Wasim and the Champ

by Chris Ashley

  Wasim

  AND THE

  CHAMP

  Chris Ashley

  Illustrated by Kate Pankhurst

  Text copyright © Chris Ashley 2011 Illustrations copyright © Kate Pankhurst 2011 The right of Chris Ashley to be identified as the author and of Kate Pankhurst to be identified as the illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 (United Kingdom).

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Frances Lincoln Children’s Books, 4 Torriano Mews, Torriano Avenue, London NW5 2RZ www.franceslincoln.com

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-84780-057-2

  eBook ISBN 978-1-90766-669-8

  Set in Garamond

  Printed in Croydon, Surrey, UK by CPI Bookmarque Ltd. in January 2011

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  For my family – us – C.A.

  Chapter One

  First in. First out. First in the line. Wasim was always first. “First, worst!” the other children used to shout, but they knew Wasim didn’t listen, so they’d given up. It was what he did. Wasim was always first.

  And he was first tonight – Monday – after prayers. His topi prayer cap was on his head, his trainers were back on his feet, he had his Koran and he was at the door.

  He turned to see if Atif – or, even better, Faizhan – had tried to beat him and. . .

  “STOP!”

  Wasim’s hand snapped back as if a million volts of electricity had buzzed through the old wooden door handle.

  “Stop.” The voice was calm again, back to Uncle Zan’s normal voice. “Wasim, khush karna . . . please.”

  Wasim just stood, his mouth open. He had never heard that shout before. Uncle Zan was normally a quiet man.

  “There are . . . there are people outside.”

  Silence. The shout had shocked everybody gathered in the entrance to the mosque, where piles of shoes sat and joined in the stillness.

  One second . . . two. . . And then there was silence no more, stillness no more.

  The window by the door shattered with a splintering clatter. There was a thud, as half a brick crumbled high against the wall and then plopped down onto a pair of shiny black shoes. There were screams from children and shouts from grown-ups and then a snarling face, ugly with hate, shouting the P word through the broken window. A fizzing sound and a smell of bonfire night. . .

  “Go! Go!” People scrambled back to the chants of the prayer hall as the screams and the fizzing got louder and the smoke in the small entrance to the mosque turned more and more blue. Wasim couldn’t move. He hadn’t even breathed since Uncle Zan’s shout, and his hand was still shaking by the door handle.

  When he finally did breathe, smoke tore at the back of his throat and made him choke. Dad was striding towards him, eyes wide, arms stretched, ready to yank him away, but Wasim’s watering eyes were on Uncle Zan. Zan’s eyes were calm, and they met Wasim’s with a sad smile. And then the old man bent into the smoke, picked up the firework and dropped it out of the broken window. He nodded Wasim away from the door and stood there as men in shalwar kameez shirts and blazing youths in Adidas tops bundled towards it, ready for battle with the hate-mob outside.

  Uncle Zan shook his head and herded them all towards the madrasa classroom, where only a few minutes ago, Wasim had been learning. Shouts of blazing anger beat against the door from the inside and bottles and stones battered it from outside. But nobody passed Uncle Zan. Gradually the smoke cleared and so did the entrance hall, and the distant shouts and howls from outside were replaced by the sound of a police siren. There were running feet and the barks of dogs.

  It was over. . .

  For tonight.

  Chapter Two

  They all stayed together once they were back home. Shamaila was still crying, so she was allowed to stay in the front room with the TV.

  The news was still all about London. There had been an explosion the day before and the screen was filled with smoke and sirens and people sweeping up glass. Mum shook her head and met Dad’s eyes.

  And then it showed more glass and there were different policemen. But this time not because of an explosion. There was a minaret, the domed tower of a mosque, in the background . . . and there were teenagers in hoodies.

  “That’s us, that’s us!” shouted Shamaila from Mum’s knee. Wasim remembered the walk to the car past the slouched shoulders and finger signs, baseball caps and hoodies. They had all sloped away once the police dogs got there.

  Atif, Wasim’s brother, answered. “No. That’s a different mosque. . . It’s because of what happened in London.”

  Then there were different minarets, different hoodies and a different newsman speaking to the camera. It was happening everywhere.

  Wasim spoke for the first time since the mosque. “What? They think the explosion was us? Is that why they threw stuff?” He could still taste the firework smoke catching at his throat.

  Dad snorted a not-funny laugh. “They don’t think, Wasim. They know we are Muslim and so they throw stones at a mosque where we worship. They don’t know you or me, Uncle Zan, Mum, Atif or Shamaila, or the millions from our faith who are shocked and angry at that explosion. They don’t know us, just like whoever made that explosion didn’t know the people they could have hurt. They don’t think either.”

  Wasim was quiet then. The news went on to a story about a singing dog that made Shamaila laugh, so finally she could go up to bed.

  “Will more people throw things at us?” she asked.

  Dad shook his head as he went into the kitchen. “No, they don’t know us,” he said.

