The Year of the Runaways

by Sunjeev Sahota

  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.’

  ‘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.

  ‘I’ve been letting you all win so far,’ Biju went on. ‘Now watch how I make you all my bhabhi.’

  ‘How many did you do today?’ Avtar asked.

  ‘Seven,’ Sony said. ‘You?’

  Avtar frowned, played his highest club. ‘Four.’

  ‘He knows you work hard.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

  Biju went with a low heart, forcing Avtar to risk the ace.

  ‘This’ll cheer you up,’ Sony said. ‘I heard there’s a pataka shed a few streets down. What do you think? Next pay day?’

  ‘Can’t,’ Avtar said. ‘Need to—’

  ‘Pay my loans and send some home,’ they finished for him, yawning comically.

  ‘Have some fun,’ Sony said. ‘Make up for it next month.’

  ‘Do you have a job for next month?’ Avtar asked, genuinely.

  ‘Something’ll come up.’ He sounded cagey, like he probably did have one ready. Avtar didn’t blame him for not disclosing it. He’d have done the same.

  ‘Oh, you goat-fucking Malveyah!’ Biju said after Sony very gleefully turned over his pair of twos.

  Avtar threw his cards into the centre. ‘Whose deal?’

  In the van, Avtar asked what was going to happen to them next week.

  ‘Next week?’ Jagdish said.

  ‘You said the contract’s finished next week.’

  ‘It is.’

  Avtar waited. All the boys were listening. ‘Do you—?’

  ‘I’ve not decided what I’m going to do with you yet.’

  ‘So you might find work for us? Another contract?’

  They could see him smiling in the mirror. ‘There is work. But not for all of you. Some of you I’ll have to kick out. Let’s see who performs best, yes?’

  On the last day, as they hosed off their suits and changed into their clothes, Jagdish approached. ‘How many?’

  ‘Four,’ Avtar said. There was no point lying – they had cameras to double-check.

  ‘Is that all? Four? Do I look like your chachi’s cunt that you can come to me with a straight face and tell me you only did four all day?’

  ‘Sorry, sahib.’

  ‘Saala, bhanchod. Is it him? Is he holding you back?’

  Romy stood a little way off, grimacing into the van’s wing mirror as he pulled strips of slime out of his hair. Avtar said nothing, and Jagdish nodded and put a cross beside Romy’s name.

  They’d not been home an hour when five of them were ordered to grab their stuff and get back in the van. He’d drop them where he’d found them, and from there they could return to whichever rathole they’d sprung from. Romy collapsed onto his knees, then his belly, and pressed his forehead to Jagdish’s grey loafers.

  ‘Please, sahib, let me stay.’

  ‘Get away,’ Jagdish said, though he seemed to be enjoying this little moment. ‘I’ve made my decision. It is final.’

  ‘No, sahib. It can’t be.’

  ‘Sahib?’ Avtar said, tentative. ‘Please let him stay.’

  ‘Do I look stupid? He’s never been a worker.’

  ‘I will, sahib,’ Romy said. ‘Please let me stay.’

  ‘Get in the bhanchod van. Enough drama.’

  ‘Please, sahib,’ Avtar tried again. ‘I’ll make sure he works.’

  ‘How about I keep you both and pay for one. You happy with that? Half each? Agreed?’

  Romy looked at Avtar. ‘Bhaji’ll agree to that,’ he said. ‘That’s OK, isn’t it? We’ll carry on working together.’

  ‘Well?’ Jagdish said.

  Avtar shook his head and moved away from the van.

  ‘Thought so,’ Jagdish said. ‘Not so high-horse now, eh?’

  They returned to the shed: Avtar, Biju, Sony and two others.

  ‘Surprised he kept you, fattyman,’ Sony said.

  ‘I raise the standard of the group,’ Biju replied.

  Jagdish appeared at the door. ‘Before I forget, I need your passports and papers. For the next job.’

  ‘You took copies already,’ Sony said.

  ‘Hurry up. Or do you want to get in the van?’

  They handed over their documents and heard the key turn.

  ‘Why’s he locked it?’ Biju asked, switching on the lamp.

  ‘At least we get a mattress each now,’ Sony said. He drew the deck of cards from his trouser pocket. ‘Everyone in?’

  Avtar sat down, forcing dust out of the mattress. He rubbed the space between his eyebrows and, as if the two things were connected, a picture of Randeep materialized: standing with his case in the car park, getting smaller.

  ‘All right?’ Biju asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

&n
bsp; ‘No reason. Some people might feel a little guilty.’

  ‘Luckily for me, guilt’s a luxury I can’t afford.’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe.’

  Avtar frowned. He felt disturbed by his attitude, though he was sure he’d had no choice, either with Randeep or Romy. ‘Come on. Hey, Sony – deal us in.’

  *

  Her right foot rose off the seat of the chair as she reached up. She held the plastic collar, unscrewed the dead bulb, and replaced it with a new one she unfurled from the knot in her chunni. She tried the switch and the bulb glowed, palely bright against the window. There was nothing more to do. The room was clean, her bed made. And yet they were still here. She moved to the landing, where the sun ran thinly down the stairs. She’d not even been back a week and this must be the fifth family to visit, to congratulate Baba.

  ‘But why did she go?’ she heard the aunty ask.

  ‘She’s not said much,’ Baba Tarsem Singh said. ‘I think the wedding scared her. For so long it’s only been us three. She’s a good girl, really.’

  ‘Don’t make excuses for her.’

  ‘Tejpal’s right,’ the aunty said. ‘She rubbed your face in the shit, in front of everybody. She humiliated you. What kind of good daughter does that?’

  ‘I know my Narinder. She has a good heart. And I know she won’t do it again.’

  ‘I won’t let her do it again. I’ll kill her first. She’s getting married, and then she’s someone else’s problem.’

  ‘Tejpal, please. You should support your sister.’

  ‘I love her, Dad, but what she did was wrong. She put a knife through this family.’

  ‘She’s naive.’

  ‘Stop making excuses for her,’ he said again, louder this time. ‘You’ve always made excuses for her. Oh, she’s young. Oh, she’s innocent. She’s not any of those things. She knows exactly what she’s doing.’

  ‘I’m only saying it’s not been easy for her. Growing up without a mother.’

  A silence. Then: ‘And I suppose it was a cakewalk for me? But I’ve only ever lived my life by the rules. By your rules.’

  ‘Tejpal—’

  Narinder shrank back before her brother could see her. She heard him take up his keys from the glass table in the hall and the front door slam.

  They ate late that night, waiting for Tejpal, and when he did return he said he wasn’t hungry and went straight up to his room. Narinder reheated the food and sat down to eat with her baba. The night pressed against the window. There was the choppy grind of a helicopter passing overhead. The lamp turned her father’s yellow turban copper and cast on the wall a huge shadow of his cane.