'Almost.'

Bilahl came and ate the tuna salad I'd left him, talking on the phone in a low voice. He switched over to Al-Jazeera: the bombed building in Al-Birah, where Halil Abu-Zeid had been killed. There were children searching for remains in the rubble. Bilahl watched it in silence, and left again. I rinsed my eyes with a dose of Shirin Abu-Akla, who was reporting, and when she finished I returned to the videos from Lebanon.

Lulu called from Murair. Father was sick, was worried about us. I told her to forget about Father's worrying and tell me how she was doing. What had she done today? How had school been? I hadn't seen her for months. She said she'd seen Rana.

I loved Rana. We grew up together. Because of her I was who I was. She was part of me. The only one. I missed her. But I had to leave her behind. Had to leave Murair behind. My sister, my father, my future. And now I was in a whole other place. Al-Amari. Bilahl, television.

I watched the dancers on TV and closed my eyes.

Bilahl wanted to carry out the attack as soon as possible, in revenge for Abu-Zeid's murder. He wanted them to know we could respond immediately. The shahid would refer to Abu-Zeid in the video to make it quite clear. To make them understand that their helicopters and missiles didn't scare us and wouldn't stop us. But Halil himself thought that it would be better to keep quiet for a few days, I said.

'Yes,' said Bilahl. 'But it's for him that it's important to do it quickly.'

I looked into his dark eyes and suddenly felt a strange surge of grief through my chest. I buried my face in my hands. I didn't mean to. My brother laid a hand on my heaving shoulders.

In the afternoon I went out into the camp to breathe some fresh air. Women with baskets on their heads. Green gra.s.s, yellow mustard and red poppies growing beside the dirt roads. I plucked a leaf from a big fig tree. Behind the mosque the camp's football team were practising on a pitch with a huge puddle in its centre circle. I sat beside several other bored guys and watched, the sound of ping-pong games from the club next door clicking in my head like a metronome. Al-Amari's football team had won the West Bank championship a few times but since I arrived at the camp, they hadn't been up to much. Maybe I was bringing them bad luck. I found a shekel in my pocket and bought two bananas from one of the stands. How pleasant to sit and eat a banana on a cloudless winter's day. Children were kicking a ball against the wall, as they did whenever I pa.s.sed that spot. Life here doesn't change, I thought: only the slogans on the walls, and even they stay essentially the same. Any time now, my brother would be sending the kids with the green, black and red spray-cans out to praise the shahid Halil Abu-Zeid and to demand his revenge.

The Istishadi Istishadi was a guy called Naji, whom Bilahl met in the mosque earlier that morning. Bilahl said his true intent was to go to G.o.d. He'd known Abu-Zeid in the mosque and wanted revenge immediately. was a guy called Naji, whom Bilahl met in the mosque earlier that morning. Bilahl said his true intent was to go to G.o.d. He'd known Abu-Zeid in the mosque and wanted revenge immediately.

'But how well do you know this guy? How long long?'

'I trust G.o.d. I try to sense the person. But I never know. How can one know what anyone's got on the inside? Naji looks good to me. A relaxed type. Strong nerves. But I might be wrong. I'm trying to find out about him and his family.'

'And if you're wrong?'

'If I'm wrong, that is the will of G.o.d.' Bilahl spoke with a businesslike a.s.surance. He had taken Abu-Zeid's responsibilities upon himself. I didn't know whether or not he'd been given the role officially, or who he knew higher up in the organisation. 'In any case, he doesn't know my phone number or my real name. You'll show him how the explosive works. Apart from the two of us he won't see anyone or be allowed to call anyone. He'll come to the operations apartment, and from that moment on he'll be cut off from the world. On the last night he'll sleep here.'

