Naveed Page 6

  He can hear their footsteps drawing closer; they are just out of sight, around the corner. Naveed forces himself to run on but it’s not long before, exhausted, he decides to take the only course left to him. He stops at a very narrow part of the lane, turns and faces his pursuers. Gasping to catch his breath, he grabs a thick chunk of splintered timber from the gutter, raises it in the air and cracks the first of his pursuers over the head. The boy falls down, moaning, and the others stop on the spot.

  There are seven of them, but they’re bunched up in the narrow lane and no one is game enough to make the first move on Naveed. He half considers attacking them, but then the leader of the gang steps forward.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he says. ‘You’re outnumbered.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Naveed replies. ‘But I’ll take at least a couple of you down with me.’ He raises the lump of wood over his shoulder as if to strike. The other members of the gang pull back, but the leader doesn’t budge.

  ‘You might, but we’ll get you in the end, and you know it. Then we’ll bash you real bad.’ The gang leader grimaces. ‘And I mean real bad.’

  Naveed does know it, but doesn’t flinch. ‘In that case I’ll have to make sure I bash as many of you as I can . . . real bad.’

  ‘Or you could just give us the money and we’ll leave you alone.’

  Naveed thinks about this for a moment and then nods. ‘Okay then.’ Keeping his weapon raised, he pulls all the other money he made at the bazaar from his pocket. It amounts to about two hundred afghanis. ‘Here you are.’ He holds out the money but the leader shakes his head.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. I mean the real money, the stuff the American gave you. The Flea reckons you got three big ones at least.’

  ‘What?’ Naveed exclaims. ‘That’s ridiculous. He’s lying.’

  ‘No. The Flea would never lie to me. He knows what I’d do to him if he did.’ The leader glances down at the stunted little boy. ‘Don’t you?’

  The Flea nods. ‘The American gave him three big notes, maybe four, and at least two were for one thousand.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Naveed shouts. ‘That soldier was as mean as they come. You were imagining things.’

  ‘I saw it with my own eyes, boss,’ The Flea insists. ‘I did.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Naveed snaps. ‘You must have been dreaming.’

  ‘The Flea never misses anything,’ the leader adds with growing impatience. ‘His eyes are as sharp as a hawk’s. I’m tired of being nice. The money, hand it over. Now.’

  ‘But I don’t—’

  Before Naveed can utter another word, the leader snaps his fingers and the gang springs forward. He lashes out with his club, striking two of them, but then the rest are all over him like a single beast. He tries to fight back, but the piece of wood is ripped from his hands and he’s knocked to the ground under a rain of blows – kicking, punching, stamping, thumping. He curls up in a tight ball and prepares for the worst. A boot wallops into his back, another crashes down on his shoulder, and he screams with agony.

  But then the beating suddenly stops. One moment the gang members are all over him; seconds later they are scrambling off, yelling and falling over each other to get away. Naveed rolls sideways to see a yellowy-white flash. It’s the dog. She bounds over the top of him, snarling and snapping ferociously at the gang.

  The leader hurls the lump of wood at her, but she dodges it and leaps straight onto him, snapping at his face. He stumbles back and falls with a heavy thud, the dog landing on top. He screams for the others to help, but they’ve already fled, leaving him to his fate. He tries to struggle to his feet, but the dog has him pinned to the ground, about to tear a piece out of his neck.

  Naveed gapes in horror. She might kill him.

  ‘No!’ he yells, leaping up. ‘Stop!’

  The dog does as she’s told. She still has her mouth open, her sharp teeth poised to strike, a low growl rumbling in her throat. But she pulls back slightly, and looks as though she’s waiting for Naveed’s next command.

  ‘Get the dog off me,’ the gang leader begs, blubbering like a baby, his face gashed and bloody. ‘Please.’

  Not quite sure what to do, Naveed calls gently to the hound. ‘Here, girl,’ he says, patting the side of his leg. ‘Let him go. Come here to me.’

  After a slight pause, the dog seems to relax a little. She closes her massive jaw, stops growling, and steps off the gang leader, still keeping her eyes fixed on him as she backs away. He immediately scrambles to his feet and runs for his life.

