Living On Three Continents: Bombshell
One year ago today, about this time, four young suicide terrorists exploded back-pack bombs in London, three of them on tube trains, one on a double-deck bus. Three of the terrorists were from Leeds.
In this story Susan Siddeley imagines the reaction of a “victim’’ who was far from the scene of the explosions
Leeds, England, July 2005. A middle-aged woman stands in the doorway of a terrace house. Tea towel in hand, she’s staring down the street, talking distractedly to her neighbour.
You could have knocked me down with a feather, Mrs Calvert. I can’t believe what’s just happened. I can’t believe he did what they say he did. He’s been here four years - like a son he is - wouldn’t hurt a fly, never mind kill folk. It can’t be him. He’s shy! Nice smile, wavy hair, neat. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken to him. Well, you’ve seen him yourself often enough.
He came so far you know, all on his own. Our Danny’s been like a brother to him. Not that he’s like Danny. Our Danny’s lazy, never lifts a finger, not this lad. He clears the table, tidies his room, puts out the dustbins… Otherwise, our house would look as though a bomb hit it!
Ooh, no! What am I saying?
The woman starts crying, and then speaks again.
It’s only like a pigsty because my Stan runs a garage - leaves oily rags and tools everywhere. No, I don’t believe it. Salim´s a proper student. One of the family.
They just burst in, screamed, ‘Freeze,’ and ran upstairs. Four big, burly blokes in black suits. Kicked his bedroom door open and came down dragging Salim between them.
He looked scared stiff.
‘Don’t let them take me, please,’ he was begging. His poor face all red where they’d hit him. How could they think a lovely lad like that could hurt people? He’s never late with his rent and only last week he bought me a scarf for my birthday. My favourite colour, lilac. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, wouldn’t Salim. Even the cat likes him. It spits at everybody else.
‘Don’t you watch T.V?’ they said. ‘Haven’t you seen all those bodies blown up? Salim’s been to a training camp to learn how to do that.’
‘The only camp he’s ever been to,’ I said, ‘was Scarborough, last year. A caravan camp with Stan, Danny and me.’
How can a young man like that be involved with cells and suicide? He loves cricket and football. Salim’s not bothered about religion. I’ve never seen him praying. They’re barking up the wrong tree. This is his home. He told me once he’d forgotten what his own mother looked like. I know he’ll have to go back someday, when he’s qualified, but not like this. Bomb-maker! He’s an engineering student is Salim. Those rolled-up plans in his room are his homework.
They are, Mrs Calvert. And those metal cap things they’ve found, they’re my Stan’s, from the garage. They must be … mustn’t they?
The woman turns and goes inside, sobbing into the tea towel.
