‘Thanks,’ I say.
I’m starving. I gulp my sardine down. Rashida takes a swig of water and passes the bottle to me.
I want to tell her how I’ve never met anyone like her before, and not just because all the teenage girls in our village had to stay indoors. I don’t in case it embarrasses her. Also I can see Bibi is in trouble. She’s really hungry, but she hates sardines.
‘Swallow it whole in a mouthful of water,’ says Rashida. ‘You won’t taste it as much.’
Bibi follows her advice.
‘Thanks,’ says Bibi. ‘I’m glad we met you.’
‘So am I,’ says Rashida. ‘You’re a nice kid.’
‘My sister’s really nice too,’ says Omar. ‘And she can play the nose flute.’
We all ignore him.
‘When we get to Australia,’ I say to Rashida, ‘my parents will repay you for the food, but for now I’d like to give you something.’
I pick up the soccer ball.
‘Hey, that’s half mine,’ says Omar.
I show Rashida how I can keep the ball bouncing from knee to knee while I’m sitting down.
‘Would you like me to teach you that?’ I ask her.
She grins and nods. ‘I would,’ she says. ‘Nothing like learning new skills to pass the time on a long and boring sea voyage.’
‘It won’t be boring if we’re attacked by sharks,’ says Omar gloomily. ‘Or whales. Or if a huge storm blows up and giant waves smash onto the deck. Or if a typhoon –’
‘Omar,’ says Bibi. ‘Shut up.’
Nobody says anything for a few moments while we think about what Omar has just said. Then Rashida sits back and bends her knees.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Show me how to do it.’
I do, gratefully. Bibi helps me. Bouncing a ball between your knees isn’t just a skill, it’s a really good way of forgetting about your fears.
For a while.
After a bit, Rashida takes her eyes off the ball and peers at me and Bibi.
‘You two are sunburnt,’ she says. ‘Here, put some of this on.’
She unzips her suitcase and hands me a bottle of sun protection cream.
‘I’m sunburnt too,’ says Omar.
‘Sorry,’ says Rashida. ‘I didn’t notice under all the dirt.’
I’m only half-listening to what they’re saying because I’m peeking into Rashida’s suitcase. I know it’s rude, but I can’t stop myself. Our survival could depend on whether she’s got more sardines.
She hasn’t.
All I can see, in among the clothes, is a big knotted plastic bag of something.
Something, I realise with a jolt of excitement, more precious to us right now than gold or Manchester United season tickets.
Flour.
26
I hope this works.
The sailors haven’t stopped me so far, but if things go badly wrong I’m worried they could turn violent.
Luckily the nasty one’s asleep. The other three are crowded round me, shining their torches, fascinated by what I’m doing. I don’t think they’ve ever seen anyone baking bread on a diesel engine before.
I’ve explained to them as best I can with sign language that usually bread goes inside an oven, and that I’ve made these loaves even flatter than usual so I can drape them over the top of the engine.
Also I want this bread to cook quickly because I’ve left Bibi up on the deck. Rashida’s there, but Bibi will be worried if she wakes up and I’m gone. It’s really uncomfortable, sleeping sitting up, and you wake up a lot.
‘Please,’ I have to mime yet again. ‘Don’t touch it yet.’
Sailors are almost as impatient with fresh-baked bread as little sisters.
I hope I didn’t put in too much salt. It’s hard to judge when you’re used to the dry stuff. We’re in trouble if I mixed too much seawater with the fresh water. And kneading the dough in a plastic bucket by moonlight isn’t the best way to get the stretchiness right.
‘It’s not ready,’ I mime to the sailors with even bigger hand movements that I hope don’t make them cross.
It was really good of Rashida to let me use the flour. And really smart of her parents to make her bring it in case of emergency.
Talking of emergency, this area here under the deck is awash with water. It’s up to our knees. I hope the boat isn’t leaking. I’ve asked the sailors, but they don’t seem to know what I mean.
