Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘You went to the gurdwara, too?’ Randeep asked.

‘We all did. But the people, they complain. They say we’re unclean. That we smell. Which we do. So let us come and use the shower once a day, right?’

‘Don’t you have family?’

‘Don’t you?’ Prabjoht said tetchily. Then: ‘Maybe my papa’s bhua’s derani’s something. No one close. It wouldn’t make any difference.’ He indicated someone asleep a few beds away. ‘His own chacha kicked him out. Said the kids weren’t happy with him living there.’ He shrugged. ‘It was different in the old times. They say people used to take you in, help you on your feet, feed you. Times change.’

Randeep moved his suitcase against the wet wall. He took out his blanket and wondered how to arrange it, whether to use half of it as a sleeping mat or not.

‘That’s fine for now,’ Prabjoht said. ‘But you’ll need something more soon. The cold’s coming.’

‘How can the cold be coming? When was the heat? Did summer even happen?’

He lay down and wondered what Avtar would be doing, what sort of job he might have found. He’ll call soon, Randeep thought, and turned onto his side and watched the river.

*

They called it a plant, this flat-roofed building with its single, strikingly tall chimney. Inside, the pipes were running and the industrial hoses hung against the steam-stained walls like colossal gold jalebis. They wriggled into their white boiler suits and six of them loaded the van with hoses and drove off with Jagdish to other sites around the West Midlands. The four that remained split into their usual pairs, Avtar partnering Romy. Skinny, with bad skin and a raptor’s beak, Romy had a student visa too, for an art college in Birmingham. He’d been in the country less than a month.

‘We’ll take S1,’ Avtar said, and the second pair took their hose and rubber boots and moved to the north of the plant.

Avtar threw Romy their torch — the defunct lamps on their helmets had never been replaced — and they wound tape around the tops of their boots so too much of the thicker shit wouldn’t find its way in. The manhole cover was already off. Avtar plugged the hose into the nearest jet, using both hands to secure the plastic nut, and climbed down into the sewer. The nozzle of the hose peeked out from his armpit like a little green pet, and, as he landed, one foot at a time, the dark water came to his knees. Things bobbed on the surface — ribbons of tissue, air-filled condoms that looked like silver fish floating dumbly towards the light. A furry layer of moss waved back and forth across the curve of the brickwork. Everything seemed bathed in a gelatinous gleam. Romy landed beside him and took the torch out of his mouth.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the smell.’

‘It’s not so bad,’ Avtar said.

‘How long do we have left here?’

‘He said his contract’s for a month.’

‘And then we can go?’

‘Point the torch.’

They moved cautiously, hunched over as if anticipating an oncoming attack. The torch rippled discs over the water. Behind Avtar, the hose was unspooling, slapping itself into the stream. They came to a fork of two narrow tunnels.

‘Did we do the left one yesterday?’ Romy asked.

‘The right.’

‘You sure?’

‘Of course I’m fucking sure.’

Avtar went first, stepping down to a slick ledge and into the dark cave.

‘It’s fine,’ he called, echoed. ‘Enough room to stand.’

Romy came forward, baby-stepping, trying to feel with his toes how far down the ledge was.

‘I can’t see you,’ he said.

‘I’m here,’ Avtar said.

Romy panned the torch left, full in Avtar’s face.

‘Easy,’ Avtar said, looking away.

Romy waded over, the water now at his thighs. The tunnel was probably only two arm-widths across.

‘This is the worst,’ Romy said.

‘Over there. I think I can smell it.’

The light hit what looked like a writhing ten-foot maggot stuck to the side of the tunnel.

‘Bhanchod,’ Avtar said, with something like awe in his voice. ‘The biggest yet.’

‘It’s moving.’

‘Rats.’

Romy looked down, breathed hard. Avtar hoped the boy wouldn’t be sick again, though he could feel his own stomach recoiling. The smell. Damp, lush, prickly. Marshy with faecal matter and eggs.

‘Keep that torch straight,’ Avtar said. He moved forward, pointing the jet at the globe of fat. It was so big it blocked off half the tunnel. ‘Shall I go for the middle?’

‘It’s moving,’ Romy said again.

‘Hopefully it’ll collapse.’

Romy stayed back, shining the torch while Avtar arranged his hands along the hose, keeping it steady, aiming up. He squeezed the chrome trigger and water came out at an astonishing speed, crashing into the fatberg. The sound was glorious, and with the amber torchlight and the fact of being underground, it felt to Avtar like they were in some computer game, battling their way past beasts.

He released the trigger and the jet of water flopped to nothing.

‘How much?’ Avtar said, and Romy shone the beam on the water. There were only a few plates of fat glistening here and there, detached from the main ball.

‘I’ll have to break it up,’ Avtar said. He handed the hose to Romy and took the axe from his belt and splashed forward. ‘Light!’

‘Sorry,’ Romy said, struggling with the weight of the hose.

With a hand over his mouth, Avtar raised his arm high and started to hack. Bits plopped into the water. There were black-high scurrying sounds. Spitting, he returned to Romy.

‘Bhanchod fucking shit-smelling dirty gora cunts.’ He spat again, shivered. ‘Here,’ and he took back the hose. ‘Where did I cut?’

‘At the belly,’ Romy said.

Avtar pulled the trigger and shook the hose about, making the thick rope of water dance. ‘I think we’ve got it,’ he shouted.

The globe of fat started to detach from the side of the tunnel, reaching, resisting, stretching like chewing gum peeled off the underside of a shoe.

‘Back, Randeep! Get back!’

‘Who?’ Romy said, but it was too late. The fatberg crashed into the water, exploding against the sewer bed, and there was the terrible noise of frenzied black rats. Romy panicked and the beam plunged. The rats were everywhere, rushing between their legs, hissing through the water and the dark.

Avtar accepted the deck — it was his turn to deal. Stuck in the shed, there wasn’t much else to do in the evenings. Their boss, with the dyed black beard and white eyebrows, lived with his family in the house while Avtar and the boys slept here. His name was Jagdish Singh — the side-panel of his van read Jagdish Singh Dhindsa & Sons — and he insisted they call him sahib. ‘I pay you, I feed you, I put a roof over your heads. If after all that you can’t respect me, then get out now.’ That was on the drive up from Gobind’s to this red-brick semi in Wolverhampton, and he’d repeated it nearly every day since.

‘He thinks he’s some big tycoon,’ Avtar said, shuffling the pack.

‘Count me out,’ Romy said. ‘Bed.’

‘Take the mattress.’

‘It’s your turn.’

‘Just take it.’

He dealt the cards. There were three of them playing, under the soft glare of a battery-powered lamp.

‘Tough day?’ asked Sony, a Malveyah.

Avtar nodded, finished dealing. ‘You know, if there’s a hell for boys like us, I think we’ve found it.’

‘Tsk, come on, yaar. Play. This is meant to be our fun time. You’re miserable enough during the day.’

It was Biju — Baljinder, maybe, though he’d never said. He was a fat little joker from a village near Gurgaon. His middle was so perfectly round, it seemed blown up like a beachball.