The Year of the Runaways (29 page)

SPRING

5. ROUTINE VISITS

Behind Avtar, the yellow cranes did their noisy browsing: giant birds biting up great mouthfuls of earth, only to jerk their heads to the side and spit it all out. The racket was such that Langra John limped up with a box of noise-cancelling earphones, and Avtar had one set circled loosely around his neck. He was hunched over his college folder, going through handouts forwarded on by Cheemaji. Most of them were stamped ‘College of North-West London’; underneath that, ‘Preparing You For Your Future’. Around him the lunchtime talk was of the latest raids.

‘Three last week,’ Rishi said, his foot recently out of plaster. ‘Two in Wolverhampton, one in Luton.’

‘See,’ Gurpreet said. ‘It’s always down there. Nothing for us to worry about.’

At this, several of them cringed and said a waheguru and threw some soil over their shoulders.

‘My fuffer – the one who works in customs – he says they’ve even started checking the marriage ones. He said one brother was sent back because when they visited he couldn’t speak English and his gori visa-wife couldn’t speak Panjabi.’

‘Arré, janaab, those pindu types are stupid. They give the rest of us a bad name. It’s like they want to get caught.’

Randeep reattached the lid onto his lunchbox in a series of tiny clicks. ‘How much time do they give before they visit?’

Langra John shouted at them to get back on it and so Avtar packed his folder away and re-secured the leather harness around his waist. He’d been paired with Gurpreet and together they had to climb the scaffolding and score off the lock-points between the planned executive rooms on floors ten through to fifteen. They were both complicatedly belted up and tethered to a double-chain rope that ran around the hotel perimeter, and the platform was wide enough to walk side by side. The ladders connecting the floors didn’t sway once in the wind and drizzle. Despite all that, they’d only made it up one floor and were walking round with their spirit levels and pencils when Gurpreet stopped and folded onto his knees.

‘What now?’ Avtar said.

He held up his hand, as if to say he’d be fine in a minute. Ten minutes later they were still there, their backs to the main drop and facing the grey mesh curtain that hung all down the inside of the scaffolding.

‘It’s the height,’ Gurpreet said.

‘You must love living in Sheffield, then.’

He smiled faintly. ‘It’s not easy, this life, is it?’

Avtar jutted out, then immediately withdrew, his lower lip. A facial shrug. ‘Who said it would be? But it’ll get better. Hard work, that’s all it takes.’

‘Yeah, I used to be like you, too.’

‘You’re nothing like me.’

‘I used to think I only had to work harder. Longer.’ He shook his head. ‘Bhanchod liars.’

‘You should go home. Eleven years is a long time.’

Gurpreet laughed. ‘Forget any ideas about going home. You’ll still be here, still doing this, in eleven years’ time as well.’

‘Nah. If I don’t pass my exams I’ll go home with what I’ve earned.’

‘That easy, is it?’

‘It is for me.’ The rain puttered against his yellow hat, dribbled down the back of his neck.

‘So how much have you saved so far? With all your working?’

Avtar stared straight ahead.

‘Thought so. I said the same. That I’d go home after one year with my money. You really are like me.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘You’re me in eleven years.’

‘I said fuck you.’

‘Why? Scared? And it’s only going to get harder. Now chamaars like him are coming over.’

Avtar dipped his gaze and saw Tochi far below, tiny, switching drills.

‘It makes you only care for yourself.’ Gurpreet spoke quietly. ‘This life. It makes everything a competition. A fight. For work, for money. There’s no peace. Ever. Just fighting for the next job. Fight fight fight. And it doesn’t matter how much stronger than everyone else you are, there’s always a fucking chamaar you have to share the work with, or a rich boy who can afford a wife.’

‘You play the cards you’re dealt,’ Avtar said.

Gurpreet clucked his tongue. ‘Or you tear up the game. You get rid of the players.’

Avtar checked his harness, his stay.

‘It’s not your time yet,’ Gurpreet said. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘I’m not the one who needs to be worried.’

‘But I would do it, you know. If it helped me, I would throw you over. And, one day, you’ll say the same.’

Tucking the orange uniform into his trousers, he ran across the road and into the Botanical Gardens. The grasses were starting to bud, the daisies closing for the night. He should ignore Gurpreet. Lazy and bitter, that’s all he was. Kirsty was waiting outside the shop, in jeans and a T-shirt printed with four faces he didn’t know.

