MORNING SERIAL

I MUST have said it aloud because, “It’s that one, love,” says the guard.

The Liverpool train is ugly. There are bits of chewing gum on the floor, no tables. The seats are old and tattered. But it’s only for half an hour. Mostly we go through tunnels and along bits of track between buildings now. Our green and grey hillside feels a long way away. It feels like maybe it doesn’t matter as much as I thought.

I don’t feel afraid, getting off the train. I have a map. On the map I can see where Dad’s house is, the place where he stays now, according to Efa. She gave me the address as soon as I asked.

“I thought you’d want to go one day,” she said.

“Have you been there?” “Once or twice,” she said. I had the feeling it was more.

There were so many questions to ask her about Dad, but I didn’t know where to begin so I just asked nothing, and she said nothing except, “Be careful”.

In Liverpool the buildings are tall and go on and on. Walking along my map, it’s just street after street. The trees grow out of the tarmac here, crack it, and push through from the earth below.

This street is Dad’s. It has lots of small, brick houses, tiny yards out the front.

The man who opens the door is old. He’s stooped like a question mark and has grey hair. He has a white beard, ruckled skin and my eyes. He looks at me.

“Yes?” he says.

I stare at him, and say nothing.

“What do you want?” he asks. And then looks past me up the street, as if I’m no one.

He doesn’t know who I am. I look at him a long while. Then, quietly, I say it.

“Iola dwi,” I say, “Eich merch.” Inside Dad’s house it’s pretty dark, and there’s bits of metal and wood everywhere, so he’s still doing that. I follow him along the corridor to the kitchen. He walks very slowly. The house smells of something I don’t recognise.

When I see the ashtray, with a long roll up cigarette in it, I know what it is.

> Pigeon is the winner of the Wales Book of the Year and the Rhys Davies Fiction Prize. Published by Parthian

CONTINUES TOMORROW