by Vi Grim
Emily slipped outside. It was chaos.
There were goats and camels everywhere. The air was full of dust and cries. People ran willy-nilly, this way and that. Goat herders dressed in black, waved sticks to guide the animals clear. Emily grabbed a stick and joined them; chasing the goats away from the camp and along the river bank, through scrub and trees, until they reached a van hiding in the bushes. Emily and the black herdsmen jumped in the van and it shot off, bouncing across the rough ground then swerving onto a busy road. The driver was crazy, dodging through the traffic at top speed, honking at pedestrians and swearing at the other drivers.
The black herdsmen slipped off their tents. They were just as black without them on! They were young woman, wearing brightly coloured dresses that covered very little of their beautiful bodies. They were all smiles, curves and thighs. The van entered Timbuktu and sped along the narrow back streets, scattering dogs and children. It stopped outside a rundown building with neon lights flashing in the windows. Giggling and laughing, the girls slipped on high heels and tottered their way inside.
A taxi skidded to a halt next to the van. Gamel extracted himself from the back and squeezed into the van, sitting down next to Emily; all sweat and body odour. The van driver, a nasty looking man with hawk like features and an evil eye, climbed around to the back carrying an attaché case. He gave Gamel a hug and a kiss on both cheeks and said, ‘Gamel, my old friend, are we going to do business?’
He clicked open the case to show bundles and bundles of money, then shut it again and handed it to Gamel. It didn’t look like pounds to Emily.
‘Are you from The Sun?’ Emily asked the driver.
He smiled a hawk’s smile that said, ‘No!’
Gamel laughed, a hippo laugh, ‘I could have sold you to the newspaper but my friend offered me a much better price.’
Dang and blast, I’ve been tricked!
Gamel opened the case and checked the money, counting the number of bundles and flicking through to see if it was real. It wasn’t. He went crazy. Money and cut up newspaper flew into the air.
Emily seized the moment. There are advantages to being small and nippy; she was out the window and running off down the street before they knew what was happening. She heard gunshots, then the screech of tyres.
She ran across the busy street. No look right, look left, she went straight across without looking. Horns blared, brakes squealed and there was the crunch of metal hitting metal. Sending chickens flying, Emily headed up a side road, running just as fast as she could, jumping over potholes and dodging around groups of children playing in the dirt. There was honking behind her. She looked around to see the van with Gamel’s fat face behind the wheel. She ducked into a gap between two houses and kept running.
Woof, woof, bouwowwow!
A big black dog jumped out in front of her, blocking the alleyway, straining at its chain to get her.
Honk, honk!
Emily looked around to see the van parked across the entrance of the alley. Gamel leaned out the window, pointed his gun at her and fired, hitting the wall just above her head, sending dust raining down on her.
Is the million pound reward dead or alive? He’s just trying to scare me, isn’t he?
She wasn’t hanging around to find out. She ran into an open doorway, through a house and into a backyard. There were high walls all around but they had sticky-out bits of wood, like the hedgehog towers. She clambered up to the rooftop.
It was a whole different world up there, pale morning sunshine and bright laundry drying in the breeze. She ran along the narrow walls dividing the rooftops until she was a long way away. That fatso could never follow her; he’d fall off. Emily climbed up onto a terrace with little turrets on the corners and washing pegged out on rusty wires. She came over all shaky and had to sit down. Was it the nasty black dog with its gnashing teeth or the mad hippo that was chasing her? She took a few deep breathes and gathered her wits.
The laundry flapped lazily, making a play of light and shadows; tents and scarves of different colours and sizes, peacock blue, blood red, deep purple, mushy pea green and brilliant yellow.
Emily picked the brilliant yellow one, hardly camouflage colour, but lovely and bright and cheerful. She pulled it on then remembered that she was stealing. The thought of them cutting her hand off with a big sword gave her the shivers. She could feel the big shiny blade cutting through her wrist then see her hand sitting there in a pool of blood, all by itself, the fingers still twitching. Yuck! She slipped her black tent off and carefully pegged it up, then become a yellow person. That wasn’t stealing, that was swapsies.
