A few days later, Teta sent us out to hunt for snails in the scrub above the main road. It had been raining, and as twilight started to fall, Naji, Karim and I squatted with our plastic bags and picked snails from the grass and the undersides of leaves. We followed trails of silver up tree-trunks and across stones, found the smooth, coiled shells of brown threaded with grey and plopped them into our bags. I liked the way the snails’ bodies stuck out of the shell – their sticky bottoms, and the antennae that Karim said were eyes and shrank back fast when you touched them.
Soon the bottom of my plastic bag was a frothing, clicking mass, and so was Karim’s, but Naji had hardly any because he was hunting for more than just snails. A few days ago he’d come home dragging a metal canister. He had pulled it into his bedroom, sweat dripping from his face. I examined it from all angles. ‘What is it?’
It stood in the corner of the room, almost as tall as I was, painted white and brown, with numbers and letters along one side. I tried to move it but it was heavy. And the top of the thing was odd – shaped like some sort of wheel.
‘That’s the lid.’ Naji turned it hard, then lifted it off and laid it on the floor.
I peered inside. ‘There’s nothing here,’ I announced, my voice hollow.
He sighed. ‘Of course not. They don’t need it any more. It was used to store artillery shells, but now it’s mine.’
‘Why do you want it ?’
He stood a little taller. ‘I’m going to collect shells and fill it right to the top.’
‘Shells?’
‘From the woods. There are loads of them every where. The soldiers leave all sorts of bullets and things.’
That day he found two torn red cylinders with coppercoloured bottoms, each with a little circle in the middle. A few days later there were more: thin cylinders of shiny silver or gold that softened into rounded points at one end. There were big versions and little versions, mostly dented, but he found some that were like new.
I unglued a huge snail from a stone and dropped it into my bag. ‘Is Papi really going to eat these?’
Naji shrugged. ‘Who cares what he does?’
A moment later he found another of the coloured plastic cylinders, but he tossed it to one side.
‘Why are you throwing it away?’
‘I’ve already got lots of those.’
It wasn’t long before he found a pretty gold one.
‘I like those best,’ I told him. I liked to weigh them in my hands, like large beads, or line them up end to end, or fit the small ones into the larger ones, if they were empty, or clink them together.
‘Where are you going?’
Naji was wandering off. ‘You stay and hunt for snails if you want,’ he said.
‘Are you going to look for more bullets?’ I called, but there was no answer as he disappeared through the trees. Not long afterwards the thunder of shelling started, so Karim and I headed towards home. The sound of bombing bounced between the hills in screeches and bangs as we walked along the main road. Karim was trying to get a whistle out of a blade of grass held between his thumbs. He filled himself with breath and gave a big puff. Nothing. Instead, we heard laughter coming from a narrow path to the right. A plane passing high up spread a roaring noise across the sky, making two cats jump down from some rubbish drums and dart away. But as the roar faded the laughter came again.
‘Let’s not stop,’ said Karim. ‘I don’t like those boys.’
A small group was clustered a little way down the path beside a bent telegraph pole. There were three boys. Two – one with heavy-lidded green eyes and another with spots all over his face – were older. But it was the sight of the third boy that made me stop. Because it was Naji. The green-eyed one was rubbing something metallic and shiny against his sleeve, while a rounded piece of wood stuck out from beneath his armpit. It was only when he moved that the wood and the metal blended together and I knew what it was.
‘See the handle? Here’s where you open it,’ he explained to Naji. The metal stem of the rifle fell downwards, hanging like a broken limb. ‘And here’s where you put the bullets in.’
Karim’s blade of grass fluttered to the ground as he tugged my arm. ‘Let’s go. They might shoot us if we don’t.’
I shook him off. ‘Shoot us? What are you talking about? Can’t you see Naji’s with them?’
The rifle clicked, the broken limb knitted together again, and the boy holding it leant against the twisted railings behind him. Dirty brown knees stuck out beneath his shorts. One sock was pulled halfway up his calf, the other sagged round his ankle.
‘Look.’ He raised the rifle to his shoulder and swept the metal end through the air until it was pointing at the nearest pine tree. The boys fell still. Naji stood with both hands locked on top of his head, his elbows jutting out like roast chicken wings.
With a loud crack, a branch on the tree shook, and the green-eyed boy jerked back against the railings.
‘Let me try!’ cried Naji. ‘I want a go!’ His arms were stretched out towards the gun, but the boy swung it clear.
‘Ruba!’ Karim’s voice was insistent. ‘Let’s go.’
Perhaps the gun-boy heard him, because the rifle swept round, away from Naji’s groping hands, to where I was standing. Two black holes in the tip of the rifle-stem faced me like eyes.
The boys seemed suddenly far away. Among them, Naji’s face stood out shocked and afraid. Then the rifle’s small black eyes grew large – became Huda’s eyes, Papi’s, watching from a place that was dark and silent.
‘Hey! Hey, be careful. That’s my sister!’ The world started to move again, and Naji’s face grew close. The other’s too.
The rifle quivered, and behind it the green-eyed boy gave a casual shrug. The gun was lowered. ‘I wasn’t going to do anything.’
Naji pushed his way past and ran up. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. ‘And him.’ He jerked his head towards Karim. ‘Go home.’
‘No. Who are those two?’
‘My friends. And it’s nothing to do with you.’
As he spoke, his friends stepped up. ‘What’s this?’ asked the spotty one. ‘Your little sister?’
‘Isn’t she cute?’ laughed the gun-boy. ‘And the other – he’s going to piss in his pants!’
They laughed. Naji laughed too. The smile was still on his lips when he whispered, ‘Yalla, go home.’
‘If I go back I’ll tell Mami – or Papi! – and then you’ll see.’
‘Ohhhh, she’s going to tell Papi,’ mimicked the spotty one. There were hoots of laughter, and two red stains spread across Naji’s cheeks.
‘And what about this one?’ The spotty boy indicated Karim, whose eyes were enormous with fear. ‘I know you. You’re a Muslim, aren’t you?’ He gave Karim a shove.
‘Yes,’ said Naji. ‘He is.’
‘What’s in your bags? Let’s have a look.’ The gun-boy came closer and tugged at Karim’s . ‘Snails! Ohhh, you’ve been out collecting snails like good little children, have you?’
Naji stood watching, and I noticed that he
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