‘I was going to, but then Rashid came and told me I mustn’t, and gave me water to drink,’ Shari said, and Rashid’s heart glowed with a rush of pride.
‘No, is because your fate not to die. Is because God decide you better stay alive,’ Salman said earnestly, kicking off his sandals and leading the way into the mosque, fortunately unaware that Shari’s mouth had set in a mulish line and that he was silently shaking his head.
Rashid need not have told Shari to be quiet and still. It was his usual condition now. He seemed, fortunately, to have accepted that his masoul would not appear, and sat gazing around at the arched white walls, the smooth marble floor, and the pigeons circling in the open sky above, then over his shoulder at the rows of kneeling men. His mouth hung open, until Rashid, fearing that he looked silly, told him sharply to shut it.
At the end of the prayers, the masouls and farm workers usually dispersed rapidly back to their uzbas, their small jockeys in tow, but today they lingered, talking together in small groups. Salman hovered on the edge of one of these, and when at last he summoned the boys for the return walk to the uzba, he was holding a piece of paper in his hand.
‘What’s that?’ asked Iqbal.
Salman stopped in the middle of the road, directly opposite the auto-repair shop, and frowned down at the leaflet.
‘About camel jockey boy,’ he said uncertainly. ‘A date here. Thirty-first of May.’
Rashid’s attention had wandered to the wheel-less truck propped up on bricks in the forecourt of the auto-repair shop. The man he’d often watched there before was lying on his back, easing himself beneath the truck, inspecting the underside of the chassis. Rashid itched to go in under there too, and have a good look at it.
Salman folded the leaflet and tucked it into his pocket.
‘Not important,’ he said, striding ahead.
It was clear to the boys though, when, later in the day, they watched Salman hand the leaflet to Haji Faroukh, and saw the shock on his face, that the message it contained was indeed momentous.
‘By the end of May! In three months’ time!’ they heard him say. ‘Trials of robots to start and all of them out by then! So they really do mean it, after all.’
21
Shari mended slowly. He clung closely to Rashid at first, but as his confidence returned, he began to trot around after Iqbal, and Iqbal, pleased to be hero-worshipped once more, treated him with off-hand generosity.
Rashid watched, and was annoyed. Although he had shaken Shari off irritably, he was jealous when his brother’s loyalty was so obviously transferred. He was too proud, though, to try and lure him back.
It was anger and hatred that had driven Rashid to ride Khamri to victory, but it was pride that drove him on in races now. The endless weeks of the racing season were studded with major events, and Syed Ali, delighted with his star jockey, was working him hard. There were other journeys to other cities of the Gulf. Rashid no longer travelled out to the race course in the truck with Salman and the camels. He rode with Syed Ali and Abu Nazir in the car. Once, Abdullah came too.
Rashid sat sullenly beside Abdullah on that long journey.
It wasn’t really stealing, he told himself. He didn’t want the car anyway. He broke it. He breaks everything. He’s just stupid.
That day, he was riding Hamlul in the first race. No one expected Hamlul to win, but Rashid brought him in at a respectable fourth place out of the field of twenty-five. Shahin, though, was Syed Ali’s great new hope, his star entry for the afternoon race, and Rashid was twitching with nerves in the holding pen as the moment approached.
‘Win this for me and you’ll get a double tip,’ Syed Ali said, as Rashid mounted Shahin, and Salman rattled her chain to make her rise.
‘Lose it, and you’ll see what I give you,’ growled Abu Nazir.
Abdullah said nothing, only craned his neck to look up at Rashid, perched high on the camel’s back. Rashid saw, with a jolt of triumph, that there was admiration in his eyes. He tilted his helmet forward and flourished his whip with expert professionalism. Syed Ali reached up to give Rashid’s knee a final encouraging pat, and Rashid grinned at the sight of Abdullah biting his lip with envy.
Abdullah’s face was in his mind’s eye as Shahin pranced to the starting line.
I’ll show you. I’ll show you, you stupid rich kid, he shouted in his head as he whipped Shahin with such passionate energy that she came in first by a full length, winning yet another brand-new, sparkling white Land Cruiser for Syed Ali.
