Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘Nin — open up. Cos I swear I’ll break this bastard door down.’

‘Go away!’

He kicked the door.

‘No!’

She undid the locks and chain and he barged past her and into the room. ‘What the fuck!’

‘Tejpal, leave. Or I’ll call the police.’

‘I’ll leave all right. But you’re coming with me.’

He looked fatter than she remembered, his beard thicker, bushier. His black waistcoat was all large padded squares and down the inside of his left arm a tattoo: Jatt Khalastani. The other two remained at the doorway. Distant cousins of hers, she recognized. From Dagenham. They looked, if not nervous, then slightly unsure of their role.

‘Pack your bag,’ Tejpal said.

‘I’m not going anywhere. I’ll come when I’m ready.’

He rounded on her. She’d never seen such clarity of hatred in someone’s face. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you know what you’ve put Dad through?’

‘You don’t know anything. Now get out.’

‘I’m the one who hears Dad crying at night. Do you know he can’t face going to the gurdwara any more? Because people start pointing him out? Do you know how ashamed he feels? He doesn’t leave the house. Because of you. All because of you. You did this to him.’

Narinder’s face gave a slight vibration. It was painful to imagine her baba like that. ‘He’ll understand. When I explain it to him. I know he will. I’ll be back in a few months and it’ll be fine. I’m doing a good thing here. You don’t understand!’

‘OK, then. Tell me what you’re doing.’ He sat on the settee. ‘Come on. I’m waiting. Tell me why you’re doing this.’

She looked away. ‘I can’t.’

‘Right. Well, I’ll tell you what you’re doing. You’re doing what you’ve always done. What’s good for you. What makes you feel good. He’s done everything for you. You’ve always been his favourite and now you’re the one who’s killing him.’

‘I’m making a sacrifice so—’

‘You don’t know what sacrifice is!’

He rushed out of his seat and gripped her under the shoulder, pulling her along. She felt herself gasp. She couldn’t breathe.

‘Tejpal, don’t do this. Let me go. Please let me go.’

‘Pack your bags. You’re coming home.’

‘I can’t! You don’t understand.’

They struggled. The cousins didn’t seem to want to get involved, as if this was going beyond their remit. Probably they’d only come in case there’d been men to fight. Narinder bit down on her brother’s arm, hard, tasting blood, and all at once he screamed and pushed her with such force she fell into the dining chairs. She twisted round. He was crying.

‘I hate you so much,’ he said. ‘I’ll never forgive you. Never.’

In the rusted oven tray, Tochi arranged the squares of rubber into a small mound. He carried it into the main room and eventually got a little fire going, opening a kitchen window for the smoke. Then he sat on the semicircle of tyre that remained and warmed his hands. He’d stolen the tyre from a school playground and it was the only piece of furniture in the room. A black sheet with a border of orange lozenges lay in the corner furthest from the window. His holdall acted as pillow. He heard the man shouting on the pavement outside. He couldn’t understand what he was saying. A family dispute, it sounded like. He made out ‘sister’. Nothing to do with him. He tried to ignore it, but then they started crashing through the door and charging up the stairs, to the girl. He grabbed his bag, ready to run, waiting to hear sirens. Nothing happened, though. They were upstairs, still shouting, and a little later they came back down. He went to the window. A van was driven up and the bearded guy opened the side door and the other two forced the girl in, throwing her suitcases after her. Tochi turned away from the window and forced the image of Palvinder from his mind.

A man in a fashionably Pakistani kurta pyjama rose from behind his tabla set and walked the long diagonal towards Randeep. His kirpan was slung low across his body, and his royal-blue turban identified him as one of the junior granthis, perhaps only a few years older than him.

‘You’ve been coming here several nights now, haven’t you?’ he said, kneeling beside Randeep.

He had a friendly voice, or seemed to be making an effort to appear friendly.

‘I only need somewhere to stay a while,’ Randeep said. ‘Until my friend comes back. I won’t be here long.’

‘You’re welcome at all times. This is God’s house and you’re his child. Where are you from?’

‘Sheffield. Panjab.’

The young granthi nodded and kissed the air in Indian sympathy. ‘There are no jobs, are there?’

‘We looked everywhere.’

‘I know you did. And you’re not alone. There’s so many of you boys about. Even here in Derby.’

‘Can you help me?’ Randeep asked.

There was a silence, the only sound that of the book being read in a sibilant hush. The granthi smiled in his serene way, and when he spoke it was as if he picked his words one by one, laying them next to each other with great deliberation. ‘It’s important to feel supported. To be with like-minded souls. It helps one cope. That’s why I’m going to mention that most of the young men like you come together under the old railway bridge near the city. The one on the river, by the new flats. Do you know it?’

Randeep shook his head, not really following.

‘We take food to them. And blankets. We try to help.’

‘Do you think they might help me?’

‘I’m sure they will. Maybe you should go there now.’

‘You want me to leave?’ Randeep exclaimed. Some of the congregation looked over. ‘But you can’t! This is God’s house.’

‘We have to think of everyone who uses the gurdwara. Try to understand.’

‘But my father worked in government. You can’t kick me out.’

The young granthi asked him not to see it like that, in those terms. ‘You’re always welcome, but maybe it would be better if you were with people in the same difficulties as you.’

He stood in the car park, suitcase in hand, and heard the gurdwara doors shut behind him. Three times he’d been shunned: Narinderji, Avtar and now God. He walked to the station and dropped down behind the car park, following the river into the city. The mornings were crisper now, with a breeze that made the leaves twitch and forced him into his jacket.

He found no bridge in that direction, only waterside bars and restaurants, and so he turned around and retraced his steps and carried on past the station and the flats, out towards the gasworks and factories. There weren’t any joggers around here, just the odd fisherman thickly hidden. He walked on, convinced he’d gone too far, or that it had been a ruse to get him out of the gurdwara. Then he saw it: a wide, bottle-green bridge, beautiful in its way. Underneath it, three figures, all in shadow. Their chatter echoed coarsely.

They were slumped against the wall in their sleeping bags and blankets.

‘Kidhaan?’ one of them said.

Randeep nodded, and the man brought his hand out of his sleeping bag and gestured for Randeep to join him along the wall.

By the evening, there were eight of them under the bridge. A small twiggy fire had been started and someone came back from the gurdwara with a sloppy bucket of roti-dhal.

‘They take it in turns, the gurdwaras.’ It was the same fellow who’d first spoken to Randeep, a Panjabi with a rapid-fire way of talking while not looking up from his food. His name was Prabjoht. An Ambarsariya, judging by his accent. ‘It’s their way of keeping us out here. Keeping us happy.’