We creep into the village through a row of houses that are mostly rubble.
A truck goes past and we duck down, just in case. You can never be sure with trucks. Sometimes they’re just smugglers, but sometimes they’re the government.
A rock bounces off the back of the truck.
‘Bibi,’ I hiss. ‘Stop it.’
‘I hate trucks,’ she growls. ‘Trucks took Anisa’s dad away and she’s never seen him again.’
When the truck has gone, we help Yusuf back onto his crutches and hurry towards our house.
‘I hate this whole country,’ says Bibi after a while. ‘This country is camel snot.’
I’m shocked.
Nine-year-old kids shouldn’t hate their country. They should love their country and want it to do well in the World Cup and earn the respect of other nations so they’ll stop bombing us.
I push Yusuf’s hat further down over Bibi’s ears and pull my jacket tighter round her shoulders and check she’s still got her skirt rolled up.
‘Keep your voice down,’ I whisper. ‘You’re meant to be a boy.’
‘I don’t care if I’m meant to be a goat,’ says Bibi. ‘This place is a bum boil.’
Yusuf’s shocked too. He almost falls over.
Luckily the people in the streets are too busy to notice. When your house keeps getting bombed you’ve always got a lot of chores.
We turn the corner into our street. I look anxiously towards our house.
Everything is good. Mum’s shutters are closed which means she’s still asleep. Dad’s taxi isn’t there. We can get inside without being caught. But only if Bibi stops complaining so loudly.
‘I bet Manchester hasn’t got landmines,’ she says bitterly.
‘It might have,’ I whisper to her. ‘They might just not show them on satellite TV soccer coverage.’
‘I don’t think Manchester has got landmines,’ says Yusuf, frowning. ‘Not unless they were put there by Liverpool supporters.’
‘Anyway,’ I say to Bibi. ‘We should be grateful. Our house has still got a roof. Our mum and dad are still alive. We’ve got all our arms and legs. Compared to some people we’re really lucky.’
Bibi gives me a look and glances apologetically at Yusuf.
‘My house has still got a roof,’ says Yusuf indignantly.
Bibi digs me with her elbow. ‘Nice one,’ she hisses.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Yusuf. ‘I didn’t mean you.’
‘That’s OK,’ says Yusuf, and does an armpit raspberry. His arms are really strong, so he can do really good ones.
As we creep towards the house, I bounce the ball on Bibi’s head a couple of times to make her pay attention.
‘All I’m saying,’ I tell her, ‘is that things could be worse.’
On the third bounce, a big pair of hands grabs the ball.
‘Gotcha,’ bellows a furious voice.
It’s Mr Nasser. He’s the angriest man in our street, and the tallest, and he’s got really scary nose hair.
‘Run,’ I say to Bibi.
I want to run too, but I can’t leave Yusuf or the ball.
Mr Nasser grabs Bibi by the shoulder. She tries to wriggle free. Yusuf’s hat starts to slip off her head. Any moment her hair could flop out and the edge of her skirt could drop down from under my jacket.
‘You boys broke my window,’ yells Mr Nasser, pointing to one of his downstairs windows. ‘Look, broken.’
He’s partly right. The window is broken. But it wasn’t us. OK, we might not always obey the law, but we’d never play soccer in the street.
‘It wasn’t us, Mr Nasser, honest,’ I say.
I can see he doesn’t believe us. He’s not even listening. Since his wife got ill and died, he never listens to anybody.
‘Jamal’s got too much skill to break a window,’ says Yusuf, pushing himself in front of Mr Nasser and pointing to me.
He’s trying to distract Mr Nasser from Bibi. She’s trying to kick Mr Nasser and the effort is making her hair slip out from under the hat.
‘Go on, Jamal,’ says Yusuf. ‘Show him.’
Trembling, I take the ball before Mr Nasser realises what’s happening. I drop the ball onto my foot, flick it to my knee, bounce it on my head, catch it with my foot and start the whole thing over again.
Mr Nasser is staring, bemused.
Behind him, I can see Yusuf trying to calm Bibi down and stuff her hair back under the hat.
I shouldn’t have looked. ‘Never take your eye off the ball,’ that’s what Mum’s ancestors would say if they were here.
The ball is dropping off my head, but it isn’t going anywhere near my foot.
I lunge for it.
I make contact.
The ball flies off my foot and into Mr Nasser’s other downstairs window.
The glass breaks.
‘Vandals,’ screams Mr Nasser. ‘Criminals. I’m calling the police.’
Yusuf is staring at me in shock. Bibi is looking paler than when she was standing on the landmine.
‘Sorry,’ I say to them all.
‘I’m reporting this,’ roars Mr Nasser. ‘To your parents.’
‘No need,’ says a voice.
I spin round.
Dad’s taxi has pulled up and Dad is getting out, looking grim.
He picks up the ball, strides over to us, grabs me by the ear and turns to Mr Nasser.
‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Nasser,’ he says. ‘As this boy’s father I take full responsibility. I will of course pay for your windows. I don’t think we need involve the police.’
Dad is shorter than Mr Nasser, but he’s much younger. His eyes are very bright. It makes people think he’s fierce, but it’s actually eye strain from driving the taxi so much at night.
Mr Nasser takes a step back.
Then Dad notices Bibi. He opens his mouth to say something, but changes his mind. He glances anxiously at Mr Nasser.
‘Please be so good as to leave these other, um, boys in my hands,’ he says to Mr Nasser. ‘I will make sure they are dealt with strictly by their parents.’
I can see Bibi looking furious. I know she wants to tell Dad we only broke one of the windows. Silently I beg her to keep quiet.
She does.
Dad puts the ball under his arm and grabs Yusuf’s ear too. He drags me and Yusuf to the taxi and pushes us into the back seat, crutches and all. He puts Bibi in the front next to him.
‘You will have payment and a written apology tonight, Mr Nasser,’ he calls out the window.
Mr Nasser stands glaring at us. I can see he still wants to report us to the police. I hope desperately that the thought of money will calm him down.
The taxi engine has stalled, which it always does. By the time Dad has got it started again, Mr Nasser has gone into his house. Dad drives us down the street to our place.
‘You,’ he says to Yusuf. ‘Off home. I’ll be seeing your grandfather later.’
Yusuf gives me a miserable look as he gets out of the taxi. As I hand him his crutches I give him a look to let him know how grateful I am for his help saving Bibi.
Then I look at Dad.
I’m hoping Dad isn’t as angry as he seems. I’m hoping he’s only been pretending to be angry for Mr Nasser’s sake. Sometimes, when Dad isn’t really angry, he gives us a wink to let us know.
It doesn’t look good.
Dad isn’t winking.