Goblin

by Ever Dundas

  Goblin

  Goblin

  Ever Dundas

  First published 2017

  Freight Books

  49–53 Virginia Street

  Glasgow, G1 1TS

  www.freightbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © 2017 Ever Dundas

  The moral right of Ever Dundas to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or by licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 0LP.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-911332-29-9

  eISBN 978-1-911332-30-5

  Typeset by Freight in Plantin

  Printed and bound by Bell and Bain, Glasgow

  For Rachel and all Goblins

  In memory of the pets

  ‘A story has no beginning or end.’

  Graham Greene

  ‘Blessed are the forgetful.’

  Nietzsche

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Edinburgh, 17 June 2011

  Bones, doll parts, a shrew head, a camera. The film, it said, is in remarkably good condition. The developed photographs are particularly valuable. Many of them record events in London during World War II. Most importantly, there is a photograph depicting the aftermath of the pet massacre, an event which remains largely undocumented. Some of the photographs, it said, could assist in identifying the photographer. There are several of what are assumed to be family members. Because of the angle from which most of the photographs are taken, it has been suggested the photographer was a child. Although, it said, there is much debate about this. It was decided the photographs of family members should be published in the hope someone will recognise them. It is hoped, it said, someone will come forward. It is said. It is thought. It is hoped. Someone will come forward. Time has collapsed and space has collapsed and they have emerged from the darkness below, Goblin and Devil and Monsta. It is hoped, it said, someone will claim these bones.

  Edinburgh, 23 June 2011

  Ben spits book at me. Rip, chew, spit.

  ‘It’s good to have ye back, old lady.’

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ I say, watching people come and go in the library.

  Rip, chew, spit.

  ‘I’m glad yer feeling better.’

  ‘I am,’ I say, but the past is creeping in. A past I thought I held well. It was there, with all its beauty and canker, and I held it well until those images were spread out before me, before millions; the first time I see the photographs and they’re shared with the nation. But they weren’t all there. They hadn’t published them all. I knew that.

  It was Ben who had shown me the article. It was Ben who had said ‘Bones and dolls and shrew heads, that means witchcraft.’

  And it’s Ben who spits book at me.

  ‘Stop it,’ I say, eyeing the pile of spat-out book on the floor, hoping no one else will notice.

  Rip, chew, spit.

  ‘You can’t eat every copy of Ulysses.’

  ‘I’m not eating it,’ he says. ‘I’m chewing on it. I’m sucking the ink off.’

  ‘It will poison you,’ I say. ‘That book will poison you.’

  ‘What kinda person,’ he says, squinting up at me, ‘buries a shrew head, bits of doll and old cameras with pictures of dead animals?’

  ‘What kind of person doesn’t?’

  Ben looks at me like I’m old and senile, like I’m the crazy one who chews on books. The newspapers had picked up on one of the developed photographs; a mound of dead animals, mainly cats and dogs. Experts on the Home Front were wheeled out, animal rights activists were asked their opinion. How could people kill their own pets?

  ‘What kind of person wouldn’t bury the past, Ben? Who lives in the past?’

  Ben shakes the paper at me.

  ‘Bones and dolls and shrew heads,’ he says, ‘that means witchcraft.’

  He lays the paper on my desk and picks up Ulysses. He opens it up where he left off, over a hundred pages already missing. Rip – he tears out half a page; chew – I can see him counting as he masticates; spit – another sodden ball added to the pile.

  ‘I know you need this space, but you can’t eat the books.’

  Rip, chew, spit.

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘fine.’

  Rip, chew—

  ‘Ben.’

  Spit.

  ‘I’ve got to finish what I started. What kinda person just chews part of a book?’

  ‘Clean up after yourself at least.’

  I let him be, wallowing in paper and spittle. He’s hidden by a pillar, his chew-pile down by the side of my desk. When staff come to speak with me he puts on an innocent smile and pretends to read the desecrated book.

  I tear the pet massacre article out of the paper and fold it up. Stuffing it in my pocket I forget it all, lost in the simple pleasure of putting together a list of books for an author’s research.

  I’ve been Reader in Residence at the library for years. It gets me by, and I write reviews for two national newspapers which brings in a bit extra. I have my own desk in a corner where I sit enjoying the smell of the books and the low hum of voices at the check-out desk.

  I watch Ben, wondering how to get him to stop.

  ‘What’s a reader in residence?’

  I turn, startled. A young man is sitting at the other side of my desk.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘What was that?’

  ‘Ms G Bradfield – Reader in Residence,’ he says, reading the nameplate on my desk. ‘What is that exactly?’

  ‘People tell me their interests,’ I say, ‘they tell me the kind of things they like to read and I draw up a list of books for them. I also help writers and students who are doing research.’

  ‘That’s a job?’

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ I say.

  ‘I like blue books.’

  ‘The blues? Music?’

  ‘No, books that are blue.’

  ‘Sad books?’

