Boy Overboard

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘Neither would I,’ says Omar. ‘Unless I could have scabbed some food from someone else.’

  ‘OK everyone,’ says Andrew when the other people from the boat have caught up with us. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

  He leads us into a dusty compound. In it are two of the biggest tents I’ve ever seen. Canvas tents with proper ropes and everything. Inside the tents, Australian servicemen and women are laying out the folding beds from the warship in neat rows.

  ‘Males in that one,’ says Andrew. ‘Females in that one.’

  I feel Bibi freeze next to me. I don’t even have to look at her to know what she’s thinking.

  ‘No,’ I say to Andrew. ‘We’re staying together.’

  Rashida grabs a startled Omar’s hand. ‘So are we,’ she says.

  Andrew sighs. He looks at the four of us. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Just until your folks get here.’

  I inspect our tent. It’s perfect. It’s near the jetty so we’ll be able to hear when the other boat arrives. And it’ll be great for us all to have somewhere to stay while Mum and Dad are looking for jobs, before we find a house of our own.

  Bibi is still looking sad. I have an idea, a way to keep her mind off things.

  ‘Hey,’ I say to her and the others. ‘Let’s explore. Let’s go and see all the things Andrew’s been telling us about. Shopping centres with fountains. Cinemas with fourteen movies showing at once. Let’s go and find an Australian supermarket.’

  Bibi is interested. The others are too.

  Then I notice Andrew is giving me a strange look.

  I realise why.

  I’m being really selfish. Mum and Dad and Omar’s parents aren’t even here yet. At this very minute they could be sitting shipwrecked on a remote island, waiting to be rescued. It’d be pretty mean, rushing off and seeing the sights without them.

  I give Andrew a grateful look.

  Thank goodness Australians are so good at thinking of others.

  36

  Bibi kicks the ball to me.

  Good pass.

  I side-step a tackle from an Australian sailor and pass to Omar. He shoots. Our supporters cheer. It’s a good effort, but a bit hopeful from forty metres out. Their goalkeeper runs out and picks up the ball where it’s stopped.

  ‘Good attempt, Omar,’ I say.

  This is a great idea of Andrew’s. A soccer match to keep us occupied while we wait for the other boat to arrive.

  Refugees versus Aussies.

  I’m having a great time. Bibi is too. Playing with teams is even better than one-a-side. And it’s fantastic having a crowd watching. All the people from our boat are here. Even though the warship has gone back out to sea, there are still loads of Aussies cheering their team.

  Omar doesn’t seem to be having such a great time. For some reason he’s looking even gloomier than usual. Perhaps it’s because he’s not very good at soccer.

  ‘Jamal,’ he says. ‘Have you heard what people are saying?’

  Poor kid. He must have heard our supporters criticising his shot.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say to him. ‘I wasn’t very good at first either. Now we’re in Australia you’ll have plenty of chance to practise.’

  ‘Not that,’ says Omar. ‘What they’re saying about this camp.’

  I can’t concentrate on camp gossip. The other team has just scored again. Six nil. These Aussies are so good it’s hard to believe they’ve never played together before today. Andrew reckons they didn’t even have a soccer ball before I arrived. Which is weird. Why didn’t they just go to a supermarket and buy one?

  ‘Jamal,’ Omar is saying. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not. If you want to win at soccer you’ve got to concentrate on the game. You don’t see Manchester United gossiping during matches.’

  I know I’m being a bit tough, but if Omar wants to improve, he’s got to understand the basics.

  I hurry back to the centre of the pitch.

  ‘Jamal and Bibi,’ says Rashida as we kick off again. ‘Run up their end and I’ll try and get the ball to you.’

  She means play deep striker.

  ‘Me too,’ says Omar.

  Bibi’s off like a rocket. I can hardly keep up with her. Not only can she kick harder than me, I think she can run faster than me. I’ll have to train hard or she might get a place with Dubbo Abattoirs United and I won’t.

