6

I stand in our living room, waiting for Dad to yell at me.

I can hear him in the bedroom talking to Mum, which is a bit strange. You’d think he’d yell at me first, then tell Mum about it. Perhaps he’s asking Mum to help him yell at me. She’s a teacher, so she’s more experienced at yelling.

Bibi punches me in the arm.

‘Sorry for causing so much trouble,’ she whispers.

I rub my arm and give her a grateful smile.

‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘It was a great goal. You’re a better kicker than me.’

‘You might improve with practice,’ she says.

I decide not to tickle her for being cheeky. ‘Thanks,’ I say. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps that’s how bakers get to be desert warriors. Practice.

Bibi punches my arm again.

‘We have to tell Mum and Dad we only smashed one window,’ she hisses, eyes shining fiercely. Then she frowns. ‘They probably won’t believe us. Not now we’ve broken the law with me playing soccer.’

‘They might like the idea,’ I say, nodding towards the bedroom. ‘They might be glad you’ve been getting some exercise.’

You’ve got to hope.

Bibi doesn’t look even a tiny bit hopeful.

Then Mum and Dad come out of their room and I don’t feel hopeful any more either. Dad’s face is pale and grim. Mum’s eyes are red and her lips are thin with stress.

I brace myself for yelling.

But it doesn’t happen. Instead, Mum and Dad put their arms round me and Bibi. They squeeze us both tight. I can’t believe it. A family hug. They must be pleased about Bibi getting the exercise. Wait till I tell them how good she is at kicking.

‘Jamal and Bibi,’ says Mum softly. ‘You know we love you very much.’

‘Yes,’ I say, glowing with happiness and relief.

‘Yes,’ says Bibi. She sounds pretty happy and relieved too.

‘No matter what happens,’ says Mum, ‘you two are the most precious things in our lives.’

‘I know,’ I say quietly. It’s true. Mum and Dad’s parents are all dead in the war, and Dad’s brothers. There’s only the four of us left.

Mum is crying. I can feel her tears on my head. I don’t understand. I’m pretty sure she’s not crying about the broken window. She must be thinking about our poor dead relatives. Now I’m thinking about them, my eyes start to fill up too. Not with painful tears, with the other kind. I’m just so grateful the four of us are here together, safe.

Dad crouches down and looks at me and Bibi. I’ve never seen his face so serious.

‘We’ve got to leave this house,’ he says.

I stare at him, stunned.

‘What?’ I say.

Dad bites his lip and looks like he can’t believe it either. Then he clenches his teeth and carries on.

‘We’ve got to get out of the house,’ he says. ‘Tonight. And we can’t ever come back.’

I feel like a landmine has just exploded next to my head. My brain can hardly take in the words.

Then I realise what has happened.

‘It’s not that bad,’ I gabble. ‘Mr Nasser probably won’t go to the police. And nobody saw Bibi playing soccer, honest. We don’t have to leave.’

‘The landmine didn’t even go off,’ says Bibi.

Mum stares at her. I can see Mum is having trouble taking everything in too. She gives a big sigh and a sob comes out with it.

‘It’s not that,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not any of that.’

‘Then why do we have to leave?’ I say frantically. ‘Is it the brake lights on the taxi?’

It’s not fair. The government shouldn’t persecute a person just because their brake lights are temporarily out of order.

‘It’s not the brake lights,’ says Dad quietly. ‘It’s something much more serious than that.’

I knew it. The army petrol Dad bought from that other taxi driver. Dancing donkeys, he only did it once. He was desperate. You just can’t be a taxi driver without petrol. Passengers hate it when you switch the meter on and then ask them to get out and help you push the taxi.

Mum takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes and I see she’s got chalk dust on her cheek.

‘It’s the school,’ she says quietly. ‘The government has found out about our school.’

Suddenly it hits me. I look around the living room. All the school stuff has gone. Normally our living room is a fully equipped school for eight kids. Blackboard. Floor mats. Books. Paint brushes that we’re always squabbling over because there are only three of them.

All gone.

‘How did the government find out?’ I ask, my voice wobbly with shock. But I already know. School transport. The other girls in the class can’t be seen walking to school so they have to be transported in secret. Someone must have seen Dad picking Anisa and Fatima up at their houses. Or dropping them back in the afternoon. It’s always been a big risk, doing that every day, even though Anisa and Fatima always travel in the boot.

Mum is staring at the place on the wall where her beloved blackboard used to hang. Now I understand why she’s crying.

Dad puts his arms round me and Bibi again. I can feel him trembling.

‘We don’t know how the government found out,’ he says. ‘We just know they have. Someone I trust told me an hour ago. It’s too risky to stay. We have to pack up and leave right now.’