Lost Riders Page 17

  She darted a look back into the shop.

  ‘You know his number? Your uncle’s number?’

  ‘Yes!’ He reeled the numbers off.

  ‘Wait.’ She took a pen from her pocket. ‘Say it again.’

  He repeated the numbers slowly, watching as she wrote them down on the back of her hand.

  The sound of a car braking sent her darting back into the shop. Rashid swung round. His knees turned to water as he saw Haji Faroukh climb out of the car and rush at him. It was too late to run away.

  Haji Faroukh took his arm in a painful grip, marched him back to the car and threw him into the back seat. A short ride later, they were back in the uzba, and Rashid tumbled out on to the sand.

  ‘Don’t - you - ever - ever - ever - go into my house again!’ Haji Faroukh roared, taking hold of Rashid’s shirt and shaking him like a wet cloth.

  Rashid waited, his eyes screwed shut, for the blows to fall, but instead he was hurled aside. Looking up, he saw Haji Faroukh stalk off, and realized that the peak of his rage had already inexplicably passed.

  19

  Iqbal, his earlier jealousy and hostility forgotten, was silently sympathetic to Rashid for the rest of the day. He even relented over the little car, letting Rashid see how much he liked it and wanted to play with it. Amal was kind too, quietly helping Rashid to lift the heavy buckets as they watered the camels. Rashid barely noticed.

  She won’t call Uncle Bilal. I know she won’t, he kept thinking. Anyway, did I say the numbers right?

  When at last the work of the uzba was done, he lay down on the mattress beside the empty place where Puppo had always curled up, his mind filled with dread. What if Shari had died already, and been buried in a hole in the sand? He might even now be no more than a shadow, a wisp of memory like Mujib, existing only as a name, which would haunt other little boys from the shadows of his uzba.

  He tossed and turned for a long time, while outside the heat of the desert day gave way to the cold of night. He tried to sleep but his eyes wouldn’t close. The three-quarter moon had risen and a ghostly beam shone in under the door. It seemed to call him, to draw him outside.

  He reached for his sweater, got up and opened the door. Amal turned and muttered in his sleep, and then was quiet again.

  Rashid had never been outside at night on his own before. He hadn’t known how quiet and still it would be.

  No one else is awake, he thought. And it’s light enough. I could find my way to Shari, if I had to, and come back quickly, and no one would know.

  He didn’t have to make a decision. His feet began to move of their own accord. He was already beyond the camel pen and passing the kitchen. The moonlight glinted on a plastic bottle lying by the kitchen step. It was the kind that Salman took to the races, to give the boys drinks at the end of the day. Rashid picked it up. It was still full of water. He’d take it in case Shari needed a drink.

  The water made him think of food. Meagre though the diet was at Syed Ali’s uzba, the boys belonging to Shari’s owner were notoriously starved. Rashid hesitated. There was no chance of taking anything from the kitchen. The door was shut and padlocked. But that day the camels had been given a special ration of dates and honey. The boys hadn’t been allowed near it, of course, but Rashid had seen the buckets in which the mixture had been carried out by one of the hired men. They were lazy, sometimes, about fetching them all in. A bucket might still be out there, in the camel pen, with a little food left inside it.

  He stole into the pen. The camels were kneeling, at rest. Their heads swivelled curiously towards him, their long-lashed eyes following his movements. But none of them made a noise.

  A bucket was there, under the feeding rack. Rashid felt inside it. A little of the sticky mixture was still left at the bottom. He tasted it. Yes, it was honey and dates all right. Sweet and delicious. Shari would like it, he knew.

  But first he had to find a way to carry it. The bucket was big and the handle clanked noisily. He needed something smaller.

  A light breeze, riffling through the palm-frond fence of the camel pen, sent something else fluttering. Rashid grabbed at it. He knew without looking what it was. Old plastic bags often blew into the fence and got stuck there. This one would do perfectly.

  He scooped the mess of dates and honey into the bag and licked his fingers, feeling proud of his cleverness. The next bit, though, was going to be harder.

