‘Jamal,’ whispers Bibi. ‘How many days have we been on this boat?
Her head is heavy against my arm. I open my eyes. The sunlight sears in. I squint down at her face. It’s wet with perspiration. She’s got a fever.
‘How many days?’ she whispers again.
I wipe her face with Rashida’s spare t-shirt.
‘Five,’ I say. ‘I think.’
‘Six,’ murmurs Rashida, sitting hunched on the other side of me.
‘I was going to say that,’ mutters Omar over her shoulder.
I know why Bibi’s asking. The food and water on the boat ran out this morning and she’s wondering how many days left till we get to Australia. Trying to work out if we can survive.
I’ve been doing the same.
The answer’s three and I don’t know if we can.
A lot of the people sitting on this deck look as though they feel the same way. I’ve never seen so much despair on so many faces.
I wipe Bibi’s face again.
‘Try to forget which day it is,’ I say to her. ‘Just try and rest.’
‘I don’t want to forget which day it is,’ says Bibi in a tiny voice. ‘It’s my birthday.’
I stare at her, my sun-addled brain frantically calculating the date.
She’s right.
‘Oh Bibi,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
How could I have forgotten? It’s bad enough being stuck out here in the middle of the ocean on your birthday, but to have your own family forget is terrible. I can see from Rashida and Omar’s faces that they think so too.
‘Happy Birthday, Bibi,’ I say to her miserably.
The others do too.
Then I pull myself together. There’s not much I can give Bibi for her birthday out here, not even a glass of water, but one thing I can do is try and cheer her up.
‘Let’s plan a party for your birthday,’ I say to her. ‘We’ll have it when we get to Australia.’
‘OK,’ she says, brightening.
‘My birthday’s in four months,’ says Omar. Rashida gives him a dig with her elbow.
‘In Australia,’ I say to Bibi, ‘when it’s your birthday, the Australian government comes round to your house with a cake and fizzy drinks.’
I’m not completely sure if this is true, but with a kind and caring government it could be. Anyway, it’s the thought that counts.
‘And sardines?’ asks Omar.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Probably.’
‘And hamburgers with onion and egg and chilli sauce?’ says Rashida.
‘Definitely,’ I say.
‘Brilliant,’ says Omar. ‘What’s a hamburger?’
Rashida tells him.
‘I prefer ice-cream to hamburgers,’ says Bibi. She’s looking better than she has for hours.
‘In Australian supermarkets,’ I say, ‘they sell fifty different kinds of ice-cream.’
OK, I’m getting carried away now. The others look at me, frowning.
‘Fifty?’ says Omar.
‘Get real,’ says Bibi. ‘Twenty, maybe.’
I give them a look to let them know that if I’m exaggerating a bit, it’s to make us all feel better.
‘What’s a supermarket?’ says Omar.
Rashida thinks for a moment. ‘It doesn’t have stalls like a normal market,’ she says. ‘It’s one very big shop that sells everything.’
‘Even bait?’ says Omar, gloomily eyeing his fishing line.
‘Bait and everything,’ says Rashida. ‘My mum used to love supermarkets.’
‘Your mum?’ I say, staring at her.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ says Rashida. ‘I was born in Australia.’
Now Bibi and Omar are staring at her too.
‘Soon after I was born we had a letter from Afghanistan,’ says Rashida quietly. ‘Telling us how all my uncles were dead in the war. So we went back to look after my grandparents until they died too. And then the government wouldn’t let us return to Australia. My parents are very sad.’
Rashida stares out across the churning water, towards where we’ve come from. Then she turns away and pulls out her mirror and lipstick.
I watch her make her lips green again, which can’t be easy when the boat’s rocking and your lips are trembling.
‘I’m sorry about your uncles and grandparents,’ I say quietly. ‘And your parents.’
Before I can stop myself, I’m thinking about my uncles and grandparents. And Mum and Dad.
And suddenly Bibi’s birthday doesn’t feel so happy anymore.