Lost Riders Page 6

  Silence fell on the little convoy again, but Rashid was beginning to feel more cheerful. Slowly, metre by metre, the length of track in front of him was dwindling, and the buildings of the clutch of uzbas were growing bigger as they approached. There would be something to eat soon, Salman had promised. And he would be able to stop this endless walking and rest.

  Best of all, he had made a stand. He had said his real name. And Iqbal had understood.

  7

  It was after nine in the morning when at last the boys returned to the uzba. They were dazed with exhaustion. Salman was the only one with any life left in him.

  Haji Faroukh was waiting for them at the entrance.

  ‘No problems?’ he asked Salman.

  ‘No, Haji.’

  Salman, looking pleased and important, began to talk in Arabic as the masoul inspected each camel in turn, firing questions at the boy as he did so.

  Rashid followed Iqbal and Puppo back to the shelter. He was so tired that he could hardly stand. His feet hurt and his legs ached and his stomach yawned with hunger.

  ‘I’m not going to do that again,’ he said, to no one in particular.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Iqbal, without interest.

  ‘Go out in the middle of the night.’

  Iqbal stared at him, then laughed in derision.

  ‘You will. Every night. Every single night. Every every every every—’

  ‘Stop saying that!’ said Rashid. ‘It’s not true.’

  Puppo had started clapping his hands, sensing a game.

  ‘Every every every every . . .’ he chanted.

  Rashid put his hands over his ears.

  I can’t, he thought. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t care if Haji Faroukh beats me. Even if he kills me, I won’t go out in the night again.

  The others were too tired to go on teasing him. They lay listlessly, picking up handfuls of sand and letting it dribble through their fingers.

  At last, Salman called from the kitchen door. They stood up, enlivened by the thought of food.

  Flaps of bread, a bowl of thick yoghurt and a little cold rice lay waiting for them on the step. There were also three long glasses of cold water, and three smaller ones of sweetened tea.

  Rashid, watching the others, ate more slowly this time, making the little bit of food last longer, relishing each small morsel. He felt better when he’d had his share, though he could have eaten twice as much.

  He had just swallowed his last mouthful when the sound of a car engine made him look up. A big white Land Cruiser was pulling into the uzba. His heart leaped.

  Uncle Bilal! He’s come back for me! He’s going to take me away!

  He was about to run down towards it when the doors of the Land Cruiser swung open and a boy jumped out, followed by a tall thin Arab man.

  ‘Amal! Hey, Amal, you’re back!’ Puppo called out.

  ‘Yes, but watch out,’ muttered Iqbal. ‘That’s Abu Nazir with him.’

  Disappointed, Rashid sank back down on to his heels. There was no one else in the car. Uncle Bilal hadn’t come. And there was no sign of Shari either.

  ‘Who’s Abu Nazir?’ he asked Iqbal.

  ‘Syed Ali’s cousin. He’s horrible. Really strict. He trains the camels.’

  Salman had appeared at the door of the kitchen, a tea towel in his hand.

  ‘And he train the camel jockey too,’ he said, ‘so you taking care, Yasser.’

  He bent down, picked up the dirty dishes from the step and took them back into the kitchen.

  Amal walked over to them but there was no spring in his step, and his smile was half-hearted. His left arm was in a plaster cast and there was a patch of dark bruising down the side of his face. His dark hair had been cropped close to his skull, showing a line of stitches and the scab that had formed on a long wound.

  Amal stared at Rashid.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘He’s Yasser,’ Puppo explained, before Rashid could answer. ‘He’s instead of Mujib. He played football with us yesterday.’

  Amal looked older than the other boys, and yet there was something about his long, sad face - a faraway look - that made him seem younger.

  ‘The hospital was nice,’ he said.

  Rashid waited for him to say more, but he had fallen silent again.

  ‘Did they give you sweets?’ Iqbal asked.

  ‘No, but the food was lovely’ A brief smile lit Amal’s face. ‘There was lots of it. Chicken, and milk, and bananas.’

  Puppo frowned, looking jealous.

  ‘I want to go to hospital,’ he said.

  They were walking away from the kitchen door now, back towards the shelter. Rashid trailed a little behind the others.

  ‘No you don’t, Puppo,’ Amal was saying. ‘It hurts when they stick needles into you. And my head feels funny now, all the time.’

