Boy Overboard

by Morris Gleitzman

  Just tents. Thousands of them. Everywhere you look, all over this scorching hot patch of desert, there are tents made of old plastic or cardboard or twigs or cloth.

  We haven’t got any plastic or cardboard so we’re using Dad’s coat for ours, propped up on some sticks. We can’t all fit under it at once so we have to take turns. Mum and Bibi are asleep in there at the moment, which is good because it gets them out of the sun for a while.

  Dad’s off trying to find out how we can get to Australia. I’ve been trying too. Three days we’ve been here and I’ve asked loads of people and not one of them knows. Either that or they think I’m just playing around. People don’t take kids seriously sometimes, even in refugee camps.

  Oh well, at least I’ve got plenty of time to practise my ball skills.

  Foot, knee, head, foot.

  ‘Wanna buy some water?’

  It’s a boy with a gloomy face and a plastic bottle.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say.

  Ever since we got to this camp, people have been trying to sell us things. Water. Food. Old clothes. Or buy things from us. There are pawnbrokers everywhere, giving people money for their possessions so they can buy stuff they need. Luckily Mum’s good at packing so we didn’t need to buy anything. Except the sticks for the tent.

  ‘Only fifty cents American,’ says the boy, pushing the dusty bottle at me. ‘This isn’t washing water, it’s drinking water.’

  The boy looks like he’s been here for a while. He might know how to get to Australia. Apart from his scowl, he looks kind of friendly.

  ‘Want to play?’ I say to him.

  The boy nods, not smiling.

  I kick the ball to him.

  He picks it up and runs off with it.

  I can’t believe it. He’s stealing my ball.

  ‘Come back,’ I yell.

  I sprint after him.

  It’s not easy, chasing someone in this place. You’ve got to dodge trucks, squeeze between tents, jump over whole families and make sure you don’t tread on any prayer mats or trip over any goats.

  Luckily I’m good at weaving between things. Better than the boy, who sees I’m getting closer. Finally he drops the ball and keeps running.

  I pick up the ball.

  I’m tempted to try and catch that kid. What he needs is a whack round the head and someone to explain to him about team spirit. It’s a pity Yusuf isn’t here.

  But I don’t because of what I see.

  I’m in a different part of the camp now. I haven’t been in this part before. The tents here are more worn and ragged. The people are different too. Instead of cooking and talking and smoking and running off with each other’s soccer balls like in our part of the camp, these people are all lying down.

  Some of them are groaning.

  They look sick.

  This is terrible. They need help.

  What can I do? Mum’s got a bit of medicine, but it’s mostly for headaches and upset tummies. And it’s nowhere near enough for all these people.

  I look around helplessly. Through the dust haze, in the distance, I see trucks moving slowly along the camp roads, bringing more people in.

  One of the trucks is different to the others. It’s white with a red cross on it. I know a red crescent means doctors. I hope a red cross does too.

  I race over to the truck.

  ‘Stop,’ I yell when I get close.

  The truck ignores me. It keeps going. I run after it, overtake it, and bang on its bonnet.

  It still doesn’t stop.

  I sprint in front of it and stand blocking its way. Now it’ll either have to stop or run me over.

  It stops.

  The driver leans out and swears at me.

  ‘Sick people,’ I say. ‘Loads of them. Over there.’

  ‘Where?’ says the driver.

  I point.

  The driver glances over, then looks at me. ‘They’re not sick,’ he says. ‘They’re just hungry. We’ve been waiting a week for a food shipment.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  Mum’s got food too, bread mostly, but for all these people it would only be a crumb each.

  ‘The aid trucks are meant to be arriving any time,’ says the driver. ‘You look like a concerned young man. Want to help us hand out food?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. Then I remember something. ‘If I’m still here. I’m going to Australia.’

  The driver looks impressed. ‘Australia?’ he says. He calls over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Gav, someone here you should meet.’

  Another man appears from the back of the truck, sits down next to the driver and looks at me.

