Boy Overboard, Page 2

  I try not to show the tank how scared I am. I try to pull myself up to my full height, which next to a tank isn’t very high. I try to make my voice sound like a desert warrior.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Could I have my ball back please?’

  Direct but polite. I think that’s how a desert warrior would have said it. But with less voice wobble and bladder twitch.

  The tank doesn’t reply.

  ‘I’m sorry my sister threw rocks at you,’ I say. ‘Please don’t take it personally. She throws rocks at everybody.’

  I pause hopefully, my heart going like a troop carrier stuck in first gear.

  Nothing.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘I need that ball. Soccer is going to be my career. Plus it’s Bibi’s only chance to get out and have fun and escape a life of being kept indoors by the government like all the other girls and women around here.’

  I run out of breath. As I struggle to get it back I realise that talking isn’t going to be enough. It never is with tanks.

  Trembling, my mouth as dry as a hot bread tin, I move step by step towards the gun barrel.

  This is what a desert warrior would do, I tell myself. Desert warriors didn’t run away from a bit of danger. If their ball got wedged under a tank, they’d just go and get it.

  I crouch and grab the ball and try to drag it out from under the tank but the pieces of metal track are thicker than my chest.

  The bulging ball won’t shift.

  I wrap my arms round it and strain every muscle in my body, scrabbling at the ground with my feet. It’s no good. The tank is too heavy.

  I slump back, weak with despair.

  Who am I kidding? I didn’t inherit anything from Mum’s ancestors. Bibi got all the desert warrior genes. All I got were Dad’s. The strength, courage and fierceness of a baker.

  Pathetic.

  Desperation swirls inside me and makes me do a very silly thing.

  ‘My ancestors were bakers,’ I scream at the tank. ‘They had really hot ovens. Hot enough to melt a dumb tank.’

  I stop, my head throbbing, wondering if I’m going to die.

  From inside the tank I hear radio static. Then a radio voice I can’t understand because my brain’s beating too loudly in my ears.

  Suddenly the tank gives a lurch.

  I fling myself backwards in the dirt, waiting for the ball to explode as well as most of my body parts.

  They don’t.

  The tank is backing away. The engine is howling and the tracks are clanking and the tank is spinning in a screeching circle. Then it clatters off, leaving me choking in its dust.

  I grab my ball and hold it to my chest. I love the smell of the leather, even though Bibi reckons it’s made from camel. I even love the smell of the rubber patches.

  I watch the tank roar and shudder towards the horizon.

  ‘Thank you,’ I croak.

  I wave, but nobody waves back.

  I stand up, dizzy with relief. I thank my ancestors. Even if the desert warriors aren’t listening, I know the bakers are. Dad always says you can trust people who get up at 3am and he’s right.

  The tank has gone. Everything’s OK. It’s still a good day.

  Then I hear a scream in the distance. A long terrified scream.

  Bibi.

  I turn and start running back towards her.

  Yusuf is yelling. His voice is high-pitched with panic.

  ‘Jamal, Jamal, come quickly. Your stupid sister’s stepped on a mine.’

  4

  No bang.

  That’s all I think as I claw my way up the side of the rocket crater towards Bibi. Rubble scrapes my fingers raw, but I hardly notice.

  No explosion.

  That’s good.

  Unless …

  Unless I missed it when the tank was screeching. Or it was muffled by Bibi’s long skirt. Or someone’s invented a silent landmine.

  I stop thinking about that and keep climbing.

  I can’t smell any explosion. That’s good too. When Yusuf’s grandfather demonstrated a landmine exploding to us kids in the village the smell was gross. Worse than Mussa’s socks.

  ‘Hang on, Bibi,’ I shout frantically. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

  They can’t hear me. Yusuf is yelling too loudly and Bibi’s screams are filling the air like desert birds after a battle.

  Please, I pray. Don’t let her legs be blown off. Not even just one.

  I fling myself over the rim of the crater.

  Bibi is on the other side of the soccer pitch, surrounded by war wreckage. She’s standing rock still, one leg straight, the other crooked. Yusuf is kneeling next to her straight leg, pushing down with both hands on her foot.