I made tea. The flat was so cold I could see my breath steaming. Bilahl's mobile rang: the theme from The A-Team The A-Team. 'Yes, Father...' I heard him say, and I imagined Father with his silver mane at home in Murair and heard in Bilahl's voice a reluctance to show disrespect. But Father and him...I remembered Father telling me, 'I have no authority over himI haven't had for a while now. I've given up on him. But you...my heart aches for you, I know you're not a murderer. I know you, Fahmi, no one knows you as I do.' 'Of course I'm not a murderer,' I'd told him.

I put sugar in the tea and realised that Bilahl was now talking to someone else. The guy who'd checked Naji wasn't sure about him. There was some sort of criminal mess in his past. Bilahl called Naji. How can anybody know what anyone has inside them?

In the operations apartment, I removed the belt from its hiding place in a wall closet, unwrapped the blankets and old newspapers, and laid it on the table. Lifted it up and felt it. The tubes with the explosives were in order: nothing had evaporated. I took the ball-bearings and nails from one of the pockets, where they surrounded a sausage of RDX, and then pulled out the sausage to show Bilahl. 'We've got seven kilos of explosives and about ten kilos of iron here. This could create some damage.'

He nodded.

'Do you want to try it?' I said.

I didn't mean that he should think of himself as a candidate to be Istishadi Istishadi himself. But I saw that that was what he thought. He shut up for a moment and looked up from the explosive, focusing on nothing. himself. But I saw that that was what he thought. He shut up for a moment and looked up from the explosive, focusing on nothing.

'Let's see how Naji gets on with it,' he finally said.

Ali Jaafar Hussein's cafe, the only one in Al-Amari, was around the corner. I asked for a c.o.ke and drank it slowly, sitting on one of the small stools outside. We were the only ones out there. A drizzly wind lashed our faces and the puddles soaked our shoes. After a few minutes Naji arrived and Bilahl and I exchanged a look. He was so young his cheeks were still plump and smooth and when he spoke he lowered his eyes like a young bride.

'You're sweating again. What are you thinking about there?'

I'm thinking: when will you stop jabbering at me?

'Oh, Fahmi, did I tell you what a horrible night I had last night at home?'

Did soldiers come and break your furniture, arrest your family, murder your mother? That kind of night, Svetlana?

The moment I put the belt on Naji I felt his body straining and his muscles tensing up. He bit his lips but didn't say anything. 'We've got to adjust the straps to your size. We need them tight so you can wear it under your shirt.' Naji was chubby and fair skinned. I tightened the straps. He touched my hand, a soft touch, to indicate that the straps were tight enough. I was close to him. I could smell himthe raindrops on his neck, the fear.

'This is the battery. You take it separately and connect it at the last minute. OK?'

He nodded.

'Because from the moment you connect it, there's an increased chance of an accident.' To demonstrate, I disconnected the explosive from the electric circuit and connected a light bulb instead. I showed him how to connect the battery and he managed it after a few attempts. There was sweat on his brow. Bilahl went out to smoke, and when he returned I gave him a doubtful look. You have to be cooler than a cuc.u.mber in order to do something like this: you need frozen blood. You need to be a little crazy. I couldn't understand why Naji had volunteered.

'After the battery, the safety catch. This nail prevents you from pushing the b.u.t.ton. You pull it out like this.'

He did it.

'Now the b.u.t.ton is free to push. Not too hard. It happens in the twinkling of an eyethe moment you push, you leave this life. You won't feel anything. Not the explosion, no pain, nothing except the certainty that you are with G.o.d at last.' Naji's breathing got heavier. He laid a hand on my shoulder.

'You will leave the life of suffering, the problems and the misery,' Bilahl said. 'A push of the b.u.t.ton will send your soul to heaven, to G.o.d and to all the shuhada shuhada. You are going to G.o.d.' Naji pressed his forehead to my shoulder. I extended a hand and hugged him. I gave Bilahl a look and nodded my head slightly. The boy breathed into my neck. 'Push now,' I whispered. He pushed. The bulb lit up for half a second and then there was a loud fizz-crack and it went out. Naji jumped in panic.

'It's nothing,' I said casually. 'The bulb went, that's all.'

