Lost Riders

by Elizabeth Laird

  Something was changing again. There were new uncertainties now. Even Gaman Khan’s anger couldn’t be relied on.

  Rashid moved up behind Bilal, trying to hear what the men were saying.

  Gaman Khan had put a mobile phone into Bilal’s hand.

  ‘Take this,’ he was telling him. ‘There’s a number on it that you’ll need. The man’s name is Ahmed. You can keep this thing.’

  Bilal looked surprised and tried to thank Gaman Khan, but he had turned away. The woman’s suitcase had at last appeared.

  ‘Thank God,’ Gaman Khan muttered. ‘Come on.’

  He led the way quickly towards the green exit channel. Shari scrambled off the trolley and the boys ran after him.

  A big crowd was waiting outside. Men were holding up cards with writing on them. Gaman Khan slowed down. He was looking around for someone.

  A man stepped out from behind a cluster of noisy tourists. He put his hand on his chest in a swift gesture of greeting, and said something quietly. Gaman Khan turned and pointed to the woman who was hurrying up behind him, dragging her heavy case. She smiled at the stranger and lowered her eyelids. He looked her up and down, nodded briefly, then spoke to Gaman Khan again.

  Gaman Khan started and half turned to look round.

  ‘No!’ the man said urgently. ‘They’ll see you. This way.’

  He walked off fast towards the exit, the woman running to keep up with him. Bilal and the boys began to follow.

  Gaman Khan pushed his hand into Bilal’s chest. Rashid saw to his amazement that he was shaking.

  ‘Not you,’ he said. ‘Stay here.’

  ‘What?’ Bilal said, bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just wait here,’ said Gaman Khan, and a second later he had disappeared into the crowd surging out through the doors to the road outside. Through the huge plate-glass windows, Rashid saw him push the woman into a car and get into it himself. He watched it drive away.

  ‘They got into a car, Uncle Bilal,’ he said. ‘They went off in it.’

  Bilal grabbed the boys painfully by their upper arms.

  ‘Quick! Come on!’

  They ran to the exit. Taxis and buses were waiting outside and people with trolleys full of luggage were piling into them. Men in uniform were hurrying the drivers along.

  Bilal darted out into the roadway, looking desperately along the crowded pavement. A car, coming fast, had to swerve to miss him and the driver pounded on his horn. Pale and shaken, Bilal leaped back on to the pavement, then raised his arms in a despairing gesture and dropped them to his side.

  ‘He’s gone! He’s just gone and left us here!’

  Rashid felt a strange feeling in his stomach, as if it was churning around. The three of them stood there in silence.

  ‘I’m hungry, Uncle Bilal,’ Shari said at last.

  ‘Me too,’ said Rashid.

  ‘Hungry? Hungry?’ almost shouted Bilal. ‘What do you expect me to do? Take you to a restaurant? I haven’t got a single dirrham! I’ve got nothing at all!’

  ‘You have got something,’ objected Rashid. ‘You’ve got your mobile phone.’

  Bilal stared at him.

  ‘My mobile ph—’ He laughed jerkily. ‘Rashid, you’re a genius.’

  He took Gaman Khan’s mobile from his pocket and, fumbling, switched it on.

  ‘What was the name?’ he said under his breath. ‘Ahmed. Here it is.’

  He held the phone to his ear and stood waiting, tense with anxiety.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Shari said again, the corners of his mouth turning down ominously.

  Bilal frowned at him with unusual severity and walked away. Turning his back on the boys, he began to talk into the phone, gesticulating with his free hand.

  A few minutes later he returned to them.

  ‘Someone’s coming for us. It’s going to be all right,’ he said, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his kameez. ‘We have to wait inside. By the door to the prayer room.’

  They squatted down in a row against a bare wall. ‘I’m—’ Shari began again.

  Bilal smacked his forehead.

  ‘Of course!’

  He unzipped his bag and took out a couple of thick white-bread sandwiches, unwrapped their cellophane covers and offered them to the boys, pleased with his own cleverness.

  ‘I saved them for you on the plane,’ he said. ‘You were asleep when they brought them round.’