I don’t think I’ll say anything to Bibi and the others. I don’t want to make them anxious. It’s hard to digest new-baked bread when your stomach’s in a knot.
27
My stomach’s in a knot.
‘You’re a genius, Jamal,’ says Omar, chewing his breakfast piece of bread.
I don’t feel like a genius, I’m too seasick.
Omar was right. The waves have got bigger. If only the boat would stop going up them and then down them. If only the sea all around us would stop going up and down too.
Bibi clambers over me, back from giving some bread to the little kids. At least she’s not seasick, that’s one good thing.
‘The little kids say thank you,’ says Bibi, ‘and their mum says you’re a genius.’
Omar drags his fishing line out of the water and examines the bait. ‘I could be a genius too if these dumb fish would bite,’ he mutters. ‘I think they know this isn’t squid. I think they know it’s blanket fluff.’
I groan as the boat moves in several directions at once.
‘Poor thing,’ says Rashida, putting her hand on my forehead. ‘I read somewhere seasickness is meant to wear off after a day.’
‘A week, more like,’ says Omar gloomily. ‘Only five days to go, Jamal.’
I have a horrible feeling he’s right. Half the people on the boat have still got it. Some worse than me. All over the deck, people are propped up against each other groaning.
‘Here,’ says Rashida, adjusting the spare t-shirt of hers she’s knotted on my head to keep the sun off. ‘Have a sip of water.’
She lifts a vegetable tin to my lips.
‘I’m sick too,’ says Omar indignantly from under the spare shorts of hers he’s got knotted on his head.
Rashida gives him a sip of water too. Bibi gives him a glare.
A whiff of vomit and urine hits me and I struggle to keep the water down.
For the millionth time since we set sail, I remind myself why we’re doing this. Freezing on a hard deck all night. Roasting all day. Watching poor little children and old people suffer even more than us.
Australia.
Laughing people.
A kind government.
Mum and Dad and Dubbo Abattoirs United.
I hope we get there soon.
28
I wake up.
I’m stiff and smelly and sore and hungry, but something feels good.
I realise what it is.
I’m not seasick anymore.
I lift Bibi’s head off my shoulder, careful not to wake her, and gently lean it against Rashida’s. Then I stand up and painfully stretch my legs and blink gratefully at the sunrise that’s turning the flat sea into a golden desert.
I realise another good thing.
The engine has stopped.
The silence is blissful after three days and nights of rumbling and chugging. All I can hear is the slap of water against the boat and the faint crying of babies.
And, suddenly, a smuggler shouting.
The three smugglers are standing in front of their cabin with the sailors around them.
Noodle soup, I think happily. They’re giving us more noodle soup. Except where’s the pot?
‘There’s been a mistake,’ shouts the chief smuggler, waving a fistful of boat tickets. ‘The price you were charged is wrong. To go to Australia you must each pay another hundred dollars.’
I stare at them, stunned.
All over the deck people are rubbing their eyes sleepily and staring at each other in disbelief. Rashida is on her
feet. Bibi sits looking confused, trying to take this in.
The chief smuggler says it again in other languages. People start yelling and wailing. A man jumps up and tries to look at the tickets in the smuggler’s hand, but a sailor pushes him down and threatens him with a wooden club.
I see that all the smugglers and sailors are holding clubs. Except the sailor in yellow overalls, who’s holding a bucket. My bread bucket.
‘Pay the full price,’ shouts the smuggler, ‘or we turn back.’
There’s a lot of crying now, and it’s not just babies. I put my arm round Bibi.
The smugglers and the sailors move along the deck, emptying people’s bags, thrusting their hands into people’s pockets, raising their clubs at anyone who says no. Everything valuable goes into the bucket. Money, jewellery, candlesticks, everything.
I can feel Omar trembling beside me. ‘I haven’t got anything,’ he croaks in a tiny voice.
Nor have I. My pocket money jar got blown up with my room. I pull Bibi close to me and wonder desperately how the smugglers would feel about me teaching them two hundred dollars worth of ball tricks.