  Naveed stands in the narrow lane as the escaping footsteps fade, a tiny smile trickling across his face and turning into a great big grin. He laughs out loud, barely able to believe his good fortune. The dog is next to him, staring up with a curious expression, her head cocked to one side.

  ‘You’ve just found yourself a home,’ he says. ‘And I’ve just found myself a friend for life.’

  He kneels down and wraps his arms around her in a big hug. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers, barely able to hold back the tears of gratitude. He has no doubt that the gang could easily have killed him without a second thought, especially if they couldn’t find the money. They would certainly have left him seriously injured. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Chapter 15

  Life’s good.

  Naveed can’t stop smiling. He’s been smiling for the good part of a week, ever since that day at the bazaar. He spent the first two days on his back, recovering from the ordeal. His wounds and bruises have largely healed now, although he has a gash on his forehead that will take some time to mend. And his body still aches from the pummelling it received. But inside he feels wonderful.

  He reaches out and pats the dog sitting beside him. The dog? His dog. His saviour! He’s called her Nasera – she is beautiful like the moon – because her yellowy-white coat and broad face make her look like a piece of the moon. She gazes up at him now with her big moony face, and seems to be smiling too.

  Naveed is with his mother and sister in a park on the northern side of town. They’re sitting under a tree, quietly eating sheer yakh, ice-cream sprinkled with pistachios, each of them lost in their thoughts. Even Anoosheh is silent for a change. She chatted all morning while they were shopping, but is now savouring every bite of her frozen treat. So is his mother, as she gazes at a flock of colourful kites fluttering in the sky on the other side of the park.

  It took his mother a while to get over the shock of seeing him arrive home from the market that afternoon, Anoosheh leading him like a blind man, a ghostlike mastiff trailing close behind. He was a mess, limping badly, covered in blood, lips swollen, eyes puffed and bruised.

  ‘Ayee, my son!’ she screamed. ‘In Allah’s name, what has happened?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Madar,’ he croaked. ‘Everything is good. We’re rich.’ He chuckled, coughed up a little blood, and promptly collapsed.

  And they were rich, at least compared to before. The money the American soldier gave Naveed for the artillery shell would look after food and rent for months. It didn’t mean they could be extravagant, but it did mean that the stress of their daily hand-to-mouth existence had gone for the time being. Life had smiled on them for a change.

  It meant they could afford a few luxuries at last. Naveed could get that new toshak he’d promised himself. They could buy a rug for the cold earthen floor, and maybe even a bukhari for heating. The pleasure alone of going shopping together could be theirs, a luxury in itself.

  That’s what they’ve been doing all morning, first at the market for food, and later at Mr Waleed’s for those special things. Naveed is looking forward to sleeping on the new toshak he has just bought. Their mother also purchased materials to make Anoosheh a dress. And for herself she bought a headscarf. She wore it out of the shop. Made of mauve chiffon, it suited her so well that Mr Waleed couldn’t help telling Naveed how beautiful his mother was.

  Gazing across at her now, Naveed can only agree with the shopkeeper; she is indeed beautiful
. But far more important than that, he thinks to himself, is her strength as a person – inside, where it matters.

  Naveed’s mother has chosen not to wear the burqa, although many women do. She continues to wear a simple head-covering such as a scarf when in public, and Naveed knows how difficult this has made things for her sometimes. It has meant that she’s not gone out as much as she’d like. It’s meant that men have stared at her in unpleasant ways, and some have even made comments. Once when accompanying her he wanted to confront these men. But she stopped him.

  ‘Ignore them, my son. They are such little men,’ she said, holding her head high and proud.

  How proud she looks now, he thinks, a shaft of afternoon sun highlighting her face with its soft glow.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ she asks, interrupting his thoughts.

  He blushes. ‘Sorry, Madar. I was only thinking—’

  ‘That we should have bought a kite!’ Anoosheh breaks in, pointing with her spoon to the kites across the park. Several teams are practising in preparation for a big competition to be held in the park in a couple of days. ‘I could have entered the tournament,’ she says, ‘and become a champion kite flyer!’