  ‘Jesus, I can’t believe you get paid for this. How old are you anyway? Shouldn’t you be retired?’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude. I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Then why don’t you tell me where I can find all the books with blue covers?’

  I stare at him for a moment.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The library doesn’t have a record of all the books that are blue but if you leave your details I can draw up a starter list for you.’

  Ben leans over my desk.

  ‘So, what about that witchcraft, eh? Do ye think they found the witch? Do ye think they’d admit it? I bet they’re dead anyhow.’

  ‘Ben, I’m with a customer.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the blue book man says, ‘you’re no use to me.’

  ‘Wait, I can—’

  I watch the man walk off.

 
‘Ben, you can’t interrupt me when I’m with someone.’

  ‘He wis a right time-wasting bastard, old lady. You know it.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘I bet the witch is dead,’ he says, tearing out another page from Ulysses.

  ‘Why would you say that? Why would you say they’re dead?’

  ‘It was bloody years ago, wasn’t it? How old would they be? A hundred and fifty I’d reckon they’d be.’

  ‘Eighty-one. They’d be eighty-one.’

  I glance at him, and he’s squinting at me.

  ‘Eighty-one, eh?’

  ‘The Second World War wasn’t that long ago, Ben.’

  ‘It feels it. It sure feels it.’

  ‘Can you feel time?’

  ‘I feel it in ma bones.’

  London, March 1941

  Ma?

  So you’re back? I thought you’d died. I told everyone you’d likely died and they all said what a shame it was.

  She looked away and her head swayed from side to side as she said shame, shame, shame in a sing-song voice.

  And here you are. Goblin-runt born blue. Nothing can kill you.

  She looked Goblin in the eye.

  You’re like a cockroach.

  Edinburgh, 4 July 2011

  People die. In the library. Some people, they come and they die. We’re told not to let anyone sleep horizontally.

  ‘I don’t see why,’ I said, ‘I’m sure you can be dead in any position.’

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ they said, ‘people lying around and snoring with their feet on the seats. If they’re vertical and not snoring, it’s fine, let them be. Otherwise, you must wake them. If someone’s dead,’ they said, ‘you need to be careful, you need to be subtle. Don’t upset the customers.’

  In this market economy they’re called customers. In this time of cutbacks and closures. If the library closed, where would I go? I’ve worked here for years. Where would people like Ben go? Ben comes and he stays, hours and hours. He began by reading his way through the fiction section A-Z, and we’d discuss the books together in the evening. Then he got distracted, eating all the James Joyce – rip, chew, spit.

  ‘Ben,’ I say. ‘Ben. The Tories are doing a good enough job without you helping them.’

  ‘It’s just James Joyce,’ he says.

  ‘It costs money. It costs the library. Why don’t you pay for it?’

  But I pay for it. For every book he eats.

  ‘Why don’t you go back to reading?’ I say. ‘You can’t just stop at J.’

  ‘Aye, I will, old lady. I always finish what I’ve started. So I have to finish this.’

  I leave him in his corner, chewing and spitting. When I finish my shift, Ben and his dog Sam walk me home.

  ‘You got a place to stay tonight?’

  ‘Aye, I wis begging this morning and got enough to pay for the hostel.’

  ‘You don’t need to spend it on a hostel. You can stay with me. You know that.’

  ‘I dinnae want to take advantage.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I’m fine, old lady. Ye dinnae need to worry about me.’

  Sam jumps up on a low garden wall and runs across it before sitting down and snuffling at some ivy.

  ‘At least bring Devil back to mine for a bit. Mahler always likes to see him.’

  ‘Devil?’

  ‘Sam. I mean Sam.’

  ‘He’s well behaved. Sam’s no devil.’

  ‘I know, I didn’t mean that. Devil was a dog I used to know.’

  London, August 1939

  Bulbous silver slugs glittered in the sky; a stunning sky, shot through with a hazy pink as twilight fell. Pure white clouds were erupting on the horizon, a shifting billowing mass bringing a cool breeze. Goblin climbed to the top of the wall, scraping and bruising her already scarred, bare legs. She watched as the breeze buffeted the silver slugs.

  ‘The Martians have come!’

  Goblin cantered on the wall, arms reaching up. Devil ran back and forth below, barking. Goblin sat on the wall, watching the sunset, the balloons swaying and glinting. Mackenzie turned up and pushed Devil up by the arse, his front paws scrabbling, Goblin hooking her arm round his neck, pulling. He sat by her side, panting, licking her ear. Mac climbed up after Devil, the three of them sitting, watching the lazy Martian invasion.

  ‘Where’s Stevie?’

  Mac shrugged. ‘His ma said he couldn’t come out.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Goblin pointed to the barrage balloons and said, ‘The Martians have come.’

  ‘They’re to stop the Martians.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Goblin. ‘But they look like rocket ships.’

  ‘Fat rocket ships.’

  They sat in silence for a while, staring at the rocket ships, Goblin gently ruffling Devil’s fur.

  ‘Do you think there will be a war?’ said Goblin.

  ‘Mum says for certain after the Russians made that pact with Germany.’

