The Year of the Runaways (12 page)

‘Why aren’t you living with Sheera? It’s raid season, man – Sherry, staying with you from now on, yeah?’

Ardashir was putting on his coat. ‘Never stopped him.’

It was a few minutes’ walk, a run-down part of the neighbourhood Tochi had never been to. Most of the windows were grilled over and behind one of the grilles twinkled a dwarfish tree. Ardashir went down a flight of thin stone steps, Tochi following, and once through the front door he tugged on some string dangling from the ceiling, which brought on the light. Sink, cooker, fridge, boiler. Three chairs – one straight, two orange plastic – stood against the wall with several empty bottles of whisky huddled around their legs. Beneath the long net of the window was a single bed on tiny gold wheels. Tochi dropped his bag to the floor and took a piss in the bathroom, on the other side of the kitchen. When he came back Ardashir was pulling sofa cushions from under the bed and arranging them in the middle of the room.

In the morning, lying awake on the sofa cushions, he watched Ardashir at the sink, pouring whiskies and chucking them back one after the other, growling as each peg hit the spot. He was in trousers only and the heavy slack of his stomach pressed against the worktop.

‘If you get caught, you don’t live here.’

Tochi nodded.

‘You don’t know me, you understand?’

‘It’s your house.’

Ardashir gave a little snort. ‘Yeah.’

They didn’t bother one another. Soon as Tochi woke he washed and left to look for a second, daytime job. Sometimes he asked the Turk, Marat, and often he trudged to the gurdwara in case fruit-picking had started up. He was back at the restaurant for midday, time enough to vacuum and dress the tables. Ardashir would arrive an hour later and change into his whites, and they’d work together in the kitchen, quietly, peaceably, making the midnight walk back to the basement flat in silence, and in this way the seasons shifted and the months passed.

The restaurant closed on Christmas Day – the one day in the year when it did – and Tochi spent the morning lying on the floor, on the blue sofa cushions, gazing up at the damp ceiling. There was no point in looking for any work today – he’d learned that much from last year. Ardashir sat on his straight chair at the window. After a silence of almost two weeks, the older man spoke.

‘How long are you staying here?’

‘I can leave now.’

‘In England, I said.’

‘Until I’ve earned enough.’

‘Then you’re a fool.’

The afternoon was quieter still and as they sat down with the lamb curry brought back from the restaurant the previous night, all that could be heard was the dull scrape of metal on foil and the slurp and slop of eating. Sometimes a car went by.

‘You’re a bigger fool than me. I didn’t have anyone to tell me different.’

Tochi said nothing.

‘Take my advice and go back now. Before there’s nothing to go back for and you’re stuck here.’ It was the most he’d ever said to Tochi. Perhaps it was this Christmas spirit everyone went on about. ‘Thirty-three years. Didn’t do my papa’s rites, my biji’s. Wife and children started new lives. For what? So I can sit here in this hell. No future but death. Just a body needing to be clothed and fed. Go back, you understand?’

‘I’ve done my papa’s rites. And my biji’s. And my brother’s and my sister’s.’

Tochi’s wrist began to tremble and he lowered the spoon and stared at the ground between his knees. He heard Ardashir stride past and pour the rest of his food into a black bin liner hanging off the side of the sink.

The restaurant reopened fully on New Year’s Eve. Tochi worked fast, determinedly, but by the time the countdown and midnight cheer came and went he still had hours ahead of him. Sukhjit stumbled in. He was laughing and had his arm collapsed across another man’s shoulder.

‘Arré, Sheera, give my cousin one of your lassis, man. We’re gunna be Panjabis tonight!’

‘Does that mean we get to beat our wives?’ the other man said.

Sukhjit put a finger to his own lips. ‘They’ll hear you. Ears like an elephant.’

Soon, Sukhjit rounded everyone out the door, saying it was over to his place for whisky and poker, and in less than a minute all the noise of the night evaporated and the restaurant door locked shut. Ardashir joined Tochi at the sink, grabbing a wire-wool scourer of his own.

It was past five when they made it to the flat.

‘Thank you,’ Tochi said.

‘You won’t get anywhere working like a dog for him. Earning shit money.’

He arranged the blue sofa cushions in the middle of the room.

‘Take the bed,’ Ardashir said.

‘I’m good here.’

‘I said take the fucking bed.’