  Then it was just Atif and Wasim.

  “They do know us,” said Atif. “That lad who threw the firework goes to my school.”

  Wasim nodded. He’d seen them too. His eyes had met Jason Coolley’s from under his hood . . . and Lee Raynor’s. They’d left last year or the year before, and now they were at High School. But they knew Wasim. And Wasim knew them.

  Morning. Twenty past eight. Wasim and Atif waited at the door. They always left at twenty past. Dave and Andy from down the road knocked for them and that gave Atif time to get the bus for the High School and Wasim time for the first footie game of the day in the playground at his school.

  Twenty-two minutes past. No Dave or Andy. Atif checked his phone.

  Twenty-three minutes past.

  Twenty-four minutes past. The bus for the high school went at half past from the main road.

  Twenty-five past. They opened the door and shouted a goodbye back to Mum, who was helping Shamaila into her uniform.

  “Got your lunch? Where is David? And Andrew?”

  The boys looked at each other.

  At twenty-six minutes past they left.

  Atif had to sprint and Wasim kept up, his rucksack banging on his back and forcing his glasses down his
nose. They clattered down the hill and round the corner onto the main road, and there was the bus moving off.

  Atif slowed down and half waved to stop it but the bus carried on, picking up speed, and the bus driver pretended not to see him. . . And so did Dave and Andy sitting in the front seats.

  But Jason Coolley, Lee Raynor and a bundle of romping mates at the back window had seen them. The finger signs and fists showed that.

  Wasim watched his brother’s shoulders slump as he made his way slowly back to the bus stop. He would be late now. Detention. Plus his 100 per cent punctuality record would be gone. But Wasim knew that wasn’t what was hurting Atif. The pretending-not-to-see eyes of Dave and Andy hurt more than the bricks and bottles from last night could have done.

  “What are we supposed to have done?” Atif mumbled as he read the timetable on the bus stop. “See you later,” he added, “the next one’s at ten to. . .”

  Wasim hesitated. He thought of missing his morning footie, and of the day starting with Numeracy instead of a playground match, and of getting a late-person’s glare from Mrs Slocombe, the secretary.

  “I’ll wait with you,” he said.

  Atif’s sad eyes managed a smile.

  “Chewy?” He reached into his pocket and the two brothers chewed gum together in silence until the long, double-jointed bus hissed round the corner and they went to face their separate Ahmed days.

  Chapter Three

  They were just lining up in the playground when Wasim got there, so he wasn’t too late. Wasim felt the heaviness in his chest ease off a bit as he got back to school and the normal world. The world before the bomb in London had started what Dad called the ‘situation’.

  He felt even better when he ran past the railings and saw the banner being tied to them by Mrs Caulfield, the caretaker. Summer Fun Day. Saturday was the Fun Day – helping on a stall, games, pony rides on the field, beating the goalie and the six-a-side tournament. The Super Sixes. A tournament with a proper cup and, Mr Abbott said, medals. Lists of teams had to be in by Wednesday.

  And it wasn’t just from their school. Teams from all over the town would be playing.

  The line trooped in and Wasim joined the end.

  Their team was almost ready – Rock Star Rovers. It was Wasim, Charles and Gary from their school, Atif, Andy and Dave from the High School. They had already sorted out what colours they were going to play in and they’d been training at the park.

  “Wasim!”

  “Wasim!”

  “Planet Earth to Wasim Ahmed!”

  “Here, Miss!” Wasim looked up from the mess of crumpled worksheets, forgotten newsletters and broken pencils that were stuffed into his tray.

  Mrs Scott was cross. “That was the third time, Wasim. What is so important that you are not learning your Look/Cover/Write/Check spellings? Oh, I might have known. . .”

  He’d found it. It was crumpled but it was in his hands – the entry form for the six-a-side tournament. He had to make sure that Rock Star Rovers’s entry was handed in today.

  “I’ll take that, young man. There is work to do this week before the summer fair takes over.”

  “But, but. . .” But there was no but-ing Mrs Scott once she’d decided, and now the entry form was on her desk.

  “You can collect this tomorrow, Wasim. Once I’ve seen how much work you manage today.”

  Wasim pretended to look, cover, write and check his spellings, but he was thinking.

  Charles would have a form. They still needed one more player, maybe two if they were going to have a sub. Joe? No, he didn’t like football. Gemma? She was good, but she was doing the face painting and didn’t want to be in it. Todd? No, he’d said he wouldn’t give a pound to play, they should pay him. Dionne? He was already in Ben’s team. Faizhan from the mosque? Wasim hadn’t seen him play and he didn’t like him, anyway, because he showed off about how quickly he learned the Koran. He reckoned he was good at football, but then Faizhan reckoned he was good at everything.

  Wasim lined up for assembly and then sat and tried to catch Charles’s eye to do their secret honk honk noise and flipper-clapping because Mr Abbott had said that it was going to be a SEAL assembly about everybody living together in the world as friends.

