Page 3 of The Girl in the Woods

The word Paki drove through Sajid’s heart like a knife. Only one kind of person used words like that, and Sajid knew from experience that they weren’t the best kind.

‘He’s all right,’ said the old man nervously.

Sajid wanted to say that he wasn’t from Pakistan, that he’d been born in Oxford, and that his parents were from India, but his throat had tightened up, and he could barely speak.

‘Well, I think he should apologise. I’m Needles, by the way. Cool name, yeah? It’s on account of the tattoos, see?’ He proudly held up a tattooed arm.

Sajid wanted to run and hide somewhere. Images of what could happen flashed through his mind. A friend of his had been stabbed just the other month because he was Muslim, so Sajid’s heart was nearly exploding with fear.

‘Now fucking apologise, Paki,’ Needles snapped.

Sajid looked up into the man’s hard brown eyes. They were dark and chilling. Every muscle in his face was tight. He expressed intense anger and contempt.

The coach had turned quiet. No one wanted the tattooed skinhead to pick on them. Sajid wished the man named Needles would take his hand off his shoulder. He didn’t want him to feel the trembling of his body.

‘I did apologise,’ he said softly.

‘Whaddya say, Paki? Speak up, or has the cat got your tongue?’ mocked Needles.

The other lads laughed, and Sajid felt a chill of fear run through him. ‘I did apologise,’ he repeated.

‘Is that right, Granddad?’ asked Needles.

The man bristled at the word granddad. ‘Yes, he did.’

Sajid was relieved when the coach driver barked, ‘What’s going on back there? Please go back to your seats.’

‘What right yer got to tell us what to do? What do yer think you’re playing at letting a Paki onto this coach?’ said Needles, vitriol pouring from his mouth like venom.

Sajid could smell the odour of his own sweat and felt ashamed of his fear.

‘Yeah,’ shouted another. ‘The coach stinks of fucking curry now.’

Sajid could see the driver didn’t know what to do either. Sajid just prayed he would call for help. They were on the M25, and Sajid knew they couldn’t just stop. His legs trembled so much that he knocked them against the older man’s knee.

‘I bet he doesn’t even have a fucking ticket,’ said Needles, grabbing Sajid by the arm. ‘Show it to us then?’

With fumbling hands, Sajid felt in his pocket for the coach ticket.

At that moment, Sajid saw one of the lads pull a hammer from his rucksack, and for one awful second, he thought he was going to use it on him, but Sajid saw his aim was for the radio that the coach driver had in his hand. Someone screamed and Sajid watched in horror as the hammer smashed into the radio. Sharp pieces of metal, like small razor blades, flew everywhere. The coach swerved dangerously across the lanes for a few desperate seconds as the driver tried to get the steering wheel back under his control.

‘Why don’t you just keep your eyes on the road, mister,’ shouted the lad waving the hammer. His tone was threatening, and Sajid’s hands had turned clammy.

‘All right, all right,’ the driver said shakily. Sajid saw blood dripping down his face.

‘And why don’t you drop that hammer and sit back down, you piece of trash,’ said a voice behind them.

The lad spun around, and his face turned ashen. Several times his mouth opened, but nothing came out of it. Standing with a machete at Needles’ throat was a figure dressed in combat trousers and a khaki jacket. A balaclava hid his face, and he wore black gloves. Sajid stared at him in shock and confusion.

‘Where the hell did he come from?’ yelled one of the lads.

Sajid was wondering the same thing.

‘Christ,’ cried one of the other lads, reaching into his pocket.

‘Watch it,’ someone yelled.

The figure turned, wrenching Needles around with him. ‘Unless you want your mate’s throat slit from one side to the other, I wouldn’t reach for that flick knife, if I were you. Trust me, I’ll slaughter this little scumbag if you do.’

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