Chapter 3
The grey morning light slithered through the gaps in the curtain.
The room had grown colder in the night. The windows did little to keep out the chill, and what little warmth had gathered beneath the blanket had long since faded.
When Asha opened her eyes, for a moment she was disoriented, like she was trapped between a nightmare and reality.
A nightmare where a strong hand closed over her mouth and a warm body pressed down on her, squeezing the breath out of her even as her little son slept next to her.
For a moment, she lay still, listening out of habit.
The muted sounds of the pub below had quieted to the occasional footfall and the creak of floorboards, a chair dragged, a door opening and closing somewhere far off.
Beside her, the boy slept curled into her, his small body seeking warmth. She eased herself up carefully so as not to wake him and carefully tucked the blanket around him.
Her limbs felt stiff, her back tight from the long journey and the narrow, lumpy bed.
She had slept in her clothes, though at some point in the night she had removed her outer layer and folded it beneath her head.
Now she reached for it, shaking it out quietly before slipping it back on. The fabric felt cold against her skin.
She moved to the basin.
The water in the pitcher was icy. She dipped the cloth anyway, wringing it out with steady fingers. She wiped her face, her neck, her arms—quick, efficient motions. She couldn't afford to linger. She did not look at herself in the small, clouded mirror on the dresser.
Behind her, the boy stirred.
“Amma…”
“I’m here,” she said softly.
He blinked at her, disoriented, then seemed to remember where he was. That they had escaped. His mouth turned down slightly.
“I need to go,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
So did she. But the night before, she had not dared venture out into the corridor.
For a moment she stood very still, eyes flicking toward the door. It felt safe in this little room. The corridor beyond felt vast and unfamiliar in the morning light. But there was no choice.
“Come,” she said, picking him up. He was getting heavier.
She helped him into his shoes, her fingers quick despite the chill, then lifted his coat from the chair. It dwarfed him. The sleeves fell well past his hands, the hem nearly to his knees. She folded the cuffs back as best she could and buttoned it to his chin.
“Too big,” he muttered with a pout.
“It will keep you warm,” she replied. “We’d better go or your pee will freeze.”
That made his eyes go round and put a stop to his arguments. She fished out a small travel pouch and opened the door a fraction first, listening. The corridor lay quiet, the weak morning light the only illumination. A popular Elvis Presley song floated up from below. Someone had the radio on.
They stepped out together.
The floorboards complained even under their careful steps. The boy stayed close to her side, clutching at her hand now, his earlier sleepiness replaced by a small, alert tension. It squeezed her heart to see how young he had learned to be afraid.
At the end of the hall, she pushed open the bathroom door.
The smell met them at once.
The boy recoiled, covering his nose. “Amma… it stinks.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “But we have to go.”
The room was cramped, the tiled floor damp in places, the sink stained with limescale and rust from years of use.
The toilet itself had a flush, though the chain hung at an awkward angle, and the basin held a ring that no amount of scrubbing seemed to have ever removed.
Someone had used it and had forgotten to flush it.
Asha pinched her nose and quickly tugged at the flush, grateful that it worked.
She closed the door quickly behind them.
They were in and out as fast as possible, brushing at the speed of light while touching as little as possible.
She helped him first, turning her face away as he wrinkled his nose dramatically, then attended to herself with the same hurried efficiency while Tanay turned away.
Privacy was not a luxury either could afford.
When she pulled the chain, the cistern groaned before releasing a sluggish rush of water.
They washed their hands in cold water that made the boy hiss softly.
“All done,” she said, holding his hands in her icy ones.
They returned to the room in silence, moving just as quickly, just as carefully.
Only once the door was closed again did she let out the breath she had been holding.
For a few minutes, they sat on the bed just absorbing the quiet and stubbornly stuffing the panic of being without a home or a plan back where it came from.
Then, in the no-nonsense manner that was her way, she dragged the suitcase out from where she had shoved it under the bed. From it, she took out her cleanest dress.
It was simple—cotton, pale once but now softened by wear, the edges carefully mended.
Both were hand-me-downs that Mrs. Bansal had given her last Christmas…
before everything got so much worse. She changed quickly, turning her back to the boy more out of habit than necessity, smoothing the fabric down with both hands when she was done.
She ran a comb through her hair, gathering it neatly in a bun, securing it at the nape of her neck with pins.
Then she dressed him.
