Lost Riders Read online

  One of the hired hands was watching.

  ‘Stupid beasts, camels,’ Rashid heard him say contemptuously. ‘Don’t have the wit to do anything unless they can copy another one doing it first.’

  Rashid watched as Hamlul led first Shahin, then Khamri on to the truck. It was these four he would have to ride today. Hamlul, his favourite, was easy enough, though hard to whip to a win. Shahin, nervous and unpredictable, was easily spooked. He hated riding her. Mujib had been riding Shahin, Amal had told him, when he’d fallen to his death. Rashid shuddered every time he looked at her. Soudani was all right, he supposed. And then there was Khamri. He’d got the measure of her now. As long as someone else saddled her and took her muzzle off, and as long as she was handled calmly into the starting pen, he knew he could ride her well. He’d ridden Khamri to victory before and he could do it again whatever the competition.

  Syed Ali had arrived and was watching as the tail board was raised.

  ‘Ready to go?’ he asked Haji Faroukh anxiously. ‘You followed my instructions this morning? They’ve had nothing to eat or drink?’

  Rashid could see, by the compression of Haji Faroukh’s lips, that he was becoming irritated.

  ‘Of course, sir. I know what to do.’

  ‘Good man. Where’s the boy?’

  ‘Yasser!’ Haji Faroukh called out. ‘Get in the back with Salman and the camels!’

  Salman had already climbed up and into the truck. He leaned down to give Rashid a hand up.

  ‘You have the boy’s whip, helmet, harness, radio?’ fussed Syed Ali.

  Haji Faroukh picked up the bundle he’d laid by the ramp.

  ‘All here.’

  ‘Good. I’ll lead the way. Let’s get going, for heaven’s sake. The traffic will be building up already.’

  Haji Faroukh didn’t deign to answer. He had already climbed into the front passenger seat, and let out his feelings by shutting the door with a slam.

  It was a couple of hours drive to the race course in Abu Dhabi and there was no shade in the back of the truck. Rashid had been allowed only half a chapatti and a cup of water for breakfast. He knew he could expect no more until the racing was over, late in the afternoon. He knew not to think about it. It would only make things worse.

  The camels had settled down to the journey with surprising patience. Once kneeling, they had relaxed and began to chew the cud, their long-lashed eyes fixed on nothing.

  ‘One day, when I am big masoul, I learn to drive truck like this one,’ Salman announced out of the blue.

  ‘I’m going to be a motor mechanic,’ Rashid said. ‘I like cars and stuff too.’

  Salman shook his head.

  ‘Mechanic no good. Masoul good job. Nice salary. Haji Faroukh, he got plenty money.’

  Rashid thought about this. Haji Faroukh didn’t seem rich to him.

  ‘He send all his money to Pakistan,’ Salman went on, ‘to his wife and kids. Kids going to school. Nice clothes, house, everything. His wife, she came last year to visit. End of racing season, Haji go nice holiday to Pakistan.’

  Rashid said nothing, digesting this new information. He couldn’t imagine Haji Faroukh being married, or with children of his own.

  ‘I bet he’s kind to his kids,’ he said at last. ‘I bet he doesn’t beat them with a plastic hose.’

  Salman shrugged.

  ‘Haji not bad. You see some of the others. Worse than him. Is not so easy, to be a masoul. You find that out, Yasser, when you a masoul yourself.’

  ‘I told you. I’m not going to be a masoul. I’m going to be a mechanic, back home, in Pakistan.’

  Salman snorted.

  ‘You think you can choose? You here now, Yasser. Your life is here. Make the best of it. Like me.’

  Rashid shivered in spite of the heat.

  I’m not like you, he thought. I’m not going to get stuck here. I’m going home.

  They had slowed down, held up by the increasing traffic. A long line of SUVs and camel trucks was heading for the race course. Its long white buildings lay along the flat horizon, shimmering in the haze.

  Rashid shivered again, but from nerves this time. Today was really important. The races were big ones. There’d be hundreds of camels competing and dozens and dozens of jockeys, who he didn’t know at all.

  He didn’t like the idea of a strange course. What if the starting barrier was a different kind here, and he misjudged the way it went up? What if the turns of the course were sharper, and the camels jostled too closely together as they ran round them? And who would he talk to in the breaks? The other boys might all have friends. They mightn’t let him join in with them.

