MORNING SERIAL

“WE go there,” says Pigeon, in English like in the films, “and we give him a … a…”

“… taste of his own medication?” I finish it.

“Ia,” says Pigeon. “Ia. That’s right.”

We’re filling our pockets with weapons: a penknife for me, a lighter for Pigeon, stones with sharp teeth, “ready to take out an eye”, Pigeon says. He brings a length of rope and a hankerchief too, “for a gag”. He looks up at me as he says it. His eyes are like deep water. Pigeon stands by the attic window. He’s dark against the white day outside. Then I see how his hands are shaking a bit. He’s cross. No, not cross. Angry. Why is he so angry?

But I just have to do what Pigeon says. I have to believe what he says and do it all. That’s Pigeon.

In our pockets we put drawing pins, a pen, the map, the twenty-pound note, a reel of cellotape, a torch, batteries, a catapult, and a banana.

“It’s Dewi’s birthday,” I tell Efa. Dewi’s a boy from Pigeon’s class who lost a tooth last week and spent the money on stinkbombs for Pigeon’s coat so Pigeon “wouldn’t be seen dead going to his party” but it makes a good story to tell Efa. Efa’s all happy chanting a Yoga song in the backroom when we call over to tell her about the party. She shoos us away and we race down the hill to catch the number 67 out of here.

By the time we’re getting onto the bus, I’m already feeling something strange, something ice and still sitting around my ribs. But it’s enough to worry about just being on a bus that’s different and going to somewhere else, down the hill and off onto the main road on the bus with all the old people and the bus driver, who just raises his eyebrows at Pigeon’s twenty pound note, looks down at me and sighs “hh”, shaking his head like that, while we go along between the seats, right to the back.

With the map open across us, Pigeon’s counting down the streets of the town while we’re leaving it: “Stryd Goronwy, Stryd Albert, Stryd Uchaf, Stryd Ganol, Stryd Isaf, Stryd Syth, Stryd Gam, Stryd y Gwynt, Stryd y Glaw,” and out onto the main road like spit from a pea shooter. “D’you see?”