Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress by Sarwat Chadda

needed to get out of here. He sat down beside her.
    He was taking a sip out of a tin cup, thinking about escape, when a foot darted past and kicked it out of his hand.
    “Who are you, English?” Hakim, the older boy, stood over Ash, his fingertips resting on the punch dagger tucked into his waistband.
    Ash peered up. “My name is Ash.”
    “We don’t like English here.”
    “I’m not English.”
    Hakim sniffed. “Smell like English.” He poked his toe into Ash’s ribs. “Feel like English: soft and weak. Like a sack of puke.”
    The other children went quiet. Ash knew no one was going to come to his rescue. He’d faced guys like Hakim all his school life. They were the sporty ones, the cool, good-looking ones. The ones who pushed him around in the playing fields and classrooms. They’d kicked the back of his chair and stolen his lunch money.
    Ash gazed at the bigger boy. That was then.
    He stood up.
    Hakim’s fingers tightened round the dagger and drew it out. Ash didn’t blink.
    “Well, English?” The blade was a few centimetres from his eye.
    “Sorry, are you expecting me to be scared?” Ash replied.
    Yes, he should be scared, but he wasn’t. Last night his entire world had collapsed, and now the threats of a school bully just didn’t amount to much. What could Hakim do that was worse than what had already happened?
    “If you’re going to use the knife, then use it.” Ash’s jaw stiffened as he snarled. “Otherwise get that thing out of my face and let me finish my breakfast.”
    The katar was poised in the space between them. Hakim’s eyes narrowed. Then he pushed Ash’s head against the wall and stalked off.
    John scurried over. “You must have a death wish.” He poured Ash a fresh cup of water. “But that was seriously cool. No one stands up to Hakim. You’re lucky he didn’t slice you.”
    “Thanks for the back-up,” Ash said sarcastically.
    John scratched his head. “Listen, you don’t live here. You don’t know the rules. Come with me. We’ll eat somewhere with a bit of privacy.”
    He took them into a small room on the first floor. There was a low wooden bed, a table and some Bollywood posters on the wall.
    Ash looked at John as he perched himself on the bed. He was smaller than Lucky, though probably close to Ash in age. Years of malnourishment had given him a small frame and little muscle. His jaw seemed too big and his eyes too large, sitting in a head that was all angular cheekbones and cavernous sockets.
    “Don’t look at me like that,” said John. “That ‘poor Indian’ look. You Westerners all have it.”
    “That obvious?” said Ash. “What are you doing here, John?”
    “Don’t know,” John winced. “Mum left me here a few years ago.”
    “Your mum abandoned you?”
    “Dad died. Simple as that.” John spoke plainly, like it was hardly news at all. “Mum couldn’t afford to keep us. It’s better here. I earn my own keep, enough to pay for food and a bed. It could be a lot worse.”
    “How’d you earn money?”
    “I’m a fully qualified doctor, of course. Can’t you tell?” John shook his head, grinning. “I steal. Pick pockets, open locks. Climb up a drainpipe and on to people’s roofs – they don’t expect that. Sneaking in is easy when you’re this size.”
    “What do you take?”
    “Wallets. Cameras. Mobile phones. Anything some tourist might put down for a second and look away. We all do it. It’s better than begging.”
    Mobile phones. That was it.
    “Call home,” Lucky whispered, guessing exactly what he was thinking.
    “Look, John, I need your help,” Ash said. “I need to get a mobile.”
    “You think Ujba lets me hang on to them? The moment we get anything Hakim takes it off us to give to the guru. If he caught me hiding a mobile he’d beat my brains out. Forget it.”
    “John, just listen. What would you give to be with your mum again?”
    “She left me. Why would I want to be back with her?”
    “You said so yourself;