Lost Riders

by Elizabeth Laird

  Shari blinked at him, his eyes huge in his thin face.

  ‘I was scared. Boota sahib kept yelling at me inside my head.

  ‘Boota sahib? He’s your masoul?’

  Shari didn’t bother to answer.

  Iqbal suddenly appeared and squatted down beside them.

  ‘You’re Shari, are you?’ he said. ‘Yasser went on and on about you.’

  ‘He’s not Shari. He’s Farid,’ Imran chipped in.

  ‘And he’s not Yasser, he’s Rashid,’ Shari said, pointing to Rashid.

  Iqbal and Imran nodded.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ Iqbal said.

  ‘I - just - want - a - drink.’ Rashid tapped his whip on the ground with each word, and as he spoke his voice cracked with dryness.

  Iqbal pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to him.

  ‘Suck this. It helps.’

  Rashid took the little object eagerly, thinking it was a sweet, then stared down, disappointed, at the button lying on his palm.

  ‘You suck it,’ Iqbal said again. ‘It makes your mouth feel better. You have to know tricks like that when you’re in the army. Don’t swallow it though.’

  Rashid put the button in his mouth and sucked on it. A little saliva gushed on to his tongue. Iqbal was right. It did help a bit.

  Iqbal and Imran started talking to each other. They had met during the last racing season. Iqbal began telling Imran about Mujib, and how he had died.

  Not him again, thought Rashid.

  Shari crawled closer to sit beside him, leaning against his shoulder.

  ‘Let me have a go, Rashid.’

  ‘At what.’

  ‘The button.’

  ‘You’ll swallow it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Reluctantly, Rashid fished the button out of his mouth, wiped it and handed it to Shari, who put it in his own mouth, his eyes big with hope.

  ‘I thought it would taste nice,’ he said, making a face. ‘It’s silly,’ and he spat it out on to the sand.

  ‘Don’t! You’ll lose it!’

  Rashid scrabbled in the sand, picked the button up, rubbed it on his sleeve and put it back in his mouth. It was Iqbal’s button. It had to make him feel less thirsty. He was sure it would.

  There was a long interval before the next race. Rashid and Shari sat close together. Some of the other children were already lying down. Famished and exhausted, they were soon asleep. Rashid felt his own eyes closing. There were things he’d meant to say to Shari, he was sure there were. There were questions he’d meant to ask. He ought to teach him Uncle Bilal’s mobile phone number, at the very least. But the heat and the weariness were weighing on him, cloying and heavy. His eyelids drifted down and he slept.

  A rough shake woke him. Salman and the workers from the other uzbas were going among the sleeping boys, fetching their jockeys for the next race. Shari had gone.

  ‘Hurry up, Yasser,’ Salman was saying. ‘This very big race. Important one. You ride Khamri now.’

  13

  Rashid had been sleeping deeply. Dragged suddenly out of the depths, he felt horrible, heavy and lifeless. The afternoon sun was blinding and very hot. His head ached, and his mouth was as dry and scratchy as the sand itself.

  All around him, other boys were sitting up and yawning, reaching for their helmets and whips. A kick of fear hit Rashid as he took in what Salman had said. It was the last race of the day. The big, important one, and he was riding Khamri.

  He stumbled to his feet and stood, still groggy, yawning and stretching. Then someone took hold of his raised arm and shook it.

  ‘I’m looking for my son, Ejaz,’ an anxious voice said in Punjabi. ‘Do you know him? Have you seen him?’

  Rashid squinted up at the man, but the sun was in his eyes. He couldn’t see his face clearly.

  ‘He’s nearly five years old. Must be this big by now.’ The man put his hand out to indicate a small child’s height. ‘Ejaz. That’s his name. Ejaz. One of you boys must know him.’

  Rashid shook his head. The man gave up on him and darted off after a clutch of little jockeys who were drifting back towards their masoul.

  ‘Ejaz!’ Rashid heard him call out desperately. ‘Don’t any of you know him? I’m his father!’

  He had been seen. Two uniformed policemen were running towards him. They grabbed his arms roughly.

  ‘Out of here, you! This is a restricted area. Who let you in?’

  The man looked thin and weedy beside them. They hustled him easily towards the entrance of the holding pen. As his eyes followed them, Rashid caught a momentary glimpse of a woman outside. She was wearing Pakistani clothes and hugging herself with anxiety. A policeman approached her and began to gesticulate. She shrank away from him, retreating.

