Emily Taylor - Abducted Read online

  9.

  Sometimes Emily got a funny feeling that she was being watched.

  Paranoid or what?

  ‘Do you ever feel you are being watched?’ she asked Zula.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well yes, but when I look around there’s no one looking.’

  ‘Sneaky, eh,’ said Zula. ‘Everyone is watching you.’

  ‘Everyone who?’

  ‘Me and Dad to check you don’t get into trouble or run away; Ijju because - well, she just watches you; Gamel because he’s weird; everyone else in the caravan because they’re interested in the little yellow haired girl; the spies because they’re spying, and the gods because they keep an eye on us all.’

  ‘So I’m not being paranoid then.’

  ‘You are, but there is nothing wrong with that, it might just keep you alive.’

  ‘Where did you live?’ asked Zula.

  ‘No,’ replied Emily, ‘Where do I live?’

  I’ll be going home soon!

  ‘Em, where do you live?’ asked Zula, then asked a million more questions, everything from what woke her up in the morning to what does the Queen smell like? Does everyone in England wear a top hat? Did she have T.V.? Had she been in a car? A train? An airplane? What did she learn at school? He wanted to know everything, every little detail. They talked and talked. Zula’s English improved and he got a Sheffield accent like Emily.

  When she asked where they were going, he answered, ‘Just see,’ then added, ‘I’ll tell you when you can ask in Arabic.’

  ‘But that will take ages.’

  ‘We have plenty of time.’

  So Emily went to school on the back of a camel in classroom that stretched from horizon to horizon. She learnt the Tamasheq words for everything to do with the caravan and Tuareg people. They had zillions of words for sand, almost as many as the English had for different types of cloud and rain. For everything else, Zula spoke in Arabic, making Emily repeat words, over and over until she got them right.

  Finally she asked, ‘Where are we going?’ in Arabic.

  ‘Timbuktu.’

  ‘No seriously, don’t joke, you promised you’d tell.’

  ‘But we are going to Timbuktu.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Then the real adventure begins, we’ll cross the whole Sahara. It’s far and it’s dangerous.’

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Not telling,’ he said.

  Emily laughed and hit him. She liked Zula.

  There were three boys in the caravan: Zula, Yuba who was about Emily’s age, and Agerzam who they called Zam for short. There was a girl too, Ijju. Emily thought she was a boy at first because she kept herself all wrapped up. When she showed her face Emily could see that she was really pretty. She had jet-black hair with thin braids like string running through it. Black eyes watched her shyly but turned away when Emily looked her direction. Sometimes it was like Ijju didn’t like her, she could feel the hate vibes.

  Emily had never thought of the English as fat before. It was just what people were like in her world, sort of cuddly. It wasn’t like they needed to be fat to stay warm cos everything was heated anyway; cars, school, shops, swimming pools, everything. She’d been much colder in the desert here than she ever was at home. They sat round watching tele, stuffing their faces with chips and burgers and coke, that’s why they were fat. Now she was in the desert, she was skinny. In the desert, people were skinny.

  Everyone apart from Gamel with his big hippo belly, but he didn’t count because he wasn’t Tuareg. Zam wasn’t fat, he was just well built, but the others called him fat. Not to his face though. Being taller and bigger than Zula and Yuba, he’d beat them up. He liked to fight. Sometimes he pushed the other boys around just for the fun of it. He was proud of his missing front tooth and the scar on his arm. He said someone knifed him in a fight. Emily didn’t know if it’s true or not but he probably deserved it. She didn’t like bullies. He kicked a plastic bottle along when he wasn’t riding on his camel and thought he was some sort of football star. He had ZZ tattooed on his arm. He said it stood for Zinedine Zidane. She’d never heard of him but he was like a hero in the desert. Sometimes she kicked Zam’s bottle around with him. She liked footy.