I went to get a new bulb. My hands were shaking so much I had to wait until they stopped. By the time I returned Naji had recovered. I changed the bulb and he tried again. This time he managed without my help. He took the belt off and laid it on the table. I went to the corner of the room and whispered in Bilahl's ear.

17

After I dropped Shuli off at the King David my headache started. Like needles stabbing my brain. I stopped and bought a bottle of water. Looking over the stallholder's shoulder, I asked for a Ta'ami chocolate bar, cigarettes and watermelon-flavoured chewing gum. I lit up a cigarette, though I don't smoke. (I did once, in the army, but it would take up too much of my time now.) It didn't stop the needles and made me feel nauseous. Two more puffs and I dumped the cigarette and the rest of the pack in a nearby bin. And the Ta'ami bar too, after a single bite. As I drove to my parents' house I sipped the water and chewed the gum so fiercely that I almost dislocated my jaw.

My mother brought me some pills and made us a schnitzel. We tend to eat in silence, my parents and I. The English teacher of thirty years, the former peanut b.u.t.ter importer and the directory a.s.sistance integrated-solutions provider.

'Shaar Hagai. That's a real escalation,' my father said after a while.

I nodded. Mother's eyes were aching. She asked whether Duchi was all right. Good question. I was thinking about Shuli, wondering how she was coping in the kitchen. I wanted to drive there and ask her.

'Duchi? She's OK.'

I ought to have called her, but I couldn't face the recriminations. The inevitable row. What for? Mother asked whether I'd had good meetings. Meetings? In Jerusalem, she meant. I told her they'd gone fine.

After the schnitzel, Danny Ronen's eyebrows on Channel 2. Mother discovered a stain on the sofa and began obsessively trying to clean it up while grousing in the general direction of her husband, though no one but herself was listening.

'The security forces,' Ronen told us, 'have conflicting evidence regarding the source of the terrorist cell that carried out the attack on the JerusalemTel Aviv road, near Shaar Hagai. Initial evidence pointed to the village of Husan in the Bethlehem area, as reported yesterday. But today's findings contradict this. In a communication accepting responsibility by the Izz ad-Din al-Qa.s.sam Brigades, "sons" are mentioned, as opposed to the single marksman that had previously been a.s.sumed. Furthermore, posters in memory of the suicide bomber nineteen-year-old Shafiq Omar throughout the West Bank refer to Ramallah as the source of the No. 5 bus attack, and not Nablus as was initially a.s.sumed. The security forces are unsure whether the posters and the messages are reliable or intended to confuse.'

'Whatever the truth,' said Danny Ronen, 'the IDF Air Force carried out a "targeted a.s.sa.s.sination" this afternoon in the offices of the Islamic Charity Society in Al-Birah. As a result Halil Mahmoud Abu-Zeid, a senior Izz ad-Din al-Qa.s.sam Brigades member in Ramallah, thought to be responsible for the string of recent terrorist attacksincluding Shaar Hagai, the Tel Aviv bus bombing, and the Sbarro restaurant on the Jaffa road in Jerusalemwas killed.'

'Yochanan?' I asked my father. 'Wasn't Sbarro the attack that the guy from the last last targeted a.s.sa.s.sination was responsible for?' targeted a.s.sa.s.sination was responsible for?'

'Yes. Him too. And the one from the targeted a.s.sa.s.sination before that.'

Judging by the targeted a.s.sa.s.sinations, the Sbarro attack was planned by five dozen different people, in Nablus, Ramallah, Hebron, Islamic Jihad, Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade, Hamas. Everyone had a hand in it, and now they've all got a hand missing. If they're lucky, that is.

And on the TV the funerals processed. The sounds of bereavement. Funerals, eulogies. A race of red-eyed people.

'Finding whoever is responsible for this atrocity...'

'I don't understand, don't understand, don't understand.'

'He was a warm, kind person...'

'When I heard the news on TV, my heart stopped beating, as if something had hit me...'