  ‘You were lucky’ Iqbal had draped an affectionate arm round Amal’s shoulders, and Rashid bit his lip, feeling left out. ‘When you fell and got kicked like that I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Yes, like Mujib,’ Puppo joined in earnestly. ‘I thought they were going to take you away, Amal, like they took Mujib. Where did Mujib go, Iqbal?’

  I wish they’d stop going on and on about Mujib, thought Rashid.

  They’d reached the shelter, and the four of them settled down on the sand, under the palm-frond shade. The intense sunlight was draining the colour from the sky, and the heat was making the tin roof of the sleeping shed creak and crack as it expanded.

  ‘Go on about the hospital, Amal,’ said Iqbal.

  Amal frowned, as if he was thinking.

  ‘There are nurses to look after you,’ he said at last. ‘They’re really kind. I had to pee in a bottle.’

  ‘Wah!’ Puppo laughed delightedly. ‘What about your poo?’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting, Puppo,’ snapped Iqbal.

  ‘Abu Nazir made me say I’d fallen off my bicycle,’ Amal went on.

  Puppo looked puzzled.

  ‘What? Why did they give you a bicycle?’

  ‘They didn’t, silly. I just had to say it. You’re not supposed to tell about camel racing accidents in the hospital. Abu Nazir said.’

  ‘What about this then?’ Iqbal tapped the cast on Amal’s arm with one skinny forefinger. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not much. It did at first. It makes my arm feel hot and itchy, that’s all. It wasn’t hot in the hospital. They’ve got air con.’

  ‘What’s air con?’ asked Puppo.

  The others ignored him.

  ‘I’ve got to go back there in two weeks, just to see the doctor, not to stay,’ Amal said. ‘They’ll take the stuff off my arm and it’ll be better. I’m not supposed to work till then. I’ve got to rest, because I banged my head. They said.’

  ‘What’s in your bag?’ Puppo asked, after a pause. ‘Did you bring us any sweets?’

  Amal pulled his little bag towards him and fished inside it.

  ‘No, but a man gave me something to play with. Look.’

  He brought out a small cardboard box. Opening the flap, he tipped out on to the sand a pack of scuffed, battered playing cards.

  ‘What are they?’ Iqbal asked curiously, turning them over. ‘Look, there’s pictures on some of them.’

  Amal didn’t seem interested.

  ‘I don’t know. You play games with them. The man made a sort of tower out of them. He said you can make up sets with the numbers and patterns. He was nice. He was from India. He came round every morning and cleaned the floor with a mop. He said his son was a camel jockey, but he got him out and sent him home.’

  ‘What games? What do you mean, sets?’ Iqbal asked curiously.

  Before Amal could answer, Haji Faroukh appeared at the entrance to the shelter. The boys jumped respectfully to their feet, scattering the cards.

  ‘So, Amal, you’re back again. All well now, I suppose,’ Haji Faroukh said jovially. ‘You see how we care for you? First-class medical treatment, eh?�
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  Amal looked down at his feet.

  ‘Yes, Haji.’

  Haji Faroukh bent down to examine the wound running down Amal’s scalp.

  ‘Nice neat stitches,’ he said approvingly. ‘Once your hair grows back there won’t even be a scar. Now, boys, work time! Camels won’t water themselves. Iqbal, you’ll show Yasser what to do.’ He turned away, then came back. He cupped a hand under Amal’s chin and lifted it, scrutinizing his face. ‘Not you, Amal. Better rest today. A head injury needs time.’

  He smiled as if pleased with himself, and walked off back to the guest house.

  Rashid frowned at Haji Faroukh’s departing back. He couldn’t work him out. He’d been calm and almost kind when Rashid had first arrived, and he was being kind to Amal now. But yesterday, when Rashid had been frightened on the camel, he’d seen a whirlpool of rage and violence in the masoul’s eyes.

  ‘Do you like Haji?’ he asked Iqbal, as they walked across to the water troughs.

  Iqbal shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. He’s nice sometimes. At Eid he gave us new clothes, and the football. And we had a big dinner too.’

  ‘But he gets angry, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, if you don’t try to ride properly, and let the camels get hurt. Especially if you don’t win races. That’s all anyone cares about here. Him and Syed Ali and Abu Nazir. Just winning races.’

