The Year of the Runaways

by Sunjeev Sahota

  She nodded. She just wanted to get off the phone. ‘Yes. Yes. That’s fine. Thank you. Thank you.’

  All afternoon she tried to get hold of Randeep. She even dialled Vakeel Sahib’s office in India, but they hadn’t heard from him either.

  The evening meal was small, quiet. Occasionally, Baba Tarsem Singh and Tejpal exchanged a few words. She wasn’t listening. She said she was going to her room and would be down to wash up later.

  ‘But you’ve hardly eaten,’ her father said.

  ‘I’ll have it,’ and Tejpal stretched for Narinder’s plate.

  She started up the stairs, fretfully, a sick feeling in her stomach.

  ‘Wedding nerves,’ she heard Tejpal say.

  She took the suitcase from where it stood against her dressing table and opened the drawers built into the side of her bed. She put her clothes in the suitcase, zipped it up, and put the suitcase in the drawer and shut it. Still kneeling on the carpet, she placed her cheek on the cold duvet and hoped her father might one day forgive her.

  She wrote a letter and propped it against her pillow and moved to the door. She listened: they sounded asleep. She closed her hand around the doorknob, finger by finger, and twisted her wrist to the left. It swung open without noise, and she picked up her suitcase and stepped onto the landing. The darkness was total, until her eyes adapted and shapes appeared: the shallow, square well at the top of the stairs; the ceramic bluebirds in the window, silently aghast. Tejpal’s door was closed, but her father’s was open. She could hear him breathing, deep and long, and in her mind’s eye she could see him too, lying, as ever, on the right-hand side of the bed, his birdlike hands locked gently over his stomach. He looked so vulnerable. She picked up her suitcase and returned to her room. She couldn’t do it to him again, not like this. She felt too old to be running away.

  Two days later, Tejpal went out and said he wouldn’t be back until the evening. Her father was in the front room, napping. A plate of carrots, chopped in half and then into sticks, lay on the table before him.

  ‘Baba?’ she said.

  ‘Hm?’ he said, not opening his eyes.

  She waited and he lifted his face to her.

  ‘Ki?’

  ‘Baba, I need to talk to you.’

  She sat on the other settee, at a right angle to him, and said she’d received a phone call, a few days ago now, which meant she had to go back to Sheffield. People would get into trouble if she didn’t. Would he please give his permission for her to go?

  He looked down at the gutka in his lap, and several long moments passed before he picked the book up and set it on the table, beside the carrots. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘With the police.’ Her eyes were on the carpet a few feet in front of her. She felt too embarrassed to look at him.

  ‘Why can’t you tell me what it is? Maybe we can help.’

  ‘You can’t, Baba. I’ve just – ’ she covered her face in her hands – ‘I’ve just got myself into such a mess. I’m so sorry. But I can’t let people’s lives be ruined because of me. I can’t.’

  His face quivered with frustration, as if he’d thought they’d moved on from this. ‘Narinder, you ask too much. Too, too much.’

  ‘I know I’ve not given you any reason to trust me, but I promise if you let me go I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘By the end of the year.’

  ‘And what do we tell Karamjeet’s parents?’

  ‘I’ll be back in plenty of time for the wedding. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘And Tejpal? Should your brother not have a say in this?’

  ‘Do you think he’d agree?’

  ‘Be sensible.’

  ‘Do you think he’d come after me?’

  ‘He’s your brother. You’re more alike than you think.’ Though he reached for his cane, he didn’t stand up. ‘And you’ve never let me down, but you’re asking me to put this family’s honour at your feet. I can’t risk that, daughter.’

  ‘Baba, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Narinder.’

  ‘I’m going, Baba,’ she said. ‘I won’t let you stop me.’ She felt the words rushing up her throat. ‘Why can’t you give me this? All I wanted was one year. A few months now. Why can’t you give me that? I’ve given my whole life to you. For you. I’ve thrown my life aside so you can walk with your head held high and you can’t even give me this? How is that right? How is that fair?’