  As I run to her I see what’s happened. The mine hasn’t gone off because Bibi’s weight is still on it. If she moves her foot off the metal plate, the mine will explode.

  ‘Bibi,’ I yell. ‘Don’t move.’

  It’s a dumb thing to say and I can see from the tearful glare Bibi gives me that she thinks so too.

  I drop to my knees and press my hands on top of Yusuf’s.

  ‘Ow,’ says Bibi. ‘That hurts.’

  ‘Why didn’t you keep an eye on her?’ I shout at Yusuf.

  Immediately I wish I hadn’t said that. Yusuf looks as miserable as I feel.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault. The government’s supposed to have cleared all the mines this close to the village.’

  ‘That’s what they said seven years ago,’ mutters Yusuf, sliding one hand off Bibi’s foot and rubbing his leg stump inside his baggy shorts. ‘I’m sorry, Jamal.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ says Bibi. ‘I saw something I wanted for my bird migration project.’

  She’s pointing to a chunk of rusty debris nearby. An entire wing section off a fighter plane.

  I don’t say anything. I can feel Bibi’s foot trembling. Her lips have gone pale. The poor thing’s terrified. This is not the time to remind her that our school is meant to be secret and it won’t be secret much longer if she starts dragging ten metre pieces of project material into the house.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she whimpers.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll think of something. Just remember the secret of soccer. Never give up, even when things are looking hopeless.’

  Bibi bursts into tears again.

  ‘Don’t say hopeless, you camel poop,’ she yells.

  I look around for help. The village isn’t that far away and I know Yusuf will hop like the wind if I ask him, but I don’t. If the wrong people come to rescue Bibi and see she’s a girl, she’ll be in almost as much trouble as she is now.

  There’s only one thing to do.

  I stand up and put my foot next to Bibi’s.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Slide your foot off the metal plate while I slide my foot on.’

  Bibi gawks at me. Yusuf’s mouth is hanging open too.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he whispers. ‘If that plate pops up, the mine’ll explode.’

  Yusuf’s got a good heart, but he can be a bit of a referee sometimes. I don’t mind. He’s only my age but he’s taller than me and he’s already got hair on his leg.

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ I say, struggling to look confident. ‘Come on Bibi, just slide your foot off slowly.’

  ‘But then you’ll be on the mine,’ says Bibi. ‘You could be blown up.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘It’s probably a dud mine anyway. A lot of these landmines are twenty years old and totally clapped out. Aren’t they, Yusuf?’

  Yusuf doesn’t say anything. He’s probably not the best person to be asking.

  Bibi is staring at Yusuf’s empty shorts leg.

  ‘No,’ she yells. ‘It’s too risky.’ She crumples into tears again.

  ‘Bibi,’ I say desperately. ‘If you get blown up, people will find out you’ve been playing soccer. Even if I tear up the note.’

  Bibi shakes her head. ‘Mum and Dad will understand,’ she rep
lies. ‘They’re always doing things they’re not meant to. Like school, and Dad putting army petrol in his taxi that time.’

  I’m getting frantic and I can see Yusuf is too. I’m hoping the mine’s a rusted dud, but it might not be. Yusuf’s grandfather says that some old mines are seriously unstable. Some go off even before the metal plate flips up.

  I’ve got to get Bibi away from here.

  ‘What about the government?’ I say to her. ‘If the government finds out a girl’s been playing soccer, Mum and Dad are in big trouble, remember?’

  Bibi thinks about this. I can see she knows it’s true. But instead of getting off the mine, she gets angry.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she yells. ‘I don’t want to get blown up and I don’t want you to get blown up either. It’s not fair.’

  This is bad. She’s working up to a tantrum. When Bibi has a tantrum she stamps her feet.

  I grab her shoulders and put my face close to hers.

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘Let me step on the mine. Then Yusuf will help you get home, and once you’re inside he’ll bring help for me. We’ll all be fine.’

  ‘He’s right,’ says Yusuf.

  Bibi glares at me for a long time. ‘OK,’ she says finally. ‘If I die, I hope you do as well.’ Then her eyes fill with tears again and she puts her arms round me. ‘Because if I was dead and you weren’t, I’d really miss you.’

