN’T IT? You’re sorry NOW, are you? Now that you’re tied up here. But you sure as FUCK weren’t sorry before, you pious CUNT! You and your fucking righteous religion, sending out death and destruction with Allah’s permission slip!”

“I ... I don’t know. I am just one man. I do as I am told. I am a cleric. I make two thousand riyals per month. I don’t have a car. I only serve Allah. God. Our God. Yours and mine. I don’t...”

“You don’t WHAT? I’ve got the wrong man, have I?”

“YES! I am only a servant of Allah. Other men, they ask to use my office. I don’t know what they do.”

“And they used your office while you were in the attic having a wank, were they? Look, you may not be the brains behind this. You certainly didn’t fund it. But someone did. And you know stuff. Stuff I want to hear about. And believe me: before we are done here, you will have told me everything. Every Goddamned detail.”

“I am also a father. I have five children. Two good sons. Beautiful daughters, three.”

“Oh yeah? Are those the daughters you won’t allow to see a male doctor no matter what, and who aren’t ever going to get permission to study medicine? THOSE daughters? Isn’t that what you proclaimed to the faithful, huh? Women shouldn’t get medical help OR eat an albatros?”

“Alba ... I ... I don’t ... How you know this? I love my daughters! Of course I would get a doctor if...”

“How old are they?”

“They are fifteen, and ... uhm...”

“And?”

“Thirteen ... and nine. And I have a wife! They all rely on me!”

“They pretty much fucking have to, don’t they? Because they can’t work, they can’t drive, they can’t leave the house without you and they can’t talk back to you, you Godbothering piece of shit! And they will have to marry whoever YOU pick for them. You have FOUR women in your life and yet you’re a cheerleader for a religion that treats them like second class citizens? How does that even ... AHHHH!”

THWACK! I lost my temper and punched him in the face. His nose started to bleed, but he stayed remarkably calm. Seriously, I was impressed. I couldn’t have him bleeding out, so I grabbed his nose and squeezed it shut, to quell the bleeding. He panted for a minute or so and then changed tack, once we’d established he’d stopped dripping.

“So ... You are a Christian?”

“I’m an ATHEIST. Which I have to lie about here, because that’s the fucking death penalty right there. So I have to pretend to be a Christian.”

I don’t think he quite understood the concept of atheism. But then, he could very well be concussed. And so he asked:

“And a Christian can beat up an old man, who is tied up? This is moral?”

“You’re only five years older than me. If you did something with your life other than praying and being a fucking oracle of Islamic bullshit, you wouldn’t be such a sorry mess. My dad could kick your ass and he’s in his sixties. Yes, I am going to beat you. Savagely. And if you think that’s not fair, then consider how unfair it is that the boyfriend of Leslie Dubonnet has to live with the fact that the woman he loved, who carried his child, was killed one day because Islam needed to make a point. Is THAT fair?”

“We ... have to fight back. The West, the Jews ... they always are attacking us. We are bombed. We are discriminated. We are invaded, for oil or other ... materials. Allah demands that we strike back.”

“Really? By killing civilians? Islam is under threat from people on the tube?”

“They support their governments, and their governments want to destroy Islam.”

“Where? How? Come one, let’s be having you. Where exactly has the British army struck out against Islam?”

“In Afghanistan! In Iraq! They bomb us there all the time!”

“Iraq? You mean ... ISIS territory?”

“Yes. We have the right to have a Caliphate. To live according to our religion, and sharia law. When the Jews take our holy city you think it is alright, but when we claim our land...”

“Hang on, hang on ... This is bullshit. We are attacking ISIS because a bunch of fundamentalist fuckwits suddenly showed up in a few Iraqi cities, claimed: ‘This is ours now,’ and then began chopping off heads and raping women. Nobody is denying you the right to worship. But you can’t inflict Sharia law on people who don’t want it, and you certainly can’t encourage young, stupid men to come to London and Paris and start killing people.”

“That is the only way to stop your government from...”

“Is it? Is it self-defence? Because you’re doing an awful lot of it. Even if we discount everything that went on before 9/11, you guys have performed more than thirty-five THOUSAND religiously motivated attacks since then. And most of the victims of that were OTHER muslims. Car bombs going off at markets in Baghdad, snipers taking out children who are accepting candy from US soldiers, entire families that got murdered for sending their daughters to school ... That’s not the US army, or the British army. That’s Islamic fundamentalists who thrive on fear and misery. That’s what we’re trying to stop. That’s not fighting Islam, that’s fighting fucking MURDERERS. If you think there is ANY justification for sending those murderers to London, then you’re wrong. You sit here, in your mosques and your palaces, arranging money and setting up attacks, and you think there won’t be repercussions? Well, there are now. I AM THE REPERCUSSIONS. In fact, I put the REAPER in repercussions.”

I had to stop for some air, but it just came pouring out of me.

“Nine people were killed that day. Islam raised a sword against my family, and it took my friend. Well, I promised Diana that I’d find the ones responsible. And I vowed to that asshole with his sword that I would kill ten of your lot for every decent person who died that day. And then I shoved him into a meat grinder, feet first. So you owe me NINETY dead fundamentalist muslims. And those ninety corpses are going to send a message to mosques around the world: we are sick and tired of turning the other cheek. Ever since 9/11 flying is a fucking misery thanks to Islam. We’re spending millions ... no BILLIONS on security measures that wouldn’t even be necessary if we just fucking BANNED all of you from airplanes. You strut about OUR cities like you fucking OWN the place, building mosques and demanding ham sandwiches are banned from school menus while your women sit at home, claiming unemployment because nobody will give a job to a person who can’t speak to other men and who is covered head to toe in a fucking BURQA. Muslims come and live in London, and Paris and Amsterdam and demand the world, but I come here and if I have so much as a rosary bead in my pocket I go to prison! If my gay friends show up in a muslim country, they’re liable to get stoned to death. But in the West we’re supposed to be okay with it if a group of muslims decide they want to set up Sharia tribunals and ignore our court of law? Well, FUCK that. Fuck ALL of that. And fuck your segregated society, your hypocrisy, your slavery and your Sharia law. I spoke to a woman who was assaulted and abused for years and when she finally stood up against that, she got BEHEADED. I had to SEE that. That’s Islam, is it? That is what you’re defending? Well, you’re going to have to step up your game, bucko. You think capturing journalists and setting them on fire in a cage is going to shock us? I’ll see your decapitation videos and raise you. Just you wait.”

I tapped my watch.

“K-T, I need a hotspot.”

“Operational.”

I turned on the wi-fi on my laptop and visited Aljazeera.com. There I started the live feed. As I’d hoped, they were covering the attack. MY attack. My retribution.

It started with a reporter, who was standing on a balcony at least a mile away from the Hittin Mosque (or what was left of it), and who seemed to be using Periscope or FaceTime to file his report.

“ ... unknown. Like I said, the incident occurred during the Friday prayer. As far as we know, a fire started during prayer in the Al-Hittin mosque, which is known for being visited mostly by very orthodox muslims. The minister for Islamic Affairs and three senior advisors were also in attendance, because of the recent attacks on the Mutawa, the Saudi religious police. The Al-Hittin mosque is ... and ... attended...”

The image broke up and began to stutter, so a presenter took over.

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Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

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