Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘Do you know the way?’

Randeep said nothing.

Again, Gurpreet laughed. ‘Another?’

‘I’d like to go.’

‘Another.’

They had enough for one more whisky and Gurpreet seemed to take twice as long drinking it. Amber beads attached wetly to the ends of his moustache, and perhaps it was looking at these that was bringing about the queasy feeling in Randeep’s stomach. At last they got up to leave. The pavement ran uphill and the streetlights had come on, and as they walked in and out of these grim pools of yellow light it seemed to Randeep that they were going at an achingly slow pace. Each time he quickened up, Gurpreet would ask what the hurry was.

‘It’s getting late.’

At the Botanical Gardens, Gurpreet stopped at the locked gates.

‘Through here, then, yeah?’

Randeep wavered. The darkness there seemed of a stronger concentration, turning the trees black, the rest invisible.

‘Come on. Thought you were in a hurry?’ Gurpreet lifted one foot to the padlock, heaved over the metal gatepost and jumped down on the other side. ‘Easy.’

‘Maybe I should just meet you at home.’

‘Oh, for the sake of your sister’s cunt. Fine.’

Though he knew he shouldn’t fall for it, he could see Gurpreet in the morning, telling the others what a wimp he’d been. He could see Avtar frowning. He started pulling himself up, hand over hand.

‘Good,’ Gurpreet said when Randeep landed at his side, and they took the path between two hedges.

The rose bushes looked strange in the summer night, like many-eyed creatures watching them pass. There was only the crunch of gravel underfoot and the gentle zooms of city traffic.

Gurpreet pointed. ‘Let’s go down here a second.’ It was a short dirt path that seemed to lead nowhere.

‘But home’s this way.’

‘I need a piss.’

Randeep went down a little of the way, then turned round and waited. A branch hung low in front of his eyes, quivering with the work of some animal up above. He heard Gurpreet unzipping, then the strong thrum of piss striking soil. He looked up the path, trying to work out where the main exit was, how long it would take. It couldn’t be far, surely. Then he jumped. Gurpreet, hand clapped on Randeep’s shoulder. Whisky on his breath.

‘Why so jittery?’ he laughed.

Randeep tried to laugh, too. ‘You just surprised me.’

Miraculously, one by one the streetlights came into view, and the gate appeared, almost haloed in dingy orange. Randeep breathed out. ‘The gate.’

‘So where’s your money hidden, little prince?’

Randeep looked — Gurpreet was reaching for his knife — and pelted for the gates, yelling, ‘Help! Help!’ while Gurpreet jogged, laughing, on behind.

They were at the house in minutes, Randeep turning the key and letting them in. He flicked on the hallway light.

‘OK, my friend. Enough joking for one day. Till tomorrow,’ Gurpreet finished, and disappeared into the lounge, shutting the door. Randeep sank back against the wall. The house was quiet. There were probably only a handful of them here now, dotted about the three floors. He supposed it could be true and Gurpreet had killed in the past. Still, it was embarrassing to think how scared he’d been. Help! Help! He cringed and went up to his room and fell face down onto the mattress.

Narinder tried a different plug socket, even a different CD. Still the stereo wouldn’t play. It had been the same the previous evening, but, as was her habit in matters technical, she’d hoped the thing would’ve sorted itself out overnight. She looked at her watch. 7.30. The whole long day stretched ahead, silent and flat. The only person she’d spoken to in the last week had been Mr Greatrix. She took her cereal bowl to the sink, washed it, came back, saw a green-beaked pigeon waddling along the window. 7.32. She took her chunni from the back of the chair and her coat from the table.

She hadn’t set off with the intention of going to the gurdwara — or going anywhere else — but she seemed to just end up here, sitting in the langar hall while the morning service crackled through the speakers. A woman arrived with tea. She was young, perhaps the same age as Narinder, with a wide, pleasant face on a frame that was stout without being fat. Her red bindi was a little off-centre and her bridal bangles thick. She was from Panjab, clearly.

‘Sab theek hai, pehnji?’ she asked.

‘Ji?’

‘You look like there’s a lot on your mind. Is everything all right at home?’

‘Ji. Thank you.’

Narinder recognized the woman — she’d seen her once or twice working in the canteen — and now she noticed the low-slung swell of the woman’s stomach.

‘Please sit down,’ Narinder said. ‘You should rest.’

The woman eased onto the chair opposite, arranging her shawl over the bump. ‘I’ve not seen you for a while.’

‘No. I’ve not done much seva recently. I’m sorry.’ Since Karamjeet’s letter she’d avoided the place. It was less risky to stay indoors.

‘Well, I’m glad to see you again. Someone my own age. Are your people from Sheffield?’

‘I don’t know anyone in Sheffield,’ Narinder replied, in a quiet voice that made her sound grave.

With some clumsiness, the woman reached across and touched Narinder’s hand. ‘Me neither.’

Her name was Vidya and she was here with her husband. They were illegals from Haryana — not Panjab — and had married and got quickly pregnant in the belief that a child born in this country would guarantee a stamp for them all.

‘But it’s not true,’ Vidya said. ‘The rules changed years ago. I could kill him.’

‘So what will you do?’ Narinder asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where will you have the baby?’

Vidya threw her hand in the air and kept it there, as if waiting for a ball to drop into it. ‘He can sort it out,’ though whether she meant God or her husband Narinder wasn’t certain.

By their third meeting they were sharing more, though both women seemed to sense that much was being left unsaid, and had to be. Narinder liked her. She was funny, often at the expense of the stern old women who thought they owned the canteen. ‘Enough hair on her lip to weave a menjha,’ Vidya would say, as Narinder tried not to laugh. Soon and more than anything else she looked forward to the mornings Vidya would be there.

‘You should get a job,’ Vidya said.

Narinder took the thaals from her and started hosing them down at the sink.

‘I said you should get a job.’

‘I know. I’m thinking. I’ve never had a job.’

‘All day alone in that flat isn’t good for you.’

‘I don’t have any qualifications.’

‘Not all jobs need qualifications.’

Narinder squeezed the giant bottle of washing-up liquid until her fingers touched through the plastic. All she got was bubbles and farts.

‘Well?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

Vidya collected and returned with more dirty dishes. ‘You’re very strange.’

‘That I am,’ Narinder agreed.

‘You’re brave enough to come and live in a strange city on your own. But you’re too scared to do anything else.’

Narinder had never thought herself brave. She only did things when called upon, when He told her a great injustice was occurring right in front of her face.

‘Our gurujis led me here. I wasn’t being brave.’

*

The curve in the roof of the bus shelter forced Avtar to kneel with ankles crossed. Climbing had never been difficult for him. As a conductor he’d often monkeyed up onto the roof to confront fare-dodgers. From here he could see all the way to the yard of the chip shop and its white back door, beside which was the stack of empty chicken crates. He looked at his phone. It was twelve minutes past. Maybe the shop had got busy. But then the door opened and Harkiran emerged, briefly, and dropped into the top crate a bulging carrier bag. Avtar gave a small fist-pump. Now all he needed was the miss-call from his friend to confirm everyone was out of the way. And here it was, his phone buzzing happily in his hand. He threw himself to the ground and sprinted up the road and down the side of the shop, skidding to avoid being seen in the window. He snatched up the bag without really even looking at it and fleetingly thought of Dhano the film horse as he pivoted and set off again.