Goblin

by Ever Dundas

  ‘Excuse me?’ she says, pulling her arm free.

  ‘You’re dead,’ I say. ‘You were torn apart.’

  She frowns and says, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.’

  She walks away and I stand there, watching her go.

  ‘Hey, old lady, what wis that all about, eh?’

  ‘She’s the Lizard Queen,’ I say.

  ‘What’s this lizard thing all of a sudden?’

  ‘The past creeping in.’

  I see Monsta crawling round Ben’s neck, the shrew head peering from behind his ear, the worm arm slithering across his cheek. I reach out to stroke Monsta’s head but Monsta isn’t there. I stroke Ben’s cheek.

  ‘Ye alright, old lady?’

  ‘Ben,’ I say, my hand hovering next to his cheek. ‘Have you ever seen someone die? Someone you love?’

  He eyes me for a moment and I fall into darkness, like Alice down the rabbit hole. When I wake, Ben is leaning over me, waving a book in my face.

  ‘Old lady, ye alright? Ye had me worried.’

  I try to focus on his face, but the book waving makes me dizzy.

  ‘Ben,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to smell your book.’

  He drops the book by his side.

  ‘I wis fanning ye. That’s what they do in the movies when people faint. They slap people too, but I didnae want to do that.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘Alright, everybody,’ Ben says to the people gathered around us. ‘Show’s over.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She will be. I’m looking after her, now give us some space.’

  They drift away. Sam slobbers on my face, licking me better.

  ‘I’m well looked after,’ I say, trying to get up.

  ‘Aye, take it easy now.’

  Ben helps me sit up and I watch the drifting crowd, some people still staring at me as they walk off.

  ‘What am I doing on the ground?’

  ‘Ye fainted like a girl.’

  ‘Mac?’

  ‘Mac what?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Ye said Mac.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Right, old lady, I’m taking ye home. I’ll get us a taxi. Mahler will be glad to see ye anyway.’

  ‘I’ve got to go to work.’

  ‘Not in this state. I’ll call in sick for ye.’

  When we get back to the flat Mahler barks and paws at us, asking for his lunch. Ben feeds him as I lie on the couch.

  ‘Here,’ he says, coming back through, ‘drink some water. Yev had too much sun, old lady.’

  ‘I’m fine, Ben.’

  ‘Ye are now that I’m looking after ye.’

  He sits at the table and rifles through the morning papers.

  ‘There’s more about this pet massacre business,’ he says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It says how people were scared, how it wis mercy killings before the bombs.’

  Mahler comes through, licking his lips. He jumps onto the couch and lays his head on my lap. I stroke his ear.

  ‘But I dinnae buy it. I’d never kill my Sam, no matter what. I reckon it wis Nazis.’

  ‘Nazis?’

  ‘Aye, Nazis killed the pets wi’ their propaganda. Stirring up fear.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘probably Nazis.’

  London, Summer 1939

  ‘Mac, you’re Frankenstein’s monsta,’ said Goblin. ‘I’ll be the Martians, and Stevie’s the Nazis.’

  ‘I wanna be the Martians,’ said Stevie.

  Goblin, Mac and Stevie had come to the abandoned worksite after school. Their den had rubble piled up on all sides to keep enemies out, with a fire pit in the middle. Stevie sat poking at the bits of charred wood from yesterday’s fire.

  ‘Chew it, Stevie,’ said Goblin. ‘You’re the Nazis. The den is London and the Nazis are invading, but the Martians and Frankenstein’s monsta eat them and then they fight at the end and Frankenstein’s monsta wins.’

  ‘Who’s Devil?’ said Mac.

  ‘Devil is the humans. Frankenstein protects Devil, then Devil fights Frankenstein and burns him in a windmill.’

  ‘That’s stupid,’ said Stevie.

  ‘The Martians are coming!’

  Mac scrambled up the den walls and out of sight. Goblin stared at Stevie, who sighed and clambered out after Mac. Goblin gave Stevie a few seconds then she went next, Devil barking at her heels. She had rope dangling from her waist in a clumsy attempt to look like the invaders in The War of the Worlds. Skipping across the worksite rubble and machinery, imagining her legs to be spidery and nimble, she chased after Stevie, the lumbering Nazi. The ropes whipped around her. Devil barked furiously, convinced this was all for him, and snapped his jaw shut on one of the ropes. Goblin jerked backwards, her feet pulled out from under her. For a second she really was a Martian, floating. She felt she could float to the stars.

  Goblin heard the swish of the ropes as she hit the ground. She lay, breath gone, staring at the clouds, catching the glint of a barrage balloon. Devil stood on her chest, licking her face as she struggled to breathe, unable to move. There was only silence. Devil stood alert, and bounded off. Goblin took an intake of breath, feeling an ache move through her body. She turned her head to the side and saw Devil disappear into a gaping hole.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Mac, staring down at Goblin.

  ‘Mac,’ said Goblin, ‘I didn’t even know that hole was there. You can’t see it from above.’

  Devil came racing back out of the hole, snapping at a rat’s tail.