I glance at Omar and Rashida.
Four hundred dollars worth.
Not good, probably.
‘Fuel is expensive,’ the chief smuggler shouts. ‘It’s six more days of fuel to Australia, only three days of fuel to go back. You choose.’
The bucket appears in front of my face.
‘Pay up,’ barks the sailor in yellow. Then he recognises Bibi and Rashida. His face twists with dislike.
I duck down and fumble under the corner of the blanket and pull out our last two loaves of bread. I put them in the bucket. I hold my breath while the sailor stares at them. I pray he likes sandwiches.
The sailor grabs the loaves and flings them into the sea.
Before I can offer to make him and the smugglers some fresh bread if they’ve got some flour, Rashida reaches into her suitcase and hands something to the chief smuggler.
It’s a watch.
‘Four people,’ she says.
The smuggler studies the watch, then tosses it into the bucket.
We all wait for him to say it’s not enough. The sailor smirks. Omar prays. Rashida bites her lip. I hang onto Bibi. Ever since the bread hit the water she’s been growling and trying to get close enough to kick the sailor.
The smuggler moves on, pulling the startled sailor after him.
We stand here, weak with relief.
When we find the strength to speak, Omar gets in first. ‘Where did you get a watch that valuable?’ he asks Rashida.
‘Dad bought it with the rest of his savings,’ she replies. ‘He knew this would happen.’
I want to hug Rashida. I also want to hug her dad. Instead we sit here, hoping the smugglers get enough in their bucket.
Finally they do. The boat engine coughs into life and we jolt forward and chug and rumble towards Australia again. I want to hug Rashida and her dad even more.
Instead I stare at the horizon, hoping desperately that if the same thing happens on Mum and Dad’s boat, Mum gives up her wedding ring without a fight.
29
‘Jamal,’ whispers Bibi. ‘How many days have we been on this boat?
Her head is heavy against my arm. I open my eyes. The sunlight sears in. I squint down at her face. It’s wet with perspiration. She’s got a fever.
‘How many days?’ she whispers again.
I wipe her face with Rashida’s spare t-shirt.
‘Five,’ I say. ‘I think.’
‘Six,’ murmurs Rashida, sitting hunched on the other side of me.
‘I was going to say that,’ mutters Omar over her shoulder.
I know why Bibi’s asking. The food and water on the boat ran out this morning and she’s wondering how many days left till we get to Australia. Trying to work out if we can survive.
I’ve been doing the same.
The answer’s three and I don’t know if we can.
A lot of the people sitting on this deck look as though they feel the same way. I’ve never seen so much despair on so many faces.
I wipe Bibi’s face again.
‘Try to forget which day it is,’ I say to her. ‘Just try and rest.’
‘I don’t want to forget which day it is,’ says Bibi in a tiny voice. ‘It’s my birthday.’
I stare at her, my sun-addled brain frantically calculating the date.
She’s right.
‘Oh Bibi,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
How could I have forgotten? It’s bad enough being stuck out here in the middle of the ocean on your birthday, but to have your own family forget is terrible. I can see from Rashida and Omar’s faces that they think so too.
‘Happy Birthday, Bibi,’ I say to her miserably.
The others do too.
Then I pull myself together. There’s not much I can give Bibi for her birthday out here, not even a glass of water, but one thing I can do is try and cheer her up.
‘Let’s plan a party for your birthday,’ I say to her. ‘We’ll have it when we get to Australia.’
‘OK,’ she says, brightening.
‘My birthday’s in four months,’ says Omar. Rashida gives him a dig with her elbow.
‘In Australia,’ I say to Bibi, ‘when it’s your birthday, the Australian government comes round to your house with a cake and fizzy drinks.’
I’m not completely sure if this is true, but with a kind and caring government it could be. Anyway, it’s the thought that counts.
‘And sardines?’ asks Omar.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Probably.’
‘And hamburgers with onion and egg and chilli sauce?’ says Rashida.