  The boys looked doubtfully at the sandwiches. They’d never eaten that kind of bread before.

  ‘I want a chapatti,’ said Shari, pushing the sandwich away.

  A thunderous frown settled on Bilal’s forehead.

  ‘Don’t. Don’t start that, Shari. You can’t have a chapatti. This is all there is. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to Rashid. Or eat it myself.’

  Rashid had been about to refuse his sandwich too, but now he held out his hand for Shari’s. Before he could take it, Shari snatched the sandwich back and nibbled at a corner. Rashid, keen to seem grown up, took a proper bite and chewed it bravely.

  ‘There’s something inside it,’ he said.

  ‘Egg. It’s egg. Eat it,’ said Bilal.

  He fished inside his bag again and pulled out two boxes of juice.

  ‘I like these ones,’ said Shari, brightening. ‘We had them before, on the bus.’

  They had barely finished eating when they became aware of two men standing in front of them. One was wearing a long white robe. The other man was dressed like a Pakistani in a pale-brown shalwar kameez.

  ‘Are you Bilal?’ the Pakistani said in Urdu.

  Bilal scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘These kids, what are their names?’

  ‘Ra— Yasser and Farid.’

  His mouth wavered in a nervous smile.

  The two men spoke to each other in a language Rashid couldn’t understand.

  Arabic, he thought.

  The man in the white robe pulled a wad of notes from a wallet and counted some out to the Pakistani, who thumbed through them again, grunted with approval and pocketed them.

  ‘Go with Syed Ali,’ he said to Bilal, indicating the other man, and walked away.

  Syed Ali nodded at Bilal and led the way to the exit. A car was waiting outside, with a driver at the wheel. Syed Ali settled himself in the front seat, while Bilal and the boys climbed into the back.

  Rashid sank back against the soft leather seat, sniffing wonderingly at the car’s luxurious smell. He looked sideways at Bilal, who was examining the magnificence of the car, running his fingers over the smooth metal of the door and the stitching of the leather. He caught Rashid’s eyes and winked at him.

  The awfulness of the journey from home, the fear of Gaman Khan and the tension of the last few hours rolled away from Rashid and the past swallowed them up. He had quite forgotten Gaman Khan’s strange, unsettling talk of camels.

  Soon, he told himself. Soon I’ll get my toy car.

  Shari, bored almost at once, had wriggled off the back seat and was sitting on the floor of the car, poking his fingers into the driver’s seatbelt mechanism. He was talking to himself in the sing-song voice he used when he was playing an imaginary game.

  Rashid took Shari’s place by the window and gazed out at the strangeness of it all. Buildings towered up to incredible heights above the hard clean pavements. They offered blank facades of glass and concrete and steel. Where were the horse-drawn cabs and hand-pushed barrows, the shops with goods spilling out on to the pavement, the noise and bustle and people of Pakistan?

  They passed a bus stop. A group of men was standing at it, waiting for a bus. A couple of women stood to one side, dressed like Pakistanis. They were drooping with tiredness.

  Rashid thought of Ma. He needed suddenly to feel the softness of her arms under the smooth cotton of her kameez. He wanted to play with the fringe of her shawl. For the first time for years, he felt the urge to suck his thumb. Shame at looking ba
byish stopped him. Instead, he leaned his head against Bilal’s arm.

  Syed Ali turned and said something to Bilal in Arabic. Bilal leaned forward, dislodging Rashid who had to sit upright again. Bilal didn’t understand Syed Ali. He smiled nervously and spread out his hands. Syed Ali shrugged and said something to the driver. They sped on along a huge wide highway. The forest of tall buildings, their glass and steel walls flashing in the hard sunlight, stretched away into the distance.

  Rashid was tired of them already. He looked down. Shari had found the plastic top of a water bottle and had worked it into his game. Rashid felt like getting down beside him and joining in, but Bilal was nudging him again.

  ‘Look over there,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  The car had turned off the highway and was speeding down a narrower road. The high-rise blocks were behind them now. Here there were only a few low buildings, hugging the ground behind white-painted walls. Between them were longer and longer stretches of flat empty desert. Swirls of sand were blowing across the tarmac.

