Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY EVENING

T he lad making his way home from the Chelsea match was Sajid Singh. Chelsea had won 3–1 against Spurs, and Sajid was elated and slightly drunk. Next was the quarter-final, and Sajid felt sure they would win. Warmth radiated throughout his body, partly from excitement and partly from the alcohol he'd consumed. A few of the supporters he'd sat with had invited him to celebrate with them at a place in Soho whose name he couldn't remember. He remembered being happy, though; his eyes still shone with the pleasure only winning could bring.

He climbed aboard the coach at Marble Arch, heading for Oxford. If the traffic was okay, it would take an hour and a half, maybe less. There were only a few empty seats. He debated sitting with the lads wearing Chelsea shirts, thinking it would be fun to share the excitement of winning, but their expressions made him uneasy. Their shaven heads and tattoos told him he wouldn't be welcome into their clique. Instead, he sat next to an old man who stank of sweat and nicotine. He could hear the lads behind him sniggering and swearing.

‘You shouldn't be doing that,' someone said.

‘Is that right?' One of the lads laughed.

Sajid turned to see that one was spraying black paint on the CCTV cameras. He quickly turned back and glanced down at his phone.

As time went on, the lads got rowdier. Sajid could smell the beer they were drinking. The more they drank, the more boisterous they became. He pulled his earphones from his pocket, accidentally hitting the old man with his elbow.

‘Hey, watch it,' said the man harshly.

‘Sorry, the seats are so close,' apologised Sajid.

‘Yeah, well, just be more careful next time.'

‘Of course, I'm–' began Sajid, but he stopped when a hand slapped him on the shoulder.

‘Is this Paki upsetting you, mate?' The voice was coarse and common. Sajid knew without looking that it was one of the lads he'd chosen not to sit beside. The lad leaned over him, his alcohol-fumed breath wafting into Sajid's face.

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.'

‘Needles?' asked the lad. ‘What do I do?'

‘Do as he fucking says,' screamed Needles. For the first time that evening, Sajid saw fear in Needles' eyes.

All his arrogance had left him, and Sajid felt sorry for him in a strange way.

‘I am The Vigilante,' said the masked figure. ‘Nice to meet you, you pieces of shit. Now, I think it's time you and your mates move on, don't you? I suggest you get off at the next stop, which is quite soon, isn't that right, driver?'

The driver simply nodded. He pulled in at the next stop with such a jerk that all the passengers were thrown forward.

‘Just in case you think I'm a bit of a joker,' said The Vigilante calmly, and then, before Needles could blink, The Vigilante gently slid the machete across his neck. A trickle of blood ran down Needles' throat. The crimson liquid continued its journey down his shoulder and onto his arm. He screamed like a girl and clutched at the wound. In seconds all the lads had hurried off the coach, and the driver was bombing it down the A40 like a rocket was up his coach's backside.

Sajid sat stiff as a poker, waiting for The Vigilante to turn on him, but instead, he asked, ‘Are you okay, mate?'

Sajid nodded dumbly, staring in fear at the machete.

The man slid it into his backpack and handed Sajid a card. Then he walked up the coach to the driver. ‘Stop here,' he said.

As directed, the driver pulled into the layby, and the masked man handed him a card, too, before jumping off the coach.

The driver didn't wait to see where The Vigilante went but pushed his foot hard on the accelerator.

‘Who the hell was that?' someone asked.

‘I didn't see him get on,' said another.

‘Well, it sure wasn't bloody Superman,' said the driver.

Sajid wiped the perspiration from his forehead and thought he wasn't far off being Superman as far as he was concerned. He looked down at the card in his hand. Big, bold letters read, ‘When the law fails to serve us, we must serve as the law', and then handwritten were the words ‘The Vigilante'.

‘Who the fuck was that?' said Skinner eyeing up the cut on Needles' neck.

‘Where did he come from?' asked Digger.

‘I don't know,' said Needles. ‘I'm sure as hell going to find out, and when I do, we'll show that Paki lover who's in charge. Is it bad?' he asked, gently feeling his neck.

‘Nah,' said Skinner. ‘He wasn't aiming to cause damage.'

‘Some kind of vigilante,' said Twitch.

Needles let out a small laugh. ‘We'll be ready for him next time, right?'

They all nodded. They knew better than to disagree.

‘What are we going to do now?' asked Skinner.

‘Get the next coach, you wanker. Only we don't sit together. We don't want them making connections, just in case that dickhead driver phoned and reported it. Viper promise, lads.' Needle held his right hand up.

The others followed suit. ‘Stand together, fight together, die together,' they all said solemnly.

‘The enemy will never win,' said Needles.

‘Never,' they chorused.

Further down the road, The Vigilante removed the khaki jacket and balaclava before shoving them into his rucksack. He covered his head with a beanie, walked to the next coach stop, boarded the second coach with several others, and sat at the front with his head deep in a book.

None of the lads was aware of him.