  Yuba was short and skinny with curly black hair. He was poo picker before she got the job. He must be glad she came along. Now he was the tea boy, brewing up sweet tea and delivering it to the men in small glasses. Sometimes he let her help. She kept the fire going under the kettle, blowing on the embers until she got dizzy. Yuba wanted to be a Desert Rider but Zam kept telling him he wasn’t tough enough, that he couldn’t kill. Emily didn’t think he could neither; he wasn’t scary at all.

  The kids called themselves the Scorpions. They were a bit of an odd bunch because they were all so different to each other, hardly like a real gang. Emily supposed they didn’t have no one else to hang out with.

  During siesta time, while she was busy watching poo drying, they went surfing in the dunes. Their surfboards were road signs, battered and full of bullet holes: Timbuktu, Camels Crossing, and Danger Quick Sand.

  They took her surfing in the moonlight. At first she fell off lots then she got the hang of it. It was wonderful flying down the dunes in the dark and rolling head over heels when she fell off, then scampering up to the top again in the cool night air, just them and their laughter, the sand and the stars.

 

  10.

  The peace of the desert was broken by the whine of a mosquito. It grew into the familiar growl of a motorcycle and there was another sound, the throb of a helicopter.

  It’s the Thunderbirds! Dad’s coming with them. Someone’s picked up my messages and Dad’s coming to rescue me; I know it’s him!

  Saleem gave a loud whistle and the caravan quickly formed into a defensive circle with the women and children in the centre. The noise grew to a roar, and then in an explosion of sand, a motorcycle shot over the crest of a dune, zoomed past and vanished in a cloud of dust. The helicopter, flying close behind, blew the dust over the caravan making the camels bolt.

  ‘Darn racers!’ cursed Zula.

  When the curtain of dust cleared there was an insect like dune buggy parked in front of them. A white man stood hanging onto the roll cage, panning a movie camera towards the caravan.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ warned Zula. ‘Hide your face.’

  Emily was about to jump in the air and yell, when a strong hand pushed a smelly rag in her face and plucked her off her camel.

  Hours later, just as day turned to night, she awoke with a splitting headache. Saleem was looking down on her, his brow furrowed with worry.

  ‘What?’ she asked

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Chloroform. Have some mint tea.’

  Drat! No Dad, no Thunderbirds!

  It was a surprise to see cars out the desert. Apart from the ever-present jet trails crisscrossing the sky overhead, Emily thought she’d seen the last of civilization, probably forever. Then suddenly one day there was a bike racing across the desert and the next the caravan arrived at a road, tar sealed with a white dotted line down the middle. There were cars and trucks driving on the wrong side of the road like they did in Spain; trucks overflowing with sacks and watermelons, with happy, waving people sitting on top, grinding along belching black smoke that made her eyes water; dusty, beat up cars, stuffed full of people with all their things piled high on the roof, like they were moving house and had to do it in one shot using the family car; and wrinkly old men leading donkeys laden with reeds, looking like haystacks with legs.

  They followed along parallel with the road. Emily was relieved from her poo picking duties and rode with Zula near the front of the caravan, probably so she couldn’t run away. The road joined a string of oases and they passed through forests of date palms and fields of peppers and corn. Brightly dressed men and women wearing headscarves worked in the fields, bent over weeding and harvesting. Zula had to fight to keep their
camel in check; it was forever reaching down to grab a mouth full of grass or twisting sideways to rip a branch off a shrub.

  At one of the oases a date palm overhung the water. The boys and Ijju vied to see if they could climb up and pick a date before falling in. Ijju was the only one who made it.

  Yes, girl power!

  Emily had a go and made it half way up before she slipped and belly flopped into the muddy water.

  ‘Crocs,’ said Zula.

  ‘Yes I have a pair of lime green ones at home.’

  ‘No, crocodiles!’ he joked as they splashed about.

  Emily gave him a kick.

  ‘No, really, look!’ he said, pointing to a ripple on the other side of the pond.

  Emily screamed and scrambled up the slippery bank.

  ‘Oh come on,’ he said catching her and pushing her in. ‘If there’s not a bit of danger, it’s not worth doing!"