  Oh wow. Rashida’s done it. The ball’s flying towards me. I trap it on my chest and turn towards goal.

  My hip hurts.

  Two Aussie defenders on me.

  Watch this, Sir Alex. I saw David Beckham do this once and I bet you told him about it. Two defenders, go between them, get them confused.

  Yes.

  It works, and because Aussies are so decent neither of them fouls me.

  I pass to Bibi, who’s in a great shooting position. Do a scud shot, Bibi. Oh no, an Aussie defender’s blocking her. She’s not sure what to do. She passes back to me.

  I can hear my two Aussie defenders thudding towards me.

  ‘Pass,’ screams Omar.

  ‘Shoot,’ screams Bibi.

  I hesitate, then shoot.

  A flash of pain sears out from my hip, but I don’t care. The goalie doesn’t even move. The ball’s like a missile, flashing between the posts, over the crowd and slamming into the compound fence.

  I fling my arms into the air.

  ‘Goal,’ yells Bibi joyfully.

  Our supporters will love this. Nothing like a goal to cheer you up after a long dangerous journey and years of persecution by a vicious and unforgiving government.

  Except there’s no cheering. Just silence. Our supporters are just standing there, stunned. Some aren’t even paying attention. They’re having conversations.

  Was I offside? Has the referee not allowed the goal? Bibi looks as confused as me. The referee blows his whistle and points to the centre spot.

  It is a goal.

  Our supporters are making noise now, but they’re not cheering. They’re wailing and screaming and sobbing.

  What’s going on?

  People are running onto the pitch, throwing their arms round our players, weeping.

  My arms are still in the air. I feel the blood running out of them.

  Is this something to do with what Omar was saying? Something to do with the camp?

  Then I hear what the people around me are saying and I feel the blood run out of my heart.

  News has come in about the other boat.

  Mum and Dad’s boat.

  It’s sunk.

  37

  I look wildly around the pitch for Andrew.

  We have to get a rescue boat launched.

  I can’t see him among all the weeping, howling people. Then I remember he’s out on the warship.

  A group of Australian sailors are leaning against the fence smoking, just past where Bibi is sprawled sobbing on the grass. I sprint over to them, waving my arms.

  ‘Quick,’ I yell. ‘We have to get a boat launched to go and help search for survivors.’

  The Australian sailors look at me.

  ‘Now,’ I scream. ‘Before it’s too late. There are people in the ocean. My Dad can’t swim.’

  The Australian sailors look at each other. One of them says something to me that I can’t understand and waves me away.

  I don’t believe it. Then I realise what’s happening. They can’t speak my language. They don’t understand.

  I grab a stick and draw frantically in the dust. A sinking fishing boat. A warship doing all it can. More people in the water than the warship can cope with, including Mum and Dad.

  The Australian sailors stare at my drawing.

  This is unbelievable. One of them is actually smirking.

  ‘Don’t you care?’ I scream at them. ‘Don’t you care that my parents are drowning? I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that people can be like this in Australia.’

  One of the sailors stares
at me. ‘Australia?’ he says.

  He takes the stick from me and draws in the dust. A big island. Then he draws, a long way away from it, a small island. He points to the big island.

  ‘Australia,’ he says.

  The smirking sailor smirks even more.

  The sailor with the stick points to the small island and gestures around us at the soccer pitch and the tents and the harbour.

  ‘Here’, he says. ‘Not Australia.’

  38

  ‘Jamal.’

  Rashida’s voice, soft in the gloom of the tent.

  I don’t look up. I keep my face pushed into my damp pillow and my arms wrapped tightly round Bibi.

  ‘Jamal, Bibi, I’ve brought you some dinner. It’s your favourite. Fish fingers, chips and peas.’

  ‘Go away,’ sobs Bibi.

  I don’t answer.

  I don’t want food.

  I don’t want Rashida.

  I don’t want Australia.

  I just want Mum and Dad.

  ‘I spoke to the radio operator here,’ says Rashida, her voice trembling. ‘The warship did everything they could. After they picked up the three young survivors, they searched for hours. They did try.’

