I’ve never been inside an airport before.
I saw one on TV once. Liverpool were flying off to play Milan. The players handed their bags in at a big counter and then went to a room with peanuts and drinks to wait for their plane and do leg stretches.
I don’t think we’ll be going to a room with peanuts and drinks. Our bus driver has just given money to a guard at a gate and now we’re driving onto the runway.
That must be our plane parked over there.
‘Thank God,’ says Mum. So do several of the other people on the bus.
I know what they mean. We’ve been on this hot cramped bus half the night. I’ve tried to cheer Mum up with some fond memories of her friends in the village, but for the last few hours it hasn’t really worked. She didn’t even smile when I told her about Fatima’s goat eating Fatima’s dad’s beard while he was asleep. Usually she laughs quite a lot at that.
‘Everyone out,’ says the driver.
We all stagger off the bus onto the runway, which is hot under our feet even though it’s night.
There’s a hot breeze too, and in front of the airport lights Dad looks like a desert warrior with his scarf flapping round his shoulders.
The driver and his assistant fling all our bags onto the tarmac.
‘Hey,’ says Bibi. ‘Careful. I’ve got dolls in there.’
They ignore her and get back on the bus.
‘Excuse me,’ Dad yells at them as the bus starts to leave. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’
The driver sticks his head out of the window. ‘You will be met at the end of the flight and taken to the boat,’ he shouts as the bus drives off.
Boat?
This is the first I’ve heard about a boat. Perhaps Australia doesn’t have many airports.
Mum and Dad and lots of the other people are staring at the bus as it goes out the gate. Dad doesn’t look much like a desert warrior anymore. His shoulders are slumped. All the other people are looking pretty worried too.
‘I hope we can trust those smugglers,’ mutters Mum.
Smugglers?
That explains it. The United Nations would never chew aniseed root and spit inside a vehicle. And they’d certainly never throw people’s rucksacks around.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say to Mum. ‘They probably just want to get back before their policemen friends have spent all the money.’
This doesn’t seem to cheer Mum up very much.
We all stand at the edge of the runway, wondering what to do next.
‘Perhaps we should ask somebody,’ says a man.
It’s not a bad idea, but I can see what Dad’s thinking. What would we say? Excuse us, we’re being smuggled to Australia, but we don’t know where to go next?
‘We’ll wait,’ says Dad.
‘I think we should get on the plane,’ says Mum. She starts picking up our bags.
Dad sighs. Some men in our village get violent when their wives argue with them, but Dad never has. It’s one of the great things about him. That and the camel shapes he can make with his hands.
Dad and Bibi and I pick up the rest of our bags. Other people pick up theirs and we all start walking towards the steps at the back of the plane.
Mum still looks very miserable.
Suddenly I realise what’s upsetting her. We’ve never flown in a plane before. The only planes we’ve ever seen up close are crashed ones full of bullet holes in the desert.
Mum’s feeling scared.
I squeeze Mum’s hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ I whisper. ‘Our plane won’t get shot.’
I don’t need to remind her we’ve got our candlestick. The precious ancient family relic that’s kept us safe from air strikes and landmines and the dodgy brakes on Dad’s taxi.
She’ll remember once we’re on the plane and she can relax.
‘Stop!’
An angry voice, yelling across the runway.
Several men in uniform are running towards us. One is holding what looks like a sword, except the blade is a thick loop of wire and the handle’s got red lights blinking on it.
My heart stops and I get ready to try and hold them off while Dad and Mum and Bibi run for it. But the men don’t grab us, they grab our bags. And one of them starts waving the sword over a rucksack.
‘It’s OK,’ murmurs Dad. ‘It’s just a security check to see if we’re carrying weapons.’
‘I’m not,’ says Bibi fiercely to a security guard.
One of the guards says something in a mixture of languages and points to a hatch in the side of the plane. I realise he’s saying the bags have to go in there.
‘No,’ says Dad. He doesn’t let go of the bag. I know what’s worrying him. He’s heard too many stories of passengers putting bags in the boots of taxis and never seeing them again.
The security guard looks angry. He says that metal objects in bags are forbidden.
‘No metal objects,’ says Dad.
The security guard with the sword glares at Dad and glides the sword over each side of each bag. He’s just started Mum’s rucksack when I remember the candlestick. It’s solid metal except for the jewels. Even if she’s wrapped it in dirty underwear the sword will find it.
I stare anxiously at the flashing red lights.
But no alarms go off.
The security guards don’t jump on us.
Nothing like that happens.
In a way I wish it would. Because this is even worse. This sick feeling I have as I grab Mum’s rucksack. And feel desperately for the hard shape of the candlestick. And discover it’s not there.
Mum takes her rucksack without looking at me.
Now the sick feeling is really bad. Now I understand where the money came from that Dad gave the police.
Mum sold our candlestick. Our precious ancient candlestick that’s kept our family safe for hundreds of years.
‘I’m sorry,’ whispers Mum.
I know she had to do it. I know it was the only way she could get us to safety. And now I know why she’s so miserable.
We’re not protected anymore.
We’re about to get on a plane and place our lives in the hands of criminal smugglers and our ancestors aren’t protecting us anymore.