MORNING SERIAL
NOW, walking towards the boy, tall as he was, thin, almost an adult, it is with the greatest of self-control that Gwyn manages to suppress the hysterical Italian inside from eschewing the ritual handshake and giving Pigeon a big bear hug and a sloppy kiss on the cheek. A lump rises in Gwyn’s throat and something like hope starts to make a shape of Pigeon’s pale mouth, and to soften his angry almost man’s eyes. The two hands meet soberly, as Iola watches, as the streetlights dimly glow on the side of the hill, as Efa makes her quilt downstairs, and as, back along the road, Pigeon’s mother hums a sea shanty under her hanging dresses in the dark of their wobbly house, while all around them all the town sits down to meat and two veg and television stories.
“I’m sorry,” says Pigeon. He says the little word with a shrug. He almost smiles. Gwyn grins. The word is comic against all this.
“Oh,” Gwyn says, thinking why is the boy speaking English? “That’s OK. It didn’t really matter.”
“We burnt your house!” says Pigeon. Looking at Gwyn as if he’s off his rocker.
Gwyn nods. He grins again. “It wasn’t such a bad thing,” he says, sincerely. “I needed a fresh start.”
Pigeon’s looking at him. He laughs grimly. “I know what you mean,” he says.
“Anyway,” says Gwyn. “I’m sorry you got sent away.”
“I killed someone,” says Pigeon. There’s a kind of fragile pride when he says it.
Gwyn nods. “From what I hear,” he says, “he was a nasty piece of work.”
Pigeon says nothing. “How long’ve you been home?”
“A couple of months,” Pigeon shrugs again.
“Are you at school then?” “Nope.”
“College?”
Pigeon shakes his head. “Have you got a job then? Oh sorry,” says Gwyn, realising the boy’s probably unemployed.
“Sort of,” says Pigeon. “I sort of have a job.”
“Oh good,” says Gwyn. “Good.” They stand there awkwardly. “Can I tell you a secret?” asks Pigeon.
> Pigeon is the winner of the Wales Book of the Year and the Rhys Davies Fiction Prize. Published by Parthian