A clean shirt, though the collar was slightly frayed. The trousers were a little short at the ankle. She smoothed them as though that might magically lengthen them. She combed his hair carefully, pulling it into a small knot that sat properly atop his head.
“Come on,” she said again, ready to face the unknown.
He watched her with solemn patience, taking in her tense shoulders, the determined glint in her light brown eyes. Eyes very much like his own.
“Are we going home?” he asked, readying himself.
She paused only for a second, as if considering the question.
“No,” she said gently. “We are going to find work.”
He nodded, accepting this as he accepted most things, trusting her to find a way like she always did.
Together, they stepped out into the morning.
Wakefield in daylight looked no cleaner than it had the night before.
The sky hung low and burdened with dark clouds, a perfect complement for the rows of soot-darkened buildings.
The streets were narrow, lined with terraced houses whose identical fronts seemed to run into one another without end.
Shopfronts broke the monotony here and there—glass windows clouded with condensation, painted signs faded by years of weather.
A grocer stood on one corner, crates of potatoes and onions stacked outside, their earthy smell cutting through the cold air.
A butcher’s shop farther along displayed cuts of meat behind a fogged window, hooks visible in the dim interior.
There were a couple of small hotels—boarding houses more than anything else—their signs promising ‘Vacancies’ in lettering that had seen better days.
A seamstress had a narrow shop tucked between two larger buildings, bolts of fabric visible inside, while a mannequin in a scarlet dress posed beyond the glass display.
And looming on the horizon, like a giant overseeing his kingdom, was the power station.
Its chimneys rose like pipes into the sky, exhaling a steady plume that drifted and spread until it became part of the cloud itself. It was impossible to ignore. A constant presence. A reminder of what the town was built around—and what it would always return to.
She walked, ignoring the curious glances from the people passing by.
She stopped at the bakers for a couple of warm sweet rolls.
She watched as her son consumed the first one within seconds and then broke off half of hers and offered it to him.
The lady at the counter watched them with careful eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron.
Her eyes lingered—not unkind, not quite—just…
a little suspicious at the strange faces.
Asha swallowed, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “I—I saw the help wanted sign in your window,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “I was wondering if it’s still open. I can bake. Cakes, bread… ”
The woman’s expression changed, the corners of her mouth dipping ever so slightly. For a moment, it seemed she might ask for more information. Might even consider it.
Instead, she gave a small, stiff smile.
“Oh… sorry, dearie,” she said, avoiding Asha’s eyes as she turned to rearrange a tray that didn’t need rearranging. “That position’s been filled.”
Asha nodded, as though she’d expected nothing else. “Thank you,” she murmured.
She didn’t linger.
But that seemed to set the precedent for the rest of the day.
At the grocer, she waited until a lull between customers.
“Please,” she said, her voice steady. “I am looking for work.”
The man behind the counter barely looked at her. His eyes flicked once to her face, then to the boy, then away.
“No vacancies,” he said shortly.
“I can clean,” she added. “I can—”
“Not needed,” he cut in, already turning to the next customer, “Hello, Walter, how are ya…”
At the first hotel, she did not make it past the threshold.
“We’re full,” the woman at the desk said. She looked bored when Asha asked about the job.
After a long moment while she looked her up and down, she said, “We are not hiring at the moment.”
At the seamstress, she was at least allowed to speak.
The older woman inside listened, her hands moving over a length of cloth. For a moment, something like consideration flickered in her eyes.
Then she shook her head.
“I’ve no work to give at the moment,” she said, not unkindly.
“Please,” the younger woman said quietly.
“I’m sorry. But come back in a week. The girl who used to work is getting married. Let me see what you can do.”
The door closed softly, but still closed. But there was a flicker of hope.
Shop after shop.
Door after door.
Sometimes she was refused before she spoke. Sometimes she was heard and dismissed. Once, a man simply looked at her and then turned his back with a “Come later” thrown over his shoulder.
By midday, her fingers had gone numb from the cold.
The boy walked beside her more slowly now, his steps beginning to drag. He did not complain. Every so often, he glanced up at her, searching her face for something—direction, perhaps, or reassurance.
She stopped long enough to crouch and pull him into a quick hug before taking his hand and moving on.
The next door brought the same answer. And the one after that.
Some refusals came wrapped in apologies. Others were blunt enough to sting. But by the time the light began to fade and the cold crept back into the streets, the answer remained unchanged.
By evening, it seemed there were no doors left in Wakefield that she had not already knocked on.
It was time to return to the pub.