  Emily liked horrible creatures but was not too sure about the real thing, all spiky and toothy with big strong jaws and sharp claws, just waiting to drag her back to its lair, let her fester, then tear her apart and savour each tasty little morsel. She didn’t want to be eaten, not just yet; she had things to do.

  After swimming in the oasis, her matted, nit infested hair was a mess. It itched and drove her crazy. It had to go. She asked Zula for his knife and started hacking it off.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Stop,’ said Ijju, the first thing she’d ever said to Emily. She sat Emily down on a log in the shade of the date palms and slowly and painfully combed her hair, chasing the knots out then pasting some vile smelling green slime on her head to de-nit her. She worked on Emily’s hair for hours until it shone golden again.

  Although only a couple of years older than Emily, Ijju was much more grown up; she was taller and was starting to get boobs. She wore a lovely maroon tent that was a shade darker than Emily’s and had a weathered, well-loved look about it. Ijju had embroidered little silver camels, goats and other desert animals running around the cuffs. Her scarf was dark indigo blue. At first she hid behind it like the men do, now she wore it wrapped around the top of her head framing her face.

  Around her neck she wore a necklace of delicate glass beads and little silver coins. She took it off and put it around Emily’s neck. Emily was flattered, she would have loved to keep it but she carefully put it back on Ijju. It just looked right on her, at home against her velvet black-brown skin. There was something between Ijju and Zula. Emily guessed that’s why she got the vibes from Ijju, because Zula spent so much time with her. She thought Ijju didn’t like her but now they were friends.

  Ijju looked so sad sometimes, like she’d been crying.

  Emily helped washing clothes, which had become sticky, smelly and stained from weeks in the desert. They soaped them up with beaten cactus leaves then stomped on them in the muddy water, wrung them out and hung them on bushes to dry. The Tuareg loved their clothes. It was all they owned apart from a few pots, pans and gourds. Their tents and scarves were made of the best cloth. No one ever seemed to change; they wore the same tent day and night.

  Emily took hers off, washed it and hung it on the bushes then swum out to the middle of the oasis while she waited for it to dry. It was wonderful being naked in the thick brown water. Then she thought crocs and had to get out quick, almost walking across the water to reach the shore.

  Once her tent was dry, Ijju helped her sew up the hem, which was all frayed from being too long and her tripping over it. Ijju showed her how to embroider and, using silver thread, Emily sewed griffins and dragons around one cuff while Ijju sewed a family of elephants around the other.

  Saleem gave Emily a present, a long scarf, the same as the men wore but shorter and narrower. It was the same beautiful deep blue colour as Ijju’s. ‘This will protect you from the sun and the sand,’ he said, ‘and from the eyes of those that might bring you harm. Your hair is beautiful but makes you stand out like a camel at a tea party.’

  Emily had been noticed. The next afternoon a big dust storm blew up. The air had been different all day, heavy and repressive, like something was brewing.

  Just as they started to load up, there was shouting, ‘Dust storm! Dust storm!’ and the nomads ran about madly, grabbing things and stowing them in safe places.

  The camels were hastily grouped behind some palms as a giant billowing cloud of dust came roaring down on the caravan. People covered their faces and huddled for shelter behind the camels. Visibility dropped to nearly zero as the wind ripped through, tearing away those possessions that hadn’t been packed.

  Like an idiot, Emily just stood there, out in the open, watching it all happen. It was like being sand blasted when the wind hit. It pushed her away from the group and she found shelter behind some palm trees. Two men, their scarves wrapped tightly around their faces came to help her. They grabbed an arm each and helped her though the storm. She closed her eyes against the dust and let them guide her. Suddenly she was out of the wind. A door slammed behind her, an engine started and, with a squeal of tyres, the car sped away.

  Snatched from the caravan, she’d been abducted!

