Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘So where’s the photo?’ Randeep asked.

‘They don’t listen,’ Tochi said heatedly. ‘I’ll have to find another job.’

Randeep understood. ‘You lied.’

‘I had to.’

He passed the letter back to Tochi. He felt quite moved that Tochi had asked him to read it, that he’d trusted him. ‘You know, there’s a flat sitting empty underneath Narinderji’s. We could go there: you, me, Avtar bhaji.’

Tochi was standing at the window, looking out.

‘You’ve never mentioned your family,’ Randeep said, pushing a little further.

‘I’m not going to start.’

‘I’m here because my daddy isn’t well. He tried to kill himself.’

Tochi nodded, slowly. ‘Be happy yours is still alive.’

At the shop, they seemed to have heard everything.

‘I don’t think he’ll get away this time,’ Uncle said, about Vinny. ‘They know too much.’

‘Poor boy. He’s only trying to help. What his family must be going through.’ Aunty double-kissed the air, sympathizing. ‘What about you? How are you surviving now?’

‘Fine,’ Tochi said.

‘Do you want any extra shifts?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

Uncle asked him to do an hour on the till because Aunty would be cooking upstairs and he needed to complete next week’s cash-and-carry order. She came down at ten o’clock, the ends of her fingers yellow with turmeric, and started to cash up. Tochi seized his jacket.

‘Staying for dinner?’ she asked.

Tochi said he wasn’t.

‘I spoke to Ruby today. And I know you keep saying no, but she’s so keen to meet you. She’s a great girl.’

‘I’m sorry, aunty.’

‘But I don’t understand. It could be everything you’ve dreamed of. None of this hiding or lying or worrying about the police. A passport. A British passport. Isn’t that what all you boys want?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and nodded at her husband on his way out.

He could smell the saag as he arrived back at the house. He made for the stairs — he wasn’t hungry — but froze when Gurpreet called his name.

‘I hear congratulations are in order! You’re getting married!’ Others joined in, laughing. ‘You’re reaching beyond your dreams, Bihari!’

Tochi bolted up the stairs and into the room. Randeep followed, running. ‘I’m sorry! They overheard. I was only telling Avtar bhaji. I thought he might be able to help. With work.’

Tochi pushed him to the wall and held him there. Fear sprang to Randeep’s face.

‘You’re the same. You think I’m just someone for you to laugh about.’

He shoved him again, then let go, and Randeep stood there gasping, a hand to his throat.

They’d tied coloured ribbons to the cabinets and scattered confetti over the kitchen counter. He could hear them still laughing behind the door to the TV room. Tochi filled a glass with water. He downed it, one hand on the tap, filled it again, drank half and chucked the rest.

Avtar came through the beads and leaned against the fridge, running a hand down his tired face. He hadn’t changed out of his uniform.

‘Randeep told me what happened. He’s sorry.’

‘Right.’

‘Maybe you should apologize, too.’

‘He should learn to keep his mouth shut.’

‘It was an accident. He was trying to help you.’

‘I don’t need anybody’s help.’

‘He’s a kid. He’s the youngest here.’

‘About time he learned.’

Avtar pushed off the fridge, sighing resignedly. ‘Whatever. Just don’t let it happen again.’

‘Right.’

‘I mean it. I’m giving you a chance now. Next time, pick on someone who’ll fight back.’

Tochi turned his face, sharply, as if someone had pressed a button in his neck. ‘Like you?’

‘If it happens again, or if you steal my job, I’ll wrap your head around that fucking wall.’

Tochi put his glass in the sink.

‘I’m not scared of you,’ Avtar said. ‘You act like some man of mystery, some tough guy. It doesn’t scare me.’

‘Maybe it should.’

‘There’s only one person I’m scared of.’ He pointed up.

‘Good for you.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning your God’s a bastard.’

‘I think you should take that back.’

Tochi came into the centre of the room. ‘Is this all you can do? Talk?’

They circled round, fists raised loosely. Tochi aimed one to the stomach, which Avtar dodged. ‘Nearly,’ Avtar said, and crunched a blow across Tochi’s cheek, cutting it. Tochi reeled back, then flicked in and caught Avtar twice: chest, side. Avtar doubled up, heaving. Sick came lurching up his throat. He forced it back down and with an almighty roar launched himself at Tochi, throwing him back onto the counter and sending all their Tupperware boxes whirling about. They grappled, cussing and punching, and were still kicking out when the guys from the TV room rushed in and split them apart.

Two evenings later, Tochi shouldered the final sack of potatoes from the storeroom and carried them into the shop proper. He took a knife from his back pocket to slice the bag open and was counting out the first few when a gold saloon parked up, half on the kerb. The driver wore an oversized turban and had an impressively floury beard. Two women got out as well, and all three walked past the window to the metal stairs at the side of the shop. It was the girl from the photo, and her parents, no doubt. Aunty came round from the counter.

‘It’s only a meeting. There’s no harm in you two saying hello.’

‘I can’t. I won’t.’

She started fussing over his cuts, touching his face. ‘Better. Now wait down here and I’ll call you when the time’s right.’

He stared at her, at the tremendous glee in her eyes.

‘Oh, you’ll thank me in the end,’ and she disappeared behind the sliding panel and up the stairs.

He could run. He should run. They didn’t know where he lived. But he hadn’t had his wages — he wasn’t working for nothing — and back at the house they were still laughing about it all. It filled his ears. The man had a big turban: obviously Indian-born, raised. It was reckless, asking for trouble. But he wasn’t going to run. Not any more.

Aunty led him upstairs, where the girl — woman — was sitting on the settee, clearly anxious. Her mother sat beside her, and sunk into an armchair was the girl’s father, legs crossed at the knees, thumbs drumming the mahogany whorls of the armrests. His sky-blue turban gave him at least an extra foot in height, and it came to too precise a point at the tip, as if it could be used to prise Tochi open. Uncle invited Tochi to come and sit next to him, on the settee opposite the girl.

‘How are you, beita?’

He looked up. It was the girl’s mother. She had a kind smile, an understanding voice. Tochi nodded.

Aunty came back into the room — she’d closed the shop for half an hour, she said — and handed round plates of snacks, which Tochi declined with a single shake of his head. No one said very much.

‘Maybe we should give Tarlochan and Ruby some time alone?’ Aunty suggested.

‘We haven’t even heard the boy speak yet,’ the girl’s father said. ‘He looks like he’s been in a fight.’

‘Twelve, fifteen boys in a house,’ Aunty pointed out. ‘Tell me where there won’t be scuffles?’

‘How long have you been here, son?’ the mother asked.

He took care to speak in flat, accentless Panjabi. ‘Nearly two years.’

‘Two years and already a chance of a passport. You must think you’ve won the lottery,’ the father said.

‘It’s kismet, isn’t it?’ Aunty retaliated. ‘It’s God’s plan.’

‘What’s your pichla?’ the mother went on.

Tochi said nothing. Aunty spoke: ‘I told you. His matah-pitah are no more. He was an only child.’