  It doesn’t help. I keep thinking that if we’d kept the candlestick, Mum and Dad could have lit a candle and the rescuers might have seen them both before they slid down into the depths. Which is a stupid thought because if Mum hadn’t sold the candlestick, we’d still be in the refugee camp. Or a government jail.

  I wish we were, instead of Mum and Dad at the bottom of the sea and me and Bibi on an island thousands of kilometres from Australia.

  I feel Rashida pushing something into my hand. Something flat.

  ‘It’s your soccer ball,’ she says sadly. ‘When you scored your big goal, it got punctured on the barbed wire.’

  I don’t care.

  Rashida doesn’t say anything for a long time. There’s just the sound of Bibi and the other people in the tent sobbing.

  I hold Bibi tight.

  I hear Rashida take a deep breath. When she speaks, her voice is shaking.

  ‘Jamal and Bibi, I just want you to know that you’ve still got me. I know it’s not the same but you have.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble into my pillow.

  It feels a tiny bit better, her saying that. But only in the way that the last part of drowning feels better. You still know it’s the end, even if you think you can see Australia.

  For some reason this thought makes me cry even harder.

  When I’ve finished, Rashida has gone.

  It’s just me and Bibi.

  39

  Bibi’s asleep at last.

  That’s why I’m lying out here on the soccer pitch. So I don’t disturb her while I try and plan our future. It’s hard to plan quietly when you’re crying.

  I don’t want to think about the future. I don’t want to think at all. But somebody’s got to do it and Bibi’s only ten.

  ‘Jamal.’

  A voice out of the darkness. Even though the moon’s bright, I can’t see anyone.

  ‘Jamal.’

  It’s Omar’s voice, wobbly and uncertain. That’s not like Omar. Then I remember his parents were on the boat too. I’d forgotten that. Grief can make you really selfish.

  ‘Over here,’ I call to him.

  He comes and sprawls next to me.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he says.

  My first thought is that I don’t want to hear. The last piece of news Omar told me, here on the soccer pitch, was bad enough. Or would have been if I’d listened. In fact everything people have told me lately has been terrible. Except for Andrew, but he’s a liar.

  Then I remember Omar is grieving too.

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  ‘They weren’t on the boat,’ he says.

  I roll over and stare at him.

  ‘Who?’ I say.

  He looks at the ground.

  ‘My parents,’ he says. ‘They died when I was two.’

  Neither of us says anything for ages.

  ‘How did you get a ticket to Australia?’ I ask finally.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he says. ‘I hung around a big family in the camp and when they got on buses so did I and people thought I was with them.’

  ‘What about the plane?’ I ask.

  ‘Same thing. Hid in the toilet. I’m sorry I lied to you, Jamal.’

  Slowly I take this in. Here’s a kid with no parents who doesn’t let it hold him back. Who goes out and does things. Like travel to Australia without a ticket.

  Neither of us says anything for another long time.

  I stare up at the stars and think about what me and Bibi could go out and do. We could travel around Australia talking to players whose teams have just lost matches. When we tell them what’s happened to us, and they see our tears, things won’t seem so bad for them. In return, they might let us train with them.

  Omar is fidgeting. I can see he’s got something else on his mind.

  ‘Don’t ask me about my parents,’ he says suddenly. ‘Because I don’t know anything about them. But I do know about my ancestors.’

  ‘Tell me about them,’ I say.

  ‘They were thieves,’ says Omar. ‘One of them had his hands chopped off.’

  I remember Omar trying to steal my soccer ball. I also remember him saving it from the harbour. And clinging onto Bibi, saving her from attacking the pirate. Omar might think he’s a thief, but it’s never that simple.

  I give him a look, to show him I know.

  ‘What about your ancestors?’ says Omar.

  ‘One lot were desert warriors,’ I say. ‘The other lot were bakers.’

  ‘Which are you?’ says Omar.

