‘You ignoring me, wog boy?’
The word hung in the air, resounded around the space. Emma bit her tongue, felt her face heat up. The bus seemed to hesitate, to wait shivering, its panels rattling by the roadside, and Emma wondered if the driver was going to chuck the troublemakers off. But then with a defeated sigh the doors closed and the bus shuddered into motion.
It probably looks worse than it is, she thought. They obviously knew the boy – Luke, presumably. Could just be mucking about; they do that, don’t they, play-fighting and next minute they’re all friends. She didn’t really know what was going on.
‘Talking to you, dickhead.’
‘Tell him, Gazza,’ the girl giggled, egging her friend on. ‘Black bastard.’
Ahead of her, Emma could see the latest arrival bending her head to focus on her sleeping child, an expression of dismay and the tug of anxiety in the way she bit her lip.
Emma’s stomach hurt and she felt thirsty, a bit dizzy. Maybe she should say something. But no one else was doing anything. If it really was serious, someone else would say something, wouldn’t they? What about the really big bloke sitting near the front, looking like a rugby player? He’d not done anything and he’d got size on his side. Or the group of studenty types, four of them, with long hair and funky clothes. They were just huddled together ignoring it.
What could she say, though? Stop it. Something friendlier? Please leave him alone. The words sounded pathetic in her head, weedy. She’d look ridiculous. Let alone the fact that the group might turn on her, she could get attacked. People did. What if she asked them to stop; then the boy, the ringleader, she could imagine him swivelling his gaze at her, those big marble eyes set off among his freckles, pushing himself away from the seat, homing in on her. ‘You talking to me?’ Then calling her names: ‘Fat slag, stupid cow, keep your nose out.’
And what about the driver? He’d done nothing. This was his bus, his job; if anyone had a responsibility to do something, it was him.
She could ring the police, report the abuse. But if she did it now, everyone would hear. Besides, they’d probably snatch her phone as soon as they noticed. If the lad kept on ignoring his tormentors, maybe they’d lose interest. No one else was saying anything. Perhaps they knew it wasn’t worth it, or that it was just chavs messing about, bored, maybe on drugs too.
‘He’s shitting himself,’ the runty one cackled.
There were two women in front of Emma: middleaged, dressed up well against the weather. Now she saw them exchange a glance, share a tiny shake of the head, caught the muscle in one woman’s jaw tighten with disapproval. Shocking, dreadful, but what can you do?