  ‘What’s a pact anyway?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Mac. He chewed on his lip and said, ‘Think it just means they’re on the same side.’

  The sun had set and darkness crept in, catching them by surprise. It was like the tide, seemingly so far off, suddenly sweeping over them. The barrage balloons no longer seemed futuristic or comical, but simply ominous black masses weighing heavily across London. They clambered down, ineptly assisting Devil, who half-fell, landing across Mac. He writhed, yelling the Martians had got him and they ran after Devil in the darkness.

  ‘Get the Martian!’

  Edinburgh, 5 July 2011

  Sitting at the top of Granny’s Green Steps, Ben and I eat our lunch and watch the tourists down in the Grassmarket. Sam rests his head on Ben’s knee, snoring.

  ‘What’s the book?’ says Ben, peering into my bag.

  ‘War of the Worlds,’ I say, as he pulls it out. ‘Haven’t read it since I was a kid. Have you?’

  ‘Seen the film.’

  Ben holds it up to his nose before flicking through. He stops when he sees my bookmark.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Mad, my mum. My new mum.’

  ‘New?’

  ‘She adopted me.’

  I take the photo from him and smooth my hand across it as if to feel mum’s skin.

  ‘She usually had it perfectly pinned up,’ I say, looking at the way her hair is tumbling over her shoulders, ‘but not here. Look how carefree it is.’

  She hadn’t washed it for days. You can tell from the photo, if you look carefully, you can tell it has lost its sparkle. I remember it sparkling red in the sun. There’s a curl of hair matted against her forehead. The rest is messy, framing her face. You can see the wrinkles forming around her lips, beautiful perfect lines. She’s wearing lipstick, some of it straying into one of the lines. I can smell her. The warm smell of jasmine and earth, the smell of sweat and the grease that dulled her hair.

  ‘I told you I was in the circus after the war, didn’t I? My mum and dad ran it together. I helped out a bit. Mum was an aerialist.’

  ‘Yer mum wis hot,’ says Ben.

  I laugh and nudge him.

  ‘You’re right.’

  Her skin was paper thin, transparent. The freckles on her cheeks were sunken, dulled by the dirt and dust of a day’s work. They used to dance. They used to dance across her skin and she glowed. Iridescent. She was glamour, and I loved her with an ache that made my dirty little heart know it wasn’t all black and rotten through.

  ‘My new dad, James, he found me in the Underground. Underground is where the lizard people live.’

  ‘Yer an odd one, old lady.’

  ‘I was, and that’s why I belonged with them. They took me in.’

  ‘The lizard people?’

  ‘Mad and James, my new mum and dad. They rescued me.’

  ‘From what?’

  I don’t respond. I put the photo in th
e book and close it.

  ‘Rescued ye how?’

  Ben takes the book from me and I say, ‘Don’t. I’m reading it.’

  ‘I don’t eat books anymore.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I smell them.’

  ‘You do what?’

  ‘Smell them.’

  ‘What do they smell of?’

  ‘Doughnuts, vanilla, old pants.’

  ‘Don’t they smell of ink?’

  ‘Not always. Some of the really old ones smell of rotten teabags.’

  ‘What’s your favourite book smell?’

  ‘A History of Scottish Canals. It smells of chocolate, vanilla, and a hint of whisky.’

  ‘Sounds good enough to eat.’

  ‘But I don’t do that anymore, eh? I smell them and I can tell ye the exact date a book wis bought by the library.’

  ‘That’s very specific.’

  ‘I’m a very specific person.’

  He pulls a book from his rucksack and thrusts it at me, moving it gently beneath my nose.

  ‘I’m the bloody book connoisseur of Edinburgh,’ he says, ‘and that, old lady, is the shit.’

  I can’t smell much of anything other than a generic book smell.

  ‘Better be getting back to work,’ I say, looking at my watch.

  ‘I’ll chum ye before I go check on Mahler.’

  We walk through the Grassmarket, weaving our way through the tourists.

  ‘What’s that all about, eh?’ says Ben, gesturing at a woman walking towards us. ‘What’s she doing all dressed up like that? It’s not the feckin festival yet and it isnae Halloween. Hey, love! It isnae Halloween.’

  She stares at me. Not Ben, but me. She stares with her grey-green-blue eyes. The Lizard Queen. She glitters and glimmers and shimmers. She’s dressed in black and has bright red hair pinned up at each side of her head. Her skin is porcelain white, studded with jewels and painted with patterns of cobalt blue struck through with green and wisps of red. Her lips are red.

  ‘Bright red with the blood of insects,’ I say.

  ‘Eh?’ says Ben. ‘What wis that?’

  ‘She’s the Lizard Queen, but she’s dead. She’s in London, dead and gone.’

  She passes us by.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say to her, following her. I take hold of her arm. ‘It’s me,’ I say as she turns to me. ‘I’m the one who ventured into the depths of the lizard realm with her Monsta and her prayers. It’s me. I knew your husband, the Lizard King.’