  It was the first time she’d ever raised her voice to her father. He gazed at her, neither of them blinking. Then he stood and left the room for many minutes. She could hear him in the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding some money in his free hand.

  ‘Take it.’ And she did, thanking him.

  Then he did an extraordinary thing. He put his cane aside and with both hands removed his turban from his head and bent and placed it at her feet.

  ‘Baba!’ she said, dropping to the floor so they were both kneeling, his trembling hands in hers.

  She’d never seen him without his turban. She’d never seen his grey-black hair in its tight ball on top of his head, seen the small, private, brown comb he used to keep it in check. It felt completely wrong to be seeing it now.

  A tear rolled down his cheek. ‘A Sikh’s honour lies in his children and in the pugri on his head. Don’t step on my honour, beita.’

  *

  The settee in the back was only big enough for a small child to sleep on. As Tochi uncurled, sitting up, he felt his spine click in several places. He fetched his holdall from underneath and, as always, checked his money was still there. He used the toilet opposite, brushed his teeth in the avocado basin, then switched on the lights and the fryers. This wasn’t a sustainable long-term arrangement. Malkeet, the bastard, was taking half his wages in rent.

  He’d been here ever since the gora knocked on his door. Some tall, tie-wearing guy with a clipboard, bubbles of foam at the corners of his lips, gesturing at the smashed door and demanding – as far as Tochi could make out – an explanation. Tochi had gone back for his bag, then shoved past the man and never returned.

  He heaved a large white sack of potatoes to the chipper and slashed it open with a knife. It occurred to him that the gash looked like some kind of demented smile. Malkeet arrived, then Harkiran, and Tochi spent the morning in the kitchen, working steadily. He knew his way around by now.

  That night, the shop closed, he tightened his bootlaces, grabbed his holdall and set off up the road. Everything was shut. The yellow Buddha in its restaurant window looked sinister and on the other side of the road a man shouted at a cashpoint. He noticed a red light blinking in the distance, under a streaky moon. He thought it was a plane, then realized it was the same iron TV mast he’d see during the day. How much more beautiful it was at night. He walked all the way to the end of Ecclesall Road, until shops disappeared and roads became lanes and the hills seemed close enough to touch. He carried on through the small wood and climbed the steps onto a bridge over the river. For a long while he stared at the black water. He’d crouched beside a river like this and offered their ashes, four years ago tonight.

  He’d spent a week in hospital, which Babuji paid for, then he’d discharged himself. His parents’ bodies were with the old man – they’d been left in the auto. Tochi returned alone to the bend in the track, the bend where he’d told Dalbir and Palvinder to get out and run. It looked different in daylight. The sun on the fields. A gentle mist. He made for the trees and didn’t have to search for very long.

  The next day, towards the end of the lunchtime rush, Malkeet came through to the kitchen and said some Nanaki was asking about him out front. ‘You going all fundo on us?’

  Tochi peeled off his gloves, drew away his hairnet.

  ‘Ask if she wants a job. Could do with replacing Kirsty.’

  He lifted the counter flap and walked straight past Harkiran at the till and her waiting under the TV, and carried on to the forecourt. She followed him outside. She lo
oked anxious, like she was lost. Her suitcase was with her.

  ‘I need to speak to Randeep. We’re in trouble. You need to tell me where he is.’

  ‘Who’s in your flat?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is it empty?’

  ‘What? No. I don’t know. It’s not mine. I’m looking for Randeep.’

  ‘You rented,’ he said, to himself.

  ‘I can’t go back there. My brother . . .’

  He made a face: her family issues were of no concern. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ he said and made to leave.

  ‘Can’t you at least give me his old address? It’s the only place I can think of. Please? I’m desperate.’

  He gave directions: through the gardens, up the main road, take one of the roads left, after the pub. It’s up there. A green-and-blue door.

  She looked pained – it was too much to absorb. ‘You’ll have to take me.’

  He turned to go back inside.