  A cough distracted Rashid. Puppo, who always took a long time to wake up, was still sitting on the sand, his helmet tilted over one ear, fiddling with his whip.

  ‘Come on, Puppo,’ Rashid said impatiently. ‘The race’ll start in a minute.’

  Puppo took no notice.

  Rashid tapped on his helmet. Puppo jumped, startled, and frowned at him, ripping his helmet off and throwing it peevishly away.

  ‘Don’t do that, Yasser. You scared me,’ he said crossly.

  ‘You’ve got to come,’ Rashid said impatiently. ‘Now.’

  All over the holding pen, camels were being prepared, their blankets removed, and their jockeys strapped into their harnesses and helmets.

  ‘Was that Shari? You didn’t let me say hello,’ Iqbal said, frowning at Rashid as he slotted his radio receiver into the pouch on his harness.

  Rashid said nothing, afraid he’d offended him.

  ‘So you found him at last,’ Iqbal went on.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re lucky, having a brother.’

  ‘Haven’t you got one?’

  Iqbal shrugged, as if he didn’t know.

  Rashid thought about this. Iqbal had never said anything about his family, and Rashid had never asked him. He couldn’t imagine Iqbal with a family, anyway, with a mother or a father, brothers and sisters. He would be a different kind of person, hardly Iqbal at all. Rashid didn’t like the idea. Iqbal was complete in himself, strong and brave, the best person in the world.

  There were questions, though, that he wanted to ask. Where had Iqbal come from before Dubai? How old had he been? Who had brought him here? But before he could make the questions sound right, and say them out loud, Abu Nazir had appeared. He was grabbing Rashid by the shoulders and shaking him.

  ‘No more fooling around this time. No more excuses. Don’t dare pretend any longer that you don’t know what you’re doing. You mess up this time and I’ll beat you so hard you won’t sit down for a week.’

  Rashid nodded, his eyes obediently lowered. He’d been distracted by Iqbal, but now he had to think about the race. His heart began to hammer.

  Syed Ali was talking to Haji Faroukh. Salman was standing by Khamri’s head, tugging on her rope, forcing her to kneel. Rashid took a deep breath and climbed on to her back. Syed Ali turned away from Haji Faroukh and watched Khamri rise to her feet with irritable grunts. He smiled up at Rashid.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do your best,’ he said pleasantly. ‘There’s a lot of prize money on this race. You’ll get a tip if you win.’

  Salman had removed Khamri’s muzzle. Rashid, settling himself in the saddle, felt her tense and her neck muscles begin to work.

  ‘Watch out, Salman!’ he called.

  Salman dropped her bridle and jumped out of the way just as Khamri lunged at him with her teeth, snapping viciously at his arm.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ shouted Haji Faroukh. Salman had tripped over, and was trying to get up. Haji Faroukh shoved him out of the way and grabbed Khamri’s bridle, jerking it to bring her under control.

  Syed Ali laughed nervously.

  ‘Full of spirit! Excellent! She can’t wait to start running. I’ve got a good f
eeling about this one. Inshallah, we have a winner on our hands.’

  There were at least twice as many camels ready and mounted for this race as there had been for the earlier ones. It was going to be a nightmare on the starting line, Rashid could tell. There would be horrible moments as the camels milled about, pushing and shoving, before they settled into the race.

  Shari can’t do this. He’ll be hopeless at this, he thought. He’ll fall off. I know he will.

  Salman was leading the last four of the uzba’s camels out of the holding pen now. There was a buzz of excitement outside as men closely watched their camels position themselves for the race, the drivers revved their engines, and the masouls and uzba hands struggled to control the nervous animals.

  The pistol shot rang out. The barrier began to lift. The first camels were under it and through already. Then the scream of a child rang out, and behind him, out of the corner of his eye, Rashid saw a little jockey lose his balance and fall, to disappear from sight between the trampling camels.

  Shari, he thought for a second, but the child’s jacket had been blue, and the one Shari had been wearing was red.

  There was no time to think about it any more. Khamri was sidestepping jerkily towards the barrier. Now she was under it, with the long run of the first straight ahead.