  ‘Goblin, you need to just—’

  ‘Shit, Mackenzie. That felt like flying.’

  ‘Well you’re not flying now.’

  ‘Ah, I’m alright.’

  ‘Goblin.’

  Mackenzie reached to stop her, but Goblin stood up, feeling a warmth weave its way down her arm.

  ‘I’m fine. What’s the fuss?’

  Goblin looked down and saw blood dripping from her arm.

  ‘Jesus. Martians sure can bleed.’

  Mackenzie doubled over. He looked as if he was going to be sick, but laughed.

  ‘You’re the craziest girl I’ve ever met.’

  ‘I’m not a girl. I’m a goblin.’

  Goblin stared at the sliver of metal that had gone through her arm.

  ‘Those damn Nazis laid a trap. Let’s get ’em!’

  ‘You need a doctor.’

  ‘Martians don’t need doctors.’

  ‘Goblins do.’

  ‘Ayaiyaaaaai!’

  Goblin ran across the worksite, heading straight for Stevie, blood spattering everywhere. She landed on him, pummelling him.

  ‘You dirty milky, eh? Nazi traps can’t kill Martians.’

  He sank his finger into the wound, and she was gone.

  *

  ‘You sure faint like a girl,’ was the first thing Mackenzie said when she woke up. He ruffled her hair like she was a kid and he was an adult.

  ‘You’d faint like a girl too if a Nazi shoved his finger in your arm.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘At mine, stupid. Your ma and da aren’t back yet. Mum’s looking after you.’

  Goblin looked at her bandaged arm.

  ‘I don’t remember. Was I out the whole time?’

  ‘You came round, but you were woozy, mumbling nonsense. The doc patched you up – you don’t remember?’

  Goblin shook her head and sat up in the bed before falling back again, wincing.

  ‘Shit. It hurts.’

  ‘Dunno how. Mum’s been pouring whisky down your throat.’

  ‘Ma’s gonna kill me – how much was the doc?’

  ‘Free,’ said Mac. ‘It was doc Wilson – he owed your da a favour.’

  Goblin closed her eyes for a moment and said, ‘I remember – da and I fixed his wireless. Hey,’ she said, opening her eyes, ‘where’s Stevie?’

  ‘Thinks you have a down on him.’

  ‘Why would I? I was pumm
elling him. I would have done the same.’

  ‘Yeah, I said that.’

  ‘Get him here. We’ll read The Time Machine again.’

  ‘Nah, I’ve got to go. Mum said I can’t wear you out.’

  ‘I’m good. You’re not wearing me out.’

  ‘You look like shit, Goblin. You look like a ghost. You’re all bled out.’

  ‘Tomorrow then, eh?’

  ‘Always. It’s boring without you.’

  Edinburgh, 6 July 2011

  Mahler wakes me at five a.m., pawing at me, licking the ocean on my arm, snuffling at a faded ship. Bored of the taste of my tattooed skin he barks and runs off to his food bowl, skittering across the kitchen floor. I get up, follow him through, and scoop his food out. I pour myself a glass of whisky and shuffle my way to the sitting room. Seeing someone asleep on the couch, I jump, spilling whisky over my hand before realising it’s Ben. I sit next to him, licking the whisky from my fingers. I shake him awake.

  ‘Aye, alright, alright. I’m awake already.’

  ‘You half frightened me to death,’ I say. ‘I don’t remember you staying the night.’

  ‘It wis to look after ye, remember?’ he says, sitting up. ‘After yer fainting fit. Issat whisky? Jesus, woman.’

  He grabs the glass from me.

  ‘Hey, watch it! What kind of guest are you?’

  ‘The kind who makes ye a proper breakfast. Get yersel dressed and I’ll rustle up a healthy fry up.’

  ‘A healthy fry up?’

  ‘Aye, well, healthier than whisky. Nae wonder yer all skin an bone.’

  I go to the bedroom and pull on some clothes as I sip whisky from the bottle under my bed. I hear Ben rummaging through the kitchen and cursing. He knocks on the door.

  ‘Ye decent?’

  I hide the bottle.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yer worse than I thought,’ he says, putting his head round the door. ‘Not a scrap in the cupboards or the fridge. Where’s yer money?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Aye, yer money. I’m no gonna rob ye, ye old skeleton. I’m gonna get yer messages in.’

  ‘I don’t need any messages.’

  ‘When all yev got in the kitchen is whisky, seeds, ketchup and some mouldy bread, ye need messages.’

  Ben roots around in his pockets and counts out some coins.

  ‘I’ve a few quid from yesterday, so I can put that towards whatever ye have. We’ll both be sitting down to a proper breakfast.’

  ‘My purse is in my bag,’ I say. ‘Take whatever you want.’

  ‘Dinnae think I’ll gyp ye. I’ll get a receipt and ye can see exactly what I bought.’

  ‘I trust you, Ben. It’s fine.’

  ‘Right. Sit tight, I willnae be long.’

  ‘I need to take Mahler for a walk.’

  ‘He can come shopping with me.’

  ‘I walk him every morning before work.’