The very next morning, when the boys had just returned from the night exercise, Syed Ali’s car arrived, swinging in through the uzba’s entrance in a spatter of sand, and stopping with a jerk. Syed Ali, though dressed immaculately as usual, was looking almost rumpled, the ropes of his headdress awry. He hurried towards the guest house with Abu Nazir talking excitedly beside him.
‘Faroukh!’ Syed Ali shouted. ‘Come here!’
Haji Faroukh had been forking fodder from the store into fresh containers, but he stopped at once and ran to the guest house, brushing hay off his hands, his sandals slapping on the sand.
‘Bring coffee! Tea!’ he called to Salman on the way past the kitchen.
Salman hastily dumped the boys’ breakfasts into their bowls. As they ate, they could hear the sounds of a furious argument in the guest house. Shari, unnerved by the angry voices, shuffled closer to Rashid. Iqbal and Amal, who could understand Arabic better than Rashid, ignored the adult talk at first, but after a few moments their attention was caught. They exchanged looks and, having scraped up the last smear of the yoghurt they had been given, stood up and slipped quietly towards the guest house, listening hard. Rashid followed them, with Shari at his heels.
‘What is it? What are they saying?’ Rashid whispered to Iqbal.
‘Shh! I can’t hear if you talk. It’s about us!’
Over the past months, without quite knowing how, Rashid’s Arabic had become much better. Though he couldn’t say much, he could understand most of what he heard. He needed all his new skill, though, to follow the argument that was raging in the guest house.
‘Are you crazy?’ Syed Ali was shouting with unusual vehemence. ‘What do you mean, take them to the police station? We can’t just dump them there! Have you forgotten that we acquired them illegally? What do you think I’m going to say if the police start asking questions?’
‘They won’t!’ Abu Nazir answered. ‘All the camel owners are in the same boat. They just want to get rid of the kids quietly without a scandal. The less fuss the better. Anyway, you don’t need to show your face. Get Faroukh to take them and leave them there. Who’s to know they were yours or how you got hold of them?’
‘But what’ll happen to the boys then, sir?’ Haji Faroukh put in.
‘They’ll be fine,’ Abu Nazir said impatiently. ‘All of a sudden everyone seems to think they’re little princes. Special hostels set up, a package of compensation - they’re even being given bicycles, I’m told.’
The four listeners outside drew in a collective breath of excitement.
‘I don’t like it,’ Syed Ali was saying. ‘We can’t treat them like discarded rubbish. Especially Yasser. He’s done so well for us. Besides, Abdullah’s fond of him.’
Abu Nazir tutted with exasperation.
‘What do you propose then? You’ll hire a private jet and fly him back to Pakistan like a film star?’
‘Fly him home . . .’
Though Rashid, listening avidly, couldn’t see Syed Ali’s face, he could hear the thoughtfulness in his voice. He gripped Amal’s shoulder, holding it so tight that Amal frowned and shook him off.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ali!’ It was Abu Nazir again. ‘How can you fly a boy home alone? How old is Yasser? Seven? Eight? If you wanted to arouse suspicion, I couldn’t think of a better way of going about it.’
‘Not alone, but with Gaman Khan. He brought the children here. Let him take them back.’
Haji Faroukh coughed.
<
br /> ‘Gaman Khan has been arrested. They rounded up a whole group of traffickers at the airport in Lahore last week.’
‘The uncle then! What’s his name?’
‘Bilal,’ answered Haji Faroukh.
‘Bilal! We’ll get this Bilal to come and take them back. All four boys can go back with him together. The cost will be negligible. A few flights to Karachi, or wherever, and we’re off the hook. Problem solved. Call him today, Faroukh. We must get on with it at once.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Haji Faroukh said, ‘but the uncle will only be able to take Yasser and Shari. The authorities are very tight, now, on proving family relationships. He’d never get through with the other two.’
Silence fell inside the guest house. Outside, Shari, made nervous by the loud voices and the air of tension, was holding on tight to Rashid again. Rashid, not daring to believe what he’d heard, was clasping him round the shoulders. They had drawn apart from Iqbal and Amal, who were inching forward, listening with shocked intensity.
