Boy Overboard

by Morris Gleitzman

  And the female soccer players.

  Bibi seems a bit overwhelmed.

  ‘I’m not drinking tea out of a bucket,’ she says.

  ‘I might have got that bit wrong,’ I say.

  She looks relieved.

  I’m so happy and excited I could play a match for about six hours on a full-sized pitch with teams and everything and not get tired.

  Only one thing nags at me.

  Why isn’t Mum more pleased? I can see her crouched outside the tent talking with Dad. She looks so miserable. Poor thing. It must be how people are for a while after they’ve been nearly executed. Plus she must be missing her friends in the village. I’m missing mine.

  ‘It must be that,’ I say to Bibi. ‘Everything’s going so well, what else could it be?’

  ‘Some other bad thing we haven’t found out about yet?’ says Bibi.

  I sigh.

  Little sisters. They might be good at soccer, but they’re not so good at being cheerful.

  18

  I’ve never been inside an airport before.

  I saw one on TV once. Liverpool were flying off to play Milan. The players handed their bags in at a big counter and then went to a room with peanuts and drinks to wait for their plane and do leg stretches.

  I don’t think we’ll be going to a room with peanuts and drinks. Our bus driver has just given money to a guard at a gate and now we’re driving onto the runway.

  That must be our plane parked over there.

  ‘Thank God,’ says Mum. So do several of the other people on the bus.

  I know what they mean. We’ve been on this hot cramped bus half the night. I’ve tried to cheer Mum up with some fond memories of her friends in the village, but for the last few hours it hasn’t really worked. She didn’t even smile when I told her about Fatima’s goat eating Fatima’s dad’s beard while he was asleep. Usually she laughs quite a lot at that.

  ‘Everyone out,’ says the driver.

  We all stagger off the bus onto the runway, which is hot under our feet even though it’s night.

  There’s a hot breeze too, and in front of the airport lights Dad looks like a desert warrior with his scarf flapping round his shoulders.

  The driver and his assistant fling all our bags onto the tarmac.

  ‘Hey,’ says Bibi. ‘Careful. I’ve got dolls in there.’

  They ignore her and get back on the bus.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Dad yells at them as the bus starts to leave. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’

  The driver sticks his head out of the window. ‘You will be met at the end of the flight and taken to the boat,’ he shouts as the bus drives off.

  Boat?

  This is the first I’ve heard about a boat. Perhaps Australia doesn’t have many airports.

  Mum and Dad and lots of the other people are staring at the bus as it goes out the gate. Dad doesn’t look much like a desert warrior anymore. His shoulders are slumped. All the other people are looking pretty worried too.

  ‘I hope we can trust those smugglers,’ mutters Mum.

  Smugglers?

  That explains it. The United Nations would never chew aniseed root and spit inside a vehicle. And they’d certainly never throw people’s rucksacks around.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say to Mum. ‘They probably just want to get back before their policemen friends have spent all the money.’

  This doesn’t seem to cheer Mum up very much.

  We all stand at the edge of the runway, wondering what to do next.

  ‘Perhaps we should ask somebody,’ says a man.

  It’s not a bad idea, but I can see what Dad’s thinking. What would we say? Excuse us, we’re being smuggled to Australia, but we don’t know where to go next?

  ‘We’ll wait,’ says Dad.

  ‘I think we should get on the plane,’ says Mum. She starts picking up our bags.

  Dad sighs. Some men in our village get violent when their wives argue with them, but Dad never has. It’s one of the great things about him. That and the camel shapes he can make with his hands.

  Dad and Bibi and I pick up the rest of our bags. Other people pick up theirs and we all start walking towards the steps at the back of the plane.

  Mum still looks very miserable.

  Suddenly I realise what’s upsetting her. We’ve never flown in a plane before. The only planes we’ve ever seen up close are crashed ones full of bullet holes in the desert.

  Mum’s feeling scared.