The next day, Tochi was pulling down the chairs from their tables when Ardashir answered the restaurant door. It was the same man who’d come into the kitchen with Sukhjit. He stood there shaking the cold off his small shoulders, flicking out his feet. He seemed to hate standing still. He even spoke fast.

‘What you doing, man? It’s New Year’s fucking Day.’

‘Do you want a drink?’ Ardashir said.

‘Not all alkies, dude. So where is he? This him?’ he asked, looking at Tochi. ‘You got your NI card?’

Tochi looked to Ardashir who said he’d get one in the week. ‘As long as you get his CSA card.’

The man shrugged. ‘Coming out his pay, in any case.’

‘How much?’ Ardashir asked.

‘That’s between me and Freshy Jo here.’

‘How much?’ he asked again.

‘You his fucking pimp?’

They agreed on a figure, which was about four times his current wage. They shook hands.

‘I’m Virender. Vinny. And you’re lucky, you know that? I’ve just got a new contract. A top-of-the-motherfucking-range hotel. Should knock the smile off Sukh’s face.’

‘When can he start?’ Ardashir asked.

‘I’ll speak to Sukh. But say I’ll pick him up next Saturday. I’m down south anyway. Have your suitcase ready to go. Acha?’

On his last morning Tochi tidied away the sofa cushions and sat on the straight chair, red rucksack at his feet. Ardashir placed a pair of leather workboots on the floor. They looked old and used but stronger than his own.

‘You’ll need them.’

‘I’ll buy some.’

‘I’d like you to take them, but suit yourself.’

He sat on the bed and swigged from his bottle. They said nothing until a few hours later when a white van parked outside and the horn sounded.

‘I told him not to do that,’ Ardashir said, standing up. Then, to Tochi: ‘You should go.’ With that, he disappeared into the bathroom behind the kitchen, leaving his bottle on the worktop.

Tochi hooked the rucksack over his shoulder and took up the boots and walked out of the room and door and up the stone steps. The day was cold and bright. He opened the van door and nodded at Vinny and climbed in.

3. SETTLING IN

The Sheffield snow had nearly gone. Grass showed darkly through and only a few white sleeves remained on the roofs of the houses opposite. Moving away from the window, Tochi prised off the workboots Ardashir had given him and put on his cheap trainers instead. He took the half-roti he’d saved from his lunch and, on his way downstairs, crushed it all into his mouth. The kid, Randeep, he could hear in the kitchen, complaining to someone about the cement their gaffer had ordered: ‘It’ll take forever if we can’t use the jib. Maybe if—’ Tochi closed the front door and bent his head low against the cold.

He turned left on Ecclesall Road, not right as Randeep had shown him, and strode past all the places he’d already tried twice in the last month. He walked efficiently, never meeting anyone’s eye. Once he was through the city centre, the terrain rose steeply and from the top of the hill he could see the blue dome and sprawl of that shopping centre they all spoke about. He couldn’t remember the name. It didn’t matter. There’d be no work for him in a place like that.

There was a Nooze ’n’ Booze a little further along, windows grilled over, manned by a bearded sardar type. Tarlochan waited for a couple to leave with their bottles of wine. The uncle looked older this close up. In his sixties, at least.

‘Sat sri akal.’

The man smiled. ‘Sat sri akal, puth.’ Son.

Tochi explained that he was new to the area and looking for evening work. He’d be happy stacking shelves or working behind the counter or cleaning. Anything really. Whatever it was, he’d put his heart into it.

‘Fauji, hain?’

Tochi nodded.

‘Pind?’

‘Manighat.’

The man tried to place it.

‘It’s in Bihar.’

A sigh, a nod. ‘Acha. Well, good luck.’ And the man gestured for the turbaned girl behind Tochi to come forward. ‘Third time this evening, beiti. Is it still not working?’

Outside the shop, Tochi made a fist and banged the grille-shutters, shaking everything. The shopkeeper came out. ‘Any trouble and I’ll call the police.’ His voice wobbled. Tochi moved on a few feet, then stopped, his forehead to a lamppost.

‘Are you all right?’

It was the girl. From the shop. In her hand some pink meter tokens. He glanced up to her turban, then spat on the floor.

‘He wasn’t fair to you. He didn’t treat you well. I told him so.’

‘Right.’

‘We’re all equal before God.’

He wished she’d go away.

‘I’m new to the area as well.’

He nodded.

‘It’s not easy. It’s very lonely. I get very lonely. Especially at night.’