  She shuffles off the mine, Yusuf holding her feet so she doesn’t move too fast.

  I shuffle on at the same time.

  In the tension of the moment I forget Bibi is meant to be sprinting away. We hold each other tight while we wait and see what happens.

  Nothing.

  I can feel the spring of the mine pushing against the soles of my feet, but the mine doesn’t explode.

  ‘OK,’ I say to Yusuf. ‘Run for it.’

  It’s not a very thoughtful thing to say to a kid with one leg, but I know Yusuf doesn’t mind. He grabs his crutches with one hand and Bibi with the other.

  She’s still holding onto me, her dark eyes staring at me fiercely. ‘Jamal,’ she says, ‘I like soccer and I’m going to keep on playing it.’ She hugs me, then thinks of something. ‘Unless you’re dead, because then I wouldn’t feel like it.’

  She gives me a final hug and hurries away with Yusuf.

  I look down at the metal plate under my feet.

  It doesn’t look very rusty. It looks quite new. Which is good. New mines are better. The coloured wires haven’t faded and the bomb-disposal experts can see which ones to snip.

  Of course, if I was a desert warrior, I’d have a go at snipping them myself.

  No. Don’t even think about it. Bomb disposal experts do years of training, plus practice at stopping their hands shaking. Best to leave it to them.

  Even though my hands are shaking, inside I’m feeling more relaxed.

  Then I hear Bibi yelling my name and I get tense again.

  I look up.

  Bibi is running towards me, sobbing.

  ‘I can’t,’ she’s yelling. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

  I watch in horror as she flings her arms round me and buries her face in my chest. I try to bend my legs to absorb the impact like David Beckham does when a defender barges into him, but Bibi is moving too fast and together we sway and totter.

  And fall.

  Off the mine.

  We cling to each other in the dust and scream for a long time. When we realise we’re still alive, we stop.

  We stare at the metal plate.

  It hasn’t flipped up.

  No bang.

  We get up and I’ve never felt so faint or sick or dizzy.

  ‘You pongy lump of camel spleen,’ Bibi yells at the mine. ‘I’d like to kick you in the guts.’

  As I take her arm and drag her towards the village, I start to feel better. We’ve survived. We’re not dead. Even though Bibi’s not safely home yet, and I may throw up at any minute, life is good.

  5

  We creep into the village through a row of houses that are mostly rubble.

  A truck goes past and we duck down, just in case. You can never be sure with trucks. Sometimes they’re just smugglers, but sometimes they’re the government.

  A rock bounces off the back of the truck.

  ‘Bibi,’ I hiss. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘I hate trucks,’ she growls. ‘Trucks took Anisa’s dad away and she’s never seen him again.’

  When the truck has gone, we help Yusuf back onto his crutches and hurry towards our house.

  ‘I hate this whole country,’ says Bibi after a while. ‘This country is camel snot.’

  I’m shocked.

  Nine-year-old kids shouldn’t hate their country. They should love their country and want it to do well in the World Cup and earn the respect of other nations so they’ll stop bombing us.

  I push Yusuf’s hat further down over Bibi’s ears and pull my jacket tighter round her shoulders and check she’s still got her skirt rolled up.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I whisper. ‘You’re meant to be a boy.’

  ‘I don’t care if I’m meant to be a goat,’ says Bibi. ‘This place is a bum boil.’

  Yusuf’s shocked too. He almost falls over.

  Luckily the people in the streets are too busy to notice. When your house keeps getting bombed you’ve always got a lot of chores.

  We turn the corner into our street. I look anxiously towards our house.

  Everything is good. Mum’s shutters are closed which means she’s still asleep. Dad’s taxi isn’t there. We can get inside without being caught. But only if Bibi stops complaining so loudly.

  ‘I bet Manchester hasn’t got landmines,’ she says bitterly.

  ‘It might have,’ I whisper to her. ‘They might just not show them on satellite TV soccer coverage.’

