The Year of the Runaways (49 page)

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?’

‘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.

‘I’m sorry I embarrassed you, Baba.’

She’d been desperate to say this and as the words left her mouth a channel seemed to open up between them.

‘I know you are, beiti. As I keep telling everyone, I know my daughter and even if she can’t tell me her reasons they must be noble ones.’

‘I think they were.’

‘But you say it is all over now?’

She nodded. She still hadn’t heard from Randeep. If he didn’t get in touch by the end of the year she’d contact Vakeel Sahib herself and ask him to get the divorce done with. He’d said it would take a month or two only. For now she’d remain here, with her father. Next June she’d marry Karamjeet and spend the rest of her life with him and his family.

‘Your chunni,’ her father said.

‘Hm?’

‘It’s fallen, beiti.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ and she reached behind her neck and lifted it up and over her turban.

‘So, you lived alone? In Sheffield?’

‘Yes, Baba.’

‘You were never lonely?’

‘No more so than here,’ she heard herself say.

Her father paused mid bite, nodded. ‘No friends?’

‘No.’

‘Neighbours?’

She hesitated. ‘No. No one.’

She waited a few minutes so her father might not make a connection.

‘Baba, in India, did you ever meet chamaars?’

‘Every village has them. Why?’

‘They spoke about them in the gurdwara yesterday. Are they treated very badly?’

‘Chamaars? Better now than they used to be.’

‘How did they use to be treated?’

He finished his mouthful. ‘There was a boy working on our farm. We used to call them achhuts back then. Not chamaars. But he was only ever allowed to eat our leftovers. And not on plates, either. Your dadi would use a rag to scrape it all into his hands like this – ’ he cupped his palms together in front of his beard – ‘and I remember the dhal would be dripping between his knuckles and the vegetables would still have our teeth marks. And he’d walk off, stuffing it all inside his mouth.’ Baba Tarsem Singh sipped water, perhaps to get the taste of the memory out of his own mouth. ‘I’ve seen it still happen today.’

She’d stopped eating. She was looking down at her food. ‘That’s so cruel,’ she said, quietly.

A pause. ‘Why do you look so sad?’

She could hear the suspicion in his voice.

‘Was he one of them? Who you went to Sheffield for?’

She imagined saying yes and seeing the terror on his face. ‘I was on my own. Please believe me.’

‘You promise me?’

She nodded and he seemed to accept this, though the concern remained in his voice. ‘Of course. What was I thinking? But you were lucky. A girl your age living alone in a strange city. Anything could have happened.’

‘It was exciting as well.’

Another worried look, a slight compression of the brow. Silent minutes passed.

‘I forgot to tell Tejpal to change the bulbs in your room. Remind me in the morning.’

‘I did them all earlier.’

He looked up from his spoon. ‘You can change lights now?’

‘It’s not hard, Baba.’

‘No, I guess not. What else can you do?’

‘Fuses. And electricity meters. I can work them.’

Afterwards, she started piling the dishes into a small stack which she could carry in a single trip to the kitchen. Her father struggled to his feet, his hand tensing until it docked on the safety of his cane.

‘Baba,’ Narinder began. ‘I wanted to ask how you’d feel about me getting a job.’

He said nothing at first, only stared. ‘My pension does this family fine.’

‘I nearly had a job in Sheffield. I think I’d enjoy it.’

He was looking at her strangely, eyes darting over her face, as if trying to follow where this was all going to end. ‘We’ve spoken about this before. You agreed.’

She put the final plate on the pile and looked across. ‘Maybe I’ve changed.’

She wasn’t allowed to look for a job. Tejpal came charging into her room and told her that once she was married she could speak to her husband about it, but while she was under this roof things were going to stay as they were. ‘You’ve done enough damage. Spare us any more shame.’

As Tejpal left, her father shuffled to the doorway. ‘I’m sorry, beita. I did try. But you know what he’s like. He’ll never change.’

‘Will you? Change? Or do you still expect me to follow your rules?’

He looked to the floor, sheepish, then reached for the doorknob and closed the door. She crashed her fists down on the bed, letting out a frustrated growl. They might never change, but she knew she had. She knew this wasn’t how things used to look, that it was as if a filter now stood between her and the life she left, and what had at one time seemed clear was now a confusing grey.

She went to the gurdwara with her father that evening and sat behind the palki beside her fellow brothers and sisters. She thought it might help. She thought it might lend her mind some peace. Midway through the rehraas she opened her eyes. The others were still reciting, beautifully, tunefully; their faces lifted and ardent. She knew what they were feeling and knew she no longer felt it herself. Something had gone wrong. She found her baba at the back of the hall.

‘Can we go, please?’

‘You look like something’s scared you.’

‘No. Nothing. Please. I’d like to go home.’

She continued going to the gurdwara, every evening, with her baba. If she spent enough time in His presence she was certain these strange bottomless feelings would go away. The alternative was to parse her anxieties and discover what was wrong. She’d tried that, one morning at the window of her room. She looked out and saw Tochi being forced to eat some blank-faced master’s leftovers and tried to connect that image with some idea she’d always held of His goodness. She couldn’t do it. And then her whole being seemed to react in opposition to what she was in danger of glimpsing. Frightened, shaking, she stepped back from whatever thought lay on the other side of the sky.