  ‘Haji gave me my sweater,’ Puppo chimed in. ‘It’s got a picture of a bear on the front. I like it.’

  ‘Doesn’t he beat you sometimes?’

  Iqbal nodded.

  ‘Yes, when he’s got one of his tempers on. Then he goes really, really mad. But he doesn’t mean to hurt you badly. Not like Abu Nazir. He’s the worst.’

  Rashid thought about this, and said nothing.

  ‘Abu Nazir only comes here sometimes,’ Iqbal went on, picking up the end of the hose and dropping it into the first trough.

  ‘He’s the trainer,’ Puppo said eagerly, proud of himself for being able to explain. ‘He hurts you with his stick. It’s got electricity in it.’

  ‘But he’s a good trainer,’ Iqbal said, as if he wanted to sound fair, like a grown-up. ‘This is the best uzba around here. We win a lot of races. I won a big one last season. Syed Ali was really pleased with me.’

  ‘What stick?’ Rashid asked. ‘What do you mean, electricity?’

  ‘It’s a prod,’ explained Iqbal. ‘Abu Nazir gives the camels shocks with it to make them run, and if we don’t move fast enough he does it on us.’

  He spoke carelessly, but Rashid could see that he was blinking rapidly.

  ‘It’s so horrible. It gives you a big, big pain,’ said Puppo.

  ‘He only uses it sometimes.’ Iqbal was talking like a grown-up again. ‘There’s other uzbas where they hold you down and put electricity on you, from a wire, and you can’t stop screaming. A boy told me, last race day. He said it hurts so much, you can’t imagine. They do it to punish you.’

  ‘No they don’t, Iqbal,’ Puppo contradicted him. ‘It’s to stop you growing. So you can go on riding camels. Salman told me.’

  Iqbal turned away, went across to the tap to which the far end of the hose was attached and turned it on.

  ‘Look what I can do, Yasser,’ Puppo said. He picked the hose up and held a finger half over the end of it. ‘It makes the water go all squirty when you do it like this.’

  Iqbal ran back from the tap. Puppo giggled and turned the hose on to him, making the water shoot up in a glistening arc, hitting Iqbal’s chest and drenching him down the front.

  Iqbal lunged forward and wrenched the hose away from him.

  ‘Not today, you little idiot. Are you crazy? Abu Nazir’s here. He’ll go mad if he sees us mucking about.’

  Puppo looked uneasily towards the guest house. Salman was just going into it, carrying a tray in his hands with a coffee pot and some little cups.

  Iqbal grinned at Rashid.

  ‘We’ll have a water fight when Abu Nazir’s gone, if Haji goes too. We do it when no one’s here. Salman lets us. It’s great. Specially when it’s really hot.’

  Rashid grinned back at him. He was glad Amal wasn’t allowed to help today. He had Iqbal to himself.

  Except for Puppo, he thought, and he doesn’t count. He’s only a baby.

  Salman came out of the guest house.

  ‘What you standing there for?’ he shouted importantly. ‘You make camel drink quick, then clean up dung. No lazy boys, or I give you beat.’

  Iqbal winked at Rashid.

  ‘Salman always shouts at us when Abu Nazir’s here. He doesn’t mean it.’

  ‘Salman’s nice,’ Rashid said, testing Iqbal. He was still trying to make sense of the people in this new, frightening world, to work out who he could trust and who he must fear.

  Iqbal picked the hose up out of the first trough and laid it in the second.

  ‘Yeah, Salman’s OK,’ he said.

  8

  There was tension in the stables all afternoon. Cooled by a whirring fan, Abu Nazir stayed inside the whitewashed guest house with Haji Faroukh, relaxing against the cushions. Though he was out of sight, his presence unsettled the boys, turning Salman from an easy-going friend into a nervous task master. He was gaunt with tiredness, but he chivvied the exhausted children from one task to another, making them run back and forth in the blistering heat from the store to the camel’s feeding racks with buckets full of fodder, and when that job was done, sending them to the camel pen with sacks to pick up the dung.

  At last, even he could bear it no longer, and he gave the weary boys long drinks of water and sent them off to the shelter. Amal was lying asleep, the hollows of his eyes dark in his pale face. Rashid, Iqbal and Puppo collapsed beside him, and they were all asleep a few minutes later.