  ‘I don’t think Manchester has got landmines,’ says Yusuf, frowning. ‘Not unless they were put there by Liverpool supporters.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I say to Bibi. ‘We should be grateful. Our house has still got a roof. Our mum and dad are still alive. We’ve got all our arms and legs. Compared to some people we’re really lucky.’

  Bibi gives me a look and glances apologetically at Yusuf.

  ‘My house has still got a roof,’ says Yusuf indignantly.

  Bibi digs me with her elbow. ‘Nice one,’ she hisses.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to Yusuf. ‘I didn’t mean you.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ says Yusuf, and does an armpit raspberry. His arms are really strong, so he can do really good ones.

  As we creep towards the house, I bounce the ball on Bibi’s head a couple of times to make her pay attention.

  ‘All I’m saying,’ I tell her, ‘is that things could be worse.’

  On the third bounce, a big pair of hands grabs the ball.

  ‘Gotcha,’ bellows a furious voice.

  It’s Mr Nasser. He’s the angriest man in our street, and the tallest, and he’s got really scary nose hair.

  ‘Run,’ I say to Bibi.

  I want to run too, but I can’t leave Yusuf or the ball.

  Mr Nasser grabs Bibi by the shoulder. She tries to wriggle free. Yusuf’s hat starts to slip off her head. Any moment her hair could flop out and the edge of her skirt could drop down from under my jacket.

  ‘You boys broke my window,’ yells Mr Nasser, pointing to one of his downstairs windows. ‘Look, broken.’

  He’s partly right. The window is broken. But it wasn’t us. OK, we might not always obey the law, but we’d never play soccer in the street.

  ‘It wasn’t us, Mr Nasser, honest,’ I say.

  I can see he doesn’t believe us. He’s not even listening. Since his wife got ill and died, he never listens to anybody.

  ‘Jamal’s got too much skill to break a window,’ says Yusuf, pushing himself in front of Mr Nasser and pointing to me.

  He’s trying to distract Mr Nasser from Bibi. She’s trying to kick Mr Nasser and the effort i
s making her hair slip out from under the hat.

  ‘Go on, Jamal,’ says Yusuf. ‘Show him.’

  Trembling, I take the ball before Mr Nasser realises what’s happening. I drop the ball onto my foot, flick it to my knee, bounce it on my head, catch it with my foot and start the whole thing over again.

  Mr Nasser is staring, bemused.

  Behind him, I can see Yusuf trying to calm Bibi down and stuff her hair back under the hat.

  I shouldn’t have looked. ‘Never take your eye off the ball,’ that’s what Mum’s ancestors would say if they were here.

  The ball is dropping off my head, but it isn’t going anywhere near my foot.

  I lunge for it.

  I make contact.

  The ball flies off my foot and into Mr Nasser’s other downstairs window.

  The glass breaks.

  ‘Vandals,’ screams Mr Nasser. ‘Criminals. I’m calling the police.’

  Yusuf is staring at me in shock. Bibi is looking paler than when she was standing on the landmine.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to them all.

  ‘I’m reporting this,’ roars Mr Nasser. ‘To your parents.’

  ‘No need,’ says a voice.

  I spin round.

  Dad’s taxi has pulled up and Dad is getting out, looking grim.

  He picks up the ball, strides over to us, grabs me by the ear and turns to Mr Nasser.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Nasser,’ he says. ‘As this boy’s father I take full responsibility. I will of course pay for your windows. I don’t think we need involve the police.’

  Dad is shorter than Mr Nasser, but he’s much younger. His eyes are very bright. It makes people think he’s fierce, but it’s actually eye strain from driving the taxi so much at night.

  Mr Nasser takes a step back.

  Then Dad notices Bibi. He opens his mouth to say something, but changes his mind. He glances anxiously at Mr Nasser.

  ‘Please be so good as to leave these other, um, boys in my hands,’ he says to Mr Nasser. ‘I will make sure they are dealt with strictly by their parents.’

  I can see Bibi looking furious. I know she wants to tell Dad we only broke one of the windows. Silently I beg her to keep quiet.

  She does.

  Dad puts the ball under his arm and grabs Yusuf’s ear too. He drags me and Yusuf to the taxi and pushes us into the back seat, crutches and all. He puts Bibi in the front next to him.