A COUPLE STOP in a tube station entrance, and a man nearby tightens his fingers around a detonator in his hand. They lean together to kiss, the crowd flowing around them, a moment you can hold like a still from a film, the young man lifting her face, silver jacket, blond hair in a ponytail, the young man 5 bending, dreadlocks bunched at his neck in a red band. A moment in a progression of moments, leading towards the moment their lips will meet, running on from all the moments before: the couple rising up out of the underground through the musty-smelling wind, the stale breath of old London with its shades of Bedlam and The Ripper still shifting in the tunnels with the soot-coloured mice that run between the rails, leaning together, 10 the young man behind, the young woman leaning back, new lovers drunk on touch: while above in the glittering day, the young man with the bomb in his backpack crosses the road towards the tube station entrance, nervous, looking over his shoulder in the way he's not supposed to, been told not to, a gleam of sweat on his faintly shadowed upper lip. And the moments before that, as the young couple sat in the rattling train, the young woman's ankles crossed in her green sneakers, 15 the young man's jutting thighs hard in tight jeans, and above in the street the lad with the backpack stood ready to alight from a bus and was jostled so he fell against the metal post. And his heart turned over, but nothing happened, and in those seconds, he breathed again, though as he stepped to the pavement he was afraid that the fuse was damaged and panicked that his mission would fail. 20 And the history before: the night the young couple met lights strung in the trees in a south London garden, reggae blasting through open windows, his lithe frame silhouetted, hers pale against dark shrubs. A girl you could see, as privileged, a man you could assume to be righteously, rightfully angry, and in the first few seconds, as they were introduced, that was just how they saw each other: he on his bristling guard, she potentially afraid and ashamed; and then, as he handed her a 25 drink, each recognised in the other - she in the soft gleam of his eyes, he in the brave lift of her chin - the courage of a survivor. While across London, over the narrow gardens and the roofs of the terraces, over the low- and high-rise council estates, the wide ebbing river and the traffic run of Euston, the young man who would carry the backpack rang the bell to an upstairs flat. Three others bent over a table scattered 30 with batteries and wires, the boom of a nightclub, decadent sound of the non-believers, thudding up through the floor. And the pasts further back, the stories dovetailing towards this moment. A tall house on Highgate Hill with a laurel bush in the garden, family dinner with solicitor parents in a shining kitchen extension, the girl's younger brother and sister squabbling, her mother mildly 1 35 scolding as she spooned out the pasta, then touching her husband’s shoulder as she turned with the saucepan. Father looking up at her mother and smiling, as if he had eyes for no other, as if the night before, when the others were sleeping, he hadn't crept into the girl's room, hadn't hissed in her face afterwards, It's just between you and me. Though he didn't need to say it, how could she tell her mother, how could she tell anyone? A thing that wasn't supposed to happen. She stared at 40 her father acting as though it hadn't. Perhaps it hadn't. Perhaps she had dreamt it; perhaps she was evil, filthy-minded. Perhaps she was mad. No, she wasn't dreaming; she had to face that when it happened again. But yes, perhaps she was mad, perhaps there was something wrong with her, for it to keep on happening. In school she kept away from the other girls, sat in the library at lunchtime, her limbs heavy and frozen, while they went off down the road to hang around the café 45 and gossip and call to the boys. Envious, no not envious, too removed from them for envy, trapped behind a barrier, her inability to account for herself, even to herself. But did her mother guess anyway? She would wonder that, years later. And did she blame the girl? For she reserved for the girl a strictness she never applied to her siblings, and a critical tartness of manner that made the girl feel constantly stupid and dashed. Though she didn't like to admit it to 50 herself, she didn't want to think she was unloved. Fifteen years old, she sat on her mother's bed beside her mother as she got ready to go to a function, her mother patting her own hair in the mirror, taking up her