In a flash I see what’s happened.
Our government’s got spies everywhere. Mum taught us about it in school. I thought she was exaggerating, but now I realise she’s right. They must be here in the camp and they’ve spotted Dad and told the local police to arrest him.
I stand frozen, frantically trying to think how to help Dad. The police all have guns. Any sudden movements could be fatal. But I have to do something because if I don’t, Bibi will, and I’d rather have me shot than her.
I walk slowly towards the police, trying not to let fear choke my voice.
‘Don’t arrest him,’ I plead. ‘We’re going to Australia. Dad won’t start another school before we leave, honest.’
The four policemen look at me with narrow eyes.
‘Please,’ I beg. ‘He’s sold the taxi so he won’t be tempted to drive without brake lights again.’
Now I’m closer I can see Dad’s expression. As I expected, he’s giving pleading looks. But not to the police. To me.
I stop, confused. Mum appears at my side and puts her arm round me.
‘Jamal,’ she murmurs. ‘It’s alright.’
I turn to ask her what’s going on. But I don’t because I’m so surprised at what I see.
Mum’s face is bare. She’s got no clothes on her face at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her out of doors with a bare face. I don’t blame her. At a time like this I wouldn’t be thinking about getting dressed properly either.
Mum is looking anxiously at Dad, and I look back at him too. Just in time to see him give one of the policemen a huge handful of paper money.
Now I understand.
Dad’s not being arrested.
He’s paying the police not to arrest him.
Thank God.
But where did he get so much money? He must have sold the taxi for more than I thought. The people who bought it mustn’t have noticed that one of the doors was green underneath and the back seat smelt of burnt oily rags and the floor was covered with breadcrumbs.
I watch the policeman count the money. The other officers are all watching closely too, in case he makes a mistake. The policeman finishes counting, puts the money inside his shirt, says something to Dad, then walks away with the other officers.
The people nearby are all hiding in their tents.
‘I hate those police,’ hisses Bibi. ‘I hope they spend all that money on dried figs and get the plops.’
I give Bibi a look. I’ve warned her about insulting referees and this is even more dangerous.
Dad comes over to us, tense and worried.
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I say. ‘They’ve gone.’
That doesn’t seem to cheer him up, and suddenly I realise why. What if they come back tomorrow to arrest him again? Or the day after? Or some of the other officers down at the police station hear about this and want some money too?
Dad hasn’t got any more money.
I stare at my soccer ball and wonder if I can sell it for enough money to save Dad. I don’t think I can, not even if the pawnbrokers see where I’ve written ‘Manchester United Rule’ on it and think it’s a genuine Manchester United ball that David Beckham has kicked with his own foot.
I have an even worse thought. What if the government advertises a reward for Dad’s death? What if the policemen come back and kill Dad?
Now I feel so tense and worried my head hurts.
Mum puts her hand on Dad’s cheek. ‘When do we leave?’ she says.
‘In the next couple of days,’ says Dad.
I stare at them. What are they talking about?
‘Jamal doesn’t know what you’re talking about,’ says Bibi.
Dad turns to me. ‘Those policemen,’ he says, ruffling my hair. ‘They know people who can get us to Australia.’
It takes a moment to sink in. Then the whoop that didn’t come out of me before, comes out now.
Mum puts her hand over my mouth and glances at the other tents. She’s probably worried that some of the people who haven’t got the money to go to Australia might be feeling sad and unhappy. She’s really considerate like that.
I pull Mum’s hand away from my mouth. ‘You mean we’re going to Australia?’ I whisper to Dad. ‘In the next couple of days?’
Dad nods.
I hug him and I hug Mum. Mum gives me a stern look. ‘Stay in the tent,’ she says. ‘We don’t want you running off again.’
I can’t hear her at first because a convoy of food trucks is rumbling past. She repeats it. I grab Bibi and take her into the tent and tell her all the great things I’ve discovered about Australia. Dubbo Abattoirs United and the cake shops and the happy people and the gold landmines.
And the female soccer players.
Bibi seems a bit overwhelmed.
‘I’m not drinking tea out of a bucket,’ she says.
‘I might have got that bit wrong,’ I say.
She looks relieved.
I’m so happy and excited I could play a match for about six hours on a full-sized pitch with teams and everything and not get tired.
Only one thing nags at me.
Why isn’t Mum more pleased? I can see her crouched outside the tent talking with Dad. She looks so miserable. Poor thing. It must be how people are for a while after they’ve been nearly executed. Plus she must be missing her friends in the village. I’m missing mine.
‘It must be that,’ I say to Bibi. ‘Everything’s going so well, what else could it be?’
‘Some other bad thing we haven’t found out about yet?’ says Bibi.
I sigh.
Little sisters. They might be good at soccer, but they’re not so good at being cheerful.