  ‘Going to Australia,’ says the driver, pointing to me.

  The other man grins. ‘Best country in the world, Australia,’ he says.

  I stare back. I’ve never seen anybody with yellow hair, blue eyes and a red nose before. But his voice sounds sort of familiar. Like those Australian strikers who play for Leeds United. This man’s speaking my language, but I still recognise the accent. On the front of his t-shirt is a flag I don’t recognise. The bit in one corner I’ve seen before, but the rest is blue with white stars.

  He must be Australian.

  I’m so excited I can hardly get the words out.

  ‘What’s it like in Australia?’ I ask him. ‘Are there any good soccer teams?’

  The Australian man laughs. ‘Some great ones,’ he says. ‘Where I come from, Dubbo Abattoirs United are world beaters. They’ve won the Western District Trophy for the last nine years.’

  I gasp. That’s wonderful.

  ‘Are girls allowed to play soccer in Australia?’ I ask.

  ‘Course,’ he says, chuckling. ‘Government wants them to. Spends money encouraging them.’

  I gasp again. That’s even more wonderful. A kind and caring government.

  ‘And are people allowed to be teachers and taxi drivers and bakers?’ I ask.

  The man grins. ‘Definitely,’ he says. ‘There’s thousands of schools and thousands of taxis and millions of cake shops.’

  I wish Mum and Dad and Bibi could hear this.

  ‘So there’s enough food for everyone in Australia?’ I say.

  ‘Buckets,’ says the man. ‘Supermarkets never close. Even better, if you’ve got a fishing line you can catch your own tea.’

  I’m not sure what this means, but tea out of a bucket sounds good.

  ‘So people in Australia are happy?’ I say.

  ‘Happy?’ says the man. ‘They start laughing first thing in the morning and don’t stop until two hours after they go to sleep at night.’

  I can see it’s true. The Australian man’s been laughing right through our conversation.

  There’s one more thing I need to know.

  ‘Do you have mines in Australia?’ I ask.

  ‘My word we do,’ says the man.

  My heart sinks a bit.

  ‘Lots of mines,’ says the man. ‘Mines everywhere. Full of gold, some of them.’

  Gold?

  I stand in a daze as the Australian man gives me a wave and the truck moves away.

  Good old Mum and Dad.

  Trust them to choose the best country in the world. Even the landmines there have got gold in them so that if you get your legs blown off, you can afford the hospital bills and a wheelchair.

  I’ve got to tell Mum and Dad the good news.

  I start heading back in the direction I came from, picking my way between the tents, but after a while I’m not sure if it is the direction I came from.

  I try another direction.

  And another.

  No sign of our tent.

  I ask people, but they haven’t seen it either.

  Panic grabs my throat when I pass a three-legged goat I’ve seen before and realise I must be going round in a circles. I start to run, frantic, bumping into people, treading on things. I run for ages till my chest hurts too much and I still haven’t found our tent.

  Never give up, I say to myself, even
when things are looking hopeless.

  But sometimes you don’t know what else to do.

  I’m sitting here on my soccer ball in the hot dust, alone in the middle of thousands of people, wondering if I’ll ever see Mum and Dad and Bibi again.

  What sort of desert warrior am I?

  I can’t even find my way home.

  16

  Dad’s ancestors give me an idea.

  Bread.

  If I bake some bread, not only can I feed the hungry people in this camp, but the smell will attract Dad. He can smell baking bread about fifty kilometres away, it’s in his blood.

  I need flour, and water, and salt, and an oven.

  I jump up and look around at the dusty rows of tents. I can build an oven out of dirt, Dad taught me. A kind person will probably let me use some of their flour and water if I promise to give them the first couple of loaves.

  But where can I get salt?

  When you’re fleeing for your life, you don’t bother to pack salt. There’s probably not a grain of salt in this whole camp.

