‘Where you keeping it?’ Gurpreet said, squeezing.
‘I can’t . . .’
There was something else, a sound, something being hacked at, looped around his neck. A rope. A lead. A belt. It was pulled tight. Randeep reared up, fingers clawing at his neck.
‘Where?’ Gurpreet said, yanking, coiling the lead into his fist.
He couldn’t speak. Could only look. He felt his eyes straining to leave his face. On the carpet. Gurpreet’s flick knife. Open. He launched his hand towards it.
Avtar hoped Hari’s room-mate had been genuine when he said he’d call him again. The work at the track hadn’t been bad and he’d seemed honest enough, though that was getting harder to judge. He climbed the stairs to the flat, tired, made even more so by the thought of a workless afternoon ahead. The door opened and Randeep stood there. He looked frightened, panicked even.
‘He won’t let me call an ambulance.’
‘What’s happened?’ Avtar said, shutting the door.
‘We need to call an ambulance.’
Gurpreet lay slumped behind the settee, his head thrown back to the windowsill. His Adam’s apple was pulsing hard, and his mouth hung sloppily open, as if at any moment it might slip right off his face. His hand, gripping his side, was covered in blood.
‘God.’
‘I put a bandage round,’ Randeep said.
‘You did this?’
Gurpreet spoke, breathing out each syllable. ‘No. Am. Bu. Lan.’
Avtar crouched beside him. Gurpreet slid his eyeballs across.
‘They might not send you back,’ Avtar said.
‘No. Am. Bu . . .’ He couldn’t go on.
‘Is there anyone we can call? Do you know anyone who can sort this out?’
Gurpreet turned his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes.
‘Let’s get an ambulance, bhaji. Please. He’s not thinking straight. What if he dies?’
With a hand on the windowsill, Avtar pushed up onto his feet, slowly, thinking. ‘Where’s your Narinderji?’
‘Out. She could be back any minute.’
‘Call her. Make up a reason. Find out how long she’s going to be.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
A door shut downstairs and he saw Tochi heading towards the bus stop. ‘He’s on lates, isn’t he?’
‘Who?’
Avtar took a knife from the cutlery drawer.
‘Shall I still call her?’
‘No,’ he said, and hurried down to the lower flat.
Tripping the lock was easy, and, inside, it seemed as if Tochi only ever used the front room and maybe the kitchen. The bathroom had been gutted, wood everywhere. In the shower tray sat the white-bottomed trunk of a toilet. He cleared a space by the door and vaulted back up the stairs.
‘We’ll have to put him down there until it gets dark.’
‘But what if he dies?’
‘He won’t die,’ he said, uncertainly.
Carefully, they folded him into one of their blankets so that he wouldn’t trail blood, and with even greater care carried him down. They laid him curled to the bathroom door. Avtar took a closer look at the bandage and bound it tighter – ‘We’ll get you help’ – while Randeep went back up to fetch a glass of water.
They washed the knife and Randeep zipped up his tracksuit top to cover the bruise on his neck. There were a few bloody handprints on the wall and a large stain absorbed into the carpet where Gurpreet had been lying. The handprints mostly washed away, but the stain didn’t, so Avtar cut the carpet out and said they’d have to move the settee back and hide the hole. Then they sorted the mess in Narinder’s room. Throughout all this Avtar kept making Randeep go over what had happened.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ Randeep said, when he’d finished. He sounded close to tears.
‘He was killing you. You didn’t have a choice.’
‘But he might die!’
‘Do you want to go to prison?’ Avtar said, raising his voice. ‘Because I’m not being sent back because of this bhanchod, do you understand? OK? So let’s try and stay calm. It’s too light now but we’ll get him out before that chamaar comes back.’
They checked on him two or three times every hour – the level of his water, the quality of his breathing – and when Narinder returned at dusk they stared at her, waiting for her to speak, notice.
‘Has he really gone?’ she said from the kitchen table.
‘You told him to leave,’ Avtar said, almost accusatory.
