MORNING SERIAL

IT took her a while to get her key into the lock, and even longer to turn it. Pigeon could hear her apologising, so there was someone there with her.

“I’m sorry. Oh, sorry,” she said, fumbling with the key.

Then there was a man’s voice saying “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”

And then Pigeon got to his feet, walked down the hall, and wrenched the door open, making the first crack in the door as he yanked it. “O,” she said. “Oh,” said the man. “O,” said Pigeon. “Pigeon this is Adrian,” she said in English “Hi.” “What’s your name again, son?”

Pigeon didn’t like the way ‘son’ sounded. “Pigeon.” “Hi Pigeon,” He said. And when He smiled you didn’t believe it.

“Can we come in, Pigeon?” asked his mam in English, smiling, motioning gently to the hallway he was blocking.

Pigeon wanted to say no. He wanted to say this is my house, no you can’t. But he stepped back against the wall and let them pass.

The man went down the hallway making comments as if he was looking to buy the house.

“Nice location isn’t it? Feels like heaven up here after the city. Clean air. Green views. I could do this. If there was work here, I could do this.”

“What does He do?” Pigeon asked his mam. Walking behind them to the lounge.

“Why don’t you ask me yourself, son?”

“What do you do?” Pigeon said without smiling. “I work on the docks.” Pigeon didn’t know what that meant, so he said nothing. “How old are you, son?” Pigeon shrugged. “You’ll be a bit younger than my daughter Cheryl I think. You’ll like her. She’s a lovely girl.” Pigeon didn’t say anything. He went back and sat on the sofa, he turned the TV on, loud.

“Pigeon,” said his mam, and sighed a small, powerless sigh.