Bright yellow, happy and free, she’d escaped. She’d be home for Christmas.
18.
After checking that her scarf was hiding everything but her eyes, Emily pussy footed across a narrow arch to the next rooftop then ran down the outside steps and onto the street. The soft sand was still cool from the night. She walked around town, an anonymous yellow blob, the long trailing tent erasing her footprints behind her.
She headed for a tall tower. The town was a happy town, full of bright, smiling people from all over Africa. Emily was the happiest of all; she skipped through the crowd.
Goats stood on street corners chewing on rubbish, children played football with coke cans and groups of old men sat under trees enjoying the morning sunshine. The roads were full of beat up cars and donkeys pulling carts. There was camels too, lots of them. One pooped. Emily reached down and scooped it up, then wondered what to do with it. She was free; she didn’t need to poo pick anymore, her poo picking days were over. She put it in her inside pocket as a memento, she would sneak it back to England and make a camel poo fire in the back garden and her and Annie would toast up chestnuts. They’d stomp about in the snow and eat them. They’d taste like no chestnut has ever tasted before, they’d have a sweet, nutty camel dungy taste.
Emily reached the tallest tower. There were tourists sitting in cafes, sipping on cappuccinos and beers as they read newspapers. If she said something to these people, they’d get her home. A familiar face caught her eye, strangely familiar, like an old photo from the album at home. It was her, taken last Christmas at Aunt May’s. Her on the front page of the paper! She looked so English, all pale skin and blond hair with big, innocent eyes.
She wondered if her eyes were so innocent now.
It was The Sun, the Boxing Day edition. She’d missed Christmas. She couldn’t be home in time; they’d had it without her.
Above her photo was a headline, £1,000,000 Girl in Timbuktu. Emily read a little of the story, Emily Taylor, from Sheffield, abducted while on holiday in Spain last September is alive. In a text message sent from Timbuktu....
With a rustle, the man folded the paper and put it on the table, knocking over an empty beer bottle. His wife, her cheeks already flushed from the morning heat, looked at the picture of Emily and read the headline.
‘She’s here in Timbuktu!’ she exclaimed in a thick Glaswegian accent. ‘If we can find her, we’ll go home rich. It’ll be like winning Lotto!’
The man looked up at Emily, his face ruddy from his breakfast beers. Turning to his wife he said, ‘Gitout da camera Luv and git a picky of me with dis boy.’ He dragged Emily to the middle of the road and his wife got down low to get a snapshot with the hedgehog tower behind.
Emily could say something, they could have their million and she could be winging her way home. She didn’t like them though; they weren’t going to get rich outa her. She imagined them all rich and flashy, hanging out in Porto Banus; cruising through the port in their Bentley convertible, her with glass chandeliers hanging from her ears, him in yellow and pink stripes behind a cloud of cigar smoke.
No, not today, you are right out of luck!
The woman sat back down and looked at the photo. She tapped on the buttons at the back of the camera. Then she let out a scream, a Lotto winner’s scream. ‘The eyes,’ she yelped. ‘It’s her!�
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Emily ran.
She didn’t get far. There was an angry screech of brakes and complaining tyres and she was enveloped in a cloud of dust. A door creaked open and there standing in front of her was the hippo, aiming his gun at her.
Dead or Alive? wondered Emily.
A pink hand grabbed Emily from behind, covering her face.
‘Got ‘er!’ yelled the Glaswegian woman, triumphantly.
A couple of shots rang out. The woman screamed and let go. Gamel grabbed Emily and dragged her through the dust towards the van.
Smash!
A chair broke over his head and he fell over. The Scottish man made a grab for Emily. She dodged out the way and ran off through the dust and into clear air. She ran and ran. She was gasping for breath and her legs ached but she kept going.
She ran out of town and hid in a clump of bushes. She took off her happy yellow tent and sulked.
Emily was mad. Mad at her mum and dad for having Christmas without her, mad at herself for trusting Gamel, mad at the greedy Glaswegians. She stomped her feet and had a paddy, then went to sleep.
