The Year of the Runaways by Sunjeev Sahota Page B

there – a reassuringly huge twelve-wheeled monster. Its black tarpaulin bore a giant image of wet tomatoes on a vine. Deniz gestured for Tochi to wait while he went inside. He returned ten, fifteen minutes later, stapled papers in his hand and a yellowing pillow squashed under his arm. He said it was time to go. Tochi moved to the rear of the truck, but Deniz threw him the pillow and told him to climb in the front.
    A beeping sounded as they reversed, then Deniz changed gears and took the road out of the estate. Tochi stared. He’d never felt so high up in a vehicle before. He could see all the way back to the airport, where a plane was taking off, climbing its ramp of air.

He waited outside the cemetery gates, ready to leave, his two months in Paris just as Deniz had predicted. They’d been on the deck of the ferry to Brindisi when the Turk warned that France was the wrong choice for him. London would be much better.
    ‘London? You understand me?’
    The waters looked free and magical, the sun breathily warm on Tochi’s face. He wondered if this was what it would feel like to stand on that southernmost tip of India. The calling sea beyond.
    ‘Very racist, the French are. Horrible people. The English are much nicer. You should have paid a little more and gone to England.’
    ‘As long as there’s work.’
    ‘Not much work in Paris for you men these days.’
    Later, as they’d crossed into Austria, or maybe France, Tochi asked him if he meant what he said, about there being no work in France?
    ‘Did I say that?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s true, anyway. You’ll find out soon.’
    ‘How much for you to take me to England?’
    They agreed on a price and a date. And when Deniz dropped him off at Bobigny gurdwara – ‘All the Indians spend their first night here’ – he reminded Tochi to be waiting outside the cemetery gates and to not tell anyone. He didn’t want half of Bangladesh climbing into his truck and ruining his tomatoes.
    He completed a second circuit of the cemetery in case Deniz had meant some other gate, but there was only the one. He sat on his suitcase, rucksack between his legs, and ran a thumbnail in the leather creases of his boots, where foot met shin. Sleeping in the park. Less than one week of work. He was glad to be going. The traffic was sparse, the road lonely. There were apartments for sale in the window of the shop opposite, and there, in its dull reflection, he saw Deniz coming up behind him. His sunglasses shone and on the chest pocket of his red T-shirt a black horse pranced.
    ‘So! Ready to leave, my friend?’
    For the ferry to England, he hid in the back of the lorry. Europe was no problem, Deniz had said, but these English types could be very difficult. Tochi hunkered down, knees tight to his chest and head tucked in. It was as dark as a well. Metal barrels surrounded him – right above his head, too – their clinking the only sound. He fell asleep. At some point he lifted his head off his knees and felt a deep stillness inside him. The barrels weren’t wobbling. The engine wasn’t running. All was peace and darkness. He closed his eyes, though the insides of his lids were painted with images of dying and the dead. He was woken by the rear shutter rattling up. He held his breath, didn’t move. Daylight made a faint blond entrance. There were voices, Deniz’s among them, and knuckles being rapped on the containers. More voices, white-sounding, until the shutter clattered back down. A little later the engine roused and he felt the truck’s clunking descent.
    ‘This is England,’ Deniz said, when at last Tochi was able to wriggle out. They were in some sort of car park. Shops, white people. Nearby, the grey noise of fast traffic. The sky looked the same as in Paris. Deniz fetched them a plain baguette each and they got back in the front and rejoined the motorway.
    ‘I thought you said it would only take an hour?’ Tochi said.
    ‘From Calais. They do less checking in