A Little Piece of Ground (21 page)

Karim's fists were balled with tension but his heart was on fire with admiration.

“Awesome, Hopper, incredible!” he mouthed silently. “But run now. Run!”

Instead of running away, Hopper again raced directly towards the tank. As Karim watched, his heart standing still, Hopper leapt for the massive gun barrel. For what seemed like an endless moment, he swung from it, as casually as if it was a bar in a playground.

It had seemed to Karim, watching from the rubble pile, as if Hopper was wrapped round in a bright sheath of glory, impregnable, unconquerable, but it was surely impossible now that his luck would hold. Soldiers were popping up like rabbits from the turrets of the tanks behind. They were shouting at each other and aiming their rifles.

Karim couldn't bear to watch. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and smacked his uninjured fist against his forehead. Shots rang out and there were more shouts. Karim imagined Hopper's lifeless body crumpled on the pavement. He had to look.

What he saw was his friend's lithe figure dodging and diving, leaping erratically down the side street that led to the impenetrable lanes of the refugee camp. Shots were flying after him, shattering stones, embedding themselves in walls. Hopper flinched once, slapping his left hand to his right elbow, and then he was gone, out of sight, safe in the camp's tight embrace.

Karim, trembling and sweating, breathed out a great gust of relief. Some of the crews from different tanks were conferring together, huddled behind a huge bulldozer. Then they ran back to their own vehicles and began to turn them to face the camp, so that their huge gun barrels were pointing directly down into the densely packed buildings.

They're going to go in there and shoot it all up and knock down buildings till they find him, Karim thought.

The elation that had thrilled him while he was watching Hopper's great defiance had gone. Now he felt only weak and ashamed. Why hadn't he been there, standing up for Palestine, holding up an armored column all on his own, armed with nothing but an eggplant? Why hadn't he had the courage to insult the Israelis by swinging insolently on their very own gun barrel? Why was he lying here, while they were about to go on down, bent on a murderous, destructive rampage?

Then, unexpectedly, the tanks moved again, turning away from the camp, facing back up towards the town.

They're going to move on after all, Karim told himself, with a shudder of relief.

He'd wait until they were well up the road and everything was quiet, then he'd creep down off the rubble and limp home, as quickly as his sprained ankle would let him, slipping through the back streets that the Israelis hadn't yet had time to occupy.

He gathered himself, ready to make his move, but although the tanks were revving up, their engines deafeningly loud in the now deserted street, they were not yet moving on.

Karim cautiously raised his head a little higher, trying to see, then ducked down again. The soldiers had noticed the Palestinian flag made of stones laid out at the entrance to Hopper's ground. Two of them were kicking at it with their boots, breaking it up, swearing at it, if the tone of their voices was anything to go by.

Karim clenched his fists, feeling even more helpless and humiliated.

“Get out! Get out!” he muttered. “This is our place. Get out of here.”

But the soldiers were looking further ahead into Hopper's ground. Now they were calling over their shoulders to the column of tanks. The man on the foremost turret stood up, his rifle held ready in the firing position. He was high up now, on a level with the top of the rubble. He could see right across it. Only a sheet of corrugated iron, miraculously placed at the edge of the dip where Karim had fallen, was shielding Karim from view.

Karim lay as close to the stones as he could, his face pressed down, willing the man not to see him, willing himself to be invisible.

The seconds crept by. Then he heard more shouts and the engines roared as the tanks began to move. He could hear them rumbling past up the road and he breathed again, waiting for the sound to die away. It didn't. Some vehicles had gone, but some were still near, and coming nearer still.

With a chill of horror that set his whole body shaking, Karim realized that the last of the tanks was rolling right into Hopper's ground.

Chapter Twenty-One

Karim lay in the rubble, moving as little as possible, straining to hear what was happening. They'll go in a minute, he kept telling himself. They'll go on into town.

He could tell that the huge machine was still there, turning, churning the ground, its engines revving. He could hear stones clattering down, and grinding sounds, as if metal was being crushed.

Very cautiously, he edged along the dip behind the sheet of rusting corrugated iron, looking for a suitable peephole. He found a good one. He could watch from here and still be out of sight.

Two vehicles were now in Hopper's ground, a tank and an armored Jeep. Thick wire mesh covered the Jeep's side windows and windshield, and a radio mast, attached to one side, pointed like a long slender lance up into the sky. On its roof was a flashing yellow lamp.

The tank had moved right up onto the soccer field and was turning, not taking any account of the damage it was causing as it did so. Its massive tracks had crashed into the oil drums that had hidden the way into the car and squashed them flat. At the same time it had dislodged a huge pile of stones, which had come tumbling down, making a whole new ridge, so that the car had almost disappeared and was inside the rubble. There was no way into it now from Hopper's ground.

Karim was tempted to make a break for it, to try to crawl away over the rubble to the small side road at the back of Hopper's ground. The soldiers would be unlikely to notice the noise he was sure to make over the roar of the tank's engine. The light was fading, too, as evening approached. Twilight was the best time to move about unnoticed, when everything was grey and dim, and the lights had not yet come on.

He crawled to the far end of the dip and began to climb up the other side, as silently as possible. The tank was still moving. He could see that it was positioning itself at the entrance to Hopper's ground with the gun barrel facing out, towards the refugee camp. The armored Jeep was parked beside it, the yellow light on its roof still flashing. Its occupants had climbed out and were clustering round the tank, talking to the soldier who was perched on the sandbags at the top.

If that guy looks this way, he'll see me, thought Karim.