‘Iqbal, now, what are we to do with him?’ Syed Ali was saying. ‘He’s been with us so long I can’t remember how we got hold of him. It wasn’t through Gaman Khan, was it, Faroukh?’
‘No, sir. The man who brought Iqbal was caught last year smuggling children through Iran, along with Iqbal’s father, who was trafficking children too. The boy’s real name is Javid, I think. Anyway, the whole gang’s in prison now.’
Iqbal flinched, as if he’d been slapped. Amal and Rashid turned shocked faces towards him.
‘Iqbal’s father was trafficking? I didn’t know. Are we in touch with the mother?’ Syed Ali was saying.
‘Only when we send on the money we’re paying for him. She’s spending it all on lawyers to try and get her husband freed. She never enquires about Iqbal. She doesn’t seem particularly concerned.’
A strange little noise came from Iqbal’s throat. He thumped a furious fist against the wall of the guest house and dashed off, disappearing round the corner towards the shelter.
Haji Faroukh appeared at the guest-house door. The three other boys didn’t wait to see if the redness of rage was in his eyes. They had already bolted.
Iqbal was standing waiting for them at the shelter. His arms were crossed over his chest and his head was thrown back defiantly.
‘It’s not true, any of it,’ he said. ‘My - my father’s never trafficked anyone. Someone else was doing it and they blamed him. Anyone who says different, I’ll punch them.’
Rashid nodded, but he had barely taken in what Iqbal was saying.
‘Did I hear right?’ he asked. ‘Are they going to get Uncle Bilal to take me and Shari home?’
Iqbal stared angrily back at him.
‘Yes! Little prince, that’s what you are. They said so. Nice Uncle Bilal’s going to come with a private jet and take you home to Pakistan. And what about me and Amal?’
Amal had retreated to the far corner of the shelter. He was standing with his face to the frond wall, stripping out the brittle brown leaves.
‘Where’s your family then, Amal?’ Rashid asked. Questions seemed to be all right now. Things were coming out at last.
Amal said nothing, but went on pulling at the wall, leaf by dry leaf.
‘He doesn’t know,’ Iqbal said. ‘You were stolen, Amal, weren’t you? You told me once. In Karachi.’
‘I was with a lady,’ Amal mumbled so quietly that the others had to lean forward to hear. ‘I think she was my ma. We were in the street. There were lots of people. I couldn’t see her. I started crying. Then a man picked me up and took me away. And there was a long journey. And I came here. I don’t know any more.’
‘They can’t send you back then, can they?’ Iqbal said practically. ‘They wouldn’t know who to send you to.’
Amal turned round. His face was pale and he was blinking rapidly.
‘Why don’t you ever leave me alone, Iqbal? Just shut up, and leave me alone!’
He went outside.
‘Are you really paying for your father’s lawyers, Iqbal?’ Rashid said after a silence.
Iqbal looked at him suspiciously, but seeing only respect in Rashid’s face, the hardness went from his eyes and he swung his arms, recovering a little of his usual swagger.
‘Yes, I am. And it’s not true that my ma doesn’t care about me. She’s too busy, that’s all. She can’t write, anyway. And I haven’t seen any letters from your ma, either.’
Rashid was shaking his head in wonder.
‘I can’t believe it! We’re going home! Don’t you understand, Shari? We’re going back to Pakistan!’
Shari butted against him with his head.
‘I don’t want to go anywhere else. Boss might find me if I leave here. They might take me away from you again.’
Rashid rolled his eyes.
‘Leave off about your stupid boss. I keep telling you. He’s in prison.’ He shot an apologetic look at Iqbal as he said the word, and turned back to Shari. ‘Can’t you get it into your head? We’re going home!’
As usual, the boys woke automatically some time before four in the morning and stumbled out shivering into the black night. Silent, yawning and rubbing their eyes, they stumbled to the camel pen, ready for the long misery of the night exercise.
The camels were kneeling quietly, but began their usual grunting and moaning as they sensed the little jockeys’ presence.
‘Where’s Salman?’ croaked Rashid.
No one answered.
Iqbal led the way to the store and they began to load up with saddle cloths and muzzles. A beam of light cut across the sand as Haji Faroukh’s door creaked open.