  Rashid looked without interest at the few scratchy thorn bushes. The pale sand of the desert disappeared into a haze of heat and dust and merged with the bleached whiteness of the sky.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ he said.

  ‘There. Camels,’ said Bilal, pointing to the far side of the road.

  Rashid had seen camels before at home. Pakistani camels were big, heavy, muscular beasts, with rough patches of fur on their humps and worn, scarred hides. They walked slowly along the roads, pulling laden wagons, their heads held high, their expressions superior.

  The camels here had no loads to pull. They were smaller than the ones at home, and lighter in weight and colour. A group of a dozen or more was walking alongside the tarmac road on a sandy track. Bright cloths were tied to their backs. A man with a red checked head-covering was at the head of them, leading the front one by a rope.

  The car was speeding past them, raising a cloud of dust that quickly hid the camels from view, but before they disappeared Rashid had seen that behind the hump of every second camel, their heels tucked up beneath them, their hands clinging to the saddle cloth, was a little boy.

  ‘Must be fun riding a camel like that, don’t you think, Rashid?’ Bilal said.

  Something in his voice, a tone that was almost pleading, made Rashid look up at him suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t think I like camels,’ he said.

  Bilal put an arm round Rashid’s shoulders.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Gaman Sahib promised me.’

  But Rashid could hear uncertainty in his voice. The odd feeling in his stomach, as if a spoon was stirring his insides, came back again.

  ‘What’s the boy called?’ he said.

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘The one we’re going to play with.’

  He knew the answer already.

  ‘Listen, Rashid,’ Bilal said. ‘I wanted to tell you before, but I didn’t know how. It’s not the way we thought it was. You’re not going to be staying in a family and just play all the time.’

  ‘Why not? Why did Gaman Sahib say it then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Well - I do. He said it so that your ma would let you go.’

  ‘So where are we going?’

  Bilal shook his head. He had picked up the strap of his bag and was tapping it against his knee.

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s not. . . nothing’s turning out like I thought. It’s not going to be so easy.’

  ‘I wanted to play with toy cars. He promised.’

  ‘I know. Look, I’m sorry. It’s not my fault. What can I do about it? It’ll be all right. You’ll see.’

  Rashid suddenly saw that Bilal was smaller and younger than he had thought.

  ‘Have I got to ride camels then, like those boys?’ he said. ‘What about Shari? He’s too little.’

  ‘I don’t know. Leave it, Rashid, will you? I don’t know any more than you do. We’ll find out soon, anyway.’

  The car swerved off the road and began to bump down an unmade sandy track. Shari, shaken about, was jerked out of his game and scrambled back up on to the seat.

  ‘I want the toilet,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up, Shari,’ said Bilal with a groan. ‘In a minute.’

  The car swerved again, this time through a rough fence made of palm fronds that were tied to a metal frame. It came to a halt. Syed Ali got out and opened the back door. He touched Rashid on the shoulder and beckoned to him. Rashid jumped out obediently and stood looking around, but before he could take anything in he heard the car door slam behind him, and the engine rev up. He spun round. Syed Ali had jumped back into the car, which was already driving back out through the gap in the fence.

  In a moment they had gone, leaving him there alone.

  4

  It seemed to Rashid that he had been standing for hours, crying, lost and alone, on the empty stretch of sand inside the gate. His eyes were so tightly shut that he didn’t sense anyone approach, and when a hand tugged at his arm he twisted violently away. Then he opened his eyes and looked round to see who had touched him.

  There was a boy beside him, taller than himself. He looked about eight years old. His features were sharp in his thin face and the fingers that had touched Rashid were as skinny as twigs.

  ‘Why are you crying like that? What are you doing here?’

  He spoke Punjabi, but in an odd way.

  Rashid tried to control his tears. His sobs turned to violent hiccups.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he managed to say at last. ‘They left me here. Uncle Bilal and Shari.’

  ‘Who’s Shari?’

  ‘My little brother.’

  ‘I’m Iqbal,’ the boy said. ‘Are you a camel jockey?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rashid said again. ‘No.’

