Rashid wasn’t sure what to do. He felt shy of the other camel jockeys. He’d only ever tagged along behind Iqbal at the mosque, and had hardly spoken to any of them on his own. Since Iqbal had turned on him last night, he was scared of offending him again. He was worried though, in case he looked silly, standing in the middle of the holding pen all by himself. There was no point in trying to talk to Amal.
He took a deep breath and walked across to join the gang of jockeys.
There were dozens of boys here that he hadn’t met before. More were coming up all the time. Some seemed to know each other well. Others hung back shyly, as he was doing. Puppo was already playing with two four- or five-year-olds. They were whacking their whips down on the sand. Iqbal had his arm round another eight-year-old’s shoulders. They were whispering to each other and giggling.
A stab of jealousy shot through Rashid. Were they talking about him? Were they laughing at him?
An older boy came up to him.
‘You’re that boy Yasser, aren’t you? Did you ever find your brother, the one you were looking for? What was his name?’
‘Farid,’ Rashid said unwillingly. ‘Yes.’
He didn’t want to talk about Shari.
‘He’s OK then?’
Rashid shrugged.
‘I don’t know.’
The boy waited a moment longer, but when Rashid said nothing more, he walked off.
Suddenly, from all over the holding pen, masouls were returning to their camels, and blankets and muzzles were being removed. The little jockeys didn’t need to be summoned. They were already pattering in their bare feet back across the sand towards their masters. Rashid returned to Haji Faroukh alongside Iqbal.
‘Who was that boy?’ he couldn’t help asking. ‘Is he your friend?’
Iqbal’s face was tight.
‘Yes, and he doesn’t ask stupid questions all the time.’
Rashid’s heart plummeted. He couldn’t bear it if Iqbal was horrible to him again, now, before the start of the race, when he was suddenly feeling more scared than he had ever been in the whole of his life.
To his relief, Iqbal relented, and put an arm round Rashid’s shoulders.
‘You’re my friend too, silly. Listen, like I said, you’ve got to be careful at the beginning, when the barrier goes up. Look out for it and duck down if you have to.’
Abu Nazir had come into the holding pen and was standing beside Haji Faroukh, slapping an irritable palm against his thigh.
‘The handicaps have been sorted out,’ he was saying to the masoul. ‘Get on with it, can’t you? Get the boys mounted.’
Iqbal was first up, on Soudani. Rashid watched while Salman fed the rope through the back of his harness and tied it under Soudani’s belly. Iqbal had tucked his whip under his arm and was fiddling with the straps of his helmet.
‘Stop doing that,’ barked Abu Nazir. ‘Stop fussing.’
Amal was on Duda. He sat twitching his whip back and forth, blinking hard, while Salman worked on the straps. Haji Faroukh had lifted Puppo up on to Lashmi, who was already standing. The little boy’s short legs kicked in the air and he landed awkwardly on the saddle, nearly tumbling down the far side. Rashid’s heart was thudding. Would he have to ride Khamri already, in the very first race of the day?
But it was Hamlul’s muzzle that Salman was removing. He nodded at Rashid, who shut his eyes tight for a moment, then climbed on to Hamlul’s back. The camel rose with his usual lurch and groan. Salman was fiddling now with the rope, threading it through the harness and tying it under Hamlul’s belly. Rashid wriggled his shoulders. It felt awkward and uncomfortable.
The radio in his harness pouch crackled.
‘Show Abu Nazir if you can hear!’ came Syed Ali’s voice. ‘Raise your hands!’
One after another, the four boys raised their hands.
Abu Nazir was frowning up at them.
‘You know what you have to do. Listen for the instructions and follow them exactly. Any silliness, any mistakes, you know what you’ll get. Playtime’s over. You’ve got a job to do.’
He turned and almost ran out of the holding pen. The other trainers and camel owners were running off too, scrambling to get into their cars before the race began.
Two men swung open the big gates at the far end of the pen. There was a barrier just beyond it, a pair of horizontal metal bars at about the height of the camels’ chests. Little strips of cloth hung from it all along its length.