  Emily jumped forward and pulled both men’s scarves down over their eyes and held on as long as she could. The car swerved and bounced through some bushes then splashed to a halt, water washing half way up the windscreen. She pushed the door open, dove out and swum away underwater. She thought crocodiles but decided that there was more danger from the men. When she surfaced she took a deep breath of dust that made her cough and splutter. There was nothing around her but brown water and orange dust. She swam through the murk, the wind whipping up spray around her. Finally her feet found bottom and she waded ashore and ran and ran until her lungs hurt. She hid in some bushes, pulling her wet tent around her to try and stop from shivering.

  Day turned to night but she could hardly sleep; she’d escaped, she was free. She could almost smell the fish and chips, her dad’s with vinegar, hers with tomato sauce.

  At first light she carried on her way. The sun shone on a landscape covered with a fresh coat of sand. It had built up in drifts behind trees just like the snow did at home. She headed for a building she could see in the distance. She’d find a policeman and he’d send her home to her mum and dad on a jet plane, leaving a big long trail across the sky that stretched from the Sahara to Sheffield.

  A shadow flitted past on the rippled sand. Emily looked up to see a small hawk circling, shining golden in the soft morning sunshine.

  ‘Tsul,’ called a familiar voice. ‘You forgot this.’

  She looks up to see Saleem, smiling through his loosely fitting scarf, holding out her new scarf, which blew away when the sand storm hit.

  ‘Climb on up,’ he said, offering Emily a hand as his camel knelt down.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Emily asked.

  His eyes sparkled with humour as he gestured behind her. Emily looked around to see her little footprints and the hot water bottle prints of the camel stretching back across the pristine sand.

  I’ll have to do better than that if I want to escape!

  Emily had to admit that she was happy to see Zula again, and Ijju. She was not so happy to see Gamel; he hit her and made her nose bleed. Zula washed the blood away and made her a cup of crunchy mint tea. ‘You’re crazy running away in a sand storm,’ he said. ‘Cunning, but crazy.’

  ‘I didn’t run away, I got stolen!’

  Zula looked very surprised and had her tell him the whole story two times over, asking lots of questions like, ‘What colour were the men’s tagelmusts?’

  He asked her, ‘How did they walk?’ and ‘What type of car was it?’ then took her to Saleem’s tent where she drunk more crunchy mint tea and told him what happened. He looked worried and called a meeting of the men.

  The camp was slow to get going after the sand storm. Everything had to be opened up; the sand shaken out and repacked again before Saleem was happy. Emily saw them open up the
box that the men dragged down the beach in Spain. There was something long and skinny in it but before she could see what it was they rolled it up in a crinkly grey blanket and it became an elephant’s trunk. They smashed the wooden box into little pieces to make kindling for the camel poo fires.

  The caravan headed southwest, away from the road and back into the desert. Soon there was nothing but sand.

  11.

  Later the next day the Desert Riders joined the caravan. They were magnificent. Black as the ace of spades, they arrived at a gallop, all four of them riding side by side over the dunes on their fine black horses, like something Emily had seen at the movies. They wore bright yellow scarves and carried long rifles. Belts of polished bullets ran diagonally across their shoulders and shiny swords hung at their sides.

  Zula looked at them with awe, like a kid seeing his favourite soccer star. ‘Riders,’ he said. ‘One bullet, one man, they never miss!’

  ‘Why do we need them?’ Emily asked as she bent down to pick up some poo.

  ‘To protect the caravan.’

  ‘Not to stop me running away?’ she asked.

  ‘They might. They never miss!’

  Emily threw some poo at him, hitting him in the back of the head. ‘I never miss!’ she said laughing.

  The riders lived apart from the caravan. They camped in a different spot, usually out of sight. They spoke their own language, ate their own food and kept to themselves. They knelt on mats at sunrise and prayed to Allah.

  Although Emily missed her mum and dad, she was growing to love life in the desert. Even if she was just the poo picker, she was doing her part to help the caravan cross the desert. She used to do her chores under protest; here in the desert they had a purpose. At home, she lived in a little box and spent most of her time sitting on her backside in front of another box, the tele; a box inside a box. At school she learnt nothing of any use except to prepare her for a life sitting in a cubical, in a box called an office, pushing buttons on another box called a computer. Like really, what is the point?