Emily’s nightmare returned. Charlene and her friends were chasing her on their bikes, ringing their bells and yelling, ‘Greasy grime, greasy grime,’ at her. It echoed off the broken down buildings, who joined the chorus taunting her, ‘Greasy grime, greasy grime.’ Emily raced down the overgrown track towards the canal. Blackberry vines reached out to grab her, tearing at her clothes and scratching with their sharp spines. Pedalling her hardest, going as fast as she could, she fought her way through and was suddenly at the canal. She couldn’t stop; she was going straight into the canal. She slammed on her brakes then suddenly was flying. She landed on her feet on the other side and looked around to see Charlene and her gang skid to a halt by the festering canal.
Ha, got them, I’m safe.
Emily gave them the fingers.
Bing!
They had halos of light floating above their heads. They climbed off their bikes and walked across the canal towards her, like on top of the water like Jesus. That wasn’t fair, they weren’t no saints.
Emily ran.
They were close behind; she could hear them puffing.
They won’t catch me; I’m fast.
She ran through the bramble-covered ruins of the old steel mill, past smashed cars and dinosaur like machinery. The ground turned to mud and bogged Emily down. She couldn’t lift her feet; she was stuck. Charlene’s gang grabbed her and pushed her against a wall. The vines reached out, twined around Emily’s wrists and held her in place. They cut into her flesh like barbed wire.
Charlene was in her face, sneering at her. Emily spat at her.
Charlene lit a cigarette, sucking deeply on it until it was burning bright, then slowly blew a smoke out through her nostrils, like a dragon. Through the smoke she stared at Emily with demon eyes and said, ‘This is to remember me by, every time you look in the mirror.’
She pushed the red-hot cigarette into Emily’s cheek. Emily felt the pain. It made a sizzling sound like cooking bacon. She screamed.
She awoke with a start and looked up to see yellow eyes just inches from her face, Charlene’s eyes; goat’s eyes.
The smoke of her nightmare turned to dust; desert dust.
The air was full of dust and the bleating of goats being herded back into town. Hidden by the cloud of dust and the gloom of the evening Emily followed them, grabbing a stick and helping the goatherds. She needed to think lofty thoughts; she needed a high place.
The tall hedgehog tower appeared out the murk. Checking no one was looking; she quickly clambered up and sat on top, out of sight from the street. Once the dust had settled, she had a fine view across town and out into the desert around. Twilight turned to night. Overhead her friends the stars shone down happily; at least they were happy.
It was scary being a bit of merchandise with a price on her head. Everyone wanted to get hold on her, to sell her as a slave or cash her in for the bounty. She saw a film with her dad once about a bounty hunter; he was a robot, nothing could stop him. She wondered if he’d come after her. Even with his x-ray vision he wouldn’t find her up here.
She wanted to go home so bad, to see her mum and dad, the little ones and Annie. All she needed to do was to take off her scarf and walk down the street and someone would pounce on her, tie her up and trade her in for the dosh. If only she could trade herself in and get the million pounds and give it to her mum and dad. They could buy a new TV and some gnomes for the front lawn and could have fish and chips with mushy peas three nights a week.
Something was bothering Emily. There was a thought she hadn’t had yet, but knew it was there. She sat and watched the town then lay on her back and looked up at the stars. A shooting star streaked across the sky leaving a faint trail. She made a wish, a wish that surprised her. She wished she was back with the caravan as they headed off across the desert. She wanted to go home, to see her mum and dad then come back to the caravan. They wouldn’t let her though, would they? They’d trap her. She would be sent back to school and be stuck in grey, rainy Sheffield wearing her grey and green school uniform. She’d be a prisoner. She’d get to eat roast lamb on Sundays though, with Yorkshire puds and lashings of steaming gravy. She’d like that.
She heard familiar accents, loud drunken Glaswegian accents. She peeked over the edge. There they were, sitting at the same table as in the morning, in the cafe right next to the tower. The lady should be dead; she was so big, how could Gamel miss? Emily reached into her pocket and pulled out something soft and gooey. She’d been practicing her throwing and was spot on target!
