The Year of the Runaways by Sunjeev Sahota Page A

small, sorry place with rows of rudimentary grey seats and an old-style black-and-white ticker board that looked broken. There was a bar at the back playing American-sounding music, and a barman who was punching open boxes of snacks and stacking them high. There was no one at the bar, though. Everyone was sitting on the seats and quietly waiting. He’d seen lights and cars on the descent, but now it felt as if they were all stranded here in this Russian desert. He rested his head on the rucksack.
    It was still dark outside when people started to queue at the airport’s only boarding gate. He half rose out of his seat, then saw Annie at the bar, tidying her skirt over her knee as she talked to another girl. She’ll let you know when it’s time, Mr Thipureddy’s niece – Manju? Mandip? – had said. So he sat back down.
    Two hours passed and more flights had departed before Annie came down in her high heels and announced that the flight to Gaziantep was now boarding. She spoke first in English and then, with almost smiling slowness, in Hindi.
    He stayed awake all through the flight. The flickering map on the beige-boxed screen at the front of the plane made little sense to him and he spent most of the time watching the slow dissolving of the night, the way the heavy black-blues hung on and hung on until finally relenting to the turning world and the first faint pinks of daybreak.
    Though the landing wasn’t as smooth as last time, and passengers gasped and lurched, the pilot’s voice came over and he said something which made everyone laugh. Out of the plane, he noticed Annie up ahead, in front of all the other stewardesses. He kept his head low, trying to keep up. Suddenly, the moving stairs appeared in front of him, like a cliff drop. He didn’t have time to wonder how the thing worked – he could feel people at his back – and put one foot onto the grille and gripped the rail, his left leg somehow following. He felt a little dizzy, as if he wasn’t sure if the stairs were carrying him down or if the ground was floating up. He focused on the man in front and tried to copy him off the thing.
    The hall was large and carpeted red and his fellow travellers were taking out their passports. Once more, Tochi joined Annie’s line. She didn’t look at him as he passed and when he turned round, she’d gone. A gum-chewing man with a glistening bald head called him forward. Tochi handed over his passport, and as the man flicked through, a tricky smile came to his lips.
    ‘So you’re paying my rent this month, ha?’ he asked in bad Hindi.
    Tochi said nothing.
    ‘Which of Annie’s are you? Germany? UK?’
    ‘France,’ Tochi said.
    The man nodded, tapping in some numbers. ‘Good. I hate the French.’
    He collected his luggage, dragging it off the belt, and headed straight out of the automatic glass doors and into the new world.
    The niece had been right: his ribbon was one of the least colourful, and it took some time before a short, heavyset man with surprisingly quick strides approached. His yellow shirtsleeves were squared around his elbows, sunglasses on his head.
    ‘Tar-lo-chan, Indien?’
    He followed the man outside. A dry, sandy heat filled the day and two great whorls of sweat swelled out from the man’s armpits, almost meeting in the centre of his back. As if reading Tochi’s mind, the man twisted round and said, ‘No air con outside.’ He spoke reasonable Hindi and said his name was Deniz and welcome to Antep.
    They sat in silence on the dinky airport bus that dropped them in the middle of an industrial estate. They walked along the perimeter fence, beyond which women in headscarves and red-stained overalls were eating pastries in the shade. Deniz shouted something across to them and some of them laughed and raised their hands. They seemed to be wishing Tochi good luck. Rounding the corner, some sort of depot came into sudden view, pallets strewn, and Deniz pointed out his truck – the only truck