MORNING SERIAL

IT’S an order that Gwyn, cowering on the toilet seat, wouldn’t think to obey.

The boy mocks him.“Scared of kids? Scared of kids are yer?” he scorns.

Gwyn’s blood pressure climbs, in fear and shame. THE toilet seat creaks dangerously as Gwyn places a foot on either side of it and hoists himself up to take a look out of the window. The street’s empty, the carefully cut lawns blank. There are no cars parked, no echoing arguments or irritating radios. Everyone’s at work. Perspiration breaks out on his upper lip, and drips begin to roll down his forehead.

The boy tells the girl to “Ista lawr yn fana” and guard the toilet door. Gwyn can hear feet, probably the boy’s, scuffing around the flat, can hear footsteps pacing across the hall and into the bedroom. Gwyn thinks of his mother’s silver picture frame, his new TV in the bedroom that swells all the people to twice their usual size, thinks that he hasn’t put those magazines away under the bed, hasn’t made the bed in fact, or opened the curtains today. Gwyn blushes, standing on the toilet.

Gwyn, crouched on the toilet seat, can still hear whispering outside the door, and the girl’s occasional sniffling, sitting low, the sniffing sound about halfway up the door. After a while, he decides to try talking to her.

“Sut mae?” says Gwyn shakily. The sniffing quietens. “Be ydach chi’n ei wneud yma?” His Welsh is even more formal than usual. Asking the question, there’s the sinking feeling that he doesn’t want to know why they’re here after all.

There’s a silence. A sniff. Then, “Dilyn fo.”

And that’s it. There it is. No answer, no reason, just follow my leader. That’s the problem, for these children and for Gwyn: follow my leader. Gwyn knows that game well.

There’s the sound of the boy running back down the stairs, of paper rustling, of the girl whispering fiercely to her friend, the boy not replying.