  I squeeze Mum’s hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ I whisper. ‘Our plane won’t get shot.’

  I don’t need to remind her we’ve got our candlestick. The precious ancient family relic that’s kept us safe from air strikes and landmines and the dodgy brakes on Dad’s taxi.

  She’ll remember once we’re on the plane and she can relax.

  ‘Stop!’

  An angry voice, yelling across the runway.

  Several men in uniform are running towards us. One is holding what looks like a sword, except the blade is a thick loop of wire and the handle’s got red lights blinking on it.

  My heart stops and I get ready to try and hold them off while Dad and Mum and Bibi run for it. But the men don’t grab us, they grab our bags. And one of them starts waving the sword over a rucksack.

  ‘It’s OK,’ murmurs Dad. ‘It’s just a security check to see if we’re carrying weapons.’

  ‘I’m not,’ says Bibi fiercely to a security guard.

  One of the guards says something in a mixture of languages and points to a hatch in the side of the plane. I realise he’s saying the bags have to go in there.

  ‘No,’ says Dad. He doesn’t let go of the bag. I know what’s worrying him. He’s heard too many stories of passengers putting bags in the boots of taxis and never seeing them again.

  The security guard looks angry. He says that metal objects in bags are forbidden.

  ‘No metal objects,’ says Dad.

  The security guard with the sword glares at Dad and glides the sword over each side of each bag. He’s just started Mum’s rucksack when I remember the candlestick. It’s solid metal except for the jewels. Even if she’s wrapped it in dirty underwear the sword will find it.

  I stare anxiously at the flashing red lights.

  But no alarms go off.

  The security guards don’t jump on us.

  Nothing like that happens.

  In a way I wish it would. Because this is even worse. This sick feeling I have as I grab Mum’s rucksack. And feel desperately for the hard shape of the candlestick. And discover it’s not there.

  Mum takes her rucksack without looking at me.

  Now the sick feeling is really bad. Now I understand where the money came from that Dad gave the police.

  Mum sold our candlestick. Our precious ancient candlestick that’s kept our family safe for hundreds of years.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ whispers Mum.

  I know she had to do it. I know it was the only way she could get us to safety. And now I know why she’s so miserable.

  We’re not protected anymore.

  We’re about to get on a plane and place our lives in the hands of criminal smugglers and our ancestors aren’t protecting us anymore.

  19

  The plane’s taking off.

  We should be excited because it’s our first flight. We should be delighted because we’re safe and together. We should be happy because we’re on our way to Australia.

  But we’re not.

  We’re just sitting here in silence. Well, not complete silence because the engines are roaring and most of the seats and wall panels and overhead cupboards and light fittings are rattling. But we’re not saying anything.

  Next to me, Mum has got her eyes closed and in front of us Dad has got his arm round Bibi, but he’s staring out the window.

  It’s still dark outside and there are no explosions or tracer bullets visible so I’m not sure what he’s looking at. He’s probably having the same sad thoughts as me. Abou
t leaving our home and our friends and our candlestick.

  To take my mind off the candlestick I try to imagine what Yusuf is doing now. Sleeping probably. Dreaming about his soccer ball in pieces.

  That makes me feel even sadder.

  When I arrive in Australia I’m going to get a part-time job and buy Yusuf the best soccer ball in the world and send it to him. I’ll decorate it so the government thinks it’s an inflatable prayer mat. And I’ll send Yusuf’s grandfather some Dolly Parton cassettes hidden in Australian landmine boxes.

  What was that?

  One of the overhead cupboard doors just fell off. It’s all this bumping and jolting. Old planes like this can’t take it.

  I’m sitting next to a window like Dad, but I’m not looking out. It’s too scary, taking off in an ancient plane without ancestors.

  Lots of the other passengers sound scared as well. They’re praying out loud. I don’t blame them. They probably had to sell their candlesticks to buy their tickets too.

