MORNING SERIAL

THERE’S a long silence. He’s holding both my wrists now, not holding hard, quite gently, but holding. It’s a long time before I can speak. But then I do. I find a voice somewhere, one that comes up from my ribs, from where the heaviness is.

“Na Pigeon, ti’n wrong. It was a mistake, Cher got hurt cos she made a mistake, that’s all, just kids Pigeon, kids.”

When I say that word ‘kids’, so English and so adult, it’s like I’m dressing up in Efa’s grown-up clothes again. I feel small suddenly. I’m a kid. I’m still a kid.

Somewhere I still am.

“We almost killed her, Iola.” Pigeon’s hands hold tighter. He’s not in control. His bony hands are holding my wrists so tight it hurts, and in my head there’s that shouting again, that voice saying “Na!” and that sound of a shot.

“Stop saying that Pigeon, stopia Pigeon, paid a deud hyna, plis.” My voice is so thin, so small against the room. “Cher might’ve died.” “But she’s alright. Efa said she’ll be alright.”

There’s a long silence. Just the creak of his mam’s chair and the radio sounds rising falling. Just the slow dwindling smoke of the left cigarette.

Pigeon pushes me away, gets up, walks across the room and slumps down in the armchair. He looks at me for a long time, and then there’s his hard, tight voice.

“And what about Him, Iola?” says Pigeon’s voice “What happened to Him?”

It’s so foreign to hear that name, that terrifying emphasis. Him. I don’t answer. Don’t say anything at all. I want to say you did it, Pigeon, ti nath, but I can’t. I say nothing. We both know. Even I know what happened, I can still hear it in my head.

Pigeon sits there and he says nothing at all. And then he beckons with a hand. Come over here says his hand.

“Pam, Pigeon?” But I think I know. I think I know why.

“Just come over, Iola. Come over here.”

And I walk over to him, stand there in front of him where he’s sitting in the chair.