It looked like chaos at base camp, but it wasn’t. Everybody knew what they were doing. They were moving quickly, but they were calm. There was a Land Rover with ‘Mountain Rescue’ written on it, an ambulance with its blue light swivelling, and there were serious men in orange cagoules with rucksacks, ropes and sticks.
Mr Abbot was talking to Mr Snow and a policeman when he caught sight of their straggling line coming past the last rock with its ugly splash of red. Dionne and Wasim were at the front, and at the back, sweat pouring from his matted hair, was Mr Bird with Donna on his back.
“Wow! How did you. . .?”
But Mr Bird didn’t have the breath to answer. He carried on walking until strong arms from the ambulance team took Donna and put her onto a stretcher.
“Oh, well done Richard,” said Mr Abbot.
“Dom said you were on the blue walk.” It was Mr Snow. A school emergency at his centre had left him seriously shaken.
And it was at that moment that a team of men in orange, followed by Dom, emerged from the boulder next to the biggest of all the boulders at base camp, one with a great blue splodge on it.
“Dom didn’t say anything about any colours!” snapped a shivering Mrs Scott. Mr Snow and Mr Abbot turned slowly round and Dom looked at the ground rather than return the stares.
“Staff didn’t know to follow the markings back down?”
“Err . . . well I had a lot on with the missing sweets and. . .” It just sounded silly and Dom stopped talking.
“And the ‘lot on’ included a footwear inspection, I suppose?”
“Err well. . .”
But Mr Snow had stalked off. Mrs Scott had a tin foil blanket given to her and all of the children were being given energy drinks.
“Is this the young man who collapsed up there?” asked the ambulance man.
“Yes,” said Mrs Scott. “He’s also the young man who got us down!”
“Well done, son,” he said. “Drink this and then you’re coming for a ride with us.”
“I can’t.” Wasim pushed the orange liquid away.
“Come on, Wasim,” said Mr Abbot, “even mountain men have to drink.”
“I can’t.”
“Come on, Waz.”
“It’s Ramadan and Muslim men have to fast and. . .”
“Look up there, Wasim.” It was Mr Bird and Wasim followed his pointing finger.
As fast as it had come in, the mist was rolling away and gradually a mighty lion with the strongest of backs and the fullest of manes was formed out of the rocks high above them. And behind it, blazing as if it felt no guilt about hiding all afternoon was the red ball of sun – going, going, going and . . . gone!
“Ramadan Murbarak,” croaked Wasim and then that orange was the best thing he had ever tasted.
“Thanks,” he said.
“So,” said Mr Bird, “fasting, eh?”
Wasim nodded.
“All day? Sun up ’til sunset?”
Wasim nodded again.
“No drink? No bread? No rice? No fruit?”
Wasim shook his head at each one.
“And. . .” Mr Bird saved the last one and hissed it straight at Dom.
“And definitely no Mars bars.”
Dom tried to stare him out. But then he walked off.
“They said I wasn’t ready,” Wasim remembered explaining to someone, and then the dark sky, the glow around the lion’s back and the grey rocks with their splashes of paint all span into one and he was spinning with them.
Wasim was back from the hospital by eleven and he wasn’t surprised to see Dad’s car outside the front entrance. He got out of the CBC minibus on strong legs and looked sadly up at the zip wire. The longest in Europe. Trust him to miss it!
So there was a cuddle from Mum and a proud hair ruffle from Dad, but then Dad forgot himself and it was a cuddle from him too.
“I think our son was worried that he would not be able to take part in all of the activities if it was known he was fasting.
But at this age in the life of a Muslim man” – and Wasim glowed inside – “it would be acceptable to drink, maybe, an energy drink and still be following the spirit of Ramadan.”
“Then Wasim would still be able to take part in challenges?”
“Yes,” agreed Dad. “We think he is ready.”
Wasim fought with his mouth to stop it from smiling.
“Sir, Sir, guess what Dionne’s done?”
A crowd had suddenly appeared in the corner of the games room, around a pillowcase that had obviously been in battle. Its corners were torn and its spongy filling was trailing all over the floor.
“Dionne!”
“I know,” sighed Dionne, “Comprehension Plus.”
Mr Abbot almost smiled as he nodded to the crate.
Dionne did his don’t-care-walk over to the sweet machine and pulled out the work crate.
“Sir?”
“Two pages, Dionne!”
“Sir!”
“Yes, Dionne?”
And they all got up and followed Dionne’s pointing finger down to the bottom of the sweet machine and into the space where the crate had been. The space where there was a squashed exercise book and a flattened black shiny box with red squiggly writing on the front.
Dionne read the words out loud, “‘Mars, vending pack, 24.’ Not even opened. I knew Wasim didn’t nick ‘em, Sir. . .”
Mr Abbot smiled and looked straight at Wasim.
“So did I, Dionne, so did I. So who had just thrown all of that stuff into the crate like that?”
The Headteacher picked up the orange exercise book, turned it round and read the name.
There was a cough and Mr Abbot let out a sigh.
“Wasim, Wasim, Wasim.”
Wasim gave Mum and Dad a last kiss and waved their car off into the darkness, and Dionne somehow managed to escape from Comprehension Plus to join in the goodbyes and the race upstairs before lights out.
“Ready for the zip wire tomorrow, Waz?” And Dionne banged on the girls’ dorm door, made a ghost noise and dragged Wasim with him in the fastest corridor run ever.
Wasim made it to his dorm just as the screams had the stairs creaking and the teachers on their way up. He grinned.
“ ’Course I’m ready!”
