MORNING SERIAL

THEN the corner of one of those magazines pokes under the door, followed by another and another, until the gap under the door is stuffed full of paper. Gwyn looks down at the magazines. Disembodied little breasts and bottoms. Lacy underwear. Pouting lips. Then there’s a strange smell, of oil, or kerosene? A kind of scraping sound outside the door, the sound of feet receding away. It’s not until the first whisp of smoke snakes under the door that Gwyn gets it. Like a rabbit in a hole.

Still Gwyn sits on the toilet, watching the smoke sucking under the door, loitering long enough for the flames to start licking the door, the sound of crackling to begin, the small toilet to fill with smoke. Gwyn hesitates just a second or two more, then starts clambering for the window, pushing his head out, and then his shoulder, and shouting and shouting for dear life. When he’s halfway out, his fat legs hanging behind him over the toilet seat, he can feel the heat on his backside and flames licking at his ankles, because his other magazine pile, set by the toilet, with the cars, has begun to burn. And when Gwyn Gelataio tumbles to the damp grass outside he’s a new-born-middle-aged-babe, his clothes blackened by the fire, the short little hairs on his ankles singed down to a sweet, curly stubble. AFTERWARDS, on the bus, counting the streets back home from Gwyn’s, Iola’s not speaking to him. She sits next to Pigeon, shaking. “Stopia,” he says. “Stopia.” “Sori,” she says. And then, “Sori, Pigeon,” again. She keeps shaking.

Pigeon turns away from her, stares out the window. It’s started to rain. Wet rain. That’s what they call it when it falls like this, heavy drops, full of sky.

“Bydd Gwyn yn iawn, Pigeon?” she asks him. Her eyes are big and blue and there are no ideas in her eyes. Will Gwyn be alright? She asks him, over and over. Will Gwyn be alright, Pigeon? Will Gwyn be alright?

“Falla,” says Pigeon. He moves his shoulders for Not sure.