Excerpt from The Year of the Runaways by Sunjeev Sahota, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"We'll see," she said. "It's late. Can I call you tomorrow?"

"Of course. But you should know that the flat downstairs is empty. So no disturbances." He smiled, pleased with himself. "Yes, this flat was a special find. Especially at this time of year, it is not easy. We were lucky." That "we" was problematic and knocked him off balance. "But I should go," he said hastily. He took up his red tracksuit top and zipped it to his chin, pushing the short sleeves up to his elbows.

She walked him to the stairs, saying, "You should probably bring a few of your things and leave them here."

He nearly blurted out that his suitcase was just outside, in the gennel. "I will bring some. But I will telephone you first." He wouldn't be one of those boys who turned up at a girl's house unannounced and unexpected. Then he remembered about the meter tokens. "The light." He pointed down the stairs. "There is a meter underneath. It takes the pink electric tokens. Not the white ones. The pink ones. There is a shop around the corner. The aunty there sells them."

She looked confused. "Do I have to collect these tokens? Like vouchers?"

"Collect them from the shop, yes. Only be careful you put the cards in straight. Would you like me to show you? The meter?"

She'd never heard of electricity being pink, or white for that matter, but she was tired from the journey and said she really did just want to sleep. "But thanks for everything, Randeep."

She used his name, without "ji" and to his face, which hurt him a little. But this was England. "No problem. And do not worry. You won't need any for a while yet. I put lots in before you came."

She thanked him again, then—perhaps out of nerves, needing her fingers occupied—retightened her chunni over her turban and under her chin. It made her eyes look bigger, somehow.

Randeep opened his wallet and held out some notes to her. "Next month's." He was looking away. He hated doing it like this. At least when she lived in London it had gone by post. She too seemed embarrassed to take it.

He said goodbye. Halfway down the stairs he stopped, looked round. "I hope you don't mind, but is everything all right? You are not in any trouble?"

"Oh, I just need to rest. I'll be fine tomorrow. Can I call you?"

"Of course you may. Of course." He smiled, then went down the remaining steps and opened the door. He nodded a final goodbye. She leaned forward out of the doorway, arms folded. She looked uncertain.

Randeep held his suitcase across his lap on the bus ride home. Of course she wasn't going to ask him to stay. It was stupid of him to have thought she might. If anything, he wondered now if she'd seemed eager for him to leave her alone. He spat coarsely into his hankie and worked out a bit of dirt on the brown leather of his case, which still gleamed, in spite of the coach to Delhi, the flight to London, and now three months spent wedged on the roof of that disgusting wardrobe.

He got off right outside the house and saw the grey-blue light of the TV flickering behind the closed curtains. He'd hoped they'd be asleep by now. He went the long way round the block, stopping off at the Londis for some of those fizzy cola-bottle sweets.

"You are leaving?" the singh asked. The suitcase.

"I was helping a friend move only."

The TV was still on when he got back. Randeep turned the key gradually, wincing at the loud final snap of the metal tongue, and went straight up to his room on the second floor. He sat there polishing his workboots with the toilet roll and after that he changed the blanket on his mattress, taking care with the corner-folds. Then he lay down, the darkness roomy around him, and with no real enthusiasm reached for the toilet roll once more.

It was near midnight when the clanging of the gate woke him up. He hadn't meant to fall asleep afterwards and the scrunch of sticky toilet paper was still in his hand.

Excerpted from The Year of the Runaways by Sunjeev Sahota. Copyright © 2015 by Sunjeev Sahota. Excerpted by permission of Knopf. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.