Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘What now?’ Avtar said.

He held up his hand, as if to say he’d be fine in a minute. Ten minutes later they were still there, their backs to the main drop and facing the grey mesh curtain that hung all down the inside of the scaffolding.

‘It’s the height,’ Gurpreet said.

‘You must love living in Sheffield, then.’

He smiled faintly. ‘It’s not easy, this life, is it?’

Avtar jutted out, then immediately withdrew, his lower lip. A facial shrug. ‘Who said it would be? But it’ll get better. Hard work, that’s all it takes.’

‘Yeah, I used to be like you, too.’

‘You’re nothing like me.’

‘I used to think I only had to work harder. Longer.’ He shook his head. ‘Bhanchod liars.’

‘You should go home. Eleven years is a long time.’

Gurpreet laughed. ‘Forget any ideas about going home. You’ll still be here, still doing this, in eleven years’ time as well.’

‘Nah. If I don’t pass my exams I’ll go home with what I’ve earned.’

‘That easy, is it?’

‘It is for me.’ The rain puttered against his yellow hat, dribbled down the back of his neck.

‘So how much have you saved so far? With all your working?’

Avtar stared straight ahead.

‘Thought so. I said the same. That I’d go home after one year with my money. You really are like me.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘You’re me in eleven years.’

‘I said fuck you.’

‘Why? Scared? And it’s only going to get harder. Now chamaars like him are coming over.’

Avtar dipped his gaze and saw Tochi far below, tiny, switching drills.

‘It makes you only care for yourself.’ Gurpreet spoke quietly. ‘This life. It makes everything a competition. A fight. For work, for money. There’s no peace. Ever. Just fighting for the next job. Fight fight fight. And it doesn’t matter how much stronger than everyone else you are, there’s always a fucking chamaar you have to share the work with, or a rich boy who can afford a wife.’

‘You play the cards you’re dealt,’ Avtar said.

Gurpreet clucked his tongue. ‘Or you tear up the game. You get rid of the players.’

Avtar checked his harness, his stay.

‘It’s not your time yet,’ Gurpreet said. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘I’m not the one who needs to be worried.’

‘But I would do it, you know. If it helped me, I would throw you over. And, one day, you’ll say the same.’

Tucking the orange uniform into his trousers, he ran across the road and into the Botanical Gardens. The grasses were starting to bud, the daisies closing for the night. He should ignore Gurpreet. Lazy and bitter, that’s all he was. Kirsty was waiting outside the shop, in jeans and a T-shirt printed with four faces he didn’t know.

‘Late again?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t know you came up that way. Wouldn’t it be quicker through the wood?’

He couldn’t remember where he’d told her he lived. ‘I was visiting a friend.’

‘Oh,’ she said, sounding unconvinced.

She’d started nearly four months ago, in the new year, to save for university. She said she was taking Criminology. At first, this had alarmed Avtar and his desi co-workers. They’d even complained to Malkeet, their boss, who’d had to come down and explain that they were idiots, the lot of them, and of course it didn’t mean she was going to tell the police. Her dark-blonde hair, when it wasn’t pinned into an orange net, fell about her face and shoulders. She had flinty eyes and a handspan waist, fingers that stroked the counter each time she walked by, and a way of standing — hip stuck out — that seemed both careless and defiant. She lived with her mam and her mam’s boyfriend, who wasn’t her dad.

A black Mini swerved into the forecourt and braked abruptly, so close to Avtar and Kirsty that they both jumped back. A middle-aged woman in leggings and a fluffy white jumper scrambled out, jangling keys. Diamond-studded sunglasses sat on top of her glamorous mane like a second pair of eyes: insect eyes.

‘I’m so sorry. So sorry. He goes away for two weeks and I can’t even manage to open up on time.’ They went to the entrance round the back. ‘There you are,’ she said, deactivating the alarm. ‘It’s all yours.’

Avtar went in, switching on lights, the fryers, the spit. Kirsty tied her apron round her waist.

Their boss’s wife hovered at the door. ‘All OK? Shall I leave you to it?’

‘Unless you want to get the chicken on,’ Kirsty said.

‘It’s fine, bhabhi,’ Avtar said hastily. ‘We’ll look after it all from here.’ He waited for the door to close, then gave Kirsty a look.

‘Well,’ she said, flapping a hand towards the window. ‘She goes round kneecapping people like a trout in a Ferrari. It makes me want to vom.’

He got the potatoes through the peeler and into the hopper, and then straight into the fryers. Harkiran, who worked the same shift, entered through the back door, his over-gelled hair swept to the side, and Avtar took his turn on the small settee in the back, beside the door to the toilet. They did this whenever their boss wasn’t around. It never got properly busy until around ten, so they’d have an hour each to try and catch up on some sleep. Only these days Avtar used the time to study. He set his chin in the palm of his hand and started on the first page: The Basics of Cryptography. He made it halfway down the sheet before he ceased taking anything in.

When Harkiran woke him, it was nearly 10.30: he’d been curled up asleep on the settee for almost three hours.

‘You should’ve nudged me.’

‘It’s not busy, and I’ve got the morning off to sleep.’

Harkiran zipped up his suede jacket — he did the graveyard shift as a security guard — and said he’d be seeing Avtar tomorrow.

Avtar splashed cold water on his face and went through to the serving area.

‘Everything OK?’ he asked Kirsty.

‘Quiet, but the numpties are starting so you might want to make yourself scarce.’

He nodded gravely and returned to the kitchen. When they’d first started, he and Harkiran had been warned that it was fine to go out front if it got busy early on, but to make sure they stayed out of sight once the pubs closed. Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem. Malkeet bhaji tended to arrive at around ten to help with the Drunk Rush and such was his reputation and size that things never got more lairy than the occasional loudmouth who couldn’t even stand up straight and had to be helped — thrown — out of the door. The last few days though, Kirsty had got the worst of it. They called her a slag when she refused to spade on extra chips, they asked her what she was like in bed, whether she took it up the shitter. Once, Avtar had come forward, hoping a male presence would hurry them on. It only made it worse.

Tonight, he was brushing around the trunk of the toilet when he heard Kirsty shouting at them to get out. He stopped with the broom and listened. Drunks.

‘Temper, temper.’

‘She’s a feisty one.’

‘Like a bit of sausage, do you, love? Battered?’

‘I said get out. Now. We’re closing.’

They didn’t.

‘I’ll call the police.’

There was laughter. One of them told her to get her rat out and, predictably, they started singing: ‘Get your rat out for the lads!’ It was a chant Avtar had heard a few times on his way home past the pubs. He hated the aggressive sound of it, and hated it even more once he’d discovered what the words meant.

They sang it again and again, clapping in time. Avtar ventured out and spread his arms either side of the counter, trying to make himself appear bigger. The singing stopped, though the laughter on their faces remained. He must look clownish to them, this man in an orange hairnet.