MORNING SERIAL

“WHAT’S the priest doing?” I whisper to Efa.

“He’s blessing Adrian,” she says.

“What’s that?” I say, pointing at the swinging metal thing that the priest holds. “Incense.” “What for?” “For making the dead person special and holy.”

“Him?!” I say it too loud and people turn round.

“Sh. Iola,” she says. And the priest goes on shaking the spices and smoke all around the coffin, as if He is something you have to be kind to, and make charms for.

That’s crazy, I think. Blessing Adrian.

Blessing Pigeon, that’s what they should all be doing, blessing my friend, not this dead man in his box. Thinking that is so angry and dark I feel sick. I think about the holes in the body that’s in the box. Straight through his body, and the blood.

And then I can’t breathe with the singing and the priest and the church and Cher, and with Pigeon not being here. It’s like the church and me are full of holes and I’m leaking all the breath I try to breathe.

I’m full of holes and Efa’s holding me, and she’s got me by the shoulders and she’s pulled me outside.

“Sorry, Iola,” she says, holding me to her warm body, as I shake and try to breathe. “This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have made you come.”

She holds me, standing outside the church. She holds me until I stop shaking. We go for a hot chocolate in the National Milk Bar and I have mine with a flake and Efa’s so kind to me I want her to love me like this forever and love me as if we’d never ever told each other any lies like that lie lying in that box in the Catholic church. I want Efa to love me enough to make up for Dad, for Nain, and now for Pigeon, now for Pigeon too. I want her to love me so much it stops up all the gaps, all the bits where there should be love and there isn’t. And after the hot chocolate, I cry. It’s not that I cry for Him, for his funeral with its false magic spells and its one man singing on the microphone.

I cry for Pigeon. I cry for Pigeon so much it’s like tearing paper.