  The sound of car doors banging startled Rashid awake several hours later. He had been dreaming. He woke with a sob in his throat, but whatever it was that had made him cry fled away as he opened his eyes. He lay for a minute with his cheek pressed into the sand, trying to work out where he was, then he heard Iqbal yawn and Puppo whimper, and the present rushed back upon him.

  The sun was mercifully lower and the heat was a little less crushing. Salman appeared at the entrance to the shelter.

  ‘Abu Nazir gone,’ he said. ‘He and Haji eat a big dinner. Chicken. I keep some for you.’

  He looked apologetic, as if wanting to make up for being strict earlier.

  Puppo was the first to jump up. He put up his hand to hold Salman’s, and trotted beside him towards the kitchen. Iqbal and Rashid followed, stretching to chase the last cramps of sleep from their arms and legs.

  ‘Aren’t you coming, Amal?’ Iqbal said over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amal, following slowly. ‘Yes.’

  There wasn’t much of the adults’ lavish dinner left, but Salman had ladled what remained over the boys’ usual ration of rice. They relished every scrap, savouring the drops of rich gravy and the succulent vegetables in silence, their faces rapt.

  The food fuelled them with new energy.

  ‘Come on,’ said Iqbal, handing his empty bowl back to Salman. ‘Let’s play with the water.’

  Salman shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, Iqbal. Water cut. Come back this evening.’

  ‘Football then,’ said Iqbal.

  Rashid would never have believed, half an hour ago, that he would feel like running about, but he wanted to now. Puppo, looking pleased, was bouncing up and down on the spot. Only Amal hadn’t moved. He was still squatting by the kitchen step, staring into his empty bowl.

  ‘Aren’t you coming, Amal?’ Iqbal said, surprised.

  Amal didn’t move.

  ‘Got a headache.’

  ‘You go rest,’ said Salman. ‘Be all right tomorrow. Find the ball, Iqbal. I coming to play with you.’

  By the end of the fifth day, Rashid felt as if he’d been at the stables forever. The first day had laid down the pattern for all
the rest. The night-time was still the worst part. Wrenched from sleep long before dawn, shivering in the desert chill, riding on and on round the same dreary track, the six hours of exercise were times of such misery that he imagined, often, how he would run away. He would slip down off his camel and disappear into the night, go anywhere, endure anything, till he could find his way home.

  But if I run away from here, Uncle Bilal will never find me, he told himself. I won’t have a chance of finding Shari either. I’ll be lost forever.

  At least he had learned to ride. His body now responded automatically to the camel’s odd, loping stride. He no longer needed to clutch the edge of the saddle, and was less afraid of falling. He was learning, like Iqbal and Puppo, to let his mind drift during the long lonely hours.

  Salman, now routinely in charge of the night exercise, was growing in confidence.

  ‘You lucky boys,’ he told them earnestly. ‘I too kind to you. Soon Abu Nazir begin camel training. Then you see.’

  Amal was still allowed to rest.

  ‘Don’t get lazy,’ Haji Faroukh kept saying to him severely, as if he was afraid of his own indulgence. ‘When that plaster’s off your arm, I’ll expect some work out of you. Don’t think you’ll be spoiled forever.’

  ‘Yes, Haji,’ Amal would reply listlessly.

  Rashid had lost count of the days of the week, and he was surprised, on his sixth morning at the stables, when the routine was interrupted. He found Iqbal, who had washed out his best Eid shalwar kameez the night before, changing into it in the sleeping shed. Amal, too, was wearing clean clothes.

  ‘Are you going somewhere?’ Rashid asked.

  ‘Yes and you are too,’ answered Iqbal. ‘Friday prayers, at the mosque. We’re supposed to look nice, Haji Faroukh says, or people won’t think he looks after us properly.’

  Rashid looked down at himself. His clothes were smeared with dirt. He hadn’t thought of washing them. He didn’t know how to.

  ‘Didn’t Haji Faroukh give you Mujib’s stuff?’ Iqbal said. ‘Put on the green things. They were new at Eid.’

  Mujib’s bag was in the corner of the sleeping shed. Reluctantly, Rashid groped inside it and pulled out a pale green shalwar and matching kameez. Slowly, he took off his own clothes and dressed himself in the others, shuddering in spite of the heat. He didn’t like the thought of the dead boy’s arms and legs moving inside the same clothes.