Boy Overboard

by Morris Gleitzman

Relief gushes through me. ‘Mum?’ I whisper. ‘Dad?’

  But it isn’t either of them. It’s Bibi. She comes towards me, eyes as big as stadium floodlights.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I whisper.

  She doesn’t. ‘I saw you creeping out of the cellar,’ she says accusingly.

  I sigh. That’s exactly what I hoped wouldn’t happen. That’s why I didn’t risk opening my rucksack and making a noise getting my ball. That’s why I borrowed Yusuf’s.

  ‘That’s Yusuf’s ball,’ says Bibi, even more accusingly.

  ‘I know,’ I say, wondering how I can get her back into the cellar without waking up the neighbours.

  ‘Where are Mum and Dad?’ she demands. Her eyes have a dangerous glint that means either tears or violence.

  I explain about Mum and Dad going to warn the parents of the other kids from school.

  ‘They’ll be safe,’ I say. ‘They’re in disguise. They borrowed robes from Yusuf’s grandfather.’

  It’s not true, but I can see it makes Bibi feel better, and in a weird way it makes me feel better too.

  ‘I want to play,’ says Bibi.

  Before I can stop her, she flicks the ball away from my feet. I lunge at it, but she sidesteps my tackle and steers the ball down the street. She turns and dribbles towards me.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Get it from me.’

  I go in with my fastest tackle, but she flips the ball over my ankle, runs round the other side of me and traps the ball under her foot.

  I stare at her, half angry, half grinning. This is amazing. My sister is a soccer natural.

  A wonderful thought hits me. We can do it together. We can improve our skills and impress the government and start a national team and win the hearts of all Afghans together. When the government sees how talented Bibi is, they’ll change their minds about girls playing soccer. They’ll have to.

  ‘Penalty shot,’ says Bibi, eyes gleaming. She steps back, hitches up her skirt, runs at the ball and boots it.

  Hard.

  The ball flies up the street. For a sickening second I think it’s going to smash through Mr Nasser’s one unbroken window. But it curves away from his house and sails all the way up the street.

  And thumps into the door of our house.

  It’s the most incredible kick I’ve seen in my life.

  ‘Wow,’ I whisper.

  Then our house explodes.

  A white flash lights up the whole village and half the desert. A roar of wind smashes into us and flings us both to the ground. I roll onto Bibi and try to cover as much of her body with mine as I can while the air rips at us and stones rain down on us. People are screaming and running out of houses.

  ‘Get off,’ yells Bibi. ‘You’re squashing my head.’

  I roll over and peer down the street through the dust.

  Our house is gone. Where it was is just a dark gap between the other houses. Rubble is lying where Dad used to park the taxi.

  I stare, speechless, ears ringing, trying to take it all in.

  My mouth is open and full of grit.

  It was a hard kick, but it wasn’t that hard.

  Then I hear engines revving. Two trucks are speeding away down the side street.

  Someone is pulling me and Bibi to our feet. It’s Dad. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing hard and staring at the trucks as well.

  ‘Pigs,’ he hisses.

  Dad hardly ever uses bad language like that. Unlike most taxi drivers he never swears at other drivers. There’s really only one thing he ever swears about. That’s how I realise what’s happened.

  The government has blown up our house.

  10

  Dad carries me and Bibi down the steps into Yusuf’s grandfather’s cellar. A panicked thought jabs into my bruised and numb brain.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask.

  Either my voice is still bomb-affected or Dad pretends not to hear. He puts us down and dashes around the cellar, grabbing our rucksacks.

  ‘Dad,’ insists Bibi, her eyes wild and face streaked with dust. ‘Where’s Mum?’

  Dad stops and takes a deep breath. He kneels next to us and puts his finger over Bibi’s lips.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says softly. ‘Mum wants us to go to the city. She’ll meet us there tomorrow.’

  We both stare at him.

  The city? Tomorrow?

  ‘Why?’ says Bibi, her voice wobbly with panic. ‘What’s she doing?’

  Dad takes another deep breath. He looks like he’s trying to think what to say next.

  I’m starting to feel as panicked as Bibi.