‘Definitely,’ I say.
‘Brilliant,’ says Omar. ‘What’s a hamburger?’
Rashida tells him.
‘I prefer ice-cream to hamburgers,’ says Bibi. She’s looking better than she has for hours.
‘In Australian supermarkets,’ I say, ‘they sell fifty different kinds of ice-cream.’
OK, I’m getting carried away now. The others look at me, frowning.
‘Fifty?’ says Omar.
‘Get real,’ says Bibi. ‘Twenty, maybe.’
I give them a look to let them know that if I’m exaggerating a bit, it’s to make us all feel better.
‘What’s a supermarket?’ says Omar.
Rashida thinks for a moment. ‘It doesn’t have stalls like a normal market,’ she says. ‘It’s one very big shop that sells everything.’
‘Even bait?’ says Omar, gloomily eyeing his fishing line.
‘Bait and everything,’ says Rashida. ‘My mum used to love supermarkets.’
‘Your mum?’ I say, staring at her.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ says Rashida. ‘I was born in Australia.’
Now Bibi and Omar are staring at her too.
‘Soon after I was born we had a letter from Afghanistan,’ says Rashida quietly. ‘Telling us how all my uncles were dead in the war. So we went back to look after my grandparents until they died too. And then the government wouldn’t let us return to Australia. My parents are very sad.’
Rashida stares out across the churning water, towards where we’ve come from. Then she turns away and pulls out her mirror and lipstick.
I watch her make her lips green again, which can’t be easy when the boat’s rocking and your lips are trembling.
‘I’m sorry about your uncles and grandparents,’ I say quietly. ‘And your parents.’
Before I can stop myself, I’m thinking about my uncles and grandparents. And Mum and Dad.
And suddenly Bibi’s birthday doesn’t feel so happy anymore.
30
The people at the front of the boat start screaming.
At first I think word has just reached them about the fifty different kinds of ice-cream. But when I turn round, I see they’re excited about something else.
Another boat is coming towards us.
I jump up, dizzy with excitement myself.
For a wild moment I think it’s Mum and Dad’s boat. That we’ve caught up with them and they’ve seen us and come over.
But it’s too big to be Mum and Dad’s boat. And as it gets closer, I can see there are no people sitting on the deck. Just a few men in tracksuits and trainers, standing watching us.
Another wild thought hits me. They look like a soccer team. An international soccer team, perhaps, travelling to a World Cup qualifying match by boat.
Then I see the men are all holding automatic weapons.
People on our boat are whispering to each other fearfully. They’re repeating one scary word that makes my insides go colder than fifty different types of ice-cream.
‘Pirates.’
‘Oh no,’ mutters Rashida.
I realise it must be true. Sailors don’t wear tracksuits and very expensive trainers. Soccer teams don’t carry automatic weapons, not even in cup finals.
I pull Bibi to her feet and hold her close. We watch, frozen with fear, as the pirate boat stops next to ours. Several pirates jump onto our deck. The others stand on their deck, pointing their guns at us.
I wait for the smugglers to fight the pirates.
They don’t.
Instead, they greet the pirates with big grins. They shake hands. Then they jump onto the pirate boat. The sailor in yellow goes with them. Under his arm is the bucket of valuables.
‘They’re abandoning us,’ whispers Rashida.
I stare in horror. She’s right. The smugglers must have arranged this. They’ve taken our money and now they’re dumping us.
‘Stinking jackal fleas,’ mutters Bibi.
‘I knew it,’ says Omar gloomily. ‘I knew this would happen.’
Some of the pirates are still on our boat. And now something even worse is happening. The pirates are grabbing at the huddled people on the deck. Pulling their coats and blankets off them.
I don’t get it. The smugglers have already taken all the valuables.
The pirates are dragging a young woman to her feet. They’re carrying her, kicking and screaming onto their boat.
Suddenly I understand.
The pirates aren’t looking for money or jewellery, they’re looking for girls who are out of doors without their parents. These pirates are as bad as our government.