Two evenings later, Tochi shouldered the final sack of potatoes from the storeroom and carried them into the shop proper. He took a knife from his back pocket to slice the bag open and was counting out the first few when a gold saloon parked up, half on the kerb. The driver wore an oversized turban and had an impressively floury beard. Two women got out as well, and all three walked past the window to the metal stairs at the side of the shop. It was the girl from the photo, and her parents, no doubt. Aunty came round from the counter.
‘It’s only a meeting. There’s no harm in you two saying hello.’
‘I can’t. I won’t.’
She started fussing over his cuts, touching his face. ‘Better. Now wait down here and I’ll call you when the time’s right.’
He stared at her, at the tremendous glee in her eyes.
‘Oh, you’ll thank me in the end,’ and she disappeared behind the sliding panel and up the stairs.
He could run. He should run. They didn’t know where he lived. But he hadn’t had his wages – he wasn’t working for nothing – and back at the house they were still laughing about it all. It filled his ears. The man had a big turban: obviously Indian-born, raised. It was reckless, asking for trouble. But he wasn’t going to run. Not any more.
Aunty led him upstairs, where the girl – woman – was sitting on the settee, clearly anxious. Her mother sat beside her, and sunk into an armchair was the girl’s father, legs crossed at the knees, thumbs drumming the mahogany whorls of the armrests. His sky-blue turban gave him at least an extra foot in height, and it came to too precise a point at the tip, as if it could be used to prise Tochi open. Uncle invited Tochi to come and sit next to him, on the settee opposite the girl.
‘How are you, beita?’
He looked up. It was the girl’s mother. She had a kind smile, an understanding voice. Tochi nodded.
Aunty came back into the room – she’d closed the shop for half an hour, she said – and handed round plates of snacks, which Tochi declined with a single shake of his head. No one said very much.
‘Maybe we should give Tarlochan and Ruby some time alone?’ Aunty suggested.
‘We haven’t even heard the boy speak yet,’ the girl’s father said. ‘He looks like he’s been in a fight.’
‘Twelve, fifteen boys in a house,’ Aunty pointed out. ‘Tell me where there won’t be scuffles?’
‘How long have you been here, son?’ the mother asked.
He took care to speak in flat, accentless Panjabi. ‘Nearly two years.’
‘Two years and already a chance of a passport. You must think you’ve won the lottery,’ the father said.
‘It’s kismet, isn’t it?’ Aunty retaliated. ‘It’s God’s plan.’
‘What’s your pichla?’ the mother went on.
Tochi said nothing. Aunty spoke: ‘I told you. His matah-pitah are no more. He was an only child.’
‘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 sta
rted 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.’
‘He didn’t even take off his rings.’
‘I don’t think he wears rings.’
Avtar gave him a look, as if to ask whose side was he on? ‘We’ve tried to be friendly, but he’s ungrateful. I hate that. Have you ever even seen him smile? No. Exactly.’
As the train pulled in, he again reminded Randeep not to tell anyone where he’d gone.
‘If someone asks, say I’m at work. I’ll be back in a week.’
He nudged his rucksack into the centre of his back and climbed on board. Randeep waited on the platform, watching Avtar find a seat. He must be having money problems, he thought. Or worse money problems than the rest of them. It wasn’t something he ever spoke about. Randeep gave him a thumbs up, and then the train began to move and Avtar’s worried face slid slowly up the track.
It only took two days. Randeep had returned from delivering Narinderji her monthly payment – she’d barely let him through the front door – and was in the kitchen pouring himself some cereal. It was all they had in the cupboard. Tochi was sitting at the table, hunched over his roti-dhal. He hadn’t said a word to Randeep since he’d told everyone about the girl’s letter, and Randeep was beginning to wonder if he’d ever be forgiven. The beads were slapped aside and Gurpreet came in. He found a couple of empties in the bin and managed to shake a few drops into his mouth. Then he threw them back down.
‘Pour me some,’ he said to Randeep.
‘There’s no milk, though.’
Gurpreet nodded, wiping his perpetually runny nose with the back of his hand. Randeep handed him a bowl and they ate standing against the counter.
‘Where’s your friend?’ Gurpreet asked Randeep.
‘Work.’
‘Not seen him for a few days.’
‘He’s busy.’
‘He used to talk about his exams. When are they again?’
Randeep chewed his cereal, playing for time. ‘I’m not sure.’
Gurpreet nodded. ‘Is he still at the chip shop?’ And there was something about the way he said this. Less an enquiry, more a confirmation.
