not histories you would feel any nostalgia for.
‘That’s the one thing I do have in common with those non-fragmentary narrators. I have no nostalgia for my childhood. I am not the person at the dinner party who waxes lyrical about the endless summers of childhood, the golden light on skinned knees and the delicious pleasures of gang huts and tree houses. On the rare occasions when I get invited, I am the one who sits mute on the subject of their youth. Trust me, nobody wants to hear the few joined-up bits I can remember.
‘An example. I’m playing on the rug in front of the fire at my gran’s house. My gran collects ship ha’pennies for reasons too obscure to have stuck in my mind. There’s a whole biscuit tin full of them, almost too heavy for me to lift. I’m allowed to play with the ha’pennies, and I like to build castle walls with them. The best part is pretending to be the enemy after they’re finished; they collapse in a very satisfying way. So I’m on the rug with the ha’pennies, minding my own business. Gran is watching the telly but it’s a grown-up programme so I’m not interested.
‘The door opens and my mum comes in, damp with rain from the walk from the bus stop. She smells of smoke and fog and stale perfume. She takes her coat off like she’s fighting it. She flumps down in the armchair, scrabbling in her bag for her cigarettes and sighing. Gran’s mouth tightens and she gets up to make some tea. While she’s gone, Mum ignores me, tilting her head back to blow smoke at the ceiling. Picturing her face now, I see it as petulant and put-upon. I didn’t have the words as a child, but I knew even then to keep my distance.
‘Gran brought the tea through and handed a mug to Mum. She took a sip, pulled a face because it was too hot, then put it down on the broad arm of the chair. Her sleeve must have caught it as she moved her hand away, for it tipped into her lap. She jumped up, scalded, doing a funny little dance, kicking the ha’pennies all over the floor.
‘And I laughed.
‘I wasn’t laughing at her. God knows, I understood only too well by then that pain was never comical. My laughter was nervous, a release of anxiety and surprise. But, beside herself with hurt and shock, my mum understood nothing of that. She yanked me to my feet by the hair and slapped me so hard my hearing stopped functioning. I could see her mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear a thing. My scalp was a shivering sheath of agony and my face stung like I’d been swiped with a bundle of nettles.
‘Next thing was, Gran pushed Mum back into the chair. Mum let go my hair as she dropped down, then Gran grabbed me by the shoulder, marched me into the hall and threw me into the cupboard so hard I bounced off the back wall. It was morning before the door opened again.
‘I know this wasn’t an isolated incident. I know that because I have so many different fragments of sojourns in the cupboard. What I don’t have, by and large, are whole incidents. Various professionals have offered to help me fill in the blanks, as if that would somehow be desirable. As if it would be a treat for me to have access to more lovely memories like that one.
‘They’re more crazy than I am.’ He sighed. ‘And now she’s back. She’s been out of my life for so long I could kid myself that I was over her. Like a bad love affair. But I’m not.’ He rolled himself forward and pushed the drawer close. ‘Thanks for listening. I owe you one.’
Blinking the tears from his eyes, Tony manoeuvred the wheelchair over to the phone. He didn’t quite understand why, but something inside him had shifted, leaving him indefinably easier. He dialled the porters’ extension. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m done.’
The Mother of Satan. That’s what they called the end product Yousef was aiming for. Triacetone triperoxide. TATP. Supposedly given its nickname because of its instability. And that’s why he was being more careful than he’d ever been in his life. Careful made it possible to do extraordinary things. The London tube bombers had carted it about in backpacks. On and off trains. Walking from train to tube. So if he got it right, it would be safe. Until he wanted it not to be, of course.
He read the instructions one more time. He’d already committed them to memory, but he’d also printed them out in a large font. Now, he stuck the sheets up on the wall above his makeshift lab bench. He put on his protective gear then took his chemicals from the fridge one by one, placing the three containers on the bench. Eighteen per cent hydrogen peroxide bought from a chemical supplier for wood bleaching. Pure acetone from the specialist paint company. Sulphuric acid for batteries from the motor bike supply shop. He set a beaker, a measuring tube, a thermometer, a stirring rod and an eyedropper, all made of glass, and a sealable Kilner jar alongside them. It felt very weird. He’d never done anything so grown-up in his life, yet it felt like being back at school in the chemistry lab. The mad scientist in short trousers.
He walked away from the bench and took off his gloves and ear protectors. He needed something to help calm his nerves. He took his iPod from his backpack, plugged the little buds into his ears and set random shuffle on his personal chilling playlist. Some slow beats from Talvin Singh filled his head. Imran would laugh at his choice of music, but he didn’t care. Yousef replaced his ear protectors and gloves and set to work.
First, he filled the sink basin with ice, pouring in a little cold water to make it more effective as a chiller. He put the empty beaker in the ice bath and took a deep breath. This was the point of no return. From here on, he was a bomber. However beautiful his reasons, in the eyes of the world he was crossing a line that nothing could redeem. Lucky, then, that he didn’t give a shit what the world thought of him. Where it mattered, he would be forever regarded as a hero, a man who did what had to be done, and in a way that also made a statement.
He measured out the hydrogen peroxide, then poured it into the beaker. Swallowed hard, then did the same with the acetone. Gently placed the thermometer in the beaker and waited for the temperature to drop to the correct level. Stood humming softly along to Nitin Sawhney’s
Now the tricky part. He sucked up a precise amount of sulphuric acid with the eyedropper. Drop by slow drop, he added it to the mix, keeping a careful eye on the temperature. Above ten degrees, it would explode. This was the point where most amateur bomb makers got too enthusiastic, added too much too fast and ended up in bits against the nearest surfaces. Yousef was absolutely clear that wasn’t going to happen to him. His fingers were trembling, but he was careful to move the eyedropper away from the beaker every time he added a drop.
Once the recipe was complete, he began stirring with the glass rod. Fifteen minutes, the recipe said. He timed himself. Then, infinitely slowly, he eased the beaker out of its bath and put it in the fridge, making sure that the temperature setting was at its lowest. Tomorrow evening, he would return and carry out the next stage. But for now, he’d done all he could.
Yousef closed the fridge and felt his shoulders drop with relief, He’d trusted the recipe; he was no fool and he’d checked it against others he’d managed to track down on the internet. But he knew that things could and did go wrong in the preparation of explosives. What a pointless waste that would have been. He stripped off his protective gear and tossed it on the lumpy bed.
Time to go home and be the dutiful son and brother. Two more nights, then no more of that. He loved his family. He knew that would be cast into doubt by what he was going to do, but it was incontrovertible for Yousef himself. He loved them and he hated that he was going to lose them. But some things were stronger than family
