LITMIR.BIZ

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have you got to smile about?’ snapped Amir angrily. ‘You enjoy destroying bird nests?’

      Ibrahim shrugged, speechless.

      ‘OK, brothers,’ announced Coach Saleem diplomatically. ‘Let’s call it a day there. It’s nearly prayer time and I’ve got an appointment with the Imam and Mr B after that. But first,’ he said, craning his head upwards, ‘I’ve got an appointment with a tree.’

      ‘Tree-mendous,’ grinned Ali. ‘You’ll have a ball, Coach.’

       ***

      ‘Come round to the side gate, friends,’ urged Mr Bateman from an upstairs window. ‘Let me show you how the garden’s coming along.’

      Imam Munieb, Saleem and Junayd followed the short path to the garden gate. Once inside, Junayd closed the gate behind them.

      Junayd had been on his way home when Mr Bateman insisted he join the three men rather than trudge home by himself.

      Junayd felt bad. He remembered how Ibrahim had started salivating when Mr Bateman had mentioned cream tea earlier. It would have been just the tonic after his humiliation at the park, too.

      The Imam found himself looking at an explosion of large, papery green leaves.

      ‘Rhubarb!’ shouted Mr Bateman loudly from somewhere inside the conservatory.

      ‘Excuse me?’ asked Imam Munieb, wondering if his neighbour had trodden on a pin.

      ‘It’s rhubarb,’ repeated Saleem, confident that he had heard correctly, though he had never seen it or eaten it in his life.

      ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Bateman, stepping into the garden. ‘Might be ready by next month. We can all celebrate with rhubarb crumble when the Victory Boys win the cup again, eh?’

      ‘God willing!’ smiled the Imam.

      Mr Bateman turned to Saleem, his face bright with the eagerness and anticipation of a seasoned football fan. ‘How’s the team shaping up for this year, young man? I haven’t been to watch them practise for a while.’

      ‘Not sure yet, Mr B,’ replied Saleem, scratching his chin thoughtfully. ‘All of the other teams have played a competitive season, of course – we’ve just had to make do with practice. But they’re good lads, y’know. Except this one,’ he teased, ruffling Junayd’s hair. ‘And this new boy, Amir… he’s a bit special.’

      ‘New signing, eh?’ enthused Mr Bateman, his eyes lighting up. ‘How exciting! Transferred to Shabab al-Nasr for two million pounds just before the close of business? Lucky you were able to bring him in while the window was still open!’ joked Mr Bateman. Junayd grinned.

      ‘Window?’ queried the Imam. ‘No, he came through the front door…’

      ‘Er, don’t worry my friend,’ said Mr Bateman, gesturing to a wooden bench. ‘Have a seat while I go and put some jam on those scones. Mind you,’ he added as he strolled back to the conservatory, ‘If this Amir is that good, what will the poor lad say who ends up keeping the bench warm?’

      Puzzled again, the Imam looked down at the wooden seat he was sitting on. It was left to Saleem to explain. ‘He means, what about the boy who loses his place in the team, Imam. To make way for Amir.’

      ‘Don’t worry, Coach Saleem,’ smiled Imam Munieb. ‘Funnily enough, we had another lesson in school today about the hadith of our beloved Prophet, sallallahu alayhi wa sallam, that you should love for your brother whatever you love for yourself. I think any of the boys will be OK if they end up heating the bench, as Mr Bateman said.’

      Mr Bateman could hear everything from inside the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow and distractedly plopped a scoop of fresh cream inside the teapot.

      ‘Whoops,’ he said.

      Junayd remained quiet. He was looking down at the bench, lost in thought.

       3

       The Substitute

      Sunlight flooded through the tall south-west windows in the school corridor and forced Ali to squint as he made his way towards Mr Rose’s classroom. Geography had never been one of Ali’s favourite subjects, but Year Nine was proving to be the best year for it. Mr Rose somehow managed to make the topics interesting, and it was the only lesson he shared with his friends, Junayd and Abdullah.

      As he entered the Geography classroom, it was not the tall and laidback Mr Rose who he found standing beside the whiteboard, but a rather nervous looking man with a scruffy black moustache. He smiled at Ali, who nodded back and murmured a quiet, ‘Hello Sir’.

      From the back of the room, Ali could hear the familiar sniggering of Mason, Conor and Mutib. He looked over to his usual desk and found Junayd, Abdullah and their friend Karl smiling at him.

      ‘As-salamu ‘alaykum brothers,’ said Ali, as he wrapped the strap of his bag around a chair and sat down. Karl, for a long time, had been in the habit of responding to this greeting along with the Muslim boys, so none of them ever thought to say ‘hello’ when they saw him.

      ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salam,’ replied his friends cheerfully.

      ‘Got some exciting news,’ said Junayd, trying to sound mysterious. ‘Guess what it is.’

      ‘Ha! As if you can wait to tell us!’ laughed Ali, who knew that Junayd could never keep exciting news to himself. ‘Who’s the new teacher?’ he added, deliberately frustrating his friend by making him wait just a bit longer to reveal all.

      ‘I believe we’re about to be enlightened,’ said Abdullah, as the man began to write the word ‘Mr’ on the board.

      ‘Mr Ball!’ announced Mason from the back with an exaggerated chuckle. ‘His name’s Mr Ball!’

      ‘Hey, when did you learn to read, Mase?’ smirked Conor, earning himself a thump on the arm. ‘Ouch!’

      ‘Hey Sir, what’s your first name? Foot?’ chimed in Mutib.

      ‘Nah, it’s Beach!’ sniggered Conor, rubbing his arm, which was still throbbing.

      ‘Oh dear,’ announced Abdullah. ‘It’s going to be one of those lessons.’

      ‘If I could have your attention, please,’ said Mr Ball nervously.

      ‘If I could have your attention please!’ mimicked Mason.

      ‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ continued Mr Ball, looking rather cross and somewhat flustered.

      ‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ repeated Mutib from behind his hand.

      Ali turned round and rolled his eyes at the three class clowns, wishing Mr Rose were here. He never had such problems, even with troublemakers. Ali wanted to say something, but it was difficult, treading a line between doing the right thing and being seen as the ‘teacher’s pet’.

      ‘All right you lot,’ he said, trying to sound casual and unruffled, ‘Save your comedy routine for “Britain’s Got No Talent”, yeah?’ He winked for good measure, so they would know he wasn’t showing them any serious disrespect.

      ‘Well, you’d know all about that, scally Ali,’ growled Mutib, but the others only pulled faces. They couldn’t say much about talent to the most skilful footballer in Year Nine.

      Grateful for silence at last, Mr Ball opened his mouth to speak again. At that moment, the classroom door swung open and Ali saw a face he knew, but couldn’t name. Abdullah did it for him. ‘Amir Zidane!’

      Amir looked over. He recognised Abdullah, who had come to him after football and congratulated him on ‘39 completed dribbles, an individual Sunday Practice record’. He nodded to Abdullah then saw the two boys next to him. They looked familiar too. He realised

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