Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

It was still dark when he woke up, scrambling, scared he was about to piss himself. He hurried behind the cabin, clomping over the bushy grass, unzipped and held down the front of his jeans with his thumb. Nothing came, though the need was still there, pressing. He forced it out and the pain was a furious current firing up and down his cock. He had to keep stopping, pissing in short bursts, and when he finished and zipped up he was sweating. That was the third time this week, and the worst. It was the change in his diet, he kept telling himself, simply his body’s way of asking for food stronger than watery dhal. He was too awake now; there was no point going back to his bed. He seated himself on the middle step, head tipped against the broken cabin door. It was a clear sky; the moon distant, the air thin. He needed to get a blanket soon. That probably wasn’t helping either. The cold. He pulled his knees up to his chest, one leg at a time, and rested his cheek down. He was so tired. Far away, a plane silently climbed.

Arriving in London, he went straight to the college. They took his photo, added some notes to his computer file, and asked him to complete an application confirming his student visa status, which included an agreement not to undertake any paid work in the UK. He signed it hurriedly and slid it back across the counter. She’d changed her hair colour but it was the same woman as last year, when he’d walked into the college on bare feet. She seemed not to have remembered him.

‘Now I just need your passport.’

There was an infinitesimal shift in Avtar’s face. ‘My passport?’

‘I need to take a copy. You can have it straight back.’

‘But you took copies last year.’

‘Procedures, I’m afraid.’ She smiled and looked to the line of students behind him.

‘I left it at home.’

‘Well, we will need original copies before we can enrol you. Until then you won’t be able to sit the course. Sorry.’

Avtar nodded, as if in total agreement with their procedures. ‘I’ll bring them next time.’

‘Marvellous,’ and she passed him back his folder.

He returned to Cheemaji in the car park.

‘Everything OK?’ the doctor asked. ‘Nothing about late registration?’

Avtar nodded, handing him the visa agreement.

‘I’ll take this to the embassy myself and renew your visa. Congratulations!’

He nodded again and tried to smile.

They reversed out and joined a queue at the exit barrier, which seemed to have broken. The security guard was turning a wheel to raise the bar.

‘Are you not teaching today?’ Avtar asked.

‘Hmm? Oh, no. I’m on leave for a few months. A sabbatical.’

He’d grown his beard and his discreet steel kara had been replaced with a hefty gold band, as wide as his wrist. Avtar didn’t ask after any of these changes. He had enough problems of his own. He turned his face to the window and tried to look forward to a night in a clean bed.

He’d told Cheemaji his return train was at one o’clock, an hour earlier than it was due.

‘Thank you, uncle,’ Avtar said, levering himself out of the car.

Dr Cheema undid his seat belt and leaned across. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay? We’ve hardly talked.’

‘I have work tomorrow.’

‘Well, make sure you come back soon, acha? Plenty of room now,’ he added, laughing a little embarrassedly. Avtar hadn’t said anything the previous evening, when they’d parked up outside the big house and Cheemaji told him he could sleep in his son’s — Neil’s — room. It was only this morning, over breakfast, that the grandmother confirmed she’d gone, taking the boy with her.

‘The whore.’

‘Biji, please,’ Cheemaji said.

‘It’s what the world thinks.’

‘She might come back,’ he said, faintly.

Avtar had heard of people getting divorced, though this was his first experience of seeing someone going through it. If he was honest, he couldn’t help but think that Cheemaji had brought it all on himself.

He entered Kings Cross and found a table at the same coffee shop as last time. He was nervous. He pulled his chair back and made for the toilets. Again, it hurt to piss and he had to chew his bottom lip to keep from crying out. He washed his hands and splashed his face and told himself to be strong. He would not show them his fear. There was a man in a suit at the hand dryer and when he walked out, shaking the water off his fingers, he left his mobile on top of the machine. Avtar nearly called after him. Then he pocketed the phone and returned to the table.

Bal arrived alone and Avtar shook his hand and invited him to please take a seat, as if he was chairing this meeting.

‘No bhaji?’ Avtar asked.

‘He’s busy.’

‘Shall I order some tea?’

Bal looked surprised. ‘You’re getting confident.’ Then: ‘We thought you’d run out on us. Too scared to answer your phone?’

‘I’ve been busy.’ He took his hand out of his pocket and put a few sorry-looking notes on the table. ‘For your uncle.’

Briefly, Bal inspected the notes. ‘That’s not even gunna touch the sides, bruv.’

‘The rest will come. I’m working now. There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘You’re weeks and weeks behind.’

‘A little more time,’ he said, feeling the confidence slip. ‘You can have this as well,’ and he put the stolen phone on the table.

‘I don’t want— You’re just not getting the message, are you?’ He lifted his finger to Avtar’s forehead and accompanied each syllable with a prod: ‘Are-you-too-thick-to-un-der-stand?’ He fell back against his chair. ‘I think it’s time we paid your family a visit. Navjoht, right? And the shawl shop in Gandhi Bazaar?’

‘Please. I’m doing my best.’

‘He’s put whole families on the street if the son hasn’t paid up.’

‘Just a little more time. Please! Can’t you explain it to him?’

Bal clucked his tongue several times, in thought, then shrugged. ‘I guess you could buy yourself one last chance.’ He looked across, with intent. ‘You know?’

Avtar reached down inside his sock and pulled out another note. It was the last of his money and he’d intended on buying some meat with it, some strong food that might feed this body. He handed it over. ‘Thank you.’

He avoided the guards at Leeds station, instead stealing through a delivery gate left unchained. He crossed the car park and made his way to the hotel. The makeshift stairs only took him halfway. He had to climb a ladder to reach the top tier of the scaffolding. The wind was loud up here, so loud you could almost put a face to it. He could see how the city worked, the roads, the one-way system. From here, the motorway bridge was a mouth, and the traffic poured into it. It was all clear. Easy. It was all easy and yet still he was losing. He breathed. The wind slapped his face. How easy it would be to fall. How nice. He dug out from his rucksack the mobile he’d stolen and switched it on. There’d been several calls, probably from the gora in the suit. He put the phone at his side and probed further into the bag and found his college folder. A phrase from somewhere came to him: reaching beyond his dreams. He lifted the flap and tore into pieces every handout and worksheet and note he’d made. He threw the white pieces into the air and watched them shower and drift, until they were caught by the wind and vanished into the night.

In a single stiff shudder the minute hand docked on twelve and Tochi untied his apron from behind his back and hung it across the handle of the toilet door.

‘Off already?’ Malkeet said. He’d come into the kitchen for some batter and stood there holding a sloppy white pail of the stuff.