She seemed an odd mixture of strength and innocence, with little idea of how she might be misconstrued.

‘Do you know where the gurdwara is? If you’re lonely you can go there. I do. Or if you need food.’

‘What if I need a woman’s bed?’ he found himself saying, needing to hurt her the way he was hurting.

She remained perfectly still, yet he could see her mind turning away from him. ‘God can’t provide everything,’ she said, and wished him well in his search for work.

The kid’s friend, Avtar, was leaving the house as Tochi arrived back. On his way to his evening job, going by the orange uniform. He nodded at Tochi and held the front door open for him, and Tochi nodded back and passed inside. From the dimly lit hall, he could see into the front room where a few of them were watching a Tamil porno, Gurpreet urging the man on. Upstairs, the kid was sitting on his mattress, writing into something. The glow from the streetlights seeped through the curtain edges and made a vase on the wall, above the boy’s head. Tochi lay back on his own mattress, undoing the Velcro straps of his trainers but keeping the shoes on because the floor was so cold. He closed his eyes. A pleasant darkness enshrouded him. All he could hear was the scratch of the boy’s pen.

‘I’m writing a letter home,’ the kid said. ‘Better than phoning.’

Tochi felt he nodded, eyes still closed.

‘I’ve mentioned about my new room-mate.’ A pause. ‘That’s you.’

‘Give my salaams.’

‘And I’m including some photos of me and Avtar bhaji. We took them at a booth in the station last week. You get four in a row. And it’s not too expensive. I can show you if you like.’

Silence.

‘I mean, if you want to send some to your family.’

Tochi laced his hands together behind his head. ‘I’ll think about it.’

*

The foundation concrete had cured and they’d spent the morning making a start on the brick posts. It was donkey work, really. Around them, yellow cranes manoeuvred into place, driven by professional-looking white faces. Tochi secured the final brick into his section and jumped onto the wall, confirming everything was flush and bedded down. From here, he could see across the whole site. There were almost three times as many people now as when he’d first arrived. Project managers, floor planners, site officers, water operatives. A roving swarm of hard yellow hats, fenced in by the short brick posts that at last seemed to be giving the site some sort of shape. He saw the kid’s slim figure far across the way. He had his hands on his knees, peering into a turning barrel of cement as if he’d lost something inside it.

That evening, he changed route, passing the Botanical Gardens and the small moonless wood. There were fewer shops this way – instead, the further he went, the bigger the houses became, the wider the avenues. The air felt greener, as if this was where all that countryside started insinuating itself. The something district, they called it. Even their green spaces sounded urban. He walked for perhaps an hour and found himself in a village, in front of a little, pretty convenience store. Inside, a brown kid in several layers and a baseball cap idled at the counter. Tochi made his usual pitch.

‘You want a job?’ the kid surmised. His Panjabi was poor, Hindi-inflected – ‘Aap job chaiyeh?’ – and he’d probably understood little of what else Tochi had said.

He slid open a wooden panel behind him and called up the stairs for his mother. Tochi heard her coming down, mumbling that everything was price-marked, Manvir, why don’t you look before interrupting her all the time? A small woman, who might have been handsome if it wasn’t for her long jaw, she stopped as soon as she saw Tochi. ‘Oh, sorry.’

The boy said something and then the woman sent her son upstairs and turned to Tochi. ‘You’re looking for work?’

Born back home, clearly. Probably came over to be married. ‘Ji. In the evenings. Cleaning, shelf-stacking, I can do anything.’

She thought a moment. ‘I’m guessing you’re illegal.’

Tochi nodded.

‘Pind kerah?’

‘Mojoram.’ It was the name of the Panjabi village he’d worked in. She asked him his name and again without hesitating he said, lied: ‘Tarlochan Sandhu.’

‘Jat, then?’

This time he paused. ‘Ji.’

She said her husband was in India for a few weeks but they had been looking for someone. Especially now they were both getting on a bit. It was just so hard to find someone honest, you know? You couldn’t trust a gori and her sons weren’t interested. Tell them to stand in the shop for even an hour and you’d think they’d been asked to reverse the cosmos.

Tarlochan asked if that meant he had a job.

The landlord knocked on the first working day of every month. A compact forty-something, he had neat, short popcorn-coloured hair and his long nose made his eyes seem deeper-set than they probably were. He was called Mr Greatrix and he always wore the same tie.