‘I know. I know. But where will he go?’
Avtar paused. ‘He’ll find somewhere.’
‘I was angry,’ she said, fingers closing around a rung of the chair. ‘I hope he’s not on the streets.’
‘Like I said, he’ll find somewhere.’
They had a dinner of roti-dhal, eaten mostly in silence. Randeep’s spoon kept clinking the side of his bowl.
‘Your hand’s shaking,’ Narinder observed.
‘I wanted to ask you where the doctor’s is,’ Avtar said swiftly. ‘My stomach’s playing up.’
‘There’s a surgery at the top. Past the shop and left down one of the roads. There’s a big blue sign outside. You’ll have to register as a patient first, though.’
Avtar said he’d wash up, hoping that might hurry her to bed, but she put a load in the washing machine and then sat doing her jigsaw puzzle at the kitchen table. Randeep and Avtar kept glancing at each other and at the clock, and it was nearly ten when she pushed back her chair and said goodnight.
They could hear her reciting the rehraas, then a switch being flicked, extinguishing the beam of light at the foot of her door. They waited an hour, not saying much, then trod down the stairs. Gurpreet hadn’t moved. He seemed weaker now, and the blood on his hands and vest had congealed and blackened. They wrapped him in the blanket again and Avtar wiped the tiles clean and scrubbed the pinkish handprints from the door.
‘When’s he back?’ Randeep asked.
‘Twelve. One. Depends.’
‘We should take him to the hospital, bhaji.’
‘Too far.’
‘But—’
‘I said it’s too far.’
They shouldered him up to his feet and in this way supported him down the hall and out into the night. They followed Narinder’s directions, except that they circled around the shops to avoid being seen, and laid Gurpreet in the doorway to the surgery. They arranged the blanket so that it cocooned him. He was whimpering, shaking his head. There was blood all in his beard. Randeep took a step back and clasped his hands together up by his mouth, praying.
They wanted to leave that night but didn’t know how to explain it to Narinder. So they returned to the floor, exhausted yet wary of sleep. Neither had wanted to take the settee. A car horn made Randeep flinch.
‘Yaar,’ Avtar said.
‘I know.’
‘He’ll be fine. His breathing was getting better. They’ll take him to the hospital and put him on a plane home. He’ll soon be with his family.’
‘I know,’ Randeep said again, and turned over.
The buzzer rang the next morning. It wasn’t even eight o’clock.
‘Who’s that?’ Randeep said.
Avtar moved onto his knees and scuttled to the window. He could see the car but not who was at the door. Narinder came out of her bedroom.
‘You expecting someone?’ Avtar asked.
‘The only person who comes is the landlord. But it’s too soon for him.’
The buzzer rang again.
‘It’s the police,’ Randeep said.
‘It’s not the police,’ Avtar said, giving him a heavy look.
‘I should go,’ Narinder said and, grabbing her chunni on the way, headed downstairs.
Avtar and Randeep listened from the open door of the flat. It was a male voice, a white voice. Randeep’s face tightened.
‘What?’
‘Immigration,’ Randeep said.
>
Avtar snatched his rucksack from the settee and raced to the window, trying to force it up. But there was no time and he let go and turned round as Narinder walked in with the man.
‘It’s David,’ she said, quietly, moving round the kitchen table, as if to place a safety barrier between them.
‘Ah, Mr Sanghera, good to meet you again.’
He extended his hand, which Randeep took.
‘As I was saying to your wife, I realized I don’t have your phone numbers on file. And that’s no good at all.’
‘You should have written to us only,’ Randeep said.
David smiled. ‘I was in the area.’
His charcoal trench coat hung open, revealing a smart suit of a paler shade. The hair, grey, was swept back. He moved to Avtar.
‘I don’t think we’ve met. David Mangold.’ Again he held out his hand.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘Your name?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Name?’
‘Gurpreet.’
‘Off out?’ He nodded at the rucksack, or maybe the window.
‘No,’ Avtar said, reflexively, defensively, then wished he’d said yes and stolen the opportunity to get out of there.
