MORNING SERIAL

IT’S like an altar, and she is the sacrificial lamb.

The room (the chamber) is also rectangular.

There’s nothing on the walls and no other furniture, apart from the bed where she lies.

The walls are painted a pale green. The floor is also green, linoleum, of a slightly darker shade.

That’s it: floor, walls, door, and, in the middle of it, the bed, and the mermaid, lying.

On the ceiling there’s a mark. Someone has chipped the paint on the ceiling.

How did they do it? It’s a high ceiling, and there are no weapons here.

Nothing allowed in that could damage, hurt, break.

Pigeon looks at the small mark up there on the ceiling and he thinks. But he can’t think.

The world’s full of stale mysteries, even in an empty chamber. Perhaps his mam’s a riddle?

The doctor seems to think so. Emanuel, he’s called. He has dark skin like the skin of a tree. “Are you her son?” he asks. “Yes,” says Pigeon.

“Are there any other relatives, anyone to contact?”

“No.”

“Any friends?”

“No.”

“No friends?”

“None that I want you to contact.”

“Right.” He sighs. “When can she leave?” “Not yet.” The doctor turns to Pigeon’s mam. “Are you hearing voices, Mari?” “No.”

“Good.” He ticks something on his chart. “She’s responding well to the medication.” he says.

“Pigeon?” his mam is looking towards him. Smiling a watery smile.

The doctor starts when she says the name.

“She was calling to Pigeon in her sleep,” he says. “It’s your name?”

“Yes,” says Pigeon. “You know, the grey ugly birds that are everywhere.” Pigeon half laughs at himself.

Then he stops “The ones that carry messages,” he says.

“The ones that always find their way home.”

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

CONTINUES TOMORROW