  ‘Mum wants me to take you somewhere safe,’ says Dad. ‘We’re going to a place in the city, and we’ll see Mum there tomorrow. She’ll be fine. Trust me.’

  I do trust him. He’s my dad. He never lies unless it’s to protect people.

  ‘If Mum’s not OK,’ says Bibi in a fierce wavering voice, ‘I’ll be really really cross.’

  Dad gives us a squeeze and glances up the cellar steps.

  ‘Yusuf,’ he calls. ‘What’s happening outside?’

  Yusuf’s crutches appear at the top of the steps. Then his head.

  ‘Everyone’s still out there,’ he says. ‘The street’s packed.’

  I can hear them. People from all over the village, talking about the explosion and wondering where we are. Some people are yelling that they’ve found bits of us.

  People in this village have got very vivid imaginations.

  Yusuf’s grandfather hurries down the steps. ‘Taxi’s not damaged,’ he says. ‘And nobody’s found it in the alley yet.’

  Dad looks relieved. Well, not relieved exactly, but less grim. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Time for us to go.’

  At the back door, Dad embraces Yusuf’s grandfather.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Dad.

  ‘God protect you all,’ says Yusuf’s grandfather.

  Bibi is looking worried. I can see she’s thinking that people don’t usually say ‘God protect you’ to people who are going to a safe place. I’m about to whisper to her that it’s just a saying, then I remember there’s something else I have to do.

  I turn to Yusuf. This is the moment I’ve been dreading, but I have to do it. I hold out my soccer ball.

  ‘This is yours now,’ I say.

  Yusuf shakes his head.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I took your ball and got it blown up. It’s only fair.’

  Yusuf shakes his head again. ‘Where you’re going,’ he says, ‘you’ll need it.’

  ‘After tomorrow we don’t know where we’re going,’ says Bibi.

  ‘That’s why you’ll need it,’ says Yusuf.

  I put my arms round him. I’ve never done this before to a kid who’s not my sister, but it’s the only way I can say thank you. If I try and talk, I’ll cry.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ says Yusuf.

  I nod so he knows I’ll miss him just as much.

  ‘Come on,’ says Dad.

  We creep out the back door.

  ‘Thanks for all the soccer,’ I call softly to Yusuf’s grandfather. He gives me a wave.

  ‘Hope they have satellite TV wherever you’re going,’ whispers Yusuf from the doorway.

  ‘Thanks,’ I whisper.

  ‘Shhh,’ says Dad.

  The three of us scurry down the dark alleyway and get into the taxi. Dad makes me and Bibi lie on the floor in the back.

  ‘Jamal,’ says Bibi into my ear as Dad starts the engine. ‘Why isn’t Mum with us?’

  I think about this.

  ‘She’s still got more school parents to warn,’ I whisper. ‘Explain to them why our house was blown up and tell them to be careful and give the kids homework for while we’re away.’

  That sounds right. With ancestors like hers, Mum isn’t going to let an exploding house put her off her duty.

  ‘After tomorrow,’ whispers Bibi, ‘we’ll all stay together, won’t we?’

  I try not to think about the government wanting to ki
ll us.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Whatever happens, this family will always be together. We may not be in Manchester, but we will always be united.’

  It sounds corny, but my heart is thumping, that’s how much I want it to be true.

  11

  I wake up.

  My neck is stiff and my eyes hurt in the sunlight and I’ve got breadcrumbs stuck to my face.

  I’m still on the floor of the taxi. Bibi is asleep on the back seat. Her head is on her arm and she’s dribbling. I gently wipe the dribble off her chin with my sleeve. It’s what Mum would do.

  I kneel up and peer out the window.

  Dad is steering the taxi off the road. We bump over some potholes and stop under a row of trees.

  ‘Are we there yet?’ says Bibi sleepily.

  I hope not.

  In the distance, past the trees, I can see the roofs of city buildings. I don’t know much about city buildings because I’ve only been to the city twice in my life, but I do know one thing. City buildings often have the government in them.

  ‘Good morning, you two,’ says Dad.

  ‘Is Mum here?’ I ask anxiously.

  Dad takes a moment to answer.

  ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘She’ll be along a bit later.’

  ‘How much later?’ says Bibi.

  Just for a second I think Dad is going to lose his temper. The tops of his ears go pink, which is always a dangerous sign for certain members of this family. But he just swallows and looks determined.

  ‘I’m not sure exactly what time she’ll be here,’ he says. ‘But she will. I promise.’

  That’s all I need to hear. In our family we always keep promises. Mum’s probably getting a lift from one of the other school families. Mussa’s parents have got a motorbike.

  We all get out and stretch our legs.

  I glance up at the trees. Their fronds are rustling in the breeze. I think how lucky city people are. Living in the country we don’t have trees.

  Except, I see now, these aren’t real trees. They’re actually light poles with huge straggling bunches of tangled cassette tape hanging off them. In among the flapping brown strands I can see empty music cassettes. I know what they are because Yusuf’s grandfather has some. He loves Dolly Parton.

  Dad sees me looking.

  ‘Tape trees,’ he says. ‘The government hates music, so they confiscate tapes from motorists and chuck them up there as a warning.’

  Dad stares up at the ruined tapes. For a moment I think he’s going to climb up and rescue them, but he doesn’t.

  ‘That’s why I taught you to whistle,’ he says. ‘So you can annoy the government whenever you want.’

  I give Dad a grin. He tries to grin back but his eyes won’t go along with it. Poor thing. He’s been awake all night.

  Early morning traffic zooms past us towards the city. Suddenly I have a scary thought. What if a passing government employee from the illegal schools department recognises Dad?

  I try to stand between him and the road.

  ‘Come on,’ says Dad. ‘Let’s get you two settled down.’

  I’m not sure what he means. He grabs the bags from the taxi and leads us through the tape trees to an abandoned shop. I can tell it’s a shop from the big faded Coke and Fanta signs on the front. Dad has told me about the days before fizzy drinks were banned.

  The shop door is hanging off and inside it’s a bit messy. On the floor are old campfires that have gone out. And tattered pieces of cardboard. The type that people without houses sometimes sleep on.

  ‘Sorry it’s not cleaner,’ says Dad. ‘But you’ll be safe here till I get back.’

  I stare at Dad. ‘Are you leaving us here?’ I say.

  ‘You’re not,’ says Bibi, outraged. ‘You’re not leaving us here.’

  Dad hugs us both. It almost feels like he’s more scared than we are.

  ‘I’ve got to go and pick Mum up,’ he says. ‘It’s better if you two wait here.’

  ‘Why?’ demands Bibi.

  That’s what I want to ask too.

  Why can’t Mussa’s parents drop Mum here?

  But I don’t. Because from Dad’s face I can see there’s something we don’t know. Something scary and dangerous. Something that makes Dad want to keep me and Bibi safely hidden away here. And I’m scared to ask.

  Dad kisses me and Bibi on the head. ‘There’s breakfast in that bag,’ he says, trying to sound cheery. But his voice is trembling. ‘I won’t be going far. The soccer stadium’s just over there.’

  The soccer stadium?

  Dad is pointing out of the shop, past the tape trees. In the distance I can see the top of a curved mudbrick wall.

  That must be it.

  The soccer stadium.

  The one place in the city I’ve always wanted to visit.

  Dad suddenly drops his arm as if he hadn’t meant to mention the soccer stadium.

  ‘Bibi,’ he says. ‘Can you get the breakfast things out?’

  Then he steers me out of the shop.

  He hands me a folded piece of paper and a wad of money.

  ‘This is in case I’m not back here by late this afternoon,’ he says softly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Bibi can’t hear. ‘Find a taxi, give the note and the money to the driver and he’ll take you both back to the village. But I will be here, I promise.’

  I’ve never held so much money. I’m still staring at it when I realise Dad’s in the taxi and driving off.

  I wave, but I don’t think he sees me. Then I stuff the money and note into my pocket and go back into the shop.

  ‘Let’s have breakfast,’ I say to Bibi. I don’t say anything about the money. I don’t want her to be worried. One of us is enough.

  ‘If Dad doesn’t come back,’ says Bibi, ‘we’re going to use that money to buy a tank and blow up whoever’s hurt him and Mum.’

