Boy Overboard

by Morris Gleitzman

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  A story of adventure, ball control and hope.

  Jamal and Bibi have a dream. To lead Australia to soccer glory in the next World Cup.

  But first they must face landmines, pirates, storms and assassins.

  Can Jamal and his family survive their incredible journey and get to Australia?

  Sometimes, to save the people you love, you have to go overboard.

  Also by Morris Gleitzman

  The Other Facts of Life

  Second Childhood

  Two Weeks with the Queen

  Misery Guts

  Worry Warts

  Puppy Fat

  Blabber Mouth

  Sticky Beak

  Belly Flop

  Water Wings

  Wicked! (with Paul Jennings)

  Deadly! (with Paul Jennings)

  Bumface

  Gift of the Gab

  Toad Rage

  Toad Heaven

  Toad Away

  Adults Only

  Teacher’s Pet

  Girl Underground

  morris gleitzman

  Puffin Books

  Puffin Books

  Penguin Group (Australia)

  250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria, 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Ltd

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books, a division of Pearson Canada

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  Penguin Group (NZ)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd

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  Penguin Books India (P) Ltd

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  First published by Penguin Books Australia, a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd, 2002

  Text copyright © Creative Input Pty Ltd, 2002

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  www.puffin.com.au

  ISBN: 978-1-74-228372-2

  Dear Reader

  This is a story. It’s not about an actual family, it’s a story I’ve made up. But I couldn’t have written it without help from the people who so kindly told me about their own incredible journeys.

  Because I’ve never been a refugee and I’m not from Afghanistan, I may have got some things wrong. If so, I ask for their forgiveness, and yours.

  I wrote this story to express my sympathy for children everywhere who have to flee to survive, and my admiration for the adults who embrace them at the end of their journey.

  Morris Gleitzman

  For

  Mohammed, Marzia, Khalil,

  Razia, Ruhullah and Nazia

  1

  I’m Manchester United and I’ve got the ball and everything is good.

  There’s no smoke, or nerve gas, or sand-storms. I can’t even hear any explosions. Which is really good. Bomb wind can really put you off your soccer skills.

  Newcastle United lunges at me. I dodge the tackle. Aziz is a small kid but he’s fast and he comes back for a second lunge.

  I dazzle him with footwork. I weave one way, then the other. The ball at my feet is a blur, and not just because the heat coming off the desert is making the air wobble.

  Mussa, who’s also Newcastle United, tries to remove my feet from my ankles. He could, he’s a year older than me. But I manage to avoid his big boots and flick the ball between his legs.

  ‘You always do that,’ he complains.

  Grinning, I duck past him, steer the ball round the mudguard of a wrecked troop carrier, and find myself in front of the goal.

  Only Yusuf, who’s goalkeeper and referee, to beat.

  Yusuf crouches between two piles of rubble, not taking his eyes off the ball at my toes.

  ‘Over here, Jamal,’ screams Zoltan, who’s Manchester United with me. ‘Pass.’

  Normally I would. I’m known for it. Ask any of the seven kids in my school. ‘Jamal’s a good dribbler,’ they’ll say, ‘and a very brilliant passer.’ If I had an unexploded shell for every goal I’ve set up for other people, I could go into the scrap metal business.

  But this time I want to score myself. I want to give a desert warrior whoop and smack the ball with all my strength and watch it whiz past Yusuf like a Scud missile.

  Just once.

  ‘Jamal,’ screams Zoltan, flapping his arms like a buzzard with belly-ache. ‘Over here.’

  I ignore him. I decide to shoot low and try for a curve. You have to with Yusuf. He’s really good at diving saves, specially for a kid with only one leg.

  I can hear Aziz and Mussa thudding towards me.

  I steady myself and shoot.

  Hopeless.

  I’ve sliced it. Just like last time. And all the times before that.

  The ball trickles towards Yusuf. He doesn’t even pretend it’s a good shot. Doesn’t dive on it or anything. Just picks it up and chucks it back over my head.

  ‘Weak,’ laughs Aziz behind me.

  Zoltan is looking at me as though an American air strike has hit me in the head and scrambled my brains.

  ‘Jamal,’ he says. ‘I was unmarked.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, waiting for him and Aziz and Mussa to make unkind comments about midfield players who think they’re strikers but aren’t.

  They don’t.

  Nobody says a word.

  I realise they’re not even looking at me. They’re staring at something behind me. Their faces are frozen. Their mouths are open. They’re in shock.

  For a horrible moment I think it’s the government. Soccer isn’t officially banned, but the government doesn’t like people playing it. I think they’re embarrassed that we don’t have any international stars here in Afghanistan.

  I turn and look fearfully at the figure behind us.

  It’s not what I thought. It’s not an angry man in black robes with a long beard and an even longer swishing cane. It’s something even scarier. A kid in a very familiar dress and headcloth.

  ‘Bibi,’ I gasp.

  ‘Eeek,’ croaks Aziz, face slack with amazement. ‘It’s your sister.’

  For a moment there’s silence except for the wind blowing in off the open desert and the distant sound of someone drilling bomb fragments out of their wall in the village.