I’ll never get under that, Rashid thought, feeling panicky.
But it was too late now to think of anything. Salman was holding Lashmi’s and Duda’s bridles, running forward with them towards the open gates. Haji Faroukh was holding Soudani’s and Hamlul’s. The camels were nervous, shaking their upper lips and grunting, dodging skittishly away from each other.
Alongside the race track, the owners were ready in their vehicles, poised to drive alongside the metal barriers and keep pace with their camels. A cameraman with a big TV camera sat on one car, his red keffiyeh tucked round his nose and mouth to protect him from flying sand.
Fifteen or twenty camels were through the gates now, cavorting and side-stepping. There was a sudden loud report and the metal barrier began to rise. Rashid ducked his head. He was under the barrier and through. He felt Hamlul spurt into a run.
‘Whip him on the rump, you little fool! Start him properly!’ came Abu Nazir’s furious voice through his radio.
I’m racing, thought Rashid, his heart hammering with fright. This is it. I’m racing.
12
Riding a racing camel was not at all like the riding exercises that Abu Nazir had put the boys through in preparation for the big day. There was a terrible muddle and confusion. The camels were crowded and nervy, jammed together, their tiny frightened jockeys flailing their whips wildly. Rashid was horribly confused by the noise. Above the roar of the camel owners’ powerful vehicles, careering along beside the running camels, was the crackle and spit of the radio on his chest. He could barely take in Abu Nazir’s screaming instructions at first, and was only aware of a stream of curses.
It took a few terrifying moments to settle into the rhythm of the run.
‘Whip him, you little idiot! On the neck! The neck!’ came Abu Nazir’s voice from his chest.
He leaned forward, trying to obey. The camel on his right veered suddenly towards him, almost colliding with Hamlul. Rashid’s whip, raised to obey Abu Nazir, flicked the other jockey’s knee. The boy turned a shocked face to him and swayed alarmingly on his saddle, but there was no time to look at him again. Hamlul had swerved away. He was slowing down, losing pace. Rashid could feel it.
‘I’ll kill you! Kill you! On the rump! Whip him!’
Rashid took a deep breath and lifted the whip again. He managed this time to bring it down with a good crack. Hamlul shot forward.
The camels had spread out. Three or four were already well ahead, running smoothly and fast down the straight, their necks stretched out, flecks of foam flying from their rubbery lips. Several no-hopers had dropped behind. Hamlul was in the middle bunch.
The first long stretch of the course was behind them already, and they were near the curve at the far end. Rashid’s panic had begun to subside. He was starting to feel in control, to sense what Hamlul was feeling.
He wants to stay running in the middle of this lot. He wants to be one of the gang. He doesn’t want to get ahead, he thought.
‘On the neck! The neck!’ shrieked his earpiece.
He’s wrong. That won’t work, Rashid thought. It’ll make him swerve again.
He gave the camel’s neck a small swipe to show that he’d heard, then shifted his weight, rising up and leaning forward, and whacked at Hamlul’s rump.
It was as if the camel had read his mind too. He quickened his pace, accepting that he had to run ahead of the pack.
They were round the curve now and the straight run back to the finish was ahead. Hamlul was out on his own, away from the m
iddle bunch. He was still far behind the leaders but was slowly gaining on them, closing the gap, and Rashid, sensing him run with new enthusiasm, felt an uprush of excitement, a sense of power he’d never known before.
I’m flying, he thought. I can fly!
The gap was too great to close altogether. The winner had passed the finishing line. The race was over, and Hamlul had only come fourth. Rashid let him slow to a canter as they approached the end, and looked to see if one of his own uzba’s jockeys was in the first three. Only Lashmi, ridden by Puppo, was ahead of him, but he had come second. He was already being led back to the holding pen by Salman.
Rashid’s knees buckled under him as he slid to the ground beside Puppo. He felt shaky, as if his body was only just catching up with the fear and excitement of the race. Iqbal and Amal straggled in and dismounted in dejected silence.
