Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘What? No taih-chacheh, no land, no anything back home? Everything he has is here?’ The father moved his hands, as if displaying the air in front of him; as if by ‘here’ he really meant ‘nothing’.

‘He’s here — ’ the word said with force — ‘trying to make a better life. He works on a building site all day and for us in the evening. What more do you want from him?’ Aunty turned to the girl’s mother. ‘Bhabhi, you understand? I don’t know why my brother is always looking for badness.’

‘This is about my daughter’s future. It’s my job to look for badness.’

‘Tell me about your pind,’ the mother asked.

‘It’s Mojoram,’ Aunty said.

‘The one close to Jalandhar?’ the father asked.

Tochi nodded.

‘And how long had your people been there?’

A pause. ‘Forever.’

‘I thought most families there settled after the troubles?’

‘Some, not all.’

The father nodded. ‘So what happened to your family land?’

‘I sold it to come here.’

He tilted his turban towards the ceiling, peering down the length of his nose. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way, and there was something ominous in the way he did this. ‘You must’ve had buffalo?’

Tochi nodded slowly.

‘Remind me — it’s been so long — what’s that knot called our people use to tie the buffalo?’

Aunty made a face. ‘Keep your nostalgia for another day. We’re here to discuss these two and their marriage.’

‘How many kanal make a khet?’

Tochi said nothing.

‘And how many marleh go into a kanal?’

‘Bhaji,’ Uncle said, in a firm tone that kept its inflection of good cheer. ‘I think nerves are getting the better of us all!’

‘I just want answers,’ he said. ‘Answers that our people would know in their bones.’

They all turned to Tochi, whose eyes hadn’t moved from the carpet.

‘And I don’t know any of our people, especially if he’s a doabi like he claims, who would say “sold” in the way he did.’

Vho bikhegiya instead of eh bichhdah.

‘What nonsense,’ Aunty said. ‘And enough of this. It’s time we gave these two some space alone.’

The father stood up, turban inches from the ceiling. ‘I think we four should talk, too, because something here smells very wrong to me,’ and they vanished into a bedroom, leaving Tochi and the girl sitting opposite one another on the hard brown settees.

‘I’m sorry about my dad,’ she said. ‘He’s overprotective. After everything that’s happened.’

She was trussed up in scarlet clothes and gold jewellery, chunni twisted vine-like across her throat. Only her eyes gave away her age — some fourteen years on Tochi.

‘Do you want to get married?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think your father’s going to let that happen.’

‘It’s my decision.’

Tochi nodded.

‘Your Panjabi’s different.’

He nodded again.

‘It doesn’t bother me, you know. If you’re not Jat Sikh. Been there, done that.’ She added, ‘T-shirt so wasn’t worth the effort.’

What a ridiculous situation. Sitting here with this middle-aged woman who had to dress for the part of a virgin bride. He supposed it was the same for her as it was for him, that she too felt the grand impossibility of trying to recast her life. He could hear their voices through the door, the father’s especially.

‘He sounds angry,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should go.’

He stayed where he was. He’d see it through to the end.

It wasn’t the father, though, it was Aunty who flung open the door and charged towards him. ‘Is he right? What are you?’

‘I am a man,’ Tochi said.

‘Don’t get clever. You a chamaar?’

Tochi stood up. ‘I’ve told you what I am. Now give me what you owe me.’

And this — this demand — seemed to enrage her further, and her eyes widened horribly. ‘You bhanchod cunt! You dirty beast! What do you think you are?’

‘Davinder,’ her husband said, a hand on her shoulder. But she wouldn’t be restrained.

‘To think we trusted you. To think we let you into our home. Marry my niece? Go back to cleaning shit, you dirty sister-fucking cunt.’ She spat at his feet. ‘Go on. Get out of my home. I said get out!’

Uncle passed him a few notes and Tochi turned to leave.

‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘You people stink the whole world up!’

He didn’t return to the house immediately. He walked for what seemed like miles: back along Ecclesall Road and down into the city, pausing at the train station to study its map of the area, then through Attercliffe and into Brightside. The houses narrowed, the streets darkened. He’d only ever seen the address typed on the inside of the kid’s diary. Perhaps that was why it felt a little magical to see the street name for real, nailed to the real red brick of someone’s real house. He started the climb up the hill, stopping a few doors from the flat and crossing the road to get a better look. A light was on upstairs. There was maybe even the shadow of someone pacing the room. Downstairs, though, nothing. He went back across the road and slipped down the gennel and over the wall. He peered through the window. A cooker stood stranded in the middle of the room. The cupboards were smashed in. There was evidence of mice — a nibbled loaf, saucers of poison. But it was empty. When the time came — when he got that big-mouth Avtar’s job — it was somewhere he could live alone.

*

There’d still been no word from Vinny. Avtar tried to get hold of him, but his phone just rang out.

‘Does anyone know where he lives?’

No one did. Rumours sprouted. Customs people. Tax office. One of the boys said he’d heard from his cousin-brother in Halifax that Vinny had run away to Panjab. A couple of the boys packed their bags to take their chances on the streets. The rest of them decided to sit it out.

‘If there was going to be a raid, it would’ve happened by now,’ Gurpreet said, forehead to the net curtain. He turned round. ‘But we should pool all our money together. Until work starts again.’

No one said anything.

‘What are you waiting for? We still need to buy food. We’ll get more this way.’

He held his hand out. It was trembling.

‘Give it me. I’ll sort it.’

Shaking his head, Avtar kicked aside the milk crate and left the room. One by one, the others followed.

He switched SIM cards and called Lakhpreet that night. Her voice was sleepy — ‘It’s not even five o’clock, janum’ — and she complained how hot it was. The air conditioning was down and she’d been up twice already to take a cold shower. He wouldn’t believe how breathless and horrible everything was again. It was like living in an oven. He was lucky to be away from it all and even luckier to be going to London tomorrow. How she wished that was her!

‘I’m missing you,’ he said, cutting in.

He could hear her smile. ‘Me, too,’ but the words fell lightly and didn’t provide the warmth he needed. Perhaps it was the distance. Still, he half wished he’d not called. Too often these days he felt closer to the stars out of the window than to anything Lakhpreet said.

Randeep walked with him to the station the next day. He even offered to buy the ticket, but Avtar said he’d hide in the toilets or something. And barriers could always be jumped.

‘You just don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone, OK? Especially your room-mate. You do understand?’

‘Yes! I understood the first time. And the time after that.’

Avtar stroked the swelling around his eye. It hadn’t quite gone down. ‘I know that bhanchod’ll try something.’

‘He’s not that bad. I shouldn’t have said anything.’