  ‘You’ll have enough to do helping me look after Naveed’s guest,’ her mother replies. ‘He has asked Mr Omaid to join him here to have a picnic and watch the competition.’

  ‘A picnic? Can I bring Pari as well?’

  ‘Of course you can, if her parents agree.’

  As his sister and mother talk, Naveed’s eyes rest on Nasera. He’s pleased to see how much her condition has improved in barely a week. But then he has fed her well, arranging to take any food scraps from the back of Mr Waleed’s shop. He’s also found her a basket and a thick old rug to sleep on in the alcove at the front door of their house. She has made herself quite at home there.

  She’s made herself part of the family, too, adopting the three of them without a second thought, along with a grubby little ragdoll she found in the lane behind Mr Waleed’s shop when Naveed was collecting scraps. The doll is old and worn. An arm and a foot were missing, and the stuffing was falling out until Anoosheh sewed on new parts and added more filling. Nasera now treats the thing as her own, like a baby, keeping it in her bed and curling up with it at night.

  Naveed shakes his head in disbelief as he gazes down at Nasera. He cannot get over how lucky he is that this special dog seems to have chosen him to be part of her life, to put her trust in. No wonder he can’t stop smiling.

  Life really is good.

  He peeps into the bag that holds their purchases, and chuckles. ‘Time to go home,’ he tells his mother and sister. ‘I think I’m ready to try out my new toshak!’

  Chapter 16

  ‘No doubt about it, bud,’ the American commander tells Jake as they climb out of their Humvee at the entry control point into Bagram Airfield. ‘Your dog saved some lives today.’ The other soldiers from the Humvee grunt in agreement.

  They’ve been on an early morning mission to a mountain village known to harbour Taliban. Stingray sniffed out a pile of explosives, enough to blow a whole town sky high. He also located an IED on the roadside when they were leaving the village.

  ‘That was big,’ the commander says. ‘We’d have lost guys for sure.’ He pats Stingray. ‘You can come on an op with me any day, boy.’ Then he turns to Jake. ‘Join us for a drink?’

  ‘Thanks, but I might take Stingray for a quick walk into town and back.’ When the commander frowns, Jake continues, ‘I really need to get him more used to being around people. He’s still a tad uneasy with them.’

  The commander shrugs. ‘Okay then, if you must. But be careful, huh?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got good company.’ Jake pats his M16.

  ‘There’s some kind of kite comp on today, you know,’ the commander adds. ‘They’ve been building up to it all week. So there’ll be a crowd. They sure love their kites here.’

  ‘So do I, as a matter of fact,’ Jake replies with a grin. ‘Used to fly them as a kid.’ He gives the commander the thumbs up. ‘Back soon.’

  Jake clips the leash onto his dog. It’s a beautiful early spring Saturday, the sun high in a kerosene sky. A moderate breeze sweeps in, tinged with aromas of cooking. Jake hears a fluttering sound and looks up. The sky in the distance is alive with kites. The sight puts a smile on his face.

  ‘Come on, Stingers. Let’s check ’em out.’

  ‘I told you we should have put in a team,’ shouts Anoosheh, keenly watching the kite-flying competition. ‘I would have been the pilot, of course. You, brother, would make a passable runner.’

  ‘How come I only get to be number two?’

  ‘Many reasons, brother dear. Skill, for a start. I’d make a far better kite flyer than you. And then there’s killer instinct. Sorry, but I fear you don’t have what it takes in that area.’

  She thumps Naveed on the arm as they watch the kites fight it out in the sky above them, swooping and diving, trying to cut each other’s strings with their razor-sharp edges.

  Naveed looks about and nods happily to himself. A picnic on a beautiful day, delicious smells from food stalls filling the air, the sky alive with a clutter of kites, people out and about enjoying themselves. What could be better? These are the good things in life.