‘Late again?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t know you came up that way. Wouldn’t it be quicker through the wood?’

He couldn’t remember where he’d told her he lived. ‘I was visiting a friend.’

‘Oh,’ she said, sounding unconvinced.

She’d started nearly four months ago, in the new year, to save for university. She said she was taking Criminology. At first, this had alarmed Avtar and his desi co-workers. They’d even complained to Malkeet, their boss, who’d had to come down and explain that they were idiots, the lot of them, and of course it didn’t mean she was going to tell the police. Her dark-blonde hair, when it wasn’t pinned into an orange net, fell about her face and shoulders. She had flinty eyes and a handspan waist, fingers that stroked the counter each time she walked by, and a way of standing – hip stuck out – that seemed both careless and defiant. She lived with her mam and her mam’s boyfriend, who wasn’t her dad.

A black Mini swerved into the forecourt and braked abruptly, so close to Avtar and Kirsty that they both jumped back. A middle-aged woman in leggings and a fluffy white jumper scrambled out, jangling keys. Diamond-studded sunglasses sat on top of her glamorous mane like a second pair of eyes: insect eyes.

‘I’m so sorry. So sorry. He goes away for two weeks and I can’t even manage to open up on time.’ They went to the entrance round the back. ‘There you are,’ she said, deactivating the alarm. ‘It’s all yours.’

Avtar went in, switching on lights, the fryers, the spit. Kirsty tied her apron round her waist.

Their boss’s wife hovered at the door. ‘All OK? Shall I leave you to it?’

‘Unless you want to get the chicken on,’ Kirsty said.

‘It’s fine, bhabhi,’ Avtar said hastily. ‘We’ll look after it all from here.’ He waited for the door to close, then gave Kirsty a look.

‘Well,’ she said, flapping a hand towards the window. ‘She goes round kneecapping people like a trout in a Ferrari. It makes me want to vom.’

He got the potatoes through the peeler and into the hopper, and then straight into the fryers. Harkiran, who worked the same shift, entered through the back door, his over-gelled hair swept to the side, and Avtar took his turn on the small settee in the back, beside the door to the toilet. They did this whenever their boss wasn’t around. It never got properly busy until around ten, so they’d have an hour each to try and catch up on some sleep. Only these days Avtar used the time to study. He set his chin in the palm of his hand and started on the first page: The Basics of Cryptography. He made it halfway down the sheet before he ceased taking anything in.

When Harkiran woke him, it was nearly 10.30: he’d been curled up asleep on the settee for almost three hours.

‘You should’ve nudged me.’

‘It’s not busy, and I’ve got the morning off to sleep.’

Harkiran zipped up his suede jacket – he did the graveyard shift as a security guard – and said he’d be seeing Avtar tomorrow.

Avtar splashed cold water on his face and went through to the serving area.

‘Everything OK?’ he asked Kirsty.

‘Quiet, but the numpties are starting so you might want to make yourself scarce.’

He nodded gravely and returned to the kitchen. When they’d first started, he and Harkiran had been warned that it was fine to go out front if it got busy early on, but to make sure they stayed out of sight once the pubs closed. Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem. Malkeet bhaji tended to arrive at around ten to help with the Drunk Rush and such was his reputation and size that things never got more lairy than the occasional loudmouth who couldn’t even stand up straight and had to be helped – thrown – out of the door. The last few days though, Kirsty had got the worst of it. They called her a slag when she refused to spade on extra chips, they asked her what she was like in bed, whether she took it up the shitter. Once, Avtar had come forward, hoping a male presence would hurry them on. It only made it worse.

Tonight, he was brushing around the trunk of the toilet when he heard Kirsty shouting at them to get out. He stopped with the broom and listened. Drunks.

‘Temper, temper.’

‘She’s a feisty one.’

‘Like a bit of sausage, do you, love? Battered?’

‘I said get out. Now. We’re closing.’

They didn’t.

‘I’ll call the police.’

There was laughter. One of them told her to get her rat out and, predictably, they started singing: ‘Get your rat out for the lads!’ It was a chant Avtar had heard a few times on his way home past the pubs. He hated the aggressive sound of it, and hated it even more once he’d discovered what the words meant.

