The strange thing about being so hungry – and even worse, so thirsty – was that you didn’t feel like you were part of the world anymore. The sounds and places and shapes outside, they were nothing to do with him.
But whenever his eyes opened they took in the window and a wriggly shape that sometimes looked like a question mark and sometimes a giant squiggle, like one of the handwriting practice exercises he had to do every morning. It was getting clearer all the time, and Wasim forced his eyes to stay open. There was a ball above it now and Wasim realised that the handwriting shape must be a mountain or a hill. Mount Snowdon?
His eyes closed and he curled tighter as the tummy pain got worse.
And the ball? Now there was only half of it, deep red behind the squiggle.
The ball!
Wasim began to uncurl. It hurt, but he uncurled some more. The ball was the sun, and it was going. It was going fast.
Wasim risked the pain and twisted himself to the steps of the bunk. He didn’t watch where his feet were going but just kept his eye on the glowing ball dropping behind the mountain. He looked at his watch – 8.55. The sun didn’t go down until 9.13.
But this was Wales, and it was going down behind the mountain earlier here. If it was Mount Snowdon, then you could keep Mount Everest and Ben-something in Scotland. Snowdon was the best and Wasim loved it, because it was swallowing the light like a huge greedy bird being fed a worm . . . swallowing, swallowing, swallowing. And then it had gobbled it all. Gone!
Dad had told him that during Ramadan when he was a boy they used to hold up two pieces of cotton, one white and one black. If you couldn’t tell the difference, then that meant that the sun had set.
But Wasim didn’t need that. He had seen it go. The sun had disappeared behind the mountain and all that was left was a goodbye orange glow.
He half-jumped, half-fell onto the bunk underneath and fumbled for his bag.
Thirst . . . coke. . . That would need to be first. But the bag was tied and Wasim felt too weak to deal with knots. There was a sink just next to the bunk and he knocked a jar of toothbrushes onto the floor, turned on the tap and forced his mouth under it.
The water was warm and wasn’t the colour it should be, but it was wet. Wasim ignored how it hurt his throat at first, and he gulped and gulped until his tummy felt like a balloon.
Now the bag. Wasim wobbled his tummy round and ripped through the plastic below the knot. He fished inside. What first? He fumbled. He wanted something soft and chose the bread. Sitting cross-legged on the floor he remembered to murmer “Ramadan Murbarak,” a greeting for Mum, Dad, Shamaila and Atif, and then he stuffed a whole nan and kebab into his mouth. He enjoyed the aching of his jaws as he chewed it down, while his hands busily searched out the crisps and banana.
As he chewed he thought of his family at this special time for them all. Ramadan. It was the most holy of the Muslim months. It was a time for thinking how lucky you were not to be poor and starving. So during this month there would be no food or drink passing lips, from when the sun had risen in the morning until it had set at night. Dad had explained that people of their faith recognised this as the time when the angel Gabriel had shown the verses of the Koran to Muhammad, peace be upon him.
Wasim also remembered his class at the mosque, and the look from Faizhan when they had been reminded that the Koran had been split into thirty parts, one for each day, to make it easy for Muslims to make sure that they read it all through during the month. That was probably another of the things they thought that Wasim wouldn’t be ready for.
Well, nothing had passed his lips from sunrise to sunset. It had been hard today. . . But he had been ready. And he was proud to have been such a good follower of his faith.
He would be tomorrow, too. Archery, orienteering and then the mountain hike.
Wasim stopped chewing. Tomorrow he would have to get through it all again, and he would need fuel in his body. He would have to eat the suhoor, the meal before the sun came up, while everyone else was sleeping in the dorm. What had he saved for when the sun rose at 3.30 a.m.? Wasim started taking the bits out of his bag and hiding them in the crack beside his mattress. It was only until dawn. Nobody would know.
There were shouts from downstairs and Wasim quickly climbed back up onto his bunk, rolled the carrier bag up with his United pyjamas and banged the pillow down just as the door burst open.
That must be Ellis, he thought. He was quicker up the stairs than even Charles.
Wasim turned. “Who won the—?”
But it wasn’t Ellis.