bangles and asking, Which one? The girl was flattered to be asked and chose with care, a deep blue and a turquoise to go with the colours in her mother's kaftan, and her mother, pleased with the choice, drew them onto her wrist. An intimate moment, for which the 55 girl was glad. And in that moment, she had the notion of telling her mother, weighed it in her mind as she'd weighed the bangles in her hands. Her mother leaned forward to adjust her mascara, and the girl watched a little crease appear at the back of her neck and was overwhelmed by a sense of her mother as vulnerable, and of the devastation that such a revelation would create. And that was when her mother, meeting her eyes in the mirror, said tartly, quite nastily, That lipstick 60 doesn't suit you. Then the years of anorexia, that wish to be no longer the person you see in the mirror and weighing you down, to flee her; the dropping out of university, the lack of room in your head for facts and complicated thoughts about things it was hard to make matter, the lack of point in it all. And finally, one dark night, the attempt to escape at last with a can of lager and a packet of pills. 65 And the long road to recovery, which she was still treading that night at the party in the south London garden, but there she was, treading it, or rather, standing still against the dark bushes as the young man with the dreadlocks turned towards her, carrying his own past of oppression. The monkey noises and gestures, those grammar school boys going past in the morning as he turned out of the Bristol council estate, the sly and not-so-sly slurs in the playground. He stopped 70 going, doubled back to the empty house - his lone mother gone to her hospital cleaning job - or hung around the shopping precinct. His mother summoned to the school, the anger and sadness in her eyes. The taunts didn't stop, and as he grew his anger grew too: he would flip and lash out, and in the end, he was expelled. The sleek police car drawing up alongside as he walked in the streetlight, a teenager with dreadlocks; once, on a two-mile walk, he was stopped several times. 2 75 He had learned the necessity of controlling his temper, but he couldn't help a gesture of exasperation, he threw up his arms, and later his mother would find him in the police station covered in bruises. And then the long fight for justice, and calmness, and work for a charity helping young people with such problems, and a soft summer night in a south London garden shaking hands with a new 80 worker, the pale young woman. And as the young man with the dreadlocks stood in court in the dock and the young woman came to in a hospital bed with a drip in her arm, the twelve-year-old boy who would eventually carry the backpack sat neatly in his uniform passing his exams, the pride of his grocer father, destined for university and the life of a doctor. But as he walked home through the winter evenings something 85 was awry. The dark street was a gulf between squat cliffs of housing, acrid light leaking from mean squares of windows, congealed sticky rubbish, a dog slinking, guilty or sly, from a deep black alley, like the gulf between the life of his home - his anxious, conscientious parents, eager to please in this land they came to - and the life of school and the high street where the kids hung at weekends in their hi-tops, careless and entitled. He belonged in neither world. He belonged nowhere; his 90 future, mapped out by his parents, was a mystery to him, alien. He had no real purpose of his own. Until one day after mosque, someone touched his arm and drew him aside. And here they are now, three young lives converging, and the lives of those milling around them, the young people in jeans, the men and women carrying cases with laptops and papers, parents with a child in a pushchair, which the young man with the backpack has been trained not to see as 95 individual people with lives, only to think of the glory of martyrdom and reward in heaven. And here is the moment when his thumb touches the plunger, and if the fuse has become disconnected the crowd will keep flowing and the couple will complete their embrace and move on to wherever their relationship will take them, or the pulse will hit the fuse and the air around it will fly out faster than the speed of sound, and in the blast and the shock waves that follow, and 100 the sucking vacuum created, those linear narratives will shatter, the fragments spin - a mother's resentful face in the mirror, the hatred and fear in a policeman's eyes, lights glowing in a south London garden, and the moment conceived but never fulfilled, the perfect conclusion, the kiss. 3

