Boy Overboard Page 5

  ‘Let’s go up to the high seats,’ I say to Bibi. ‘We’ll be able to spot Mum and Dad better from up there.’

  We push our way up the crowded steps to the very back row of seats, right up the top, ten or twelve rows from the pitch. While Bibi peers around at the spectators, I lean back over the stadium wall and check out the people and taxis around the entrance.

  Except there aren’t many people left outside. And hardly any taxis.

  Suddenly the whole stadium goes quiet.

  For a panicked second I think it’s because they’ve recognised me and Bibi as students from an illegal school. I put my arm round Bibi. But it’s not that. An army truck has driven onto the pitch.

  I’m shocked. Don’t they realise that heavy vehicles can damage the playing surface? It’s really hard to dribble through tyre ruts. I know, I’ve tried. If Sir Alex Ferguson sees them, he’ll go mental.

  The truck drives to the far end of the pitch, stops, and soldiers jump out. They open the back of the truck and drag out several women. Even at that distance I can tell they’re women because they’re covered with clothes from head to foot.

  What’s going on?

  ‘Look,’ whispers Bibi. ‘Their hands are tied up.’

  She’s right.

  The soldiers start chaining a couple of the women to the goal posts.

  Suddenly I understand what’s happening. It’s a warning from the government. The women are pretending to be soccer players. The government is showing what will happen to women who play soccer.

  I feel Bibi stiffen as she realises this too.

  Part of me wants to run onto the pitch with Bibi and show the crowd her soccer skills so they’ll see how stupid the government is.

  But another part of me is starting to think this isn’t such a good idea. The soldiers have got guns. Even though this is just pretend and the guns probably aren’t loaded, they could still give you a nasty whack round the head.

  I can tell Bibi feels the same. She’s shaking.

  ‘Jamal,’ she whimpers.

  I hug her closer.

  Suddenly one of the women breaks away from the soldiers and runs towards our end of the pitch. All the spectators in the stadium start yelling at her. They yell angry, rude, nasty things. The people around me are getting really worked up. The noise makes my head hurt. I put my hands over Bibi’s ears.

  I can’t take my eyes off the woman.

  There’s something about the way she’s running.

  No, it can’t be.

  No, don’t let it be.

  Lots of women have clothes like that. Lots of women run like that. The exact way Mum used to run when Bibi was a toddler and we had family walks in the desert and Bibi made a break for it.

  ‘Mum,’ whimpers Bibi. ‘It’s Mum.’

  It is.

  It’s Mum.

  Down there on the pitch. Hands tied. Running from soldiers. This isn’t pretend. This is real.

  I stare, numb with shock, trying to take it in, as two soldiers catch Mum at our end of the pitch and fling her to the ground. They point their rifles at the back of Mum’s head.

  The stadium goes silent.

  ‘No,’ screams Bibi.

  I clamp my hand over her mouth. People glance at her, then turn back to the pitch.

  ‘It’s just a warning,’ I plead into Bibi’s ear. ‘They’re just warning Mum not to run away.’

  But why? Why is Mum here?

  Suddenly I realise. Last night. The government must have arrested Mum before they blew up our house. These women must all be illegal teachers, here to be punished.

  Oh no.

  Up the other end of the pitch the soldiers are making the other women kneel down. Pointing guns at the backs of their heads too. Taking aim.

  I try to scream but all that comes out is a horrified sob.

  They can’t. The government can’t do this. They can’t kill people for being teachers.

  ‘Mum,’ whimpers Bibi.

  ‘Stay here,’ I say to her.

  I stuff the soccer ball and Dad’s money into her hands and fling myself down the stadium steps. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’ve got to stop them shooting Mum.

  Other people are running down the steps too. One of them is Bibi, I can hear her sobbing behind me. For a moment I think the other people are going to help me. But they don’t run onto the pitch, they run out of the stadium. They don’t want to save Mum, they just don’t want to see her shot.

  It’s just me and Bibi.

  Then I hear shouting from the stadium entrance, and the screeching of tyres. A taxi is speeding into the stadium. It smashes through the low fence around the pitch.