They sang it again and again, clapping in time. Avtar ventured out and spread his arms either side of the counter, trying to make himself appear bigger. The singing stopped, though the laughter on their faces remained. He must look clownish to them, this man in an orange hairnet.

‘We need to close. Can you leave, please?’

‘What were that? Speaka da English?’

‘Kirsty, can you call the police, please?’ It was a hollow threat. All the staff had been warned never to bring in the police.

‘Oh, Kirsty, is it? Thirsty Kirsty?’

Avtar went through the counter flap and opened the door. ‘Get out.’

‘Or what?’

‘Kirsty?’

She lifted the receiver. ‘You’ve got five seconds or the pigs are here.’

One of them – light-brown curls cut close to his skull – moved to the door and spat right into Avtar’s face. ‘Cunt.’

They filed out, spitting in turn, and Avtar closed the door, locked it, dimmed the lights, and went back to the toilet to clean his face in the basin. He heard Kirsty behind him.

‘I’m so sorry, Avtar.’

He nodded, though perhaps even worse than the spitting was the quietness in her voice, the sense of someone being embarrassed for him.

*

Narinder took the letter from the pocket of her cardigan. It had arrived for her at the gurdwara, over a week ago now, and it was from Karamjeet, her fiancé. She reread the brief, typed message for perhaps the twentieth time. He said he knew she was in Sheffield and that he wanted to meet. If she refused then she left him with no choice but to tell her father and brother where she was. He reminded her of his mobile number and signed off by saying that he hoped she agreed that he deserved an explanation at the very least. As she slipped the letter back into her pocket, there was a knock on the door.

‘Sat sri akal,’ Randeep said. ‘The front door was open so I came straight up.’

She looked past him and down the stairs. ‘I must’ve forgot.’

‘I thought maybe someone had moved in. Into the flat. Downstairs.’

‘Have they?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Who is it?’

‘No one. I don’t – sorry?’

She shook her head, apologizing – she seemed agitated – and moved aside to let him past. ‘Please, sit down,’ she said and poured tea with her back to him. She wore one of her usual plain salwaar kameez. A light-blue and white one, like a Panjabi girl’s school uniform, which on some level Randeep was too anxious to reach for he found vaguely arousing.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I just thought it would be better if we discussed this face to face.’

‘No, I’m sure you’re right.’

They sipped their teas. She asked him how work was going, gesturing towards his hands. He looked at his rough palms.

‘It’s fine. Thank you for asking. Easier in this weather. Even if everything’s so damp. I hated the snow. And for you? You’re still enjoying living here?’

She smiled a so-so face. ‘The weather doesn’t really affect me.’

‘Yes. The summer will be nice when it comes.’

‘Let’s not get our hopes up.’

He wondered whether a joke might be appropriate here, something about how British they were being, talking about the weather like this. She stood and returned with a piece of paper from a low kitchen drawer.

‘They say the visit shouldn’t last more than a couple of hours.’

It was a confirmatory note from Her Majesty’s immigration people. As per the terms of the spousal visa, they intended to pay a routine visit which included interviews with both parties. The last line of the letter specified the date of the appointment and an injunction that Mr Sanghera and Ms Kaur make every effort to accommodate the visit, or to call them as soon as possible if this wasn’t possible.

‘It’s good they gave a date. They don’t usually do that.’

‘How do you know?’

He smiled. She must think he did this kind of thing all the time. ‘Someone told me.’

She closed her fingers around her tea. He could see her swallowing.

‘Please don’t be nervous,’ he said. ‘I’m here.’

‘It’s hard not to be.’ Then: ‘I suppose you’ll take the day off work and come here in the morning?’

He placed the note back down, adjusting its position by minute degrees until its edge sat exactly parallel with the table’s. ‘I was talking to some of the guys and they said the things the inspection people look for are signs that we’re definitely living together. For example, that I know my way around the flat. One couple was caught out because the inspectors asked the man if they could have a glass of water while they interviewed the wife. And the man didn’t know which cupboard the glasses were in. They got suspicious and then it was all over for them both.’

‘So shall I show you where everything is? It won’t take long.’

Randeep tried again: ‘Actually, Narinderji, my bhajis were saying I should spend some time living here before the inspectors come.’