  The truck entered an enclosure and backed up to the unloading ramp. Haji Faroukh climbed out of the passenger seat and hurried round to the back.

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No, Haji,’ Salman said, looking serious and responsible. ‘Khamri even quiet all the way.’

  Rashid wasn’t listening. He was looking out across the huge mass of vehicles, picking out the hundreds of little boys who were standing in knots, talking to each other, or running to greet newcomers.

  There might be someone I know, he told himself, but he couldn’t see anyone.

  ‘Get down from there, Yasser,’ Haji Faroukh said.

  Rashid climbed over the side of the truck and slid to the ground. He stood beside it, feeling shy. Then he saw Syed Ali walking towards him with Abu Nazir beside him.

  ‘All well?’

  Syed Ali ran an eye over the camels, then put a hand on Rashid’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m counting on you, young man. I’m up for the golden sword today, if we do well. There’ll be a tip for you too, if you pull it off.’ He turned to Haji Faroukh. ‘You know how much last year’s winner in yesterday’s final was sold for? Four hundred thousand dollars! If Khamri wins the big one, that’s the kind of money we’re looking at.’

  Haji Faroukh was up in the truck, bending over to untie the ropes that were binding the camels’ legs, but he raised his head with a jerk.

  ‘You’ll sell Khamri if she wins?’

  His expression was impossible to read.

  ‘Yes, of course. If I get a good offer.’

  Haji Faroukh didn’t answer him, but shouted to Rashid, ‘Fetch your helmet and your stuff from the front. The first race is starting soon.’

  As the day wore on, Rashid realized that there was nothing special about this race course or race day. The desert all around was the same here as in Dubai - hot, empty and dry. The race course was as long, the barriers as hard, the sand as churned up. The camel owners wore the same clothes, drove the same kinds of cars, and talked the same talk on and on, comparing camel speeds and camel prices, camel diets and camel treatments, camel-training programmes and camel-racing rules. Several times, though, as he waited wearily in the enclosure for a race to start, he heard the word ‘robot’ again, and wondered idly what it meant.

  He was glad that Hamlul was the first runner of the day. With the camel’s placid temper and easy stride, Rashid had a chance to settle down and get to know the course. He brought him in at a respectable eighth place out of forty.

  Soudani came next. No one expected too much of him. Young and inexperienced, he was unpredictable and easily distracted. He took a savage bite at another young male as the camels lined up at the start, nearly starting a rumpus. Salman had to dart in through the throng of nervous animals, risking a kick or worse, to jerk Soudani’s head round and prevent a catastrophe. Unsettled, Rashid bodged the start of the race and, in spite of near hysterical curses from Abu Nazir, he finished badly, earning a savage tirade when the race was over, and a painful smack over the head.

  Shahin’s race, though, was the hardest. By the afternoon, the numbers of SUVs roaring round the track alongside the camels had multiplied to an army. Each one was crammed with spectators, and others clung to the outsides, standing on the tailboards and hanging on to the roofs. Horns blared, men yelled, radios crackled and the racket
spooked Shahin, who veered sideways, almost crashing into the rails, then tried to turn and bolt back to the starting line. Only strenuous whipping brought her round and set her running in the right direction. To Rashid’s surprise, she then put on a violent spurt, streaking forward down the straight, overtaking one camel after another. The messy start had lost her all hope of winning, but she had done well, and Syed Ali praised Rashid when at last he slid off her back, trembling and sweating from the fear and strain of it.

  ‘She’s shaping up,’ he heard Syed Ali say to Abu Nazir. ‘I didn’t know she had it in her. Our number-one winner next season, if she goes on like this.’

  By the last race of the day, Rashid’s head felt as heavy as a stone, while his legs seemed to drag as he walked. He barely heard Syed Ali’s excited instructions as he climbed wearily on to Khamri’s back and rode her to the starting line.

  The barrier seemed to swim in front of his eyes.

  I don’t care if I hit it, he thought. I don’t care if it breaks my neck. What does it matter anyway if I die?