  I think the crew on this plane were pretty thoughtless before we took off, going on about oxygen masks and lifejackets and emergency brace positions to a bunch of people who are feeling very nervous anyway.

  Oooh. As the plane goes up, your insides go down. That can’t be very healthy, specially for older people like Mum and Dad. It could strain their hamstrings.

  Mum’s knuckles are white as she grips the edge of her seat.

  I put my hand on hers.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ I say. ‘This plane’s safer than it looks. The machine guns and rockets are in secret compartments. If we’re attacked, they pop out automatically.’

  ‘It’s a passenger plane, Jamal,’ says Mum without opening her eyes. ‘Passenger planes don’t have machine guns and rockets.’

  I’ve got a horrible feeling she’s right. I couldn’t see any weapons as we got on the plane. And I’ve looked at the safety card in the seat pocket and none of the drawings show a single machine gun or rocket. I can’t believe it. A plane this size must have cost millions. It’s a disgrace to try and save a few dollars by leaving off the weapons.

  Bibi turns round in her seat.

  ‘It’s probably got bombs,’ she says.

  I sigh. Bibi means well, but sometimes she makes things worse.

  ‘This is a passenger plane,’ I say, partly to her, but mostly so Mum can hear. ‘Passenger planes don’t leave their scheduled flight paths and go off on bombing raids. Not when they haven’t got machine guns and rockets to defend themselves against anti-aircraft fire.’

  Bibi sticks her tongue out at me.

  Mum still has her eyes closed, but she looks a bit more relaxed now that I’ve put her mind at rest.

  As the plane lurches on into the night, I realise this is what we’re going to have to do from now on.

  With no candlestick to look after us, we’re going to have to look after each other.

  20

  These smugglers are being really unfair.

  First they keep us shut in a hot stuffy house for ages with only one meal of noodles a day, and then they keep us standing on this dockside for almost a whole night. They don’t seem to realise the danger we’re in. One look at Dad’s face would tell them.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Do you think the government has sent spy planes after us?’

  ‘No, Jamal,’ he says, putting his arm round me. ‘Don’t worry, son. We’re a long way from the government now.’

  But he glances up at the sky.

  I know what he’s really saying. We won’t be safe till we get to Australia. Then we can relax. The Australian government will look after us. A government that lets girls play soccer is much too fair to allow bullying.

  I can’t wait to get there.

  The really frustrating thing is, our boat to Australia is so close. Just the other side of that fence.

  Boats actually. There are two of them. Which is just as well. There are hundreds of us in this compound. We definitely wouldn’t all fit on one. Not with those big fishing nets taking up half the decks.

  I wish their wooden sides weren’t quite so splintery. They both look like they’ve spent the last twenty years lying in the desert after a battle.

  ‘Mum,’ says Bibi. ‘Which one’s our boat?’

  Mum takes a deep breath.

  It’s the millionth time Bibi’s asked that.

  For a second Mum looks like she’s going to grab Bibi’s headcloth and strangle her with it. Then, because she’s a great mum, she remembers we’ve been travelling for ages and Bibi’s only nine and the poor thing’s got an itchy rash under her arms.

  ‘Come here, flower,’ says Mum. ‘Let me blow on it to cool it.’

  ‘They’ll tell us which is our boat soon,’ says Dad. ‘You kids are being great. Be patient a bit longer.’

  All around the compound other kids are nagging their parents. They’ve probably been shut up in houses for days too. ‘Be patient a bit longer,’ the parents are saying to them. I can’t understand all the languages, but you just know. And I can tell from the anxious looks on the parents’ faces that they’re worried about spy planes like us.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Are you sure we’ll all fit on those two boats?’

  I hope it sounds like a request for information rather than a nag.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ says Dad. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  But I can see he’s looking anxious and wondering like me just how many cabins can fit under the decks of two not very big fishing boats.

  Stop worrying, I tell myself. All these families here have paid for this trip. We all had to show our tickets to the smugglers at the compound gate. They’re not going to leave any of us behind.

