He was sitting on the bench in the yard at the back of the apartment block, enjoying the last of the day’s sunshine, when a hard hand landed on his neck and lifted him by his collar.
‘Hey, hey!’ he said, trying to twist his body away and see who it was.
The hand let go of his collar. He turned around to see a squat, feral man in work overalls. He grabbed the man to shake him. The pong that rose off the man was less honest labour than stale beer and garlic lunch.
‘What the…?’
‘You, Akky or whatever the fuck your name is, don’t pretend you don’t know who I am!’ the man said, grabbing him and shaking him back.
‘I don’t,’ Akhil said, rubbing his neck, letting go. ‘That really hurt, you know.’
‘You know what hurts, what really hurts, is when you try to take someone else’s wife and kids away from them, that’s what really hurts,’ said the man, getting his fist acquainted with Akhil’s stomach.
‘Who the fuck are you, and what do you want?’ Akhil gasped, doubling up in agony. ‘I’m going to have you and whoever let you in here for assault and battery.’
‘I’ll kick you in the teeth next, I will, you fucking Indian bastard, if you don’t shut up. Don’t think people ’round here haven’t noticed you cosying up to my ex-wife and my kids, buying them groceries, taking the kids to the park. Who the fuck do you think you are – Gandhi?’ He pronounced it to rhyme with candy.
Janine. It was Janine’s ex-husband or boyfriend or whatever. George. He looked different from the photos in her apartment, fatter, tougher, his old face fossiled in his present one. He fought his own suicidal impulse to sneer at the man, throw his fantastic failures in his face. Don’t forget where you are, Akhil. Get away from this as simply as possible.
‘Kenneth. That’s who let you in, that’s who’s been telling you stories, probably called you himself,’ he blurted. ‘What, you want to see your kids starve while you’re pissing down everything you earn? Some husband and father you are!’
‘You want to die, man, you want to die? You want me to kill you?’
Akhil tried to make himself as small as possible as the man punched him.
‘You … are … going … to … regret … this,’ Akhil said. He felt himself falling, felt the ground hitting him hard enough to empty out his lungs. His mobile fell out of his pocket. The man jumped up and down on it, then kicked it away. It flew in a demented arc and landed on the gravel path.
‘No, you are, man, you fucking foreigner, you are going to regret this,’ he said. ‘What, you wanna change your fucking visa status by making moves on my wife, you black bastard, is that what it is! Wanna marry American, my friend? Wanna be American? Here, this is for all of us that don’t want you bastards here. Why don’t you go back to the Third World or India or whatever, where you belong, motherfucker.’
Akhil curled up insect-like as the man leant back to kick him some more. There was a scream from above, from a window that someone had raised. It was Mrs Whitfield, who lived above Akhil’s apartment. The man took one look at the old lady, at the prone figure on the ground, gave it one final kick and decided it was smarter to leave.
By the time Mrs Whitfield had made her painful way down, overtaken along the way by a hysterical Janine, Akhil had woken up. He stared up, uncomprehending, at the two women bent over him.
‘Akky, I’m so so sorry,’ babbled Janine, ‘I had no idea George was going to come here. I don’t know why he came, he didn’t even come by the apartment.’
‘Should I call 911, should we get a doctor, should I call the police?’ Mrs Whitfield said, fluttering with fear and excitement.
Akhil grew alert. ‘No, no,’ he said, barely audible, trying to raise himself. He fell back, feeling different parts of his body scream out at him. ‘Ahhhhh!’ He closed his eyes, then opened them. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he whispered, ‘I’m not going to press charges or anything.’
Janine burst into tears. ‘Oh, Akky, I just feel so bad. It would have been better for you not to have known us or helped us. You’re the only one who ever gave a damn, that’s what’s so terrible. I’m so sorry…’
Akhil sat up, felt his face, hands and legs. His lower lip was swollen and bloody. ‘Gimme a hand up,’ he said to Janine, cutting her short. His stomach told him where it was located in no uncertain terms. ‘Ahhh … ahhh … the bastard!’ He straightened out as much as he could and dragged himself back to the building. Janine and Mrs Whitfield ran along beside him, trying to hold him and help him, but he shook them off. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m sorry you were disturbed, Mrs Whitfield, I don’t know what to say. Thanks for your help.’
Janine followed him into his apartment. ‘Please let me take a look at you,’ she said. ‘You may be bleeding, you may need an ice pack or something. Oh, oh, oh, why did I ever meet that George. He’s been nothing but trouble all these years. Here, sit down.’ She tried to push him into the armchair.
‘No, no,’ he said, shaking her off. ‘Let me go take a look on my own…’ He went into the bathroom, saw a frenzied stranger staring back at him. His mouth tasted of salt and iron. He moved his tongue in investigative mode. No broken teeth, only the cut lip. He took his clothes off. An ink blot test on his stomach. A gaudy contusion where the final kick had landed, on his left shin, another on his shoulder, on the same side that must have got it earlier, given the slightly deeper shades of plum. He touched the bruises with a cautious hand, suppressing a groan. He was probably lucky. The man could have killed him and got away with it, maybe dumped his body in the nearest forest. There wouldn’t have been anyone even to file a missing person report. Well, maybe Janine. Or Tara, eventually.
Akhil knew who was behind this – the apartment manager. Who else would have been snooping on him, and reporting back to George or whatever his name was? Kenneth had had it in for him for a while – he was a trendy guy, he liked to keep up with cuttingedge fashions in immigrant management. How else to explain the odd notice he had put up some time ago: ‘All those on visas to the United States must observe a curfew of nine p.m. or else take the specific permission of the apartment manager on any day this curfew is breached.’
Kenneth knew damn well that was not legal. That notice was meant for the only non-citizen in the block: himself. When he had challenged him, the apartment manager had shrugged. ‘I’m just following county police procedures.’
He was irritated to see Janine still there when he came out of the bathroom. ‘Please go away, I’m fine. I just want to be left alone,’ he said, collapsing onto the couch.
Janine hung around.
‘Go, Janine, I need to be on my own now, do you get it?’
‘Shall I get a bag of frozen veggies from the fridge to put on the bruises? I’ve got some ointment upstairs I use on the kids.’
‘No!’ he said. ‘Just please go.’ He shut his eyes and pointed at the door. A moment later, he heard it close.