  People scream.

  Smoke is pouring from the back windows of the taxi as it hurtles past Mum and the two soldiers.

  It does a half-circle in front of the other soldiers at the far end of the pitch, spraying them with grit. Burning oil cans fly towards them out of the driver’s window. The soldiers dive for cover.

  The taxi accelerates out of the smoke and speeds down the pitch towards Mum.

  The two soldiers with Mum aim their guns at the taxi. Mum scrambles up and starts running again. The taxi goes into a broadside skid and slams into the two soldiers, sending them sprawling, their guns sliding away across the pitch.

  The passenger door of the taxi flies open. Mum sees this, runs to the taxi and flings herself in.

  People are shouting. The stadium is full of smoke. I can just make out the soldiers at the other end of the pitch stamping on the burning rags from the oil cans and aiming their guns towards the taxi. People are crawling under their seats.

  Gunshots crackle. I’m so numb with shock I can’t move. The taxi wheels spin. The taxi lurches forward. For a moment it looks like it’s going to crash into the goalposts at this end. Then it veers away and hurtles across the pitch and out of the stadium.

  I struggle to breathe.

  Bibi is clutching me, struggling to speak.

  ‘Jamal, it was … it was …’

  It was.

  It was Dad.

  13

  We’re out of the crowds now and almost back at the shop. It’s taken a while because you keep bumping into things when you’re running and crying at the same time.

  ‘Will they be OK?’ sobs Bibi.

  She’s been asking me the whole way, but I don’t blame her. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ I say to her. ‘Dad rescued Mum. You saw him.’

  I don’t say anything about government roadblocks and helicopters with telescopic sights. I just glance at the sky and feel sick with worry.

  We arrive back at the shop.

  Mum and Dad aren’t there.

  Bibi howls. I hug her and hug myself at the same time. ‘This is good,’ I say to us both. ‘If they got back first and found we weren’t here, they’d be really worried.’

  I wish it felt good.

  ‘But why aren’t they here?’ wails Bibi.

  ‘Dad probably wants to make sure he’s not being followed,’ I say, desperately hoping I’m right. ‘He’s probably whizzing down one-way streets the wrong way, you know, like he’s told us city taxi drivers do.’

  I decide to pack our bags to be ready for a quick getaway when Mum and Dad do arrive. I go into the shop, then remember I packed everything before we went to the stadium. Everything except my ball, which I pack into my rucksack now.

  And Mum’s candlestick, which we left with a candle burning in it. The candle is still burning. I’m not going to pack that. Not yet.

  ‘Jamal.’

  It’s Bibi, screaming.

  I rush outside. A vehicle is speeding off the road in a blur of red and green. It ploughs across the open land and stops in a whirl of dust between the tape trees and the shop.

  Now I’m screaming too, we’re both screaming their names as we run towards the taxi.

  Mum and Dad get out.

  We cling onto each other
, all four of us, so hard it feels like my arms will snap. Then Dad pulls away. ‘We’ve got to move fast,’ he says, going to the boot of the taxi.

  I’m not ready to move fast, but Mum pulls away too.

  ‘I thought they were going to kill you,’ sobs Bibi, clinging to Mum’s dress.

  ‘No’, says Mum softly, stroking Bibi’s head.

  Then Mum stares at Bibi as she realises we were in the stadium. She looks at me. I nod. No point in hiding it.

  ‘Were they going to kill you because you’re a teacher?’ says Bibi.

  Mum looks away. She nods. Her face is pale and dazed. Suddenly I can see she thought they were going to kill her too, and that makes me cry again.

  Mum turns and moves towards the shop. She stops. She stares at the candle burning in her candlestick. She turns back and puts her arms round me and Bibi again.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

  ‘Mum,’ says Bibi in a tiny voice. ‘What will happen to those other women?’

  Mum doesn’t say anything for a long time. I look up and see the anguish on her face. My own chest hurts with the sadness of it.

  ‘We couldn’t do anything,’ I say softly to Bibi. ‘We’re just a family.’