  I think about this. I think about the things that have happened. My chest fills with grief again, because suddenly I know the answer and it makes me miss Mum and Dad so much.

  ‘I’m a bit of both,’ I say.

  40

  I’m Manchester United. I score a goal. Bibi, who’s also Manchester United, gives me a big hug. Mum and Dad, who aren’t Manchester United but are there anyway, give me a big hug too. It feels good.

  Then I wake up.

  It doesn’t feel good anymore. It hurts a lot. And not just my hip.

  Bibi is shaking me. I blink and look around. The tent is full of people shouting and running.

  ‘Jamal,’ yells Bibi. ‘Get up.’

  My first thought is that someone has stepped on a landmine. Strange that. We’ve been on this island three days and nobody’s said anything about landmines. Perhaps they don’t want to depress sad orphans.

  They don’t know me very well.

  I’ve got a plan. Two hours a day crying, the rest of the time being a productive and cheerful Australian citizen.

  It can’t be a landmine. Those shouts are excited. Almost happy.

  ‘Come on,’ yells Bibi. She drags me out of the tent.

  People are running down to the jetty.

  In the dawn light I see why. The warship is back, sitting in the harbour. I can make out the shape of the rubber boat bouncing across the grey water towards us.

  I turn to go back to bed. Then I have a thought. They must be bringing back the survivors. Three teenage boys, Rashida said. Perhaps the teenagers spoke to Mum and Dad while the boat was sinking. Perhaps they’ve got a message for me and Bibi.

  Slowly, limping, I let Bibi lead me down to the jetty.

  People are climbing out of the rubber boat. Other people are laughing and crying.

  I must still be half asleep. I don’t understand who all these people are.

  Then I see something that makes me think I’m not just half asleep, I’m still dreaming.

  Omar, hugging a tearful family. A big, damp, crying, laughing family.

  He sees me and looks sheepish. ‘This is the big family I was telling you about,’ he says. Then he goes back to hugging them.

  I stare. They’re real all rig
ht.

  Next to them a man from our tent is talking to an Australian officer. Suddenly the man crumples into tears and slumps down onto the jetty.

  ‘No,’ he sobs as the officer tries to help him up. ‘I don’t want to live. Not without them.’

  My insides start to hurt as I realise what is happening. News must have come back about the people on the other boat who drowned.

  Bibi grips my hand and screams.

  An ecstatic, joyful scream.

  I spin round.

  Mum and Dad are standing there.

  ‘The warship didn’t see us,’ says Mum. ‘And then they did.’

  Bibi flings herself at them. I can’t move. I’m paralysed with relief and joy.

  It doesn’t matter.

  They come to me.

  41

  I didn’t think I had any tears left inside me, but I do. They pour down my face and get all over Mum and Dad and Bibi and I’ve never felt anything like it.

  We hold each other for so long that the sun’s up when we finally stop for breath. When we can finally speak, we go to the tent and talk for ages.

  I get the bad news over first.

  ‘This isn’t Australia,’ I say quietly. ‘It’s an island in the Pacific Ocean.’

  Mum and Dad don’t seem that shocked. I get the feeling they already know.

  Mum puts her arms round us all. ‘We’re together,’ she says. ‘You’re safe. That’s all I care about.’

  She and Dad ask us about our sea journey.

  ‘I’m proud of you, son,’ says Dad when I tell him about scooping out the boat.

  ‘Selfish camel-snot,’ says Mum when Bibi tells her about the sailor who took the only bucket.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Bibi. Then she frowns and looks around the tent. Some people are talking happily like us, but others are red-eyed and weeping. ‘Rashida says,’ murmurs Bibi thoughtfully, ‘that sometimes people are only camel-snots because of what’s happened to them.’

  We introduce Mum and Dad to Omar and Rashida.

  Mum cries some more when I explain how Rashida’s flour saved our lives, and she hugs Rashida for a long time.

  ‘I saved his life too,’ says Omar.

  Dad hugs him for a long time.