19.
Baa, baa, baa, naaaa, baa. Naaaa!
Just before dawn Emily woke to baaing and bleating. Clambering down the side of the hedgehog tower into the dust cloud, she helped herd the sheep and goats back out into the desert.
She walked all morning, heading south towards the sun, avoiding roads and people. Remembering the phrase, Mad dogs and Englishmen, out in the noonday sun, she stopped for a rest at midday so she didn’t stand out. People might be looking for an English girl, out in the noonday sun.
Emily reached the river at sunset and followed the bank upstream to the camp. Seeing her coming, a Desert Rider galloped up and jumped down, picking her off her feet and giving her a crushing, bullets and hand grenades hug. They walked into camp leading his horse. He held Emily’s hand in a vice like grip, like he was scared she might run away again, or disappear into thin air. She had such a welcome; everyone she met pulled back their veil and gave her a hug and a kiss.
Zula and Ijju pried her from the Rider’s grip and gave her the biggest hug, tears streaming down their cheeks. They walked arm in arm to Saleem’s tent. Emily thought he would hit her again or cut her throat, but Saleem welcomed her like his own daughter, looking her in the eye and giving her a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.
‘Tsul, it is so nice to have you back. We were all missing you. Sorry for hitting you.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Emily. ‘I deserved it.’
She told him what had happened.
Saleem laughed at Gamel’s treachery, ‘I always knew he was crooked,’ he chortled, ‘but that’s wonderful.’
‘Will you protect me from him?’
‘I don’t think I need to,’ he said, his eyes full of humour. ‘You’re doing just fine all by yourself!’
‘Why don’t you cash me in?’ asked Emily.
‘We like you too much! Anyway, you’ll be worth more by the time we get to where we are going.’
The hippo arrived back during the day. He gave Emily a sheepish look, spat at the ground and disappeared again. Emily was happy for that. He was number one on her list of people she did not wish to cross a desert with, slimeball!
Another person arrived in the camp as well, a fortune teller. She was all ebony skin, bangles and beads. It sounded like fun to have her fortune told. Zula gave the fortune telle
r a few silver coins. Emily knew that she would say that she’d marry an accountant, have three kids and live in Woking because that’s what English girls do.
Not!
The fortune teller said nothing for a while. The lizards she used to see into the future took one look at Emily and ran, slipping under the side of the tent and away into the long grass. She bought out cowrie shells and a shard of broken mirror. After a lot of scattering and reflection, she said in a low voice, ‘She will travel afar, her heart so strong, and...’ her face dropped. ‘Oh! She’ll come to a sudden end. Sell her quick, she’s not long for this world.’
Emily wanted to laugh it off but the fortune teller looked so earnest, so magic, that she knew it would happen.
They walked away and sat by the river. Zula looked Emily in the eye and put his hand on her shoulder, ‘Don’t believe that black magic mumbo-jumbo. Stay close to me, I’ll protect you.’
Emily squished up beside him.
20.
They passed an exciting week.
Soldiers visited the camp and searched through the tents looking for Emily. A couple of film crews came too. A serious looking reporter with too many, too white teeth, stood by the river being filmed. Speaking like the Queen, she said, ‘Emily Taylor, is here and alive, somewhere in Timbuktu. No one knows how she got here, or what situation she is in. Speculation is rife. Has she been drugged or brainwashed? Has she been sold as a slave? ‘Happy’ she said in the brief text message to her distraught parents. How could she possibly be happy? Did she write the message or was it, as suggested by experts, a cunning publicity ploy to increase her resale value? Let’s just hope for Emily’s sake she is found and rescued soon.’
Emily heard every word. She was right in front of the reporter, hiding under a pile of camel poo, not the sort of place you go looking for a ten year old girl.
The world was looking for Emily but she didn’t want to be found. She felt like a fugitive on the run. She wasn’t Emily, the pretty little English girl anymore, but Tsul, the Tuareg. What awaited her on the other side of the desert; she didn’t know or want to think about. If she was going to be dead anyway, she’d live for the moment, today and now.