  I squat back down on my soccer ball. This is hopeless. I can’t even be a good baker. I put my head in my hands. Sweat and tears run down my face and into my mouth.

  Yes.

  Salt.

  Before I can let out a whoop of triumph, a hand grabs mine.

  It’s not Mum or Dad or Bibi, it’s the boy who tried to steal my ball. I pull my hand away, but he grabs it again and drags me to my feet. He’s really strong for his size. He must do goalkeeper training. Perhaps that’s why he looks so gloomy. Goalkeepers live under a lot of pressure.

  ‘I’ll take you to your family,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I was right, he is friendly underneath.

  ‘For a dollar,’ he says. ‘American.’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘I haven’t got a dollar,’ I say, then wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘The ball.’

  I clutch my soccer ball tight. But the boy doesn’t try to take it. Instead he pulls me by the hand, zigzagging between the tents. He seems to know a lot of people, judging by the number that scowl and swear at him.

  I decide to trust him.

  What have I got to lose?

  Nothing, as long as Mum and Dad have got a dollar.

  The boy leads me out onto one of the main camp roads just as a big modern car drives past. I wonder why anyone with a car like that would be in a place like this.

  The car stops.

  The boy gives a yell. ‘Come on.’

  Suddenly he’s dragging me towards the car. This is the first time I’ve seen him look excited about anything.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘United Nations,’ he says.

  Two men dressed like English Premier League managers are getting out of the car. People are pushing past us, waving pieces of paper and shouting at the men.

  ‘The United Nations give people tickets out of here,’ says the boy. ‘Come on.’ He flings himself into the crowd, dragging me after him.

  I can’t believe my luck.

  These people can help me and Mum and Dad and Bibi get to Australia. And this kid too if he wants to come. I imagine Mum and Dad’s faces when I turn up with the tickets.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I yell at the United Nations men. ‘I’d like five, please.’

  I don’t think they can hear me.

  The boy has let go of my hand and is trying to wriggle through the crowd to the men. I try and follow, but the crush of people is too strong. There are hundreds now, shouting, pushing, desperate, hysterical.

  The United Nations men are trying to get into a small concrete office. But the crowd won’t let them. The United Nations men’s clipboards and folders get knocked out of their hands. Bits of paper fly everywhere.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I yell even louder.

  This is hopeless. They don’t even know I’m here. I’ve got to find a way of attracting their attention.

  I know.

  Ball skills.

  I’ll show the United Nations men I can make a contribution to Australian sport and society. They must like soccer or they wouldn’t have United in their name.

  Trouble is, I’m being crushed. My ball is jammed against my chest. I can’t even get it down to my foot.

  ‘Hey,’ I yell at the crowd. ‘Don’t push. I’m trying to do soccer.’

  They don’t hear me.

  The United Nations men are yelling at the crowd too, but the crowd isn’t listening to them either.

  Oh no.

  The United Nations men are struggling back into their car. They’re managing to get the doors closed. The car is pushing through the mob. It’s driving away.

  ‘Come back,’ I yell.

  It’s what everyone else is yelling too.

  A few hundred people are running after the car, but they’re not catching it. I don’t bother. I’d rather use my energy to take a few deep breaths and get over the disappointment.

  And come up with a new plan.

  Like dropping over to the United Nations place in the morning and doing some ball skills for the men on their way to work. I wonder if that boy knows where they live?

  As the crowd goes back to their tents I try to find the gloomy kid but I can’t see him anywhere.

  I walk for ages.

  No sign of him.

  I start looking for a good place to build a bread oven.

  Then I see it. Our tent, with Mum and Bibi standing outside.

  I open my mouth to whoop with joy and relief.

  But the joy gets stuck in my throat when I see something else. Something near the tent that Mum and Bibi are watching with anxious faces. Something that makes me sick with panic.

  Dad, surrounded by uniformed police.

  17

  In a flash I see what’s happened.

  Our government’s got spies everywhere. Mum taught us about it in school. I thought she was exaggerating, but now I realise she’s right. They must be here in the camp and they’ve spotted Dad and told the local police to arrest him.