Fear paralysed him for a moment, but then the man on the turret disappeared down the hatch into the tank. Seizing his chance, Karim scrambled to the top of the rubble peak and slid down the far side.

He found himself lying in another dip, on a flat surface, and realized that by pure chance he had landed on the roof of the car. The shutter that he and Hopper had used to cover the gap in front of the windshield was still in place. Over the last few weeks, bits of old plastic and waste paper had blown on top of it, more or less covering the car's roof too. It was hard to tell, now, that a complete car lay buried under all the rubbish.

Finding it, being right there on top of his own secret place, gave Karim some welcome encouragement. He knew, even in the gathering darkness, exactly where he was, exactly how many ridges of rubble there were still to cross before he reached the edge of Hopper's ground, and which direction he should go in.

He stepped cautiously across the car's roof, ready to move up the next shallow ridge, but just as he had put his foot on the first tumbled mass of rough broken concrete, the tank's engine was switched off and there was silence.

For a moment, he could hear only the rasp of his own breathing and the faint scratch of his shoe on the concrete. But then came the voices of the soldiers, horribly, frighteningly close.

He crouched on top of the car roof and waited. They'd switch the engine of one of the vehicles on again in a minute. There'd be enough noise to cover his escape. They
had
to do it. He
had
to get away.

A moment later, the hoped-for sound came. The Jeep's engine started up. Now it was roaring out of Hopper's ground on screaming tires and careering around the corner.

Karim gathered himself to go on, but before he could move, the Jeep had already stopped. It was now on the far side of the rubble, exactly where Karim would need to go if he was to escape. It was being parked, with noisy changes of gear, in the side road. Its yellow light cast a lurid glow with each flash. On and off. On and off.

I'm trapped, thought Karim. I'm stuck. What if they stay here all night? What if they're here right through the curfew? It could go on for weeks!

The Jeep's engine was still running but the doors had opened and he could hear voices speaking in Hebrew.

They'll search the whole area! Karim told himself. They're certain to! They'll find me hiding, then they'll either shoot me straight off, or beat me up and break my legs, or take me off to prison.

He looked around from side to side, desperate. There was no way out. He had no choice but to stay, and hide.

Moving as quickly as possible, and horribly aware of the noise he was making, which even the sound of the Jeep's engine could hardly cover, Karim slid the old shutter back, slipped under it onto the car's hood beneath and pulled the rough wooden board back over his head. He was hidden now at least, in his own small space.

But I can't stay here, he thought. There's no room. I can't even sit up.

The door to the driver's seat had been ripped off long ago, when the car had been abandoned. The gap it had left made the entrance, which the boys had always used. The tank, though, had pushed the mountain of rubble further in towards it. There was only a narrow crack now between the side of the car, and the mass of broken cinder blocks, stones and smashed concrete.

As quickly as he could, sure that at any moment the Jeep's engine might be switched off and his movements easily heard, Karim eased himself around the side of the car, squeezing himself into the narrow space, catching his clothes on jagged corners, tearing more skin off his hands. Rubble shifted and settled noisily around him. He paused once or twice, and every muscle stiffened, but he heard no angry shouts.

With one last desperate wriggle, he forced his way in and collapsed at last onto the driver's seat. He was filthy, scratched, bruised, exhausted and very, very frightened. But a bit of him was exultant too.

They haven't caught me, he told himself, and they're not going to. I'll be safe in here and I'll stick it out for as long as it takes.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was almost completely dark in the car. The last glow of daylight was rapidly fading and only the faint ghostly flashes of the Jeep's yellow emergency light penetrated the gloom.

Karim eased himself through the gap between the front seats into the back of the car. His spare clothes were here and some of Joni's too. He'd need them later, if he had to stay on for a while and the evening chill took hold. His foot dislodged something that slurped as it tilted. Joni's drinks! There were several giant-sized bottles of orange soda left. He felt them with his hands. Four. Four two-liter bottles. He wouldn't be thirsty for a while yet.

He tried to remember if Joni had stored any food here and decided regretfully that he hadn't. It was too dark to look now, anyway.

The Jeep's engine was suddenly switched off and Karim froze, listening to the silence. Then he heard, just beside him, a tiny meow and felt something soft against his hand. It was Ginger, the biggest of the kittens.

Karim picked up the furry ball and held it against his cheek.

“Where's your mama?” he whispered. “Where's Aziza?”

The other kitten laid a tentative paw on his knee. He picked her up with the other hand.

“She'll be back soon,” he murmured. “Don't worry.”

But he knew his words were empty. How would Aziza find her way back to the car now that the entrance was blocked with a couple of tons of stones and earth? And how would he be able to keep the kittens alive when he didn't have anything but orange soda to give them?

Ginger seemed to read his mind. He extended his claws and drew them down Karim's face, too gently to hurt, but sharp enough to feel.

“Hey, none of that.” Karim pulled the kitten away. “We're in this together.”

He set Ginger down beside him on the seat and turned the smaller kitten over, so that she lay on her back in his cupped hands, the pale fur of her belly gleaming in the faint light.

We never gave you a name, he thought.

He could feel the metal sides of the car pressing in around him like the walls of a prison and had the odd sensation that they were closing in on him. The kitten in his hands had turned her head and was pressing her nose against his thumb.

Hurriyah,
he thought. Freedom. That's what I'll call you.
Hurriyah.

The presence of the kittens comforted him. They seemed happily unaware of the sounds penetrating the car from outside. Hurriyah, impatient at being held, was trying to wriggle out of Karim's grasp. He set her down beside her brother.