Salman and Haji Faroukh started working at once on the camels, rubbing them down, blanketing them and clearing the foam from their nostrils. Rashid suddenly felt desperately thirsty.
‘Salman, have you got some water? I need a drink.’
Salman shook his head.
‘No water on race day.’
‘Please, Salman.’
Salman looked away from him.
‘I tell you, Yasser. No drink. Water make you heavy. No bother me now.’
Syed Ali and Abu Nazir came hurrying into the pen.
‘What happened to Lashmi?’ Syed Ali asked Haji Faroukh. ‘He was ahead in that race. Should have kept the lead in the final straight.’
‘He would have done if this stupid kid hadn’t messed up,’ Abu Nazir said through tight lips, hauling Puppo up by his arm and hitting him hard across the back with his other hand.
He dropped Puppo, who crawled quickly away, out of reach.
‘And you,’ Abu Nazir went on, shooting out a finger to point at Rashid, who was mercifully out of reach. ‘What was all that mess about at the start? Hamlul should have been out ahead of the pack before the first curve.’
‘It’s Yasser’s first ever race,’ Haji Faroukh said quietly.
‘Yes, and he did quite well.’ To Rashid’s relief, Syed Ali was smiling at him, and even patting him on the shoulder. ‘A promising start. We’ll see how you shape up in the next race. Half an hour, boys. Rest now.’
Iqbal, relieved to have escaped without being noticed, slipped off at once towards the side of the pen where the other jockeys were already congregating. Amal walked slowly behind him. Rashid set off after them. Puppo ran up alongside and tried to put his hand into Rashid’s but Rashid shook him off so that he could undo the strap of his helmet. He was tired already, hungry and very thirsty, and it was only the start of the day.
He was looking around for Iqbal when he felt someone rush at him from behind. Two skinny little arms were flung round his waist. They were squeezing him with desperate strength.
‘Shari!’ he gasped. ‘You’re pushing me over!’
But Shari’s grip tightened. He was trembling convulsively.
Rashid put his own arms round Shari’s shoulders. The warmth of his brother’s body, the familiar feel and smell of it, seemed to penetrate right through him. He walked the two of them stumblingly over to a bare bit of fence and sat down against it, with Shari still clinging to him.
‘There wasn’t a scorpion,’ Shari said at last. ‘You didn’t come back, you and Uncle Bilal. I went to the hole in the fence every day. I kept waiting for you.’
The unfairness of this stung Rashid.
‘How could I come back? It was really hard coming that day. Uncle Bilal hasn’t been back to see me either. I wanted to come, Shari. I tried, lots of times. I kept asking but they wouldn’t let me.’
He was lying, but it was worth it. Shari’s grip loosened a little.
‘I’m hungry, Rashid,’ he said.
The sound of his own name, his real name, pierced Rashid with a painful sweetness.
‘Me too.’
‘Give me something to eat.’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Shari. I haven’t got anything.’
‘I want a drink.’
‘Yeah, and so do I. We’ve got to wait, that’s all.’
Shari let go of him and sat back far enough so that he could stare up into Rashid’s face.
‘Did you go in that race?’
‘Yes. Did you? I didn’t see you.’
Shari shook his head.
‘What’s it like, Rashid? Did you fall off?’
‘Course not.’ Rashid, with a rush of elder-brother superiority, felt an urge to show off, but Shari was looking so small and thin and scared that all he could feel was pity. Iqbal’s advice and Salman’s wisdom weighed on him like a responsibility, valuable pieces of knowledge that had to be passed on.
‘Listen, Shari,’ he said earnestly. ‘You know about the barrier that goes up when the race begins? You’ve got to duck your head if it doesn’t go up fast enough.’
Shari was looking at him vacantly. It was clear that he didn’t understand.
‘I don’t want to go in the race. I don’t like camels. I don’t like racing.’
‘Yeah, I know that, Shari, but you’ve got to. It’s not too bad. It’s sort of like flying. Didn’t they teach you to ride? Haven’t you ridden fast before?’