  With the bottle of water in one hand and the plastic bag in the other, he was starting back to the entrance of the pen when his foot caught the side of the bucket. It rolled away, the handle clattering loudly, and landed against Shahin’s back leg. She gave a startled groan and began to rise to her feet. Rashid jumped with fright, then bolted. He was out of the pen, outside the uzba and racing off down the lane before he knew what he was doing.

  It was a long time since he’d visited Shari’s uzba with Uncle Bilal, but every Friday since then, on the way to the mosque, he’d looked down the path they’d taken that day and remembered the way to it. The path was straight, he was sure, with no turnings. He only had to run down it past all the nearest uzbas, then go on till he reached Shari’s place, the most ramshackle and tumbledown, out on its own beyond the others.

  He was running without thinking about it, his bare feet making no sound in the soft sand.

  Why was the world so different at night? Why did the fences seem higher, the road longer, the shadows so deep and threatening? The wind whined through the metal struts of the water towers and strips of chain-link fencing. Something scuttled across the sandy track in front of him. A scorpion. He took a flying leap and was over it, running on.

  In less than twenty minutes he was at the entrance to Shari’s uzba. He skidded to a halt, panting for breath. He hadn’t wanted to think about this part. To steal food from his own camels and come here through the night had been frightening, but it was nowhere near as hard as creeping into a strange uzba, which was ruled by a monster of cruelty, not knowing where, in the huddle of buildings ahead, his brother might be.

  He watched and listened, gathering his courage. There was no sound except for the familiar snufflings and grunts of the camels resting in their pen. No lights shone from the huts. The humans must all be asleep.

  Rashid took a deep breath and, grasping the bottle and plastic bag even more firmly, he darted towards the water tower in the centre of the uzba, which cast a dark shade. He could hide there and take a better look around.

  He could see four or five buildings. One was obviously the owner’s guest house, though it was nowhere near as smart as Syed Ali’s. The one next to it must be the kitchen. Then there was a camel-food store.

  He needed to get closer. Creeping out of the shadow, he found another patch of shade beside what looked like a toilet. Now he could see, behind the guest house, a low, shapeless tent. Its roof sagged and even in the dim moonlight he could see that drifts of sand had collected in the folds.

  Shari had said something about a tent, the first time they’d met at a race. He was inside it, Rashid felt certain, sleeping in there. The other boy, Imran, would be in there too.

  He crossed the open ground quickly and knelt beside the tent flap, listening. A snuffling, whimpering sound came from within, as if from a little animal in pain.

  ‘Shari!’ Rashid whispered. ‘Are you there?’

  He lifted the corner of the flap cautiously and peered into the pitch darkness. Raising the flap higher to let the moonlight shine in, he saw the shape of a little body lying flat under a thin blanket. A pair of eyes glinted in the darkness.

  ‘Shari! Is that you?’

  There was no answer, only a shuddering gasp.

  ‘It’s me, Shari. Rashid.’

  He crawled right into the tent and peered around, trying to make out where Imran was, but saw with surprise that no one else was there. Shari was alone.

  ‘Imran,’ Shari mumbled. ‘Want water. Get me water.’

  ‘It’s not Imran. It’s me, Rashid.’


  ‘Not Rashid. Imran, Yass—’

  He began mumbling, sounding confused.

  ‘Water,’ he said more clearly. ‘Imran, water.’

  ‘Stop going on about Imran,’ Rashid said impatiently. ‘It’s me.’

  The blanket rustled as Shari moved his head.

  ‘Is the goat there?’ Shari’s voice sounded weak, high and funny, and something bubbled in his throat as he talked.

  ‘What goat?’

  ‘It hits me with its horns.’

  ‘Are you crazy? That was at home. We’re not at home now.’

  Shari said nothing. His breathing was fast and noisy.

  ‘I didn’t fall off because I was stupid,’ he croaked after a pause. ‘The boss said I was. But I wasn’t, Rashid. My head was hurting and I couldn’t see properly’ He paused to cough. ‘I was tired all over. I could only see black. I woke up on the ground. My arm hurts. I can’t move it.’

  His voice was cracking with dryness and with every breath the air whistled in his chest.

  ‘If you want water,’ said Rashid, ‘I’ve got some.’

