Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘It’s just a few glitches,’ Vinny said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. ‘Big project like this, it’s inevitable.’

‘What does that mean?’ Avtar asked.

‘It means this greedy cunt’s been taking a bigger cut than he should’ve,’ Gurpreet said.

‘It means,’ Vinny said, drawing out the word, ‘you get a few days off while I sort it all out. Enjoy the sunshine. ’S not often we get weather like this. Make the most of it.’

‘But what about our money?’ Avtar asked.

‘You live rent-fucking-free,’ Vinny said, suddenly sharp. ‘What more do you scrats want?’

Gurpreet and a few of the others took a bat and a ball and a crate of beer from the fridge and swaggered off to the park. Avtar, meanwhile, made for his room and split what money he had into the usual four piles. Then he made his four piles into two. He wouldn’t eat. He’d tell his parents he couldn’t help with the household bills this month. Still he was short for the loan. He had to make a decision. If he didn’t pay the mortgage the bank would seize the shop: that wasn’t an option. So his only choice was to ask Pocket Bhai’s men if he could make up the deficit next month. It was a risk. They’d slap him again, but perhaps this one time — he turned his eyes to God — they’d stay away from his family.

Later, Randeep knocked and poked his head into the room. Avtar was sitting cross-legged on his mattress, a computing textbook in front of him and his hands hovering over the open pages as if for warmth. He was gazing towards the window, at the brick wall beyond, and seemed not to have heard Randeep enter.

‘Studying?’

‘Hm?’ Avtar nodded, winced. ‘Not really.’

‘When are your exams?’

He closed the textbook, hard. ‘Two weeks. I’m not going, though. I’ve decided.’

‘What do you mean, you’re not going? Of course you are.’

‘I can’t risk leaving my job. Not now.’

Randeep dropped to the mattress, beside Avtar. There was an excited gleam in Randeep’s eyes. ‘So you’re going to go fauji?’

If he went, even if he didn’t pass — as long as he showed up — then Dr Cheema said his visa would almost certainly be extended for another year, and he could carry on without any fear of being deported. As long as no one found out about him working. If he didn’t even show up then his visa would be revoked, and the police would come to find him. He’d be worse off than those who snuck in illegally, because at least no one knew who those young men were. Therefore, not showing up would be, at least according to the doctor, a really stupid decision.

‘Fryers off?’ Malkeet asked. He was a big, chesty dump truck of a man, topknot showing through his American baseball cap, sweat patches in the pits of his T-shirt.

‘Ji, boss.’

They locked the back door and walked round to the forecourt, where Avtar helped pull down the shutters.

‘You not got a home to get to?’ Malkeet said.

Avtar passed him the padlock. ‘Actually, bhaji, I was wondering—’

‘Here it comes.’

‘—if there were any extra shifts I could do?’

‘Nope. Ask me in September. When the gori’s gone.’

Avtar nodded. ‘Would it be OK to get an advance on next month’s pay, then?’

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s only that the building work seems over and I owe—’

Malkeet flung out his arm, palm raised, as if to stop an onrushing vehicle. ‘Don’t. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what you are or who you owe. I don’t need to know your problems. Now, was there anything else?’

Avtar asked if he’d still have his job when he came back from London.

‘Why?’

‘Please promise me I’ll still have my job.’

‘Is someone coming for it?’

‘They might.’

‘Well, that’ll be for me to decide then, won’t it?’

‘I’ve worked hard for you. Can’t you promise me my job?’

Malkeet took his car keys from their apron pouch and de-alarmed the old estate; he left the Mini to his wife. ‘Do you think I’d have got anywhere in this country if I made promises like that?’

*

Tochi ate his evening meal early, then washed and shaved. He returned to his room, locked the door, and, in his underwear, sat facing the cracked swivel-mirror propped against the window. He draped a towel over his shoulders and twanged the tortoiseshell comb — several of its teeth missing — and combed his wet hair forward so it clung together in thick slats over his eyes. Because he was now trusted to work on the till, Aunty had told him always to come looking — he grasped for the English word she’d used — ‘presentable’. He patted his hand around the sill, docking on the scissors, and began to snip.

There were noises downstairs: doors shutting, laughter. A plate smashing, maybe. Tochi cut about two inches off his fringe, the hair falling into a child’s red potty gripped between his feet. He rinsed the scissors and the potty and returned them to the bathroom, where a quick head-bath dealt with the fussy little filings of hair stuck to his neck. Back in the room, he unfolded the letter. The handwriting was untidy, loopy, with great curling tails and circles drawn above certain letters. Or perhaps the circles were letters in themselves. There were crossings-out, too, probably where she’d decided against a word or simply misspelled it. In any case, it all made no sense to him. Maybe he should have accepted Aunty’s offer of translation. But he hadn’t wanted to give her false hope. He looked at the photo again: a pretty, shy, nervously smiling face. A fullish body, nicely curved, wrapped in an orange-and-brown salwaar kameez. The doorknob rattled, followed by a knock. He stashed the letter and photo under his mattress, then dressed. As he opened the door, Randeep was standing up from the keyhole.

‘Gurpreet’s back. Drunk again,’ he said, passing inside, speaking quickly — caught out. ‘I threw my dinner down as quick as I could. They’ll be drinking all night now.’

Tochi reached for his boots and forced them on, leaving the laces untied for now.

‘You going to work?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Some of the guys are saying that Vinny bhaji’s finished. That it’s dangerous to stay here.’

‘It is. You should find somewhere else.’

Randeep placed his cutlery on the windowsill. He noticed a few hairs stuck to the mirror. ‘What about you?’

‘London.’

‘Really?’ He turned round. ‘Have you found work there?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But when you do, you’ll go?’

Outside, a bus rasped up the hill.

Tochi stuffed his hand under the mattress and brought out a sheet of light-blue paper. ‘Read this for me.’

‘What is it? Is it from home?’

‘Just read it.’

It was a short letter, which Randeep read to himself first and then translated sentence by sentence: Hello and sasrikal, Bhuaji asked me to say a little about myself. Well, I’m Ruby. I’m 37 and I have a little boy who’s 12. His name’s Santokh (which probably tells you how strict my in-laws were! Bhuaji said she’s spoken to you regarding my divorce so I won’t go into that here but I’m happy to talk about it if you want to meet.) I’m a homely girl and like being with my family. I work part-time in a supermarket. I’d prefer to stay in the area after marriage as I don’t want to disrupt Santokh’s schooling again, but if that’s a problem I’m happy to talk about it. I don’t mind that you’re illegal but if things do move onto the next stage then I’d like to do things properly (i.e. get proper visas from India and live here by the law). I’ve included a photograph of myself. Thank you and best regards, Ruby.

Above the salutation Randeep discerned, vigorously crossed out, ‘Bhuaji says you’re very good-looking!’ She must have decided that was a bit too much informality.