  The starting gun sounded. The barrier shot up. He was under it, and off. He lifted his whip, and at that moment Khamri slipped and skidded in the sand, her back legs splaying outwards so that Rashid had to struggle to keep his balance and prevent himself from falling backwards over her tail. There was a scream behind him as another camel, out of control, skidded into Khamri’s rear. Rashid, regaining control, looked round and saw the little jockey hurtle off into the air, hit another camel, then crash to the ground and lie still.

  A tide of red anger rose up in Rashid’s head, almost blinding him.

  ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ he shouted, beating Khamri’s rump with demented strength.

  Khamri, galvanized by the impact, set off and begin to run like the wind.

  ‘I hate you, hate you, hate you! You stink, stink, stink!’ screamed Rashid, marking every word with a blow from his whip.

  Tears were streaming from his eyes. Hatred boiled in his heart. And yet, through his passionate rage, he knew that they were running as they’d never run before, that they were flying, leaving one camel after another in their wake, and that Khamri was winning, that he was going to win.

  17

  Rashid was half dead with exhaustion after the race. He swayed on Khamri’s back, not caring if he fell. He didn’t even have the energy to dismount, and had to be lifted down by Haji Faroukh, who held him for a moment in his arms. It was almost, Rashid thought with wonder, as if he was being hugged. For a breathtaking moment he remembered Pio’s arms round him, and had a sudden urge to fling his own round Haji Faroukh’s stout neck, and burst into tears, but Haji Faroukh had already set him down on his feet, and called to Salman to bring him water. With the bottle to his lips, Rashid sank down to sit on the ground, leaning his back against Hamlul’s soft side as he placidly chewed the cud.

  He knew nothing of the celebrations, the presentation of the golden sword or the fuss that everyone was making of Syed Ali, and he barely heard Khamri’s groans as Haji Faroukh led her away. His head ached. He felt dizzy. He was almost too hungry to bear the thought of eating.

  ‘Here, Yasser. I bring for you.’ Salman was squatting beside him, pushing a candy bar into his hand. ‘No tell I give you sweets, all right?’

  Rashid lifted the bar to his mouth and bit into it. The heavenly taste flooded through him, bringing him to life.

  ‘Is there more water, Salman?’ he croaked.

  The second bottle made him feel even better.

  ‘Are we going back now?’ he said, seeing that the holding pen was already half empty, and that the few remaining masouls were making their camels rise, and leading them away.

  ‘Soon,’ said Salman, taking the crumpled wrapper of the candy bar away from him and shoving it deep into his pocket. ‘You don’t know what happen? The sheikh send a message. He want to buy Khamri. Maybe he take you too.’

  ‘Me? What do you mean, take me?’ Shocked, Rashid sat up with a jerk. ‘You mean to his uzba? To stay there?’

  Salman laughed at his horrified expression.

  ‘Not to worry, Yasser. Syed Ali not let you go, I don’t think. You very good for riding camels. Sheikh has too many jockeys already. He not need any more.’

  Rashid subsided again against Hamlul’s flank.

  ‘Is that why Haji took Khamri away? To sell her? She’s gone already?’

  Salman nodded.

  ‘If Syed Ali satisfy with the price.’

  Yes! Rashid thought jubilantly. I’ll never have to ride that monster again.

  Haji Faroukh came back into the holding pen.

  ‘That’s it. It’s over. Khamri’s gone,’ he said to Salman. ‘Get the others up. Get them going. Let’s get on home.’

  He jerked Shahin’s bridle to make her rise. Soudani and Hamlul rose too. Rashid automatically put out his hand to take Hamlul’s leading rein, ready to walk her back to the loading ramp, but Haji Faroukh took it from him.

  ‘Syed Ali wants you,’ he said. ‘In the car park. Go and find him.’

  Rashid’s heart leaped sickeningly

  ‘He’s not - he hasn’t - I’m not going to the Sheikh’s uzba?’ he stammered.

  Haji Faroukh rolled his eyes.

  ‘What put such a daft idea into your head?’ He took off the little gold embroidered cap he always wore on race day, and ran his fingers over his thick black hair. ‘I’ve had that camel since she was a calf. Trained her. Nursed her. Groomed her. Not a word of—’ He broke off, aware that Salman and Rashid were staring at him open-mouthed, frowned and slapped his cap back on his head again.

