MORNING SERIAL

PIGEON isn’t afraid of them. It’s the woman he doesn’t like, he doesn’t like the women who come with questions. He sits down in His chair in the living room, in the darkest corner.

No one answers the knock, so one of the officers pushes at the ragged door. As they move along the dark corridor towards him it’s like turning the last page of a bad story.

In here Pigeon just sits in the dark. He sits in the threadbare armchair that’s opposite his mother, rocking on her own chair. Pigeon’s waiting for it. Waiting for them to make it real.

“Excuse me,” says the woman, nervous at the door. And Pigeon’s mam, she just rocks back and fore on the creaking chair holding her face where He hit her.

“Hello, Mari? Hello…Pigeon?” The woman is nervous, respectable, out of place in the dank room. Neither Pigeon nor his mam change position. Pigeon sits in the dark, cross legged on the armchair. His chin is in his hand, resting. He stares at the window, although the heavy curtains are closed. He’s blank.

The woman peers in. Perhaps she can make out the shape of the boy sitting in the armchair, perhaps she sees the faint halo of his mother’s white hair rocking back and forth in the chair. He can see just the outline of the woman’s smile. She smiles in the way you smile at a child’s impossible handwriting, struggling, struggling to understand, struggling to encourage.

“Excuse me, Mari,” she says, trying a different tack, her voice a little high, a little strained.

“Don’t speak to her, Mam.” Pigeon’s hard, pegged-down voice shoots across the room.

A sharp intake of breath. Then “Mari, do you remember what we talked about?” The woman’s voice tinkles inappropriately in the room.

Pigeon’s mother’s white head moves back and forth, back and forth. There’s silence. Silence except for the persistent creak and then a snorting sound from the corner: Pigeon’s chuckle. His chuckle, like pulling a finger at them all.

One of the policemen takes a step forward.