  Rashid shivered with relief. The worst bit was over. He had to hang on now, and try to force Khamri through the mob of camels ahead.

  He had settled down, feeling the power of Khamri’s running.

  ‘On the back leg! Whip her!’

  His pulse quickened in response to the excitement in Abu Nazir’s voice as it crackled through the receiver.

  They were halfway down the first straight. Khamri had pulled ahead, and Rashid could see only two camels in front of him.

  I can take them, I know I can, he thought. I can win this. I’m going to win!

  A scream behind sent a shudder through him. He half turned to look, and saw a tiny jockey slide helplessly sideways from his saddle. Tied on by the rope, the child was soon dangling by the back legs of his camel, which was kicking out, trying to free itself. Rashid saw enough to know that it wasn’t Shari or Puppo. Shaken, he turned forward again.

  ‘You child of Satan! You dirty little animal!’ came Abu Nazir’s hysterical voice. ‘Don’t look round! Ride! Whip her!’

  But Khamri’s momentum had been lost. Another camel was coming up from behind, overtaking him inch by inch. Rashid glanced sideways and saw that it was Nanga, being ridden by Iqbal, and that Iqbal’s face was set in a grimace of fearful determination.

  The finishing line was in view already. The two leaders were far ahead, the gap impossible to close, but Iqbal was whipping Nanga on as if he still had a chance of winning.

  ‘You’re falling behind! I’ll kill you!’ Abu Nazir’s voice screeched up at him from the receiver on his chest.

  Rashid took a deep breath and forced his mind back into the race. Yes, he had it now. The rhythm was back. He and Khamri were one creature, riding for victory, gaining on the pair ahead, going neck and neck with Nanga alongside. Then, wanting to share his elation, he looked sideways at Iqbal, and read absolute desperation on his face. He lifted the whip again, but knew with instant clarity that he had to let Iqbal win. Ignoring Abu Nazir’s frantic yells, he let the whip fall harmlessly on Khamri’s rump, and watched Nanga run on ahead.

  Ten minutes later, back in the holding pen, Iqbal was jubilant. Rashid tried to catch his eye, wanting praise for holding Khamri back, but Iqbal wouldn’t look at him.

  ‘Third place! Nearly second! Best race that Nanga’s ever run!’ he was bragging to Salman, who, without replying, handed him a bottle of water. ‘Haji said so. He was really pleased with me. I’m still top jockey. Didn’t you hear him, Salman? That’s what he actually said.’ He turned at last to Rashid. ‘You’ve got to keep them going when they’re on the straight, Yasser,’ he said grandly. ‘You lost it then. Khamri was a better bet than Nanga too.’

  That’s not fair, Rashid wanted to say. I let you win.

  He bit his lip. He’d wanted Iqbal to be grateful. Things weren’t turning out the way he’d meant. And he’d be punished for it now.

  But the bottle which Salman was holding out to him wiped everything else from his mind. He grabbed it and raised it to his lips. The cool feel of the water was wonderful.

  The joy of it was short-lived. Abu Nazir, hurrying into the holding pen ahead of Syed Ali, had snatched the bottle away before Rashid had drained it. He struck Rashid hard across the face, felling him.

  ‘Not here,’ Rashid heard Syed Ali whisper. ‘Restrain yourself.’

  Rashid was hauled to his feet and told curtly to follow. He trailed miserably out of the holding pen in the wake of the two men, Abu Nazir’s driver opened the back door of the Land Cruiser and he scrambled up on to the seat, with the help of a kick from Abu Nazir’s sandalled foot.

  Whenever Haji Faroukh punished the boys, he used the plastic hose and beat them in the heat of his anger. He was quick to calm down, and bore no grudges, but his beatings were bad enough. Abu Nazir, though, used a camel whip, with agonizing force and precision, and his anger was cold and vindictive. By the time he had finished beating Rashid, near the rubbish bins behind the guest house, Rashid was a quivering, wretched, sobbing little creature, his back, arms and legs striped scarlet with weals.

  His heart, though, hurt even more than his body.

  It’s not fair, he shouted silently inside his head. I did it for Iqbal!

  Abu Nazir finished his punishment with a final contemptuous kick.

  ‘Don’t ever - ever - throw a race away again. When you ride my camels you ride to win.’