  But Wasim got caught, so he had to spend playtime doing lines – SEAL means the social and emotional aspects of learning – when he should have been getting an extra player for Rock Star Rovers. And it was another football playtime missed. Two in one day!

  Atif would have to get another player from his school. Anyway, it would be better to have another older kid. They’d stand more chance of winning.

  SEAL means the social and emotional aspects of learning.

  Honk Honk flapped Charles with his seal flippers, passing by with the milk for Junior S.

  Back at home, though, Rock Star Rovers was not on Atif’s mind. It didn’t seem like anything was. The front door had crashed shut. There was the thud of his bag hitting the hall floor and then the sound of him banging up the stairs.

  “Atif, Atif. . .” Shamaila had a picture from school to show him, but another bang from upstairs meant that the bathroom door had been shut and the lock was on.

  Wasim didn’t budge from the settee where he was watching Mynotaur Man, but just shouted, “Atif, we need another player.”

  There was no answer. Wasim waited to see if Mynotaur would defeat the extraterrestrial dinosaur that was screeching from the TV.

  Once Mynotaur had won and the earth was safe once again, Wasim yawned his way upstairs and into the bedroom. He flung himself onto the bed with a double bounce.

  “We need another player,” he said to the hump in Atif’s blankets. “Another player, Atif. Atif?”

  Wasim sat up. Something was wrong. Usually he would have had to fight to watch the end of Mynotaur Man because Atif would have tried to change the channel. And bouncing on the bed like Wasim had just done could get them grounded, so on any other night, Atif would have had a go at him.

  Wasim leant across the gap between their beds and pulled back the blanket. His brother was lying curled up, his chin on his chest.

  “Go away,” Atif whispered and he grabbed at the blanket.

  Wasim pulled it again. This time Atif turned and Wasim dodged back, expecting a playful slap. But it didn’t come. Instead, Wasim saw his brother’s face and he felt sick.

  “What happened. . .? Who. . .? Mum! Dad!”

  Atif was a state. One eye was closed and red and there was a blue mark growing on his ballooning cheek. His lip was massive and there was a big split where a tooth had smashed through.

  “Who did it?”

  Mum came up the stairs to answer Wasim’s shout. She just gasped and held her face when she saw Atif. Then she held his face and Wasim could see how hard his brother was working not to cry as he struggled away and stood up in the now crowded bedroom.

  “Who did it?”

  “I dunno,” was all Atif would mumble. “Loads of us got hit. . . And loads of them by the end.”

  “Us?” Mum asked. “Them?”

  And Wasim remembered the kids on the bus and knew what Atif meant.

  And then he remembered how down his brother had looked that morning and how he, Wasim, had then gone into school and only had to worry about spellings and finding a player and whether anyone would laugh at his SEAL joke.

  But Atif had gone into his school, his best friends blanking him, and had been hurt with fists or feet, because . . . because of a madman in London, the colour of his skin and the place where he prayed.

  Atif wouldn’t say much at all after that. He said again that he didn’t know who had hit him. He had been lining up at the tuck shop. There had been lots of trouble in his school. He knew why. Everybody knew why. ‘The Situation.’

  Mum bathed his swollen face and Dad, when he came in, bit his own fist with anger.

  “I’m going to that school now. I’ll find them.”

  This time it was Mum who did the calming.<
br />
  “Atif says he doesn’t know who did it. And this is just what they want, the people who spoil things. The people who don’t want us all in this town, living together.”

  Dad listened. But there were tooth marks in his fists by the time Uncle Zan arrived with a kind wink and a ruffle of the hair for Atif and his usual joke with Shamaila.

  Then he was in the front room with Dad and other people Wasim recognised from the mosque, and the door was shut.

  Chapter Four

  Wasim was allowed out, but only as far as the garages. He started booting his ball against the door that was usually the United home goal, but his heart wasn’t in it. He hardly made it clang loudly enough to get shouted at by the woman in the bottom flat who moaned about everything, or to get a clap from Mr Holloway who always came out to watch when there was no horse racing on TV.

  Wasim kicked a stone instead, and then had his first happy moment of the day when Mr Holloway appeared on his balcony and made his cup of tea sign. He did this by miming tipping up a cup with his little finger sticking out. It always made Wasim laugh, and usually meant a cup of milky tea in a mug with a picture of an old king on it, and sometimes a Jammie Dodger biscuit.

  “Coming aboard?”

  Mr Holloway used to sail ships all over the world and he had even been to Karachi, where Wasim’s Dad had been born. He had a story about everyone and everything and Wasim loved spending time with him.

  ‘Coming aboard’ meant climbing up a dustbin onto the corner garage roof and balancing along the concrete edge of the garages (you would fall through if you went in the middle). Then you had to grab Mr Holloway’s shaking hand and climb over the railing of his balcony. It was almost as much fun as the football they played down below. Today, though, Wasim just shrugged and climbed up without his usual battle to keep the smile from his face.