  ‘You are, I bet. You’re instead of Mujib. He fell off in a race last week. What’s your name?’

  ‘Rashid,’ Rashid said automatically. He hesitated, and said, ‘No, Yasser.’

  ‘Is that the name they gave you? The one on your passport?’ Iqbal said shrewdly. ‘You’d better be Yasser then. Can you play football? Have you got any marbles?’

  Rashid stared at him, but before he could answer a bellow came from behind.

  ‘Iqbal! Where are you, you lazy little tyke? Why aren’t you cleaning up this uzba like I told you?’

  Both boys swung round. A big man was coming out of a small white building, which was half hidden behind a rough wooden shed. His blue kameez was tight over his large belly. In his hand he carried a short length of plastic hose. He saw Rashid and strode down the sloping ground towards him.

  ‘It’s Haji Faroukh. He’s the masoul. The supervisor. Watch out for him. You’ve got to do everything he tells you,’ Iqbal had time to say quickly.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Haji Faroukh said, coming to a halt in front of the boys.

  ‘He’s Yasser,’ Iqbal said helpfully. ‘He’s the new camel jockey. Instead of Mujib.’

  Haji Faroukh raised the hose and swiped out at Iqbal, who ducked and ran away. Then he put his hands on his hips and stared down at Rashid.

  ‘So you’re Yasser, are you?’

  Rashid didn’t dare look up.

  ‘Yes, sahib,’ he whispered.

  ‘Haji. Call me Haji. They said you were coming today. I thought I heard the car. Why didn’t the driver wait?’

  Rashid twisted his fingers together and said nothing.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eight,’ guessed Rashid. He didn’t know for sure. There had never been talk of ages or birthdays at home.

  ‘You ever ridden a camel before?’

  Rashid shook his head.

  ‘When did you arrive in Dubai?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘From Pakistan, eh? Punjab?’

  Rashid nodded.

  Haji Faroukh said nothing. Rashid dared to look up at him. The man’s red face and staring eyes seemed far away above his mountainous bulk.

>   The masoul patted Rashid on the shoulder with one pudgy hand.

  ‘You look like a good boy, Yasser. A nice boy. You do what I tell you and you’ll be all right. You have to work hard. Keep yourself clean. Look after the camels properly. You let a camel eat a poisonous plant, or scratch itself on a thorn bush, or come to any harm at all, you’ll know all about it. Got that?’

  He swung the hose end again. Rashid flinched. Tears welled up again. He felt them running down his cheeks.

  Haji Faroukh tutted.

  ‘No need for that. No point in snivelling. You’re a big boy now. Where’s your bag?’

  Rashid controlled his tears with a gigantic effort and scrubbed his nose and cheeks with his sleeve.

  ‘I haven’t got one.’ His voice was still no more than a whisper. ‘Uncle Bilal’s got my sweater and my other shalwar. He went off in the car with my brother.’

  ‘Uncle Bilal, eh? Is that your real uncle?’

  ‘Yes. He’s Ma’s brother.’

  The mention of Ma threatened to bring his tears on again.

  ‘Never mind.’ Haji Faroukh sounded almost sympathetic. ‘We’ve got some extra clothes here. You’ll need a blanket in the night as well. It gets cold here in the desert.’ He raised his head. ‘Salman! Where is that dratted boy? Never around when he’s wanted. Salman!’

  A tall, gangling boy came running at an uneven trot. Rashid stared at him. He had never seen anyone with such tight curly hair, or such dark skin.

  ‘This is Yasser,’ Haji Faroukh said to boy. ‘Fetch Mujib’s blanket and give it to him. His other clothes too. Take him up with you. Show him where he’ll sleep.’

  A chiming noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his mobile and held it to his ear.

  Rashid heard the words Syed Ali, then understood no more of Haji Faroukh’s rapid Arabic.

  Salman smiled down at Rashid but Rashid backed away from him, frightened. One of the boy’s eyes was a normal clear brown, lit with a friendly intelligence. But the other was blank, the whole surface of it obscured by a blue-white film.

  Salman understood his reaction, pointed to his blind eye and said something in Arabic. Rashid, not understanding, gaped at him.