  I try to take my mind off worrying by watching the boats bob up and down in the water. I love the way they do that. I’ve never seen big things floating before. The creaking gets on your nerves a bit, but the bobbing looks great.

  And the sea. It’s bigger than the desert. In fact in this dawn light it looks a bit like the desert. I’m glad it’s not. I’d rather be going to Australia on a fishing boat than a camel.

  ‘Dad,’ says Bibi. ‘When can we get on the boat?’

  ‘Come on,’ I say to Bibi, bouncing the ball on her head before Mum and Dad go mental. ‘Soccer practice.’

  There’s not a lot of room with so many people standing around, but we find some space and do some passing and trapping.

  ‘Just use the side of your foot,’ I say to Bibi. ‘No big kicks.’

  People are staring at her. They’ve probably never seen a girl play soccer before. The kids are wide-eyed with amazement. Some of the adults look shocked.

  It makes me very proud of her.

  The sad thing is, nobody’s joining in. We could have a great game in this compound. Teams and everything.

  Hang on, someone else is joining in now.

  He’s tackling me.

  Really hard.

  Oh no, I don’t believe it, it’s the boy who tried to steal my ball in the camp.

  I tackle him hard in return, get the ball back from him and flip it up into my hands.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘That’s my ball.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ I say, gripping the ball tight.

  ‘Is this your family?’ says the boy, pointing to Bibi.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, eyes flashing.

  ‘Then that’s my ball,’ says the boy. ‘Agreed payment.’

  I’m outraged. ‘You didn’t take me to my family,’ I yell at him. ‘You went running off after the United Nations.’

  Bibi pulls off her headcloth and takes a step towards the boy. Even though I’m furious, I watch her anxiously. When Bibi takes off her headcloth she usually ends up throwing punches.

  ‘Listen donkey-snot,’ Bibi yells at the boy. ‘That’s Jamal’s ball. He’s had it for two years. See that patch? I helped him stick that on. We cut it out of the back seat of our dad’s taxi.’

  I hope Dad can’t hear us.

  The boy is staring at
Bibi as if he’s never seen a girl like her before. He probably hasn’t.

  Then he lunges. Not at Bibi, at me. He grabs the ball. I hang onto it. We both pull. He’s not stronger than me, but he’s not weaker. He can’t get the ball from me, but I can’t get it from him.

  The boy looks over his shoulder at Bibi.

  ‘You can have the ball,’ he says to her, ‘if you’ll be my girlfriend.’

  Bibi gives him a look that would scorch the paint off a tank. She hitches up her skirt, runs at the kid and kicks him in the leg.

  ‘Ow,’ he screams, and staggers backwards, dragging the ball and me towards him. I fall on top of him. The ball bounces near us. The boy grabs at it.

  ‘No you don’t,’ yells Bibi and gives the ball a huge kick.

  It soars over the heads of all the people, and over the compound fence.

  The people all gasp.

  The ball bounces off the side of one of the boats and disappears between the boat and the dock.

  21

  Suddenly everyone around us is moving. For a second I think they’re all rushing to get the ball. Then I see that the smugglers have opened the gate to the boats. It’s time to get on board. That must be why everyone gasped.

  I force all thoughts of the ball out of my mind.

  Already people are streaming through the gate and onto the boats. I grab Bibi and push between the people who are still getting their belongings together.

  ‘Mum,’ I yell. ‘Dad.’

  Finally I spot them, trying to wait for us. But they’re being carried through the gate by the crush of people. Mum sees us. She points us out to Dad. They hold up our rucksacks and wave frantically at us to come to them.

  That’s what I try to do.

  By the time Bibi and I get through the gate, Mum and Dad aren’t that far away. They’re struggling against the crowd, which is pushing them slowly towards the furthest boat.

  Then Bibi pulls her hand out of mine. ‘I’m going to get the ball,’ she says.

  Before I can stop her, she’s squirming through the crowd towards the other boat.