  Bibi has the ball at her feet. She starts dribbling towards us.

  ‘I want to play,’ she says.

  We all back away.

  ‘No,’ Mussa begs Bibi. ‘You can’t.’

  Bibi ignores him. ‘I’m sick of being stuck indoors,’ she says. ‘I want to play soccer. Come on, you soft lumps of camel poop, tackle me.’

  The others are still backing away and looking at me and I realise I have to do something. This person putting us all in danger is a member of my family.

  My first thought is to yell at her. Then I remember she’s only nine. Two years ago I used to get distracted and forget things too. Bibi must have forgotten that girls aren’t allowed to leave the house without a parent. She must have forgotten that females have to keep their faces covered at all times out of doors. And it must have slipped her mind that girls playing soccer is completely, totally and absolutely against the law.<
br />
  ‘Do something,’ Aziz mutters at me.

  I open my mouth to remind Bibi about all this, then close it. There’s no time for talk. She’s only metres away from us now, eyes glinting as she dribbles the ball with her bare feet. If a government official out for a walk in the desert sees this, he’ll be slashing us with his cane before I can say ‘she’s only nine.’ And then the government police will come round to our place and drag Mum and Dad off for not controlling their daughter.

  ‘Tackle her,’ I say to the others.

  They stare at me, confused.

  ‘Get the ball off her,’ I say.

  Now they understand. We all lunge at Bibi. Without slowing down she sidesteps Aziz, weaves past Mussa, and flicks the ball between my legs.

  I can’t believe it. She’s remembered every single ball skill I’ve taught her.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I yell as I sprint after her. ‘You promised you’d only do soccer in your bedroom. You promised.’

  She ignores me and heads for goal. Yusuf, uncertain, crouches on the goal line, eyes on the ball.

  Zoltan has caught up with her.

  ‘Bibi,’ he yells. ‘Over here. Pass.’

  I can’t believe it. All Zoltan can think about is getting a shot at goal. Suddenly I don’t want Bibi to pass to him. I want her to have a shot herself.

  ‘Me,’ screams Zoltan.

  Bibi ignores him. Without steadying herself or pausing to pull up her skirt, she shoots.

  It’s a great shot, low and hard.

  Yusuf dives, but the ball scuds past his fingers and hurtles into the rocket crater behind him.

  ‘Yes,’ I hear myself yell.

  ‘Goal for Afghanistan,’ yells Bibi.

  Panting, she gives me a proud grin. I grin back. Then I remember I’m her older brother and it’s my job to be stern with her when she’s risking everyone’s safety, including hers.

  Aziz and Mussa and Zoltan are staring dumbstruck after the ball, which has disappeared over the other side of the rocket crater.

  ‘I’m going home,’ says Aziz.

  ‘Me too,’ says Mussa.

  ‘Me too,’ says Zoltan.

  The three of them sprint away.

  ‘I think they’re going home to practise in their bedrooms,’ says Bibi. She doesn’t seem to realise I’m giving her a very stern glare. ‘I’ll get the ball,’ she says, ‘then we can play one a side with Yusuf in goal.’

  Before I can stop her, she’s running towards the rocket crater.

  ‘Bibi,’ I yell. ‘Come back.’

  ‘Get after her,’ says Yusuf, still sprawled in the dust.

  Normally I’d help Yusuf to his foot after a big dive like that, but there’s no time.

  I sprint after Bibi.

  On the other side of the rocket crater is the open desert.

  Bibi must have forgotten why we don’t go there.

  2

  ‘Bibi,’ I yell as I scramble up the side of the rocket crater. ‘Watch out for landmines.’

  I can’t see her. She must be in the next gully.

  ‘Stay still,’ I yell. ‘Don’t move.’

  Please, I beg the landmines silently. Don’t let her tread on you. She’s only nine. This is her first time out here. Be kind.

  I slither into the gully. Bibi isn’t there. Neither is the ball. They can’t be blown up or I’d have heard the bang.

  Incredible. Her shot must have gone even further than I thought. I bet even David Beckham couldn’t boot a ball that far, not over a rocket crater and a gully. Not unless it was in a cup final.

  I climb out of the gully and up onto a sand dune, peering into the wind. And see Bibi. She’s down on the flat desert, running towards the ball.

  ‘Bibi,’ I scream. ‘Watch where you’re putting your feet.’

  The flat desert goes all the way to the horizon. Luckily the ball hasn’t rolled that far. Luckily it’s been stopped by a tank.

  Dad’s always saying the desert’s been ruined by all the abandoned tanks and crashed planes and exploded troop carriers lying around, but sometimes war debris has its uses.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mutter to this rusting hulk as I totter down towards Bibi. I’m shaky with relief but I still manage to put my feet exactly in her footprints. If we both do the same on the way back, I’ll be able to get her home safely.

  As I get close to her I hear a creak. I look up and see something unexpected.

  The gun barrel of the tank is moving.

  Just a fraction.

  Towards Bibi.

