MORNING SERIAL

NO one has put two and two together yet, not put them together: Pigeon and the fire, Pigeon and the van, Pigeon and Him. The car’s coming because it was coming anyway.

They had already been round the week before. Two had come to the crooked house, asking their questions. They’d heard Pigeon had bruises. They’d heard the man, the step-dad as they called Him, was a nasty piece of work. They’d heard Pigeon didn’t go to school. They’d come round with a clipboard, asking questions.

“When was the last time you went to school, Pigeon?” they’d asked.

“Last week,” Pigeon’d said. “We did English. And maths. We did mathematics.” But his face was so narrow, and his eyes, they were darting, like a cat’s.

“How did you get your bruises?”

“Fighting.” Pigeon grinned at them. “What about your mam’s?” “Fighting,” Pigeon’d said, then he’d looked away, shrugged. “But not with me,” he’d added, sulky.

“Who makes sure Pigeon is going to school?” “Mam,” said Pigeon “Mam.” And all the time Pigeon’s mam rocked back and forth, back and forth.

His mother continues to rock this time, as they come up the path to take Pigeon away. This time it’s two policemen and a woman.

From behind the cobwebs that are like a veil over the window, Pigeon watches the policemen get out of the chequered car, walk up the little path, speak into the tiny microphones on their chests. They wear heavy boots and padded waistcoats. They wear black, and little chequered bits on their sleeves: black and white checks, like a chessboard.

“Yep, we’ve found the house,” one says into the little microphone. “Should be out in a half hour or so, keep you posted. Yep, Linda’s with us, she’ll do the talking.”