The Runaways by Fatima Bhutto

Author:Fatima Bhutto
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241983706
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2018-10-21T16:00:00+00:00

Sunny

The desert late at night is quiet and dark, the only light coming from a small fire Sunny built and the glow of his phone. Sunny taps his Tumblr open and tries to upload a photo: a tabby, curled up near his Rita.

He found the little kitty on her own, in the middle of nowhere. Soon as she saw Sunny, she came and rubbed her ragged body against his leg. #jihadtourism #catsofjihad. Come to Iraq, see the world, ha-ha. But he’s straining against this shit EDGE network, Iraq’s Internet connection like Chinese water torture.

Sunny refreshes the page, refreshes the page, refreshes the page.

In the time it’s taken him to get back to Tumblr, four minutes later, his photo’s got reblogged and the Like button is lit. One note, then five, then eight. Only thing he has going for him, since coming out here, is that his socials have been ablaze. Whatever dead nerve-endings Sunny has, whichever bits of him have gone numb, just got defibrillated and resuscitated. Resurrected. He was about to become an influencer.

Sunny clicks on the notes.

Man, wish I was a warrior out there too, fighting the crimes against my people.

Inshallah, brother, you should make the journey, he types back, feeling fresh and generous.

Bismillah, a bunch of girls write, presumably about the cat, loads of smiley faces with hearts popping out of their eyes.

Yr photos are sick! LUV THEM, LUV JIHAD SUBHAN ALLAH!

Thanks, bruv, all is thanks to Him. Sunny adds a smiley face with sunglasses as an afterthought.

I think what you are doing is great work, writes some nerd, but how can a true Muslim movement equip its fighters with Kalashnikovs – weapons invented by the biggest atheists on earth?

Fuck off, Sunny types and then deletes. He sits up to think of a proper reply; lots of people checking into his feed now, he has to sound right, sound woke, be an inspiration to his fans, bless them, but he’s still unsettled, disturbed by that flow with Oz on WhatsApp last night. Oz still hasn’t written back, though Sunny knows he read all his messages.

Maybe one of Oz’s mates was playing a nasty on him, maybe it was some kind of mistake? But he hasn’t come back to fight, like he promised. Sunny checks his email every ten minutes, but not a smoke signal from Ozzy anywhere.

He picks at a tin of tuna with a plastic fork. Monty’s lying down, a shirt over his face for shade, out for the count.

Brother, Sunny types, a smear of sunflower oil on his fingers, when you crawl out of your suburban living room, let me know and we can discuss the matter further.

Inspired, he moves closer to the fire for some crucial atmospheric light, taps the Record button on his Snapchat, props Rita up next to him and holds his phone out in front of him. People be wondering about me, wanting to know who I am and what I do – gotta get the balance right between show and tell.

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