'He will always be with me, as he always was. He was the biggest influence on my life.'

We cut and zoomed in to the prettily crying eyes of an attractive female soldier, and the reporter summed it all up and returned us to the Jerusalem studio. Danny Ronen raised his eyebrows. Father asked whether he could change to a doc.u.mentary he'd read about.

Duchi sounded businesslike. She asked me whether this was it. Whether I'd left home for good. If so, she would like to know why, and when I intended to take my stuff.

'Is that what you want to happen?'

'Am I the one who left and didn't make contact for twenty-four hours?'

'No, I am. But I'm still asking: is this what you want to happen?'

'I don't know. I don't think so. But whether I do or not, I think it would be more sensible if we talked about it like grown-ups, no? After four years.'

'I'm sorry...I have a headache. Yes, you're right. What are you up to?'

'Watching Channel Two. Where are you?'

'Jerusalem. Mom and Dad.'

Silence. I felt she was trying to a.s.sess the import of this. At least, she probably thought, I was in a familiar place and not evading the question or making excuses. But I knew her: that wouldn't be much comfort to her. The reflex towards catastrophic scenarios is intrinsic to the way Duchi's brain worksher mother's legacy. It came with a lifetime warrantycustomer service and periodic software upgrades guaranteed even from beyond the grave.

'Send my regards.'

'They send theirs too.'

I imagined her on the other end, formulating her apocalyptic scenarios, holding back the tears. But instead I heard a chuckle.

'What did you say?'

'Nothing. Bibi's here.'

Bibi hates me; she told Duchi ages ago to get rid of me. Duchi told me that herself.

'Ah. I guess you're gossiping about me.'

'You'd be surprised, your name hasn't actually come up yet.'

I could picture Bibi, both thumbs up and suppressing her laughter at this.

'I'm sure that when it does, my ears'll be burning with the flattery.' 'OK.' 'What OK? That's it?' 'Do you have anything else to say? When you're coming back, perhaps, or when you're going away?' I was taken aback by her confidence. She wasn't formulating disaster scenarios. She'd caught me on the back foot.

'I was in the Shaar Hagai attack yesterday. The back windscreen was shattered. And my mobile.'

'Croc. Call me when you have something serious to say and when you make up your mind what you want to do with yourself. You know where I am. I need to hang up now. When you decide, come back home and we'll talk about everything like adults.'

'OK.' I hung up and imagined the awful Bibi bursting into applause.

Had I imagined it all? Duchi hadn't even registered what I'd said. I ran my thumb over the unscratched phone display, then stepped outside and touched the Polo's gleaming rear windscreen, feeling momentarily insane. But I hadn't imagined the newspapers, had I? Or Humi, once a chubby soldier, into Zohar Argov. I started to walk, my legs unconsciously leading me down the old familiar route towards the kiosk by the park. It was closed, but nothing had changed in the twenty years since we were kids. The wooden kiosk was plastered with a new generation of Likud or Settler stickers. A Jew Never Expels A Jew. Hebron For Ever! Bibi: Strong Leader For A Strong People. And behind it, the little park of climbing frames and slides, where I smoked my first cigarette and coughed through my first joint, had my first kiss, touched my first breast. I crossed it and walked out on to the street on the other side and stood opposite Muku's house. He still lives in the flat he grew up in. When his father died he bought his mother a smaller flat and stayed on with his own family. I could see light inside, hear the kids. And then there Muku was, momentarily, moving through the frame of the window, gesturing to someone out of view. I called him. I moved my phone a little distance from my ear and heard the mobile ringing in the flat, the kids becoming quiet. After half a dozen rings an answering machine came on. I hung up without leaving a message.

The last time we talked was September 11th. The day of the catastrophe; the day of the embarra.s.sment. How many phone calls had I made that day to explain to people why they shouldn't bother? What a mess Duchi's mother arranged for us, both in her life and after! If they'd asked me to do the inscription on her tomb it would have gone: