Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘Sorry, bhaji.’

‘Allow it. And don’t look so. . so defensive all the time. It gives you guys away like shit in a shoe. The way you lot stand close to the edge of the platform, eyes fixed on where the train’s coming from. The way you quickly take a look at everyone on the bus as you walk down the aisle. The way you stand so straight, as if your ankles are tied together. Spot you guys a mile off. Just chill,’ he finished, drawing out the word.

The boys nodded, not really questioning why these were things they ought to be trying to hide. Avtar had thought it was his clothes, his hairstyle, his sockless feet that had given his foreignness away to Dr Cheema. But it seemed alongside the cosmetic changes there was a whole system of other things to correct.

All night he heard Randeep rustling about on the other settee: smacking his pillows, throwing his blankets on and off, sometimes facing the room, sometimes not.

‘Arré, these things happen, yaar. Don’t dwell. Go to sleep. And for God’s sake let me sleep as well.’

‘It’s nothing to do with that. I’m hot-cold. I might not be well.’

Avtar sighed and brought the blanket over his head.

‘I think I will ring that Scotland number tomorrow,’ he heard Randeep say.

Somehow, Avtar kicked the blankets off at five o’clock for his two hours of study. He sat on a dining chair, the plastic clammy against his thighs, and set about untangling the wires of his headphones. He’d do an hour of Better English and then an hour of his course.

The sky was turning light grey and Avtar was still muttering along to his CD, as Aki came through the front door. He lifted away his headphones and let them hang around his neck. She’d been saying something to him.

‘Hahn ji?’

There was a liquid look in her face, as if she was struggling to coordinate eyes, mouth and brain, and — Avtar now noticed — her feet seemed to be constantly adjusting themselves. He felt an immediate rush of disgust.

‘I said, I suppose you think I’m bad.’

‘Ji?’

‘Bad. Do you think I’m bad? Do you think I’m nothing but a gorafied cow?’

Avtar said nothing. He’d probably not said five words to her in the time he’d been here. It wasn’t his place.

‘Well, fuck you. Fuck you, you freshie fucks.’ She took a step forward, one steadying hand on the wall. Half her face was in shadow. ‘Fuck you freeloaders. You come here expecting us to wait on you. What, because you’re family?’ She reeled back. ‘Where the fuck was you when my dad died, hey? Where was “family” then?’ She adopted a different voice. ‘Oh, sorry, that’s right. Because it’s my mother, she has to deal with it on her own. Because it’s a woman, she’s not allowed to turn to her family. Well, fuck you.’ She made shakily for the stairs, then stopped. ‘I’ll tell you who was here for us. My friends. They helped us. Were here for us. Got us back on our feet. The same people Mum wants me to stop hanging out with. Because she’s got the same fucked-up idea of family that you’ve all got. But I tell her. I tell her, the next time we’re on our knees it ain’t gunna be the Indian lot that come to help. It’ll be my friends again. Think of that. Think of that.’ She snorted, looked away. ‘You ain’t got a fucking scooby,’ she ended, quietly, and perhaps tearfully, though Avtar couldn’t be sure. She climbed the stairs, creaking her way up, and seconds later a door slammed shut.

Avtar looked down at his inked-up hands, then across to the settee, where he knew Randeep was lying awake under the blanket.

At the newsagent’s on the High Street they asked the Guju youth behind the counter to help them top up their phone. Then they found a bench down the side of Woolworths and Randeep folded out the blue chit with the Scottish number on it. He dialled and put the phone to his ear.

‘What do I say?’ he asked.

‘Say you’ve just landed in England with a marriage visa and that Harchand Vakeel Sahib said they’d give you work. Don’t tell them your name yet. Give a fake one.’

He half hoped no one would answer. But they did. ‘Hello? Hello. Who is this?. . My na—?. . I’ve just landed with a marriage visa and Harchand Vakeelji Sahib said you’d give me work. . Chandigarh, uncle. . Amritsar. . Yes, on marriage, uncle.’ A slow grin spread across Randeep’s face. ‘Yes, ji, I’m Randeep Sanghera. That’s me.’

It turned out that Vakeelji had already sent word of them to this Scottish uncle. He’d been waiting for them to call. In fact, he’d been saying to his wife only last night that he was going to call Harchand bhaji and say his men hadn’t been in touch yet and did they actually make it over OK.

‘But is there work?’ Avtar cut in.

‘He says so. He promised to call back later today.’

All afternoon he was checking the phone, or Avtar was asking him to check it. Then, as the high street filled with kids slouching home from school, the mobile rang and the Scottish uncle said there wasn’t anything in Glasgow or Aberdeen or Newcastle, but they weren’t to worry because there were plenty of other contacts he had to try. The main reason he was calling was to ask if they had National Insurance and City and Guilds cards, and if not, to make sure they had some passport-sized photographs handy, along with photocopies of their visas and passports. The boys went back to the house for their passports and visas and then back to the Guju youth in the newsagent’s to ask where they could get photostats. He laughed and said, here, pass them to him and he’d photocopy them in the back. I mean, not as if you’re faujis or anything, is it, he said with a wink. They found a photo booth in the chemist across the street, but didn’t have enough pounds and decided to wait until tomorrow before exchanging what rupees they had left. They returned to Massiji’s, Randeep excited at the prospect of work despite Avtar’s warning that they shouldn’t get their hopes up.

‘What kind of work do you think it might be?’ Randeep asked. The night had come round again, and they were under their blankets on the settees.

‘You’re the one who spoke to him, yaar.’

‘I didn’t ask. Sorry.’

Avtar frowned. He wished he’d stop saying sorry all the time. ‘Shop work, maybe.’

Randeep nodded in the dark. That would be all right. He’d hoped for something better, something software- or consultancy-related, but at least shop work would be nice and clean and easy.

The mobile vibrated hard against the glass top of the table, scurrying towards the edge. Randeep lurched for it — ‘It’s him!’ — and put it to his ear. ‘Hello?’ He listened for a long while. Avtar came and knelt beside him. ‘Tomorrow?’ Randeep said, and looked at Avtar, who nodded, urging Randeep to accept whatever the offer was, whenever it was. A little later Randeep said thank you, uncle, sat sri akal, and closed his phone.

‘There’s work?’ Avtar asked, shaking Randeep’s knee.

Randeep nodded. ‘One of his relatives. He has work in a city called Sheffield.’ Randeep paused. ‘I’ve got to be there tomorrow at one o’clock.’

Avtar withdrew his hands into his lap. He understood. ‘Oh.’

‘He said there was only work for one. So you go. I’ll find work here.’

‘Don’t be stupid. That fat lawyer gave you the contact.’

‘But where will you stay?’ he said, then tried to backtrack. ‘Of course, Massiji won’t mind—’

Avtar shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Avtar and Massiji came to St Pancras to see him off. He seemed quiet, as if thinking of what might lie ahead.

‘Don’t be worried,’ Avtar said.

‘I’m not, bhaji. I’ll manage. This is the world we live in now. But I do wish you were coming with me. It’s been really nice having someone to talk to.’