  ‘I’ll pay you.’

  She returned at night, after his double shift had ended, and he took the money and told her to follow him. The gates to the gardens were locked, so they walked the long way round. It was a cool night. Leaves were falling into measly piles. She noticed his things in the holdall across his back.

  ‘Do you still live downstairs?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where I live.’

  The house was in deep shadow. He went up the path, crouching to listen at the letter box, then through the flimsy side gate and round to the back door. He tripped the lock with his screwdriver and stepped into the kitchen. The lights didn’t work but he could make out the blue flour barrel, and the rota, and the calendar beneath that. The beads tinkled as if nautch girls lay in wait. He shut the back door.

  ‘Is Randeep here?’

  He heard fear in her voice. Perhaps she thought he’d tricked her into something. Into coming to this empty place.

  ‘No one’s here. They’ve all gone.’

  He inspected all three floors. The TV was still there, and so were the Union Jack chairs and upturned blue milk crates, and the settee, and the pack of eight joss sticks, unused on the windowsill. In his old room, his mattress lay on its side, against the wall. Randeep’s too. He turned round.

  ‘Your friend’s run away. I can’t help you any more.’

  She didn’t seem to follow. ‘So what do I do? How do I find him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But don’t you understand? I need to find him. We could be in trouble.’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘What?’ She sounded surprised. ‘But I’ve nowhere to go.’

  ‘Ask your God for help.’

  She looked away, stung. ‘Do you think he’ll come back here?’

  ‘I want to live alone.’

  She nodded. ‘It would only be until I can get in touch with him. I really do have nowhere else to go.’

  He seemed to think about this. ‘You only paid me to bring you here. Not to stay.’

  She looked up, her gaze long, as if only now understanding the blunt terms of this world she had penetrated. She brought her bag round to her stomach. ‘How much?’

  He awoke before sunup, the water lapping the riverbank and his lips numb with cold. Already some of the men were sliding on their rucksacks and heading off for the day. He brushed his teeth, spitting red foam into the river, and as he dipped his toothbrush the sevadarni from the gurdwara arrived, a young woman in a kesri. She handed out roti and went down the line collecting any clothes that needed washing.

  ‘Nothing today, bhaji?’

  Randeep shook his head.

  She left a small battery-pack generator, three sockets either side, so they could charge their phones, and said she’d collect it tonight when she came back with their laundry.

  He was the last man under the bridge. It was always this way. A family of ducks squawked past, the babies fighting viciously. He folded the blanket lengthways, rolled it up so it fitted into his suitcase, and set off towards the city, its chalky greys and limes.

  He walked through the Eagle Shopping Centre and past the Playhouse, on to the park. The pedalos were all chained to the railings. Every now and then some couple or other would arrive and the pimply student at the park kiosk would unchain one of the pedalos and roll it to the lake. Randeep watched them for a while, then carried on to the park cafe, put his suitcase down and read the menu on the blackboard outside. He had enough for jammy toast, which he ate with tea. Then he picked up his suitcase and walked out of the park, counting his steps from the cafe to the gate, wondering if the number would be different from yesterday’s.

  He reached a heavy junction jammed with black taxis and white double-decker buses, crossed when the green man told him he could, and carried on past the library and art museum, towards the hospital. At some point he turned left down an alleyway, which led to a tall, thin gate made of planks painted black. He walked in. Straight ahead was the back end of the shop – Bhalla Textiles – and to his right was the shed. He knocked on the door. The same woman answered: much older than him, hair loose and cut coarsely at the shoulder, rouge smeared beyond her lips.

  ‘Ah, you! I knew you’d be back! Come in, come in. You’re not going to run away before we even start this time, are you?’ He didn’t move. She kissed the air, took him in her arms. ‘Come to me, my baby. Come here and let Anita love you, my darling, darling boy.’