Et par stopper i en metrostation, og en mand i nærheden strammer fingrene omkring en detonator i hans hånd. De læner sig sammen for at kysse, mængden flyder omkring dem, et øjeblik du kan holde som en still fra en film, den unge mand løfter hendes ansigt, sølvjakke, blondt hår i en hestehale, den unge mand 5 bøjning, dreadlocks samlet ved hans hals i et rødt bånd. Et øjeblik i en progression af øjeblikke, der fører mod det øjeblik, deres læber mødes og løber videre fra alle øjeblikke før: parret rejser sig op fra undergrunden gennem den muggen ildelugtende vind, det gamle Londons uaktuelle ånde med sine nuancer Bedlam og The Ripper skifter stadig i tunnellerne med de sotfarvede mus, der løber mellem skinnerne og læner sig sammen, 10 den unge mand bagved, den unge kvinde, der læner sig tilbage, nye elskere beruset ved berøring: mens de er oven i den glitrende dag krydser den unge mand med bomben i rygsækken vejen mod indgangen til undergrundsstationen, nervøs og kigger over skulderen på den måde, som han ikke skulle, fik besked på ikke at, et glimt af sved på hans svagt skyggefulde overdel læbe. Og øjeblikke før det, da det unge par sad i det raslende tog, krydsede den unge kvindes ankler i sine grønne sneakers, 15 den unge mands stikkende lår hårdt i stramme jeans, og over på gaden gutten med rygsækken stod klar til at gå af fra en bus og blev kastet, så han faldt mod metalstolpen.Og hans hjerte vendte om, men der skete ikke noget, og i de sekunder trak han vejret igen, men da han gik til fortovet, var han bange for, at sikringen blev beskadiget og panik, at hans mission ville mislykkes. 20 Og historien før: natten det unge par mødte lys trukket i træerne i det sydlige London have, reggae sprænger gennem åbne vinduer, hans smidige ramme er silhuet, hendes blege mod mørke buske. En pige, du kunne se, som privilegeret, en mand, du kunne antage at være retfærdig, med rette vred, og i de første par sekunder, da de blev introduceret, var det netop sådan, de så hinanden: han på sin børste vagt, hun potentielt bange og skamme og da han rakte hende en 25 drikke, hver genkendt i den anden - hun i den bløde glans af hans øjne, han i den modige løft af hende hage - modet fra en overlevende. Mens over London, over de smalle haver og tagene på terrasserne, over de lave og høje rådsgods, den brede ebende flod og Eustons trafikløb ringede den unge mand, der bar rygsækken, klokken til en ovenpå lejlighed. Tre andre bøjede sig over et spredt bord 30 med batterier og ledninger, bomben på en natklub, dekadent lyd fra de ikke-troende, bankende op gennem gulvet. Og fortidene længere bagtil falder historierne hen imod dette øjeblik.Et højt hus på Highgate Hill med en laurbærbuske i haven, familiemiddag med advokatforældre i et skinnende køkkenudvidelse, pigens yngre bror og søster skænder, hendes mor mildt 1 35 skældte, da hun skede pastaen ud og derefter rørte ved sin mands skulder, da hun vendte sig om gryden. Fader kiggede op på sin mor og smilede, som om han ikke havde øjne for ingen anden, som om natten før, da de andre sov, havde han ikke krøbt ind i pigens værelse, havde ikke hvisket i ansigtet bagefter, det er bare mellem dig og mig. Selvom han ikke behøvede at sige det, hvordan kunne hun fortælle sin mor, hvordan kunne hun fortælle det til nogen? En ting, der ikke skulle ske. Hun stirrede på 40 hendes far opførte sig som om det ikke havde gjort det. Måske havde det ikke gjort det. Måske havde hun drømt om det; måske hun var ond, beskidte. Måske var hun sur. Nej, hun drømte ikke; det måtte hun indse, da det skete igen. Men ja, måske var hun sur, måske var der noget galt med hende for at det fortsatte med at ske. I skolen holdt hun sig væk fra de andre piger, sad i biblioteket ved frokosttid, med lemmerne tunge og frosne, mens de gik ned ad vejen for at hænge rundt i caféen 45 og sladder og kald til drengene. Misundelig, nej ikke misundelig, for fjernet fra dem for misundelse, fanget bag en barriere, hendes manglende evne til at redegøre for sig selv, selv for sig selv. Men gættede hendes mor alligevel?Hun ville undre sig over det, år senere. Og beskyldte hun pigen? For hun forbeholdt pigen en strenghed, som hun aldrig anvendte på sine søskende, og en kritisk skarpsindighed, der fik pigen til at føle sig konstant dum og stødt. Selvom hun ikke kunne lide at indrømme det 50 selv ville hun ikke tro, at hun ikke var elsket. Femten år gammel sad hun på sin mors seng ved siden af ​​sin mor, da hun blev klar til at gå til en funktion, klappede hendes mor sit eget hår i spejlet, tog