  She stops running. My heart has a missile attack. Then I grin as I realise what’s going on.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I pant as I catch up to Bibi. ‘When the tank was abandoned, they mustn’t have bothered to put on the hand-brake or whatever it is that stops tank barrels moving in the wind.’

  Bibi glares at me. ‘What are you doing here?’ she says. ‘Don’t you think I’m grown-up enough to get a ball on my own?’

  I sigh inside. When Bibi’s feelings are hurt, she usually gets violent.

  ‘It’s not that,’ I say, thinking fast. ‘I’m just worried about the time. If you’re not back home when Mum wakes up from her nap and Dad gets back, they won’t know where you are. They’ll panic.’

  ‘No they won’t,’ says Bibi. ‘I left a note.’

  ‘A note?’ I say weakly.

  ‘Telling them I’ve gone to play soccer.’

  My throat is suddenly dryer than the rusting hulk’s fuel tank.

  ‘Bibi,’ I croak. ‘It’s really important we go home now and tear up that note.’

  ‘Why?’ says Bibi defiantly.

  ‘Girls playing soccer is a big crime,’ I say. ‘Almost as big as Mum and Dad running an illegal school at home. If the government finds that note, Mum and Dad are in serious trouble.’

  Bibi’s face falls. ‘I didn’t think of that,’ she says.

  She turns and starts to go back.

  ‘Make sure you tread in your own footprints,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll grab the ball and be right behind you.’

  I hurry towards my ball, which is lying against one of the tank’s huge caterpillar tracks.

  As I get closer I see the tank isn’t rusty after all. It’s covered in camouflage paint. I realise something else. That throbbing noise. The one that sounds like the wind vibrating the armour plating. It’s not wind, it’s the throbbing of the tank’s engine.

  I freeze.

  My brain shrivels with fear.

  This tank isn’t abandoned, it’s parked.

  I stare up at it, desperately trying to work out if the markings are American or Russian or British or Iranian. Not that it makes much difference. I can’t remember who’s on our side this year anyway.

  When I was little and I used to play tanks with empty hand grenade cases, I’d always paint the good tanks white and the bad tanks black. Why can’t armies do that?

  The tank gives a clanking lurch and a loud snort. With a horrible screech of metal, the huge gun barrel swings slowly round till it’s pointing straight at me.

  My insides turn to yoghurt. I want to dig a hole and hide but I know tanks have got infra-red heat-seeking devices for tracking fugitives and right now my armpits are like ovens.

  ‘Run,’ I scream over my shoulder at Bibi.

  Perhaps the tank won’t shoot us. Perhaps the soldiers inside are just irritable because it’s really cramped and stuffy in there and one of them’s got a bit of tummy wind.

  It’s possible, but my legs don’t think so. They’re wobbling so much I can’t even run.

  Clang.

  What was that?

  Clang.

  A rock bounces off the tank.

  I spin round. Bibi, eyes big with fury, is hurling another one.

  ‘You squishy lumps of camel snot,’ she yells at the tank. ‘Give us our ball back.’

  3

  ‘Get down,’ I yell at Bibi.

  I fling myself to the ground, pressing my face into the dirt. Bi
bi stares at me for a moment, then slowly lies down.

  ‘Buzzard wart,’ she yells at the tank. She rolls onto her side and chucks another rock at it.

  ‘Stop,’ I scream at her. ‘You’ll get us killed.’

  I’m starting to see why the government wants to keep girls locked indoors.

  Something in my voice makes her stop. We lie still. Well, fairly still. My insides are quivering like goats in a bombing raid.

  Bibi pulls herself up onto her elbows. ‘Why are we on the ground?’ she says. ‘If the tank wants to shoot us, it’ll shoot us.’

  She’s right.

  We stand up. My legs only just manage it. The gun barrel of the tank is still pointing at us.

  ‘OK,’ I whisper shakily to Bibi. ‘I’ll talk to the tank. You turn slowly and go straight home. And stay in your footprints.’

  Bibi’s eyes flash. ‘I’m not leaving the ball,’ she says. ‘Or you.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, trembling. ‘I’ll get the ball.’ She opens her mouth to argue, but I keep on talking. ‘Yusuf’s back there by himself. He needs your help.’

  Bibi doesn’t argue with this. That’s one of the good things about her. She’ll argue about anything, but she’ll always help a friend.

  I watch her set off slowly towards the rocket crater in her own wind-blurred footsteps.

  I so much want to go with her, but I can’t leave my precious ball. The ball I’ve kept hidden from the government for nearly two years. The ball I’ve patched up about a million times thanks to all the jagged metal around here. The ball I love like a sister.

  I turn back to face the tank. And see that the ball isn’t just resting against one of the huge caterpillar tracks, it’s half squashed under it.

  If that tank rolls forward, my soccer ball will explode so badly not all the bike patches and love in the world can save it.

  I know what I have to do.

  I remember what Mum has told me about her ancestors. Fierce brave desert warriors, tall and proud in the saddles of their mighty Arab steeds. She also told me about Dad’s ancestors, honest hard-working bakers, baking bread so that those fierce warriors had something to mop up their gravy. But it’s my desert warrior ancestors I need to think about now.