  Mr Omaid is with them for the picnic. He is guest of honour, and sits in a special place with Naveed, attended to by Anoosheh and her mother, who sit apart from the males. Pari is there as well. She is laughing with Anoosheh; how Naveed loves seeing Pari laugh.

  And a little distance away is Nasera. Naveed gazes fondly at his canine friend. She sits to attention – on her haunches, back straight – as though guarding the family, the stamp of nobility in her bearing.

  He notices that people tend to give Nasera a wide berth as they walk past. Some even stare disapprovingly at her. Naveed is not surprised – many Afghans dislike dogs – but their disapproval means nothing to him. Nasera saved his life, and he will never forget it.

  ‘See,’ Anoosheh says to Pari. ‘My brother is not even watching the contest. He has eyes only for that dog of his. I don’t think I’ll make him my runner after all. Pari, you can have the job; you’ll be much better at it. What do you say? Next year you and I will show up the boys.’

  Pari laughs at this, but Naveed catches just a glimpse of sadness in her eyes. Next year she will probably be married to a man old enough to be her father, perhaps older. He wishes there was something he could do or even say to ease her pain. He is about to speak when Nasera suddenly growls and stands up on all fours, the hair bristling down her back.

  ‘What is it?’ Naveed asks, looking around.

  ‘Amrikai,’ Mr Omaid says. ‘American.’ He points across the park. ‘And he has a dog.’

  Naveed stares for a moment and smiles. ‘I know him. He is a good man. He is the one who gave us the chocolate bars, Madar.’ He scrambles to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he says, and sets off across the park.

  ‘Mr Jake,’ he yells as he runs, Nasera loping along close behind.

  Jake doesn’t hear Naveed. He’s busy patting Stingray. He is pleased with how the kelpie has been handling the crowd, but the strange whirring, squealing and fluttering of the kites is still making him a little on edge.

  ‘Good boy.’ Jake takes the ball from his pocket and tosses it in the air. Stingray leaps up and catches it. ‘You’ve done real good, mate. We might call it a day, eh?’

  Jake is about to turn around. But Stingray’s whole body tenses. He drops the ball and springs forward, straining at the leash, almost pulling free.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Mr Jake. Hello, Mr Jake.’

  Jake recognises Naveed and waves. But then he sees the mastiff lolloping behind, and freezes. It’s a big dog, bigger than Stingray, and quite possibly aggressive; a lot of Afghan dogs are. The very last thing he wants is for a fight to break out between them. Jake knows he can control Stingray, but can the boy c
ontrol his dog? With Naveed about twenty metres away, Jake holds up his hand.

  ‘Stop!’ he commands in a firm voice. ‘Stop right there.’

  Naveed instantly does as he’s told, but Nasera keeps going, straight past him.

  ‘Your dog!’ Jake shouts. ‘Call it back. Now!’

  Naveed sees the concern on Jake’s face and yells at once. ‘Nasera. Stop.’ But the dog keeps running. ‘Nasera!’

  Jake prepares for the worst, pulling Stingray to his side. But to his amazement the big hound stops on Naveed’s second command, no more than ten metres away. Jake sighs with relief and relaxes a little.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Jake,’ Naveed calls when he catches up to Nasera. ‘I not mean trouble for you.’

  ‘No worries,’ Jake replies. ‘I’m impressed already. You’ve got good control of your dog. All the same, I’d be happier if you put this on her before you come any closer.’ He pulls out the belt from around his waist and tosses it to Naveed. ‘Just in case.’

  Naveed secures the belt around Nasera’s neck and takes a firm grip of it.

  ‘Great,’ says Jake. ‘Now hold her tight and walk this way, nice and slow.’

  Again Naveed does as he’s told, and Nasera keeps right by his side.

  Jake watches the pair closely. ‘Excellent,’ he says, nodding his head approvingly. When they’re about two metres away he raises his hand again. ‘That’s close enough.’ Naveed stops. ‘So far so good. Now comes the tricky bit. Keep a good hold on your dog. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jake. I hold good.’

  Jake slowly edges forward in short steps, gradually closing the gap between them, both dogs making little whining noises that grow louder the closer they get to each other.