hendes armbånd op og spurgte, hvilken? Pigen blev smigret for at blive spurgt og valgte med omhu, en dybblå og en turkis til at gå med farverne i sin mors kaftan, og hendes mor, tilfreds med valget, trak dem på hendes håndled. Et intimt øjeblik, for hvilket 55 pige var glad. Og i det øjeblik havde hun forestillingen om at fortælle sin mor, vejede det i hendes sind da hun havde vejet armbåndene i hænderne. Hendes mor bøjede sig frem for at justere sin mascara, og pigen så på, at en lille folder dukkede op bag på nakken og blev overvældet af en følelse af hendes mor som sårbar og af den ødelæggelse, som en sådan åbenbaring ville skabe. Og det var da hendes mor, der mødte øjnene i spejlet, sagde skarpt, ganske grimt, Den læbestift 60 passer ikke dig.Så årene med anoreksi, der ikke længere ønsker at være den person, du ser i spejlet og vejer dig ned for at flygte fra hende; frafaldet fra universitetet, manglen på plads i dit hoved til fakta og komplicerede tanker om ting, det var svært at gøre noget, manglen på mening i det hele. Og endelig en mørk nat, forsøget på at flygte til sidst med en dåse pilsner og en pakke piller. 65 Og den lange vej til bedring, som hun stadig trampede den aften på festen i syd London haven, men der var hun, der trampede den, eller rettere, stod stille mod de mørke buske, da den unge mand med dreadlocks vendte sig mod hende og bar sin egen fortid med undertrykkelse. Abeens lyde og gestus, disse grammatikskole drenge gik forbi om morgenen, da han vendte ud af Bristol-rådsgodset, de snedige og ikke-så snedige sludder på legepladsen. Han stoppede 70 gå, fordoblet tilbage til det tomme hus - hans enlige mor gik til hendes rengøringsjob - eller hang omkring shoppingområdet. Hans mor indkaldte til skolen med vrede og tristhed i øjnene. Hånet stoppede ikke, og da han voksede, voksede hans vrede også: han ville vende og slå ud, og til sidst blev han udvist. Den slanke politibil trak op ved siden af, da han gik i gadelyset, en teenager med dreadlocks; en gang på en to-mile gåtur blev han stoppet flere gange.2 75 Han havde lært nødvendigheden af ​​at kontrollere sit temperament, men han kunne ikke hjælpe en gestus af oprørt, kastede han armene op, og senere ville hans mor finde ham på politistationen dækket af blå mærker. Og så den lange kamp for retfærdighed og ro og arbejde for en velgørenhedsorganisation, der hjælper unge mennesker med sådanne problemer, og en blød sommernat i en syd London have, der ryster hænder med en ny 80 arbejdstager, den blege unge kvinde. Og da den unge mand med dreadlocks stod i retten i kajen, og den unge kvinde kom til i en hospitalsseng med et dryp i armen, sad den tolv år gamle dreng, der til sidst ville bære rygsækken pænt i sin uniformsovergang hans eksamener, hans købmandsfaders stolthed, bestemt til universitetet og en læges liv. Men da han gik hjem gennem vinteraften noget 85 var galt. Den mørke gade var en kløft mellem squat klipper af boliger, skarpt lys lækker fra middelværdien firkanter af vinduer, sammenklumpet klæbrigt affald, en hund, der glider, skyldig eller snedig, fra en dyb sort gyde som kløften mellem livet i hans hjem - hans ængstelige, samvittighedsfulde forældre, ivrige efter at behage i dette land, de kom til - livet i skolen og hovedgaden, hvor børnene hang i weekenden i deres hi-tops, skødesløse og berettigede. Han hørte ikke til i nogen verden. Han hørte hjemme intet; hans 90 Fremtiden, kortlagt af sine forældre, var et mysterium for ham, fremmed. Han havde ingen egentlige egne mål.Indtil en dag efter moskeen rørte nogen hans arm og trak ham til side. Og her er de nu, tre unge liv konvergerer, og livet for dem, der fræser omkring dem, de unge i jeans, de mænd og kvinder, der bærer etuier med bærbare computere og papirer, forældre med et barn i en klapvogn, som den unge mand med rygsækken er trænet i ikke at se som 95 individuelle mennesker med liv, kun for at tænke på martyrdømmets herlighed og belønning i himlen. Og her er det øjeblik, hvor hans tommelfinger rører stemplet, og hvis sikringen er blevet afbrudt, vil folkemængden fortsætte med at flyde, og parret vil fuldføre deres omfavnelse og gå videre, hvor deres forhold vil føre dem, ellers vil pulsen ramme sikringen og luften omkring den flyver hurtigere ud end lydens hastighed og i eksplosionen og de chokbølger, der følger, og 100 det sugende vakuum, der skabes, disse lineære fortællinger knuses, fragmenterne spinder - en mors vrede ansigt i spejlet, hadet og frygt i en politimands øjne, lys, der gløder i en syd London have, og øjeblikket blev undfanget, men aldrig opfyldt, den perfekte afslutning, kysset. 3