  He threw the whip aside and stalked off. A moment later, Rashid heard Abu Nazir’s car engine start, and knew he had left the uzba. No one was about now. The others had not yet returned from the race track with the camels.

  ‘Zero five zero seven seven . . .’ he began to whisper hoarsely, but even Uncle Bilal’s phone number had no power to comfort him.

  After what seemed like a long time, he picked himself up and began to hobble across to the water tank, but before he had reached it, the camels, led by Haji Faroukh, were turning in through the entrance to the uzba. The three boys, drooping with fatigue, were riding, and Salman was bringing up the rear.

  Haji Faroukh frowned and shook his head at the sight of Rashid, but there was concern, not anger, in his face. He led the camels into the pen. Amal and Iqbal slid to the ground, and reached up to lift Puppo down. Then they all started across the sand towards Rashid.

  ‘Come back here,’ Haji Faroukh called out. ‘Water the camels first.’

  He spoke quietly to Salman. Salman went up to Rashid and gently took his hand.

  ‘You come kitchen with me,’ he said.

  He sat Rashid down on the step and brought him first a long glass of cool water. Rashid sipped gingerly. Every movement hurt.

  Salman came back out of the kitchen and put a bowl into his hands, smiling with the pleasure of one offering a treat. There was rice and lentils, chicken and vegetables, with a thick flap of bread. Rashid looked down at the food, bemused. He had been half dead with hunger earlier in the day, and this was the best food he’d ever been offered, but now he didn’t want to eat at all. He put the bowl down beside him on the step.

  ‘Better you should eat, Yasser,’ Salman said kindly, squatting down beside him. ‘Abu Nazir very bad for beating. He beat me when I little boy, camel jockey like you. Not your fault. Haji Faroukh, he not angry with you at all.’

  Rashid didn’t take in his words, hearing only the gentleness in his voice. Salman delicately lifted the shirt up to look at his back. Rashid flinched, afraid of being touched.

  Salman sucked in his breath.

  ‘He beat you so bad. Just for let Khamri go a bit slow. Abu Nazir, he like to beat every boy one time. Now he finish with you. No more beat you again.’

  He picked up the bowl and put it back in Rashid�
��s hands.

  ‘Eat, Yasser. Everything better tomorrow.’

  The other boys had been released at last. They were trudging across the open ground towards the kitchen, half dead with hunger and exhaustion. They squatted silently round Rashid, waiting for Salman to give them their supper.

  ‘Abu Nazir’s horrible, like a - like a tiger,’ Puppo said at last, his eyes big with sympathy. ‘Or a snake.’

  Salman handed round their bowls.

  ‘Chicken!’ Iqbal said, smiling with pleasure. ‘And beans!’

  He picked up his drumstick and ripped at the meat with this teeth. They ate on, saying nothing.

  ‘Haji Faroukh can give you some cream for your back,’ Amal said at last. ‘It’ll hurt really badly tomorrow, but then it’ll start feeling better.’

  ‘If Abu Nazir beats me, I’m going to bite his legs,’ announced Puppo.

  ‘You’re going to do what?’ scoffed Iqbal. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I wanted to kill Abu Nazir when he beat me,’ Amal said softly. ‘If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot him dead. Through the head.’ He shuffled sideways, moving closer to Rashid. ‘With Haji, at least there’s a reason, and he’s nice to you afterwards. Abu Nazir’s just a - a—’

  ‘A tiger snake,’ giggled Puppo, pleased with himself.

  ‘I told you, Yasser, didn’t I?’ Amal went on. ‘Race days are the worst. Your little brother, he did all right. He didn’t fall or anything. I saw him go off afterwards.’

  Rashid nodded gratefully. He had forgotten about Shari. Amal was trying to cheer him up, he could tell. He wished, though, that it was Iqbal who was talking to him like this.

  ‘There was a boy who fell behind us,’ he said to Iqbal, his voice husky. ‘What happened to him?’

  Iqbal shrugged.

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘I did.’ Amal was picking the last scraps of meat off his bone. ‘They put him in an ambulance and took him away.’

  ‘Was he dead?’ asked Puppo.

  Amal frowned at the casualness of his tone.

  ‘No. I saw his leg move.’

  ‘I wish I could go to hospital,’ sighed Puppo.

  ‘No you don’t, you little idiot,’ Amal said with unusual sharpness, then lapsed back into silence.