  Afterwards, he leaned against the gate thinking he might vomit. He didn’t. He looked up. The air had taken on a grainier feel, the day beginning to close in. He should go back to the river. Instead, he carried on towards the hospital, which went on for several streets, and on each street there was some sort of ward he had to circle round. Soon, he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know these roads. They weren’t full of shoppers. They were grubbier, most of the windows painted over. Signs. Chaddesden. Mickleover. Burton-upon-Trent. His heart was thick in his chest. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know this place. He didn’t know this country. He spotted a payphone and dialled his mamma. He couldn’t get through. He tried four, five times. He bang-banged the receiver down and looked up. Their faces were in the glass. Jaytha. Rishi. Gurpreet. What he’d done to them. He’d done. He looked down at himself as if for the first time seeing the violence inside him. He was terrified. He didn’t mean to do it. He thought of his father. He folded to the ground, as if the glass box itself was caving in on him.

  ‘So you didn’t jump? You fell?’

  It was Prabjoht, passing Randeep tea from the flask. They were back under the bridge.

  Randeep nodded, shivering wet under the blanket. ‘I think so. I didn’t see it.’

  ‘It’s a fucking river!’

  He could feel all their eyes on him. He was sure he’d fallen and not jumped, though he couldn’t be certain. All he remembered was staggering along the towpath, suitcase heavy in his hand, seeing their faces. And then someone was pulling him out.

  Above, fireworks flared, dressing the night in sequins. Someone shouted that it was time to eat, and, as sometimes happened, there was a good amount of food that evening. There was mithai from Prabjoht, whose job involved assembling boxes of the stuff, and fish pakoras from a boy whose massi gave him food parcels every week. A new arrival passed around fried chicken drumsticks. He was a heavy Panjabi with fingerless gloves. He looked like Gurpreet. Gurpreet. Randeep shut his eyes.

  Hours later he woke up, still shivering. At least the gurdwara would be delivering more blankets tomorrow – one extra for everyone. They needed them now the freeze had begun. He sat up, rubbing his arms. The night wind had picked up too, and as he looked down the line of sleeping bodies, he saw that they had disappeared under a fugitive covering of dead brown leaves.

  12. CABIN FEVER

  On Mondays she left the money on the kitchen table, the notes weighed down under the belly of a spoon. The money would be gone the next morning. She never saw him. He left before she came down, and she’d be
in bed, the hour long past midnight, when she heard him return. There’d be the sound of a lighter being clicked, a pan being encouraged to boil.

  Her room was at the rear of the house, on the first floor. His on the second. He’d told her to stick to her room, the kitchen and bathroom, and always to use the back door. They avoided the lounge and kept it unlit. She noticed one day that he’d removed all the light bulbs from any room with a window that looked out onto the street.

  She was used to being alone in a house. The silence didn’t bother her. The emptiness did. The clean sweep of the walls, the dark consistency of the rooms. It was as if wherever she went she was confronted by herself, ridiculed. She spent much of the day by her bed, whispering to God – to keep her strong, not to abandon her.

  One night she heard voices downstairs. She’d been kneeling on the ground and she stood and moved to the landing. She leaned over the banister, then quietly descended and watched from the entrance to the kitchen, holding the beads aside. He had his back to her and the garden door was open and she could see three men trying to look in. Indians, all.

  ‘We heard this had been empty for weeks. Months,’ one of them said.

  ‘Like I said, I live here,’ Tochi said.

  ‘You live here with her?’ the man said.

  One of the others guffawed. Tochi said nothing.

  ‘Is he telling the truth?’ the man asked her. ‘Do you live here together?’

  Narinder nodded.

  ‘You both in this big house?’

  ‘You’ll have to find somewhere else,’ Tochi said.

  The men seemed to accept this.

  ‘Can you spare any food, friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve some dhal,’ Narinder said, coming into the kitchen a little. ‘You can have that.’

  They came in – ‘Obliged, sister’ – and sat shivering around the table while she heated the dhal in the microwave. Once finished, they thanked her and said they’d be on their way. Tochi followed them through the side gate and watched them disappear down the road. When he came back she was still there.