  ‘What are you still doing here?’ he growled at Rashid. ‘Do you want to make them wait forever?’

  In the car park, Syed Ali and Abu Nazir were in the centre of a crowd of admirers, both of them smiling with delight. A long jeweller’s case lay on the hood of Syed Ali’s white SUV. The lid was open, and Rashid caught the yellow gleam of the golden sword, lying on a bed of scarlet velvet.

  He hung back, feeling shy. Abu Nazir saw him.

  ‘Get into the car,’ he said, with a jerk of his head, and turned back to talk to the others.

  Rashid slipped on to the back seat of the car and rested gingerly against the soft leather, afraid of dirtying it. The driver, slouching behind the steering wheel, didn’t bother to turn round. He was leaning forward, fiddling with the knobs of the radio. He found the station he wanted, and sat back, listening to a stream of Arabic.

  Rashid’s stomach was curdling with fright.

  Haji Faroukh was lying to me, he told himself. They are going to sell me. To the sheikh. Why else would they have called for me? I won’t see Iqbal and Amal ever again. Uncle Bilal won’t know where I am. I’ll be miles away from Shari. The sheikh’s masoul might be horrible, and beat everyone all the time, like Shari’s does.

  He was in a fever pitch of worry by the time the group of men outside had dispersed. Syed Ali snapped the catches of the sword case shut, and brought it round to the far side of the car, laying it reverently on the back seat beside Rashid. Then he climbed into the front, lowered the window and called out a farewell to Abu Nazir, who was getting into his own car. They both laughed. Syed Ali pulled his head in and nodded to his driver, who started the engine.

  They’re planning it, Rashid thought. They’re going to take me to the sheikh now.

  Syed Ali looked over his shoulder at Rashid.

  ‘I was going to take you back to the uzba, Yasser,’ he said casually, ‘but you know what? I’ll take you home with me instead. I told my son about my champion jockey. He wants to meet you.’ He reached back and slapped a delighted hand down on Rashid’s knee. ‘I couldn’t believe the speed you got out of Khamri in that last race. Amazing!’

  ‘How much did the sheikh give for her, sir?’ asked the driver.

  ‘You’ll never believe it. Half a million dirhams, on top of the golden sword!’ He turned back to Rashid. ‘You’ll do the same with Shahin next season, I’m sure
of it. That’s another winner in the making, I can tell.’

  Rashid understood enough to know that he was not, after all, being sold to the sheikh’s uzba. He took in a deep breath of relief.

  ‘Your house, sir? I go your house now?’ he asked, in his halting Arabic.

  ‘Yes! I told you! You can see Abdullah - my son, tonight. I’ll get you back to the uzba tomorrow.’

  The radio was still on. Syed Ali leaned forward to turn up the volume. Rashid recognized the excited voice of a race commentator. The driver and Syed Ali were listening hard now, and when the race was over, they began to discuss the result. Rashid didn’t bother to listen to them. He looked unseeingly out of the window. The long straight road ran on and on through the desert, sand whirling over its black tarmac surface. Along the seafront, to the left, endless rows of high-rise apartment blocks pointed to the sky, like the fingers of raised hands.

  A lifetime ago, when he’d first come to Dubai, when he’d been a different person, he’d been in a car like this, expecting to go to a grand house, and live there, and play with a rich man’s son. Was it going to happen at last? Or was this going to turn out badly too, another trick, the start of an awful new life, worse even than being a camel jockey?

  At last, they reached the outskirts of Dubai. The car pulled off the busy main road and began to work its way through the city streets. Rashid sat up with his nose pressed against the window, staring with awe at the bright shop fronts and stream of vehicles, the women in skimpy western clothes, the glass-fronted office blocks and porticoes of grand hotels.

  Syed Ali’s house was in a quieter area of town. The driver stopped outside a pair of high metal gates, which swung open at the sound of his horn. Rashid barely had time to take in the big white house, the pink stone terrace, the bright green lawn and the glossy-leaved palm trees ranged in a row along the high white garden wall, before a boy came hurtling down the marble steps.

  ‘Aba!’ he was shouting. ‘Have you got it with you? Can I see the golden sword?’