Bibi’s asleep at last.
That’s why I’m lying out here on the soccer pitch. So I don’t disturb her while I try and plan our future. It’s hard to plan quietly when you’re crying.
I don’t want to think about the future. I don’t want to think at all. But somebody’s got to do it and Bibi’s only ten.
‘Jamal.’
A voice out of the darkness. Even though the moon’s bright, I can’t see anyone.
‘Jamal.’
It’s Omar’s voice, wobbly and uncertain. That’s not like Omar. Then I remember his parents were on the boat too. I’d forgotten that. Grief can make you really selfish.
‘Over here,’ I call to him.
He comes and sprawls next to me.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he says.
My first thought is that I don’t want to hear. The last piece of news Omar told me, here on the soccer pitch, was bad enough. Or would have been if I’d listened. In fact everything people have told me lately has been terrible. Except for Andrew, but he’s a liar.
Then I remember Omar is grieving too.
‘What is it?’ I say.
‘They weren’t on the boat,’ he says.
I roll over and stare at him.
‘Who?’ I say.
He looks at the ground.
‘My parents,’ he says. ‘They died when I was two.’
Neither of us says anything for ages.
‘How did you get a ticket to Australia?’ I ask finally.
‘I didn’t,’ he says. ‘I hung around a big family in the camp and when they got on buses so did I and people thought I was with them.’
‘What about the plane?’ I ask.
‘Same thing. Hid in the toilet. I’m sorry I lied to you, Jamal.’
Slowly I take this in. Here’s a kid with no parents who doesn’t let it hold him back. Who goes out and does things. Like travel to Australia without a ticket.
Neither of us says anything for another long time.
I stare up at the stars and think about what me and Bibi could go out and do. We could travel around Australia talking to players whose teams have just lost matches. When we tell them what’s happened to us, and they see our tears, things won’t seem so bad for them. In return, they might let us train with them.
Omar is fidgeting. I can see he’s got something else on his mind.
‘Don’t ask me about my parents,’ he says suddenly. ‘Because I don’t know anything about them. But I do know about my ancestors.’
‘Tell me about them,’ I say.
‘They were thieves,’ says Omar. ‘One of them had his hands chopped off.’
I remember Omar trying to steal my soccer ball. I also remember him saving it from the harbour. And clinging onto Bibi, saving her from attacking the pirate. Omar might think he’s a thief, but it’s never that simple.
I give him a look, to show him I know.
‘What about your ancestors?’ says Omar.
‘One lot were desert warriors,’ I say. ‘The other lot were bakers.’
‘Which are you?’ says Omar.
I think about this. I think about the things that have happened. My chest fills with grief again, because suddenly I know the answer and it makes me miss Mum and Dad so much.
‘I’m a bit of both,’ I say.