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As I trudge down the dreary street, my heart thudding against my ribs, I forget all reasoning behind what I am about to do. It all felt so' powerful, I suppose, back then. Back there. I felt like I could make a difference in the world. Now, as I traipse, I feel something twist in my gut, something that feels oddly like regret.
But I've gotten this far, haven't I? I'm nearly there, nearly at the destination that will change so many people's lives. I don't know if I have the courage anymore. When I woke up early this morning, I was full of optimism and anticipation, all the words they had poisoned me with ringing through my ears.
'Your name will be eternalised, Ashmath.'
Isn't that what I've always wanted? To be noticed? To be appreciated? My whole life it has always been, Ashmath Yassim, the boy in the background. The idea of finally being recognised was very attractive to me, hard to resist.
My friend, Fariq, he's to blame for all this, isn't he? If it wasn't for him, I would probably be sitting at home right now, my fingertips glued to the joy stick as I battled through violent video games on my Playstation.
It was Fariq who had convinced me with his engaging words, his opinions, his never-ending vendetta against Western society. After weeks of persuasion, I finally gave in and accompanied him to one of his meetings.
Al Qaeda. I was in as soon as I stepped foot into the tiny mosque. I was drugged with their inspiring words, and not fully comprehending the result of my actions, I signed up.
And now where I am? Trapped in a well of swirling emotions even as I walk slowly down the steps to the station, knuckles gripping the briefcase so tightly that my hands have gone pale.
A flash of dark red splashing past my vision brings me out of my thoughts to see a young girl, possibly my age of younger, jogging past me, crimson hair flying around her like ribbons. She is so beautiful that I momentarily forget everything, I just stare after her retreating back. Then, with an unpleasant jolt of nausea, I remember what I am here for, what I must do, and I regretfully tighten my grip on the package even more and walk faster.
I don't want to look back. I don't want to see the last daylight I'll ever have walked in. It was hard enough writing that painful letter to my English mother and my Iranian father, having to lie about everything. I know that, if everything goes according to plan, they are likely to found out anyway, but I just couldn't bring myself to write the truth.
Out of the corner of my right eye, I see two policemen standing next to the turnstiles, one of them talking on his walkie-talkie, the other scrutinising the station with cold, grey eyes.
For a second, I am sure my heart stops. How can they possibly know? A tip-off, perhaps? But who would have done that? Possibly Fareed. I always knew he wasn't comfortable with Al Qaeda, but then again, who is?
Sucking up all my courage, I purchase my ticket from a fat girl with bleached blonde hair and hideous hoop earrings hanging from her ears, her mouth moving at a lazy pace while she chewed on gum. I hold my head high and walk towards the turnstiles, sure that I must be shaking like a leaf.
The policemen don't even look at me as I push through the barriers. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. It's going to be okay. Everything is going to be all right.
I push past grey business men and young university students on the escalator, ignoring the profanities that spring to my ears. I don't care what they say. This is me, and this is what I'm going to do.
I can't help but to sweep the platform with my eyes, searching for the girl who had so distracted me. I see her, standing close to the edge of the platform , earphones plugged in, her head nodding to the music. I realise that, because of me, she is going to die. Everybody on this platform is. The thought fills me with such repulsion that I taste bile in my mouth.
The train whooshes into the station with gusto and, taking a deep breath, I mind the gap and step onto the train.
The girl with the red hair sits next to me, the music leaking from her headphones sounding like a death beat.
I am now so scared that I subconsciously lift the suitcase up and stare at it. 'Oh my God,' I whisper. 'What am I doing?'
Without thinking, I slowly pull the zip down the side of the suitcase and tentatively peer inside. All I see is a mess of wires and buttons. It is a homemade bomb, incredibly messy and simple, but extremely effective. It even has two buttons, one, red, to speed up the already ticking clock, and the other, green, to cancel the entire the whole thing in case of emergency.
She's seen it. The girl with the red hair has seen it and her skin is a ghostly white. 'Don't,' she stutters. 'Don't do it.'
'I have to.'
'No. You don't.' Her big, green eyes plead with me, full of so much understanding. 'Press the green button. Please. You don't want this, you don't want this!'
I stare at her for ages, taking in her beauty and understanding. I reach into the briefcase and finger the button. Then I lean towards the girl and brush my lips over her cheek. 'You're right,' I whisper.
And then I press the button.