  Mum takes a deep breath. ‘And we’re going to stay a family,’ she says, keeping her arms round us. ‘No matter where we go.’

  She’s never held me so tight.

  ‘Are we going on a trip?’ asks Bibi.

  Mum nods.

  ‘Where?’ asks Bibi.

  ‘A long way away,’ says Mum.

  ‘Like a holiday?’ asks Bibi.

  Mum hesitates. Then she gives me and Bibi a brave smile.

  ‘Sort of,’ she says.

  ‘When are we going?’ asks Bibi.

  ‘Very soon,’ says Dad from over by the taxi.

  I turn and see he’s crouching by the driver’s door with a can of paint. He’s already painted half the green door red. He takes a lump of chewing gum out of his mouth and pushes it into a bullet hole and paints over it.

  ‘Come on Bibi,’ says Mum. ‘Let’s get the things in the car.’ She goes into the shop. She’s incredible. An hour ago she was nearly shot and now she’s organising Bibi.

  While Dad paints, I kneel next to him and catch the drips off the bottom of the door with my sleeve. The government will be on our trail soon and we don’t want to leave tracks.

  ‘Clever thinking, Jamal,’ murmurs Dad.

  That makes me feel good.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘What you did was so brave, driving into that stadium and rescuing Mum. But I wish you’d taken us. We could have helped you throw the smoke cans.’

  Dad stops painting and stares at me. I remember he doesn’t know I was in the stadium. I swallow. He puts a paint-spattered hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Jamal,’ he says quietly. ‘You are a part of my heart and a part of my soul. I’m proud that you’re my son.’

  I put my arms round him so he can feel how I’m glowing inside.

  ‘I’m proud that you’re my dad,’ I say.

  We look at each other. And suddenly I know that if Dad can be a desert warrior in a soccer stadium, so can I.

  Then I remember we have to move fast.

  ‘Shall I scratch the boot?’ I ask. ‘And put some dents in the back doors? To disguise it more?’

  Dad blinks. He gives a flicker of a smile and shakes his head.

  ‘This’ll be enough,’ he says. ‘It’s just to get us to the other side of the city. Then I’m going to sell the taxi to get money for our trip.’

  I look at Dad in amazement.

  Sell the taxi?

  That must be really sad for him. He’s had that taxi for years. Longer than he’s had me and Bibi. We must be fleeing to somewhere too far away to go in the taxi. Somewhere up some really steep hills. The taxi was never that good at hills.

  While Dad finishes the painting, I catch the drips and keep an eye out for government trucks and try not to think about the other women in the stadium.

  Mum sticks her head out of the shop.

  ‘If you want to go to the toilet,’ says Mum, ‘go now.’

  None of us do.

  I’m too busy having thoughts about my new plan.

  ‘If a person goes somewhere else and becomes a huge soccer star,’ I say to Yusuf’s grandfather in my imagination, ‘and so does his sister, and they play regularly on TV, and then they come back to Afghanistan with their parents, do you think they’d be popular enough to help form a new government? A kind and fair government that wouldn’t murder anyone?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Yusuf’s grandfather.

  He’s pretty old and wise, Yusuf’s grandfather, even in my imagination, and he knows about these things.

  ‘OK,’ I say to him, ‘I’ll do it.’

  14

  ‘Mum,’ groans Bibi. ‘Are we there yet?’

  Mum doesn’t reply for a while. In the darkness I can feel her taking a deep breath and trying to stay calm. This is the millionth time Bibi has asked.

  ‘No dear,’ says Mum. ‘Be patient.’

  It’s hard being patient lying here under these smelly old sacks in the back of this lurching, noisy, cold truck. I know it’s a mountain road, but you’d think the driver could manage to avoid a few of the potholes. Specially as he’s been paid all the money Dad got for the taxi.

  ‘Ow,’ says Bibi. ‘My knees hurt.’

  ‘Here,’ says Mum, rustling in the dark. ‘Have another lolly.’