  ‘Good.’ The voice was no more than a thread. ‘You should have come before. I feel all hot and horrible inside. Why didn’t you come before?’

  ‘How could I? You know I can’t just come like that. My masoul’ll go mad if he finds I’m not there.’ He unscrewed the cap from the bottle. ‘Sit up.’

  There was a feeble movement under the blanket.

  ‘I can’t. I told you. I can’t move.’

  ‘All right. I’ll lift your head.’

  He held Shari’s head up and tilted the bottle awkwardly to Shari’s lips. The little boy’s skin was burning hot. He took a couple of mouthfuls, then his head fell back as if the effort tired him.

  ‘Don’t you want any more?’

  For answer, Shari’s shivering, claw-like hand fastened round Rashid’s arm. Rashid held the bottle up again. Shari took another mouthful but the water went down the wrong way. He spluttered, dribbles running down his chin, and cried out with pain.

  ‘Shh! Your masoul might hear. Where’s the other boy? Imran?’

  ‘Boss takes him away at night. He has to sleep in boss’s bed. Imran won’t talk about it. He just cries.’

  He had recovered from his choking fit and drew more strongly on the water.

  ‘I got you something to eat too,’ Rashid said proudly.

  ‘I’m not hungry’ Shari had fallen back again.

  ‘Yes you are. You only think you’re not because you haven’t eaten. I know that feeling. You’ll like this stuff, Shari. It’s dates and honey. What the camels get. It’s lovely.’

  He reached into the plastic bag, scooped up some of the sticky mess and put it to Shari’s lips. Shari licked feebly at his fingers.

  ‘There’s lots more. I got it for you. Look, here’s a whole date.’

  He fed the date between Shari’s parted lips, hugging himself with pride. He was being a hero, rescuing Shari. He could imagine what the food and water would be doing to him. He knew the feeling of strength flowing back into bones and muscles after a long time without food and water.

  He’d expected Shari to feel better at once, to reach for the bag and greedily feed himself, but it wasn’t working out right. Shari was actually spitting out the date.

  ‘What are you doing that for?’ Rashid hissed at him, annoyed. ‘It’s a date! It’s lovely!’

  Shari pushed his hand away.

  ‘Want water.’

  Desperate for the bottle, he managed to raise his head a little on his own. Disappointed, Rashid helped him drink.

  ‘Your mouth’s all sticky,’ he said. ‘I’ll clean you up. You don’t want them to know.’

  He took the corner of the blanket, dribbled a little water on to it, and wiped Shari’s face.

  ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’ Shari said suddenly. ‘Boss says I am. I heard him. He said he wouldn’t bother with a doctor because I’m no good at riding camels. I’m not worth it.’

  The long speech had tired him out and he gasped for breath.

  Rashid said nothing.

  ‘I’m cold,’ Shari whispered at last. ‘Why did you take the blanket off?’

  ‘You’re not cold. You’re boiling hot.’ Rashid could feel the heat radiating off him.

  ‘Not hot! Freezing.’

  ‘All right then.’

  Rashid tucked the blanket round him, but Shari didn’t stop shivering.

  ‘Do you want me to warm you up?’ Rashid said, puzzled.

  ‘Yes.’

  Rashid lay down on the mat and put his arm round Shari. Shari gasped with pain.

  ‘Not like that. You hit my arm. It hurts. Everything hurts, all over.’

  Rashid didn’t know what to do. He took his arm away, but lay down close, touching Shari all down the side. Shari’s dirty, uncombed hair tickled his chin.

  ‘I don’t think you’re going to die,’ he said. ‘People don’t usually. Not just like that.’

  But he thought of Pio, and knew he was wrong.

  ‘When you die, does it hurt?’ Shari asked, his voice bubbling again.

  ‘How should I know? I’ve never done it, have I?’ Rashid felt so bad that by mistake he sounded angry. ‘Anyway, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You go somewhere afterwards, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, to Paradise. The imam said about it, at the mosque. It’s nice there.’

  ‘The mosque’s nice, or Paradise?’

  ‘Paradise, silly.’

  ‘Nicer than Pakistan?’

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten Pakistan.’

  ‘Not the goat. And Imran hasn’t forgotten. He tells me about it sometimes.’