‘Are you staying with Mr and Mrs Sanghera? Sorry – ’ a smile over his shoulder at the couple – ‘Mr Sanghera and Ms Kaur.’
‘No. Visiting only.’
‘Oh. I thought that would’ve explained all this,’ he said, looking at the pillows and blankets.
‘Visiting for a few days.’
‘Two blankets?’
‘It gets cold.’
‘Ah. Of course.’
He smiled that fake, flat smile again, and his gaze moved slowly around the room.
‘I see you’ve removed all your photos.’ He turned to Randeep. ‘I hope all is well in the matrimonial abode?’
‘We’re fine. Thank you. We’re redecorating.’
‘And this suitcase? My, what expensive-looking leather. I’m assuming that’s not yours, Mr Sanghera? Why would you keep a suitcase full of your things in your own living room?’
‘No.’
‘So it’s . . . ?’
‘My friend’s,’ Randeep said, nodding at Avtar. ‘Sir, did you come to interrogate us or for our contact numbers?’
‘Very true. I’ve taken up quite enough of your time,’ and he scribbled down Randeep’s and Narinder’s mobile numbers and wished them all a pleasant rest-of-the-morning.
They heard the downstairs door shut and Narinder sank onto a kitchen chair. ‘They know.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ Randeep said.
‘He can’t prove anything,’ Avtar said. ‘Don’t panic.’ He unzipped his rucksack and crushed into it a T-shirt he’d left drying on the radiator.
‘What are you doing?’ Randeep asked.
‘He might come back.’
‘We’re going?’
‘I am.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
Avtar swung the rucksack on. ‘And if he comes back?’
‘I’ll say he’s working. I’ll call you,’ Narinder said, turning to Randeep. ‘And I’ll probably handle it better on my own. But you can’t stay here.’
They returned to the surgery before heading to the bus stop – Randeep had insisted. He wanted to make sure Gurpreet was all right. He wasn’t there. They must have taken him to the hospital.
‘You sure?’ Randeep said.
‘If anything had happened to him there would have been police everywhere.’
Randeep nodded and let his head fall back against the bus stop. He turned his face away from Avtar and the tears that fell were ones of relief.
*
Gobind’s was an Indian supermarket that seemed to sell things in bulk: six-packs of lychee juice, giant mesh sacks of purple onions, sticky gold tins of rapeseed oil – Food For Functions, the sign outside the shop read. Hari’s room-mate had told them about it. They had been sleeping in the station, their second night away from Narinder’s, when Avtar got the call saying that there was definitely work going in Derby, in a place called Normanton. A gurdwara uncle on his way back from the cash-and-carry had given them a lift as far as Chesterfield and from there they’d hidden on a train.
Walking into the supermarket, Avtar was ambushed by the spices: cloves, coriander, ginger. There was another smell that reminded him more of home but which he couldn’t place until he turned and saw the brown powder spilled across the floor; piled up beside it, the split boxes of malati. He marched on, climbing out of whatever mood he was in danger of sinking into. The woman behind the counter looked old enough to be their grandmother, though the gold eye make-up seemed to warn against addressing her as a biji. She had very long, very straight hair in a fat clip at the nape of her neck and her green cardigan was buttoned singly at the throat, over her darker-green kameez.
‘Sat sri akal,’ Avtar said.
She exhaled in apparent dismay – ‘Mera ghar e tuhanu labda a?’ – and moved onto her tiptoes, looking over Avtar’s shoulder. ‘Arré, ji? Another one!’
The job wasn’t with them.
‘Too much checking in this area now,’ she said, shaking her head as if at an increase in crime. ‘We only dare keep one. Not that he’s much good,’ she added and rolled her eyes at the young man come to sweep up the liquorice powder.
‘So where is the work?’ Avtar asked.
‘No need to sound so desperate,’ the woman said. ‘The van’s coming tomorrow. In the car park.’
‘Whose van?’