  I’m tempted to nag Mum and Dad myself. These sacks are really itchy. They smell like they’ve had goats in them. And I wouldn’t mind another lolly. But I don’t say anything. Bibi needs the lollies more than me. And we all need to be under the sacks in case a government patrol stops the truck.

  ‘I want to do a wee.’

  ‘Bibi,’ says Mum crossly. ‘I told you to go before we left.’

  ‘We can’t stop now, flower,’ says Dad. ‘You’ll just have to wait.’

  The truck hits a big hole. I wish it wouldn’t do that. All this jolting is making my bladder feel full too. I have to get my mind off it. I decide to ask the question I’ve been too scared to ask.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Where exactly are we going?’

  I’ve wanted to ask since we left the city, but I’ve been worried about what the answer might be. I so much want it to be somewhere that has a famous soccer team. Like Barcelona. Or Brazil. Or Manchester.

  Dad isn’t answering. Perhaps he’s concentrating on his bladder muscles. I feel Mum reach over and touch Dad.

  ‘I think we should tell them,’ she says.

  ‘Alright,’ says Dad.

  He goes silent again. For a second I wonder if he’s forgotten where we’re going, but he hasn’t. When I hear his voice again I realise he needed that bit of time to control his emotions.

  ‘Mum and I have decided,’ he says, ‘that we should all live as far away as we can from the government. We’ve decided to try and go to Australia.’

  Australia?

  If my chin wasn’t on the floor of the truck, my mouth would be falling open. And if my chest wasn’t on the floor too, my heart would be sinking even further than it is now.

  I’m not even sure where Australia is. If we did Australia in geography at school, I must have been daydreaming about soccer at the time. I think it’s a big place down the bottom of the globe somewhere. All I know for sure is that Australia hasn’t got a team in the English Premier League.

  ‘Where’s Australia?’ says Bibi.

  ‘A long way away,’ says Dad, and in his voice I can hear how much he wishes we could stay at home.

  ‘Australia is a wonderful place to start a new life,’ says Mum. Her weary voice is struggling not to sound sad, but it does. ‘People in Australia are safe and happy. And it’s too far away for the government to find us.’

  Suddenly the truck gives a huge lurch and starts to slow down.

  It stops.

  I can hear men’s voices shoutin
g.

  ‘Lie still,’ whispers Mum. ‘Not a sound.’

  Luckily the truck engine is still rumbling and the sides of the truck are still rattling, so the men outside can’t hear the air strikes going on inside my chest.

  Mum’s hand feels its way to mine and squeezes gently. It helps. I hope she’s doing the same for Bibi.

  Outside, the men are having a conversation with the driver. I can’t hear everything they’re saying, but money is mentioned a fair bit. Nobody mentions opening the back of the truck and shooting the sacks, but some of them are probably thinking about it.

  I reach over with my other hand and grip onto Dad’s.

  We lie here, waiting, terrified.

  Then one of the men thumps the side of the truck.

  I pray they’re not trying to break in.

  I pray it’s just a signal to the driver.

  Suddenly the truck jolts and moves off, the engine whining as the driver changes gears.

  I start breathing again. Even though the air is freezing, our hands are all hot and sweaty. Dad holds onto mine for a long time.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he says finally, in a choking voice.

  At first I think he’s saying it to me. Then I realise we must have crossed the border and he’s saying it to our country.

  Mum starts to sob quietly. Dad lets go of my hand to comfort her.

  I feel like crying too, but instead I reach out and touch my rucksack. I want to check that my soccer ball is still packed safely. Just because I’ve never heard of any Australian soccer teams doesn’t mean there aren’t some good ones. I want to get all the practice I can on the way there, so I’m ready.

  The ball feels fine.

  My hand brushes against Mum’s rucksack. I can feel the candlestick inside.

  ‘Thanks,’ I whisper to Mum’s ancestors. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  15

  This is the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen, including the European Cup Final on TV. Even the World Cup Final probably doesn’t have as many people as this refugee camp.

  Or as much dust.

  I’ve looked everywhere for a soccer pitch, but there isn’t one.