MORNING SERIAL

IT’S as if the sky is open above him and full to the brim with stars, with shimmering lights, galaxies that whir like cogs, and super nova which burst full of every colour he can imagine.

When he wakes his face is against the sleek page of the book. There’s the sound of the bell, the sound that’s for lessons and learning and seeing the others.

“Salim,” says Pigeon. “Wake up.”

Salim groans and turns over too. Salim’s older than Pigeon is, and bigger. But he’s gentle and quiet, and he doesn’t mind that Pigeon doesn’t much like to talk. He’s given up on that, Pigeon, given up on lining up the words and setting them in patterns that make sense. It’s a lie. And anyway, if he were to talk here, for real, no one would understand. Salim’s the same. Pigeon’s heard him, on the phone, talking to his mam. They speak in an up and down and fast way. It’s Urdu, Salim says. Urdu. So maybe Salim feels like Pigeon. Like his mouth’s been shut up same as his body has.

“Hey Taffy!” Big Neil calls after Pigeon as Pigeon and Salim are walking towards Education Block. It’s because he’s Welsh, although Pigeon’s never heard the word before, Taffy, and he doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t feel Welsh. He’s just Pigeon, just Pigeon.

It’s important here, where you’re from. It’s funny how it’s so important, considering everyone here lives the same life, eats the same food, gets up at the same time, and has lights out just at the same moment.

“Taffy,” says Big Neil again as they’re going into Education Block

“I heard your lot’re all related. Mum and dad brother and sister are they? You can tell by the look on you. Ugh. And that language’s so ugly it makes me want to puke.”