‘He has a few businesses in the area. A local man. Don’t worry, he’s apna. Just make sure you’re there tomorrow. Early.’
The car park was too cold to sleep in so they returned to the shop and were given directions to the nearest gurdwara, where they ate and shat and climbed the stairs to spend the night in the darbar sahib.
‘We’ll find a room somewhere tomorrow. And work,’ Avtar said, coming back with some prasad. He gave half to Randeep, who ate it in one and then seemed disappointed not to have made it last.
‘I never thought it would be like this,’ Randeep said.
‘Have faith.’
Avtar’s phone buzzed – a message from Bal, demanding the next payment, and a warning: wanna c ur ma beggin on da street?
‘Work?’ Randeep asked.
Avtar plugged his phone in to charge. ‘No,’ and he left it at that. If he told him it might get to Lakhpreet, and maybe even to his parents. He’d got his family into this mess and he had to get them out. He had to earn, and more than he was earning now.
Randeep turned to face the wall. Avtar lay down and asked God to keep His hand on their heads, before turning round and trying to sleep himself.
They were at the small, ragged car park behind Gobind’s by six. Already five others were there, lined against the wall with their different rucksacks.
‘Join the queue,’ they said, though everyone knew that once the van turned up any queue would explode.
‘Whoever gets in helps the other,’ Randeep said.
More kept on arriving and by mid morning there must have been at least thirty waiting in the car park. They were from all over Panjab: Phagwara, Patiala, Hoshiarpur. The first thing anyone asked was what pind you were from. Which is your village? Who are your people? Some had been here more than ten years. One or two less than a week.
Someone ran in from the road and shouted that there was work in a biscuit factory on the other side of the city. The ones new to England slung on their bags and chased after the man, who said he’d show them which bus to catch.
‘That was my cousin,’ the man beside Avtar said, grinning. ‘Bhanchods, why didn’t more of you fall for that?’
The van – an old red Bedford – arrived late in the afternoon and a brusque round-bellied man in a quick-wrap saffron turban stepped out. His beard was neat and evenly black, the work of some dye, though his eyebrows were as white as butter. The boys assembled around the back of the van,
Avtar elbowing his way to the front. The van man spoke.
‘I’ll only take men with National Insurance. If you don’t even have a fake one, don’t bother getting in the van.’
‘What’s the work?’ Avtar asked.
‘Cleaning.’
‘Cleaning what?’
‘Underground cleaning.’
A few made faces and detached themselves from the group. Perhaps they could afford to wait for something better.
‘I only need ten,’ the man said. ‘I’ll count you in.’
Avtar felt them pressing behind him, fighting into position.
‘What’s the money?’ Avtar asked.
‘Whatever I say it’ll be.’
‘But where will we live?’
The man looked at him. ‘Shall I wipe your arse too?’
The van man put his hand on the door lever. Already they were shoving one another. Avtar turned round and nodded at Randeep, who looked nervous. The man smiled, as if enjoying his power. Then he opened the door and there was a huge animal noise and Avtar elbowed the guy next to him as hard as he could and clambered into the back. He spun round, looking for Randeep. His suitcase was making it difficult and others were easily slapping him back.
‘Bhaji!’ Randeep said, holding out his hand.
Avtar was looking at Randeep, looking at Randeep’s hand, looking at Randeep holding out his hand.
‘Bhaji! Bhaji, please!’
Avtar looked away. The door slammed shut.
‘That’s it,’ he heard the man say.
10. INSIDE LOOKING OUT
A palmful of dank yellowing leaves held fast to the window and the low sun meant she had to squint to see Mr Greatrix on the path below. She wondered why he hadn’t come up the stairs. She slipped into her cardigan and checked her phone in case Randeep had called in the last five minutes and she’d somehow missed it. It had been exactly two weeks since they’d left the flat and she couldn’t believe he’d not returned by now to pay the rent.
‘Sorry, I left my set at home,’ Mr Greatrix said.
Narinder kept hold of the doorknob. ‘Are you here for the rent?’
The Year of the Runaways Page 37