  Another cough was gathering in his chest. It came out in a weak burst, leaving Shari breathless.

  ‘I told you, you’re not going to die, so you don’t have to think about Paradise,’ Rashid said firmly. ‘Anyway, you can’t die because I’ve got something to show you. I’ll bring it next time I come. I might even let you play with it. It’s a toy car. A red one. It’s lovely.’

  ‘Mm.’

  The sound was no more than a faint pulse from Shari’s chest. It sounded as if his life was ebbing away. Rashid was seized with terror.

  ‘Hey! Don’t! Stop it!’

  ‘Don’t what?’ Shari sounded reassuringly irritated. ‘I was going to sleep.’

  Rashid let out a long shaky breath.

  ‘Go on then. Go to sleep. I’ve got to get back now.’

  ‘Don’t, Rashid. Stay with me. A bit longer, anyway. Please, Rashid, don’t go. I can’t be here by myself any more.’

  The thin voice, so small and pleading and weak, made Rashid feel horribly frightened and helpless.

  ‘All right, Shari. I’ll stay.’

  Only for a minute, he told himself. Just till I’m sure he’s gone to sleep.

  Shari turned his head towards him. Rashid pulled the blanket over both of them and, without meaning to, fell asleep himself.

  Shari’s next coughing fit woke Rashid a short time later. Alarmed, he started up, not knowing where he was, then as he remembered, he was seized with panic. How long had he been asleep? Would the others be out on the night exercise already? Would Haji Faroukh be raging up and down, brandishing the plastic hose?

  ‘Shari!’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll come back again tonight. You’ll be all right. Here, I’ll leave the dates for you.’

  He wasn’t sure if Shari had heard. He was muttering something, his head rolling from side to side.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ Rashid whispered again uncertainly, and then he was wriggling out of the tent and streaking out of the uzba, racing back down the lanes, himself no more than a moving shadow in the paling light of the moon.

  The uzba was still quiet, the kitchen door shut, the camels settled. The boys’ shed, too, was as profoundly still as when he had left it a couple of hours ago.

  He crept inside and lay down.

 
It seemed as if only five minutes had passed before Iqbal shook him awake. It was time already for the night exercise. Automatically, Rashid followed the others outside and, dazed with sleep, stumbled to the camel pen, saddled Duda and mounted.

  All through the dreary hours of exercise, as the black sky turned first grey, then pink, then took on the hard, hot blue of day, Rashid fretted, shivering with fear as much as with cold.

  I’m going to tell Haji Faroukh that I went to see Shari, he kept telling himself. Even if he gets into a rage and beats me, I’ll do it. I’ll ask him to get Shari out of there. Or at least let me go back and get him some more water. And I’ll make him call a doctor.

  Several times, as he swayed aloft on Duda’s humped back, he broke into silent tears, letting them run down his cheeks and rubbing his wet nose on the sleeve of his sweater. Then, instead of being sad, he would start to feel angry; angry with Ma for selling him, and Pio for dying, and Uncle Bilal for not rescuing them, angry with Dubai, and camels, and masouls, and even with Shari for getting sick, and most of all with himself, for not being able to help him and make him better.

  By the time the string of camels turned in at last through the uzba entrance, his face was streaked with tears and dust, but his mouth was set in a straight line of determination.

  A strange car, a big white SUV, had just driven into the uzba and was pulling up in front of the guest house. Rashid’s heart sank. If Syed Ali had visitors, Haji Faroukh would be much too busy to listen to him. The whole day might pass before he could catch him alone. He wanted to do it now. He couldn’t bear to wait.

  The other camels were already inside the pen. From his vantage point high on Duda’s back, Rashid could see over the fencing. Haji Faroukh was coming forward to talk to the two men who were getting out of the SUV. Rashid gasped as he recognized them. One of them was Bilal. The other was his old enemy, the man who had stolen him from home. Gaman Khan.

  Rashid let out a shout, and was half sliding, half falling off Duda’s back before she had even come to a halt.

  ‘Hey! Yasser! You crazy?’ Salman yelled at him. ‘Come back here!’

  But Rashid was running across the sand towards the knot of men, and didn’t even hear him.