‘We went out in the night all the time. It was cold. They made my camel run and I fell off. It really hurt, Rashid. Look.’
He stuck out a skinny leg and hauled up his thin cotton trousers. A bruise disfigured his whole shin from the ankle to the knee.
‘But you did it more than once, didn’t you? You didn’t fall off every time?’ Rashid wanted to give vent to his exasperation, but anxiety for Shari won. ‘You won’t fall off in the race if you’re careful. Look, I’ll tell you how you do it. You have to pretend you’re the camel, see? You have to think like he does. Look ahead and guess what he’s going to do.’
‘I don’t want to be a camel. I hate camels,’ Shari said crossly.
‘I know you do, but—’
‘You shouldn’t say I’m a camel. Camels are nasty.’
‘I didn’t say you were a camel! Look, drop it, OK? I’m only trying to help you. Forget about being a camel. The barrier, Shari, that’s the main thing. Look out for the barrier. Don’t let it catch you.’
At home in Pakistan, a long, long time ago, Shari used to shout and cry at full volume when he was upset. Rashid could see that he was upset now. He waited for a noise, but nothing came out of Shari’s tightly pursed mouth except shuddering breaths from suppressed sobs, while tears slid silently out of his eyes. He rubbed them away roughly with the back of his hand.
‘We’ll go home soon,’ Rashid said, knowing it wasn’t true. ‘Uncle Bilal will come and take us. We’ll go back to Ma and Zabidah.’
‘Who’s Zabidah?’ asked Shari.
Rashid stared at him, shocked.
‘You don’t remember Zabidah? She’s your sister. Our sister. You do remember Ma, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Shari, as if he was trying to give the right answer.
‘And home. The goats. The place where we played under the tree.’
‘The goats butted me with their horns. I liked it.’
‘That’s right. They did.’ Rashid nodded, relieved. He’d been worried for a moment. His own sense of what was true and not true had wobbled. If Shari hadn’t known about home, and Ma, and Zabidah, how could he be sure that they really existed at all? Perhaps they only lived in his dreams.
The jockeys were standing up already, heading back to their masouls for the next race.
‘Come on, Farid,’ a big boy said. He stared curiously at Rashid. ‘Are you his brother? He kept on about having a brother. I didn’t know if it was true or not.’
Shari put his hand into the older boy’s, and for the first time Rashid saw him smile.
‘He is my brother, Imran. I told you. He’s Rashid.’
Imran pumped Shari’s hand up and down affectionately, looking at Rash
id. Rashid felt jealous. He ought to be the one to look after Shari, not this strange boy.
Iqbal walked past, glancing at them curiously.
‘You’d better come, Yasser. Look, they’re mounting already.’
Rashid gave Shari a playful punch.
‘You’ll be all right. Just don’t panic when the race starts. It’s easier after the first bit.’
But he was biting his lip as he watched Shari and Imran run back to their masoul. He couldn’t bear the thought of Shari trying to stay on an agitated camel in the scrum of a race. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if he fell and was trampled under those heavy, horned feet.
The second race was harder than the first. Rashid had thought it would be easier, as at least he knew what to expect. He was riding Shahin, too, who was one of the less excitable camels. But he was desperately anxious about Shari. He’d glimpsed him, mounted, in the crowd of jittery camels before the start of the race, as they milled about behind the barrier, then he’d lost sight of him.
Once the race had started he kept trying to look over his shoulder to see if Shari was there, but it was impossible to make out which jockey was which, under their big helmets. Twice he nearly lost his balance, and once he almost dropped his whip. His camel seemed to sense that he wasn’t concentrating, and slipped back from an early lead. It took frantic efforts to drive her on up the final straight.
He nearly cried with relief when he saw Shari ride back into the holding pen. He watched his masoul untie him from his harness, and saw him, with Imran and two other jockeys from his uzba, slip back to the resting place. He ran after them, before Abu Nazir could get at him, and sank down beside Shari on the sand.
‘You did all right. You didn’t fall off.’
Lost Riders Page 10