‘You’re not going out tonight,’ he called across to them. ‘Go back to bed.’
The boys blinked at him, bemused, as the masoul’s door shut and his light was extinguished. Then Iqbal let out a whoop, and Rashid danced a little jig, and they ran back to the shed, where Shari was still fast asleep, rolled in his blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
Rashid lay down beside him, but he couldn’t go back to sleep. Wide awake, he stared up into the darkness.
Home, he thought.
When he’d first come to Dubai, a year ago, he’d missed home all the time. Now, only a few pictures remained: the little house with its dun-coloured walls, the neem tree with its long pointed leaves, a black bird that flew about and cawed. And hadn’t there been a string bed outside in the courtyard? And a goat, the one that Shari went on about all the time?
I’m going home, he whispered experimentally.
But the words meant nothing. The pictures, too, were unreal. They floated like dreams, bright as bubbles, exploding at a touch.
He tried to remember his mother, but her face refused to appear.
What if she doesn’t remember me, either? he thought. What if she doesn’t want me and Shari any more? She sold us before. Perhaps she’ll sell us again. Or perhaps she’s dead, like Pio, and we don’t belong to anyone. Or she might have gone to the brick factories, and we’ll have to go there too.
He tried to imagine a woman coming towards him, her long scarf streaming out behind her as she ran, her arms open to embrace him.
‘Yasser!’ she’d cry. ‘My little Yasser!’
No, that was wrong. He was Rashid. His name was Rashid. That’s what she’d call him. Rashid.
Iqbal was awake. Rashid could hear his breath rasping unevenly.
‘I’m scared, Iqbal. Are you?’ he asked.
There was silence.
He’s asleep, thought Rashid. He didn’t hear me.
Then Iqbal whispered, ‘Yes.’
Rashid’s heart thumped. Iqbal had never confessed to fear before. If Iqbal was afraid, who would give him courage?
‘I can’t remember my ma,’ he said.
‘I can’t remember mine.’
Shari moaned and stirred in his sleep.
‘Are there camels in Pakistan?’ Iqbal asked. ‘You were there last. You ought to know.’
Rashid
hesitated. He thought he had once seen a great beast harnessed to a cart, padding superciliously along the edge of a road. ‘Yes, but only to pull things. I don’t think they ride them there.’
‘Good.’ Iqbal’s voice was savage. ‘I don’t want to ride a camel again, ever, ever, ever.’
Rashid said nothing. He was surprised by a pang of regret. Would he feel happy if he never rode a camel again? Would he miss the rocking rhythm of the hump underneath him, the thrill of the race surging through him, the wild excitement, the joy of winning, the envious eyes of the other jockeys?
‘Abu Nazir said we’d get bicycles,’ he said at last.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Amal’s voice came out of the dark. ‘They never tell us the truth.’
An awful sorrow welled up in Rashid’s heart.
‘We won’t be together any more! You’re my brothers! What’ll I do when you’re not there?’
‘You’ve got Shari.’ Amal’s voice was bitter. ‘And you’re going home.’
‘Come too! Come with us!’ Rashid rolled on to his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. ‘My ma wouldn’t mind. You could live with us.’
‘She would mind. She’s not my ma. There’s no one who’ll want me.’
The faint greyness of dawn was seeping into the shed through the crack beneath the door. Salman was getting up. Faintly, from the village, came the chant of the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer. The uzba day was beginning, with its duties, its meagre food, the unpredictable moods of its masters, and the relentless grind of work. It would be hot and hard as usual. But it would be familiar. And there would be football when the sun began to sink.
The world beyond the palm-frond fences loomed terrifyingly.
‘I want to stay here, with you!’ cried Rashid.
But he knew even as he spoke that he didn’t mean it.
Unsure what to do on this strange day, the boys congregated by the kitchen door, where Salman doled out to them an unusually generous breakfast.
‘You want more, Iqbal?’ he said, holding out another flap of bread. ‘Maybe last time breakfast in uzba. You going today, maybe.’
No one was surprised when Iqbal turned the offer down. None of them wanted to eat much. Their stomachs were churning with excitement and dread.
Lost Riders Page 19