  Little sisters, they see everything.

  I can see she’s struggling not to cry. While we eat I try and cheer her up with stories of some of the best goals I’ve seen. She’s not very interested, not even in the one where a West Ham striker slipped over and grabbed wildly at something to stop him falling and accidentally pulled down the Arsenal goalie’s shorts.

  I’m not very interested either. All the while I’m talking, I’m not really thinking about golden goals. My mind’s somewhere else.

  The soccer stadium.

  Why is Dad picking Mum up there?

  ‘Jamal,’ complains Bibi. ‘Your yoghurt’s dripping on my leg.’

  Suddenly it hits me. I know why Mum and Dad are going to the soccer stadium. They’ve got the same plan as me. They’re going to talk to a government soccer official about me and Bibi. They’re going to explain how our soccer skills will help Afghanistan have a national team one day. So the government won’t want to kill us anymore.

  That happens in families, people having the same idea. Bibi and I both gave Mum blackboard dusters for her birthday last year.

  ‘This is fantastic,’ I say out loud.

  ‘It’s only yoghurt,’ says Bibi.

  I explain to her what Mum and Dad are doing. I can hardly get the words out, I’m so excited. Bibi is doubtful at first, until she realises she’s in the running for the national team too.

  ‘Fantastic,’ she says, eyes wide.

  Another thought hits me. One that makes me jump up and spill the rest of the yoghurt.

  If Mum and Dad are really going to convince that government soccer official, they need us there too.

  12

  People are milling around outside the soccer stadium. Hundreds of them. They seem pretty excited. But not as excited as me.

  ‘There must be a match,’ I say to Bibi. ‘The government must have given permission. This is great. The national team selectors could be here.’

  Mum and Dad, you are so clever.

  I smile as I imagine how delighted the national team selectors will be to meet us. Their job must be so boring, never selecting any
body.

  Bibi looks doubtful. ‘I don’t think I’m ready for national selectors,’ she says. ‘I’ve only ever scored one goal outside my bedroom.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘It’s talent they’re looking for in a nine-year-old, not experience.’

  I give her the ball to hold while I tuck a few strands of her hair back under her hat. It’s actually Dad’s hat, so it’s a bit big.

  ‘Remember you’re meant to be a boy,’ I tell her. ‘We won’t show them you’re a girl till after you’ve dazzled them with your ball skills.’

  ‘These pants of yours are really loose,’ grumbles Bibi. ‘I can hardly walk in them, let alone play soccer.’

  There are quite a few taxis pulling up outside the stadium. We push through the crowd, looking for a red one with a green driver’s door and a photo of me and Bibi hanging from the mirror.

  No luck. Mum and Dad don’t seem to be here yet.

  ‘We’ll never find them,’ says Bibi, pulling my pants up and squinting through the dust.

  ‘Keep looking,’ I say.

  I explain to her that this stadium is nowhere near as big as the ones on TV, but it can still probably hold two thousand people. That’s at least two hundred taxi loads. There’ll be plenty more taxis arriving before the match starts.

  ‘What if they’ve parked the taxi?’ says Bibi. ‘What if they’re in the crowd?’

  It’s a good point. We push through the throng, searching for two familiar bodies.

  Still no luck.

  Bibi cups her hands around her mouth. ‘Mum, Dad, where are you?’ she yells at the top of her voice.

  I grab her and pull her through the crowd, away from the staring faces.

  ‘Bibi,’ I plead. ‘We don’t want to attract quite so much attention. Just the selectors, OK?’

  I can’t believe it. Some people just don’t know how to behave when they’re on a government death list.

  Then I see something amazing. The stadium gates are open. People are just walking in without tickets. There aren’t any ticket collectors. Either they haven’t arrived yet because they couldn’t get a taxi, or this is a free match.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to Bibi. ‘Let’s look for Mum and Dad inside.’

  The stadium is almost full. It must be a big match. Maybe a famous club is on tour. Real Madrid or Juventas. Or even Manchester United. Sir Alex Ferguson could be in the dressing room right now, giving his players a stirring speech and checking their hamstrings.