  I stand frozen, frantically trying to think how to help Dad. The police all have guns. Any sudden movements could be fatal. But I have to do something because if I don’t, Bibi will, and I’d rather have me shot than her.

  I walk slowly towards the police, trying not to let fear choke my voice.

  ‘Don’t arrest him,’ I plead. ‘We’re going to Australia. Dad won’t start another school before we leave, honest.’

  The four policemen look at me with narrow eyes.

  ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘He’s sold the taxi so he won’t be tempted to drive without brake lights again.’

  Now I’m closer I can see Dad’s expression. As I expected, he’s giving pleading looks. But not to the police. To me.

  I stop, confused. Mum appears at my side and puts her arm round me.

  ‘Jamal,’ she murmurs. ‘It’s alright.’

  I turn to ask her what’s going on. But I don’t because I’m so surprised at what I see.

  Mum’s face is bare. She’s got no clothes on her face at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her out of doors with a bare face. I don’t blame her. At a time like this I wouldn’t be thinking about getting dressed properly either.

  Mum is looking anxiously at Dad, and I look back at him too. Just in time to see him give one of the policemen a huge handful of paper money.

  Now I understand.

  Dad’s not being arrested.

  He’s paying the police not to arrest him.

  Thank God.

  But where did he get so much money? He must have sold the taxi for more than I thought. The people who bought it mustn’t have noticed that one of the doors was green underneath and the back seat smelt of burnt oily rags and the floor was covered with breadcrumbs.

  I watch the policeman count the money. The other officers are all watching closely too, in case he makes a mistake. The policeman finishes counting, puts the money inside h
is shirt, says something to Dad, then walks away with the other officers.

  The people nearby are all hiding in their tents.

  ‘I hate those police,’ hisses Bibi. ‘I hope they spend all that money on dried figs and get the plops.’

  I give Bibi a look. I’ve warned her about insulting referees and this is even more dangerous.

  Dad comes over to us, tense and worried.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I say. ‘They’ve gone.’

  That doesn’t seem to cheer him up, and suddenly I realise why. What if they come back tomorrow to arrest him again? Or the day after? Or some of the other officers down at the police station hear about this and want some money too?

  Dad hasn’t got any more money.

  I stare at my soccer ball and wonder if I can sell it for enough money to save Dad. I don’t think I can, not even if the pawnbrokers see where I’ve written ‘Manchester United Rule’ on it and think it’s a genuine Manchester United ball that David Beckham has kicked with his own foot.

  I have an even worse thought. What if the government advertises a reward for Dad’s death? What if the policemen come back and kill Dad?

  Now I feel so tense and worried my head hurts.

  Mum puts her hand on Dad’s cheek. ‘When do we leave?’ she says.

  ‘In the next couple of days,’ says Dad.

  I stare at them. What are they talking about?

  ‘Jamal doesn’t know what you’re talking about,’ says Bibi.

  Dad turns to me. ‘Those policemen,’ he says, ruffling my hair. ‘They know people who can get us to Australia.’

  It takes a moment to sink in. Then the whoop that didn’t come out of me before, comes out now.

  Mum puts her hand over my mouth and glances at the other tents. She’s probably worried that some of the people who haven’t got the money to go to Australia might be feeling sad and unhappy. She’s really considerate like that.

  I pull Mum’s hand away from my mouth. ‘You mean we’re going to Australia?’ I whisper to Dad. ‘In the next couple of days?’

  Dad nods.

  I hug him and I hug Mum. Mum gives me a stern look. ‘Stay in the tent,’ she says. ‘We don’t want you running off again.’

  I can’t hear her at first because a convoy of food trucks is rumbling past. She repeats it. I grab Bibi and take her into the tent and tell her all the great things I’ve discovered about Australia. Dubbo Abattoirs United and the cake shops and the happy people and the gold landmines.