Randeep looked to Tochi. ‘He’s still at the chip shop.’
Tochi raked back his chair, harshly, and hurried into his jacket. Gurpreet threw his bowl into the sink, charging forward, grabbing Tochi by the collar and yanking him back.
‘Bhanchod chamaar. It’s time you learned your place.’
He took Gurpreet’s legs from under him and slammed him onto the table, pinning him there with a forearm to the throat. Gurpreet thrashed. He made strangulated sounds. A knife appeared in Tochi’s hand, held high above his shoulder. He trained it on the space below Gurpreet’s turban.
‘Say that again and I’ll slice your fucking eyes open.’
At the chips-and-chicken joint, a girl with hair the colour of hay looked up from behind the counter. She asked Tochi something in English.
‘Foreman. Please,’ he added, as if remembering.
She stared for a few seconds, her brow contracting, then sloped off into the kitchen and said something in English again. A man appeared, big, with strong, fat arms that he was wiping down. He nodded up at Tochi. ‘Ki?’
‘I need work.’
‘My name’s Malkeet. Bhaji to shits like you.’
Tochi adjusted: ‘I need work, bhaji.’
‘Welcome to the world. Nothing here.’
‘Wait. Please.’
Malkeet waited.
‘I’ll work for less than the one that’s gone to London.’
He seemed amused by this. ‘That takes guts.’
A customer entered and Malkeet told Tochi to go outside and come round the back. When he made it round, Malkeet was already in the doorway, pointedly keeping Tochi standing outside. Blue plastic crates were stacked against the wall to Tochi’s left, watery blood pooled across their bottoms. Chicken, he made out, from the pictures if not the words.
‘What’s your status?’
‘Fauji.’
‘How long?’
‘Long enough.’
‘Now, now.’
‘Two years.’
Malkeet thought on this. ‘Well, I suppose it is true: you are cheaper than scooters. Always wanting time off for this or that exam.’ He said this loudly, airily, and the desi guy in the kitchen banged his fryer against the rim and flounced off into the shop. Malkeet chortled.
‘You’ll make enemies.’
Tochi said that was nothing new.
Randeep paced the room, mattress to wardrobe, wardrobe to mattress. Sometimes he paused at the window, but it was getting too dark to see much down the road. He put his head to the wardrobe. He might not have. He might not have stolen the job. The boss might not even have given it to him. Anyway, he had nothing to feel bad about. Even if he had wanted to make it up to Tochi, he hadn’t said anything he shouldn’t have. Had he? Outside, the gate opened, hinges screeching. Randeep went to the window – it was him – and rushed out of the door, meeting Tochi halfway down the stairs.
‘You didn’t?’
Tochi pushed past, carrying on into their room.
‘I’ve told bhaji. I’ve called him.’
‘Good.’
He took his holdall from the wardrobe and began to stuff it with his clothes.
‘What are you doing? Where you going?’
‘To the flat.’
‘The empty one?’
Tochi nodded. It was time to leave. He zipped up the holdall and slung it on. ‘If your friend asks, tell him. I don’t want him to think I ran away.’
‘You can’t do this,’ Randeep said, following him onto the landing. Then: ‘I saw your scars.’
Tochi halted. He didn’t turn round. Then he went down the stairs and out the front door.
Some students got up and left the hall long before the invigilator instructed everyone to put down their pens. Avtar never did. It would only draw attention, especially as he sat near the front and the exit was right at the back. He waited, listening to the giant clock, seeing shapes in the tiles of the parquet floor. Once or twice he paged through the booklet again. It made no difference. It was all beyond him.
Today was his fourth exam – two more to go. Head down, folder to his chest, he burrowed through the hordes of students comparing answers in the corridor. Usually he went to Cheemaji’s office. Not this time. He cut across the car park, past the library and out of the college grounds. He went under the roundabout that had once so confounded him and used Cheemaji’s travelcard to take the Tube to Kings Cross. It had been deliberate, suggesting somewhere public, and this was the only place in London he really knew.
He waited near the ticket office and when the other two showed up they all moved to an empty table outside a coffee shop. The nephews took teas. Avtar shook his head.
‘Sure?’ Bal said.
‘I’m sure.’
‘Fair enough. ’S good of you to meet us here,’ he went on. ‘Saves us a trip up north for once.’
‘I was here anyway.’
‘For your exams. You said.’
Avtar reached into his shoes and pushed across the table a small roll of notes. ‘It’s not enough.’
The Year of the Runaways Page 32