  ‘Yer not doing anything until yer so stuffed full ye cannae do anything anyway.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid,’ I say, but he just whistles for Sam and Mahler, who come running.

  When he leaves I get the whisky out again and sit in the living room, enjoying the morning sun, feeling the warmth of the drink spreading through my belly. I go through to the kitchen and pick up the seed jar before heading down to the street. I sit on the front step, throwing seeds across the pavement for the pigeons. People passing by give me dirty looks, but I ignore them and listen to the happy noises the pigeons make.

  Gio says, ‘La Pazza dei Piccioni.’

  I look up, startled, but it isn’t him. He isn’t there. Just a stranger, a man, staring down at me.

  ‘Stupid woman,’ he says.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘They’re rats,’ he says, ‘rats with wings.’

  ‘I like rats,’ I say.

  ‘They spread disease. They should be exterminated.’

  ‘Humans spread disease,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘Should we exterminate them?’

  ‘Old witch,’ he says, kicking at the pigeons, causing them to scatter.

  ‘Sonofabitch!’ I yell. ‘Get off my street.’

  He sneers at me and walks off.

  ‘Rats have better manners,’ I say to the one pigeon left pecking at the seeds. I go back upstairs and slump on the couch, drinking more whisky. I doze off in the sun, waking to the sound of the door. I put the whisky bottle behind the couch and join Ben and the dogs in the kitchen. I peer into all the shopping bags, wrinkling my nose up.

  ‘I’m not eating any animals,’ I say.

  ‘That’s for me,’ he says, snatching the sausages out of my hand as I go to put them in the bin. ‘I bought them with my own money and I got ye some veggie sausages. God knows what they put in those, mind.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, helping him unpack the rest of the shopping.

  ‘Here’s yer receipt,’ he says, pulling it out of his pocket, a couple of pages of his secret chewing stash falling on the floor. ‘So ye can see I spent yer money on necessities. I bought some cakes but that’s cos we need to fatten ye up.’

  ‘You better not be eating my books,’ I say.

  ‘What? Where’d that come from? That’s appreciation for ye, getting yer messages in and ye jus go on about yer books.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ I say. ‘I appreciate you getting my messages.’

  He looks at me, uncertain.

  ‘Alright. Good.’

  ‘We’ve been friends a few years, Ben. I know you’re looking out for me.’

  ‘Give it a rest about the books, then.’

  ‘I will. I’m sorry.’

  I nudge the book scraps under the table.

  ‘They found the witch, ye know,’ he says, waving the morning paper at me.

  ‘Which witch?’

  ‘Which witch? Which witch? Which witch?’ he chants.

  I roll my eyes and finish unpacking.

  ‘Turns out it’s not a witch.’

  ‘What’s not a witch?’

  ‘The witch. The witch isn’t a witch.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s a goblin.’

  ‘A goblin?’

  ‘Wasn’t a witch at all, but I was nearly right. A nasty little goblin. It’s in the paper.’

  He spreads the paper on the counter and hunches over it.

  ‘“Mr Brian Mackenzie came forward to say he knows who buried the assortment of objects. She’s the child in one of the photographs and he knows her only as Goblin.” That’s what it says right there. And goblins can live for years, until at least a hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Is there a photo?’

  ‘Of the goblin? Yeah, look. There’s all the dead pets behind her.’

  ‘Not the goblin. Is there a photo of Brian?’

  ‘Just the goblin. Here, ye can sit and read about it while I make breakfast. Fried eggs, sausages, toast and beans coming up!’

  I sit at the table and stare at the name, Mr Brian Mackenzie. As I run my finger across Mac’s name, Monsta’s tentacle-arm slithers over my hand. Spectre-Monsta sits on the table, swaying gently, those deep black eyes glinting.

  London, 1941

  Underground is where the lizard people live, and I go in search. I don’t want to stay with the people scrunched up with misery, squeezed in with their blankets and their stench. I hop on the train with Monsta, and we go in search.

  I stay on for miles and miles and hours and hours, wheeeeee, we’re on an adventure, Monsta! Lizard seekers. We must flick out our tongues and smell them, taste them, the lizard people in the darkness in the depths.

  We pick our way through the recumbent bodies, little hillocks, obstacles to our search. I huff, the bodies snore, or yell out, oi kid fuck off, and I pretend I’m a Martian, floating, nimble, no Devils to bite my ropes, no Devils at all, just me and Monsta.

  Monsta sees me stop and sway, uncertain. Monsta’s head shakes gently, the worm arm floating to me. I’ve not to sink. There are no Devils
, but there are Monstas, and the lizard people await. Gently gently Monsta climbs, encircling my neck with worm tentacles, gently gently, casting a spell of forgetfulness, forgetting the loss above, revelling in London below.

  We’re adventurers! Ayaiyaiaiai! Shoosh kid shut up fuck off Jesus! And I say my lizard prayers as we seek seek sneak, our lizard who art in heaven hallowed be thy name deliver me from light above to the darkness below and let us partake of your kingdom.

  We sneak sneak creep through tunnels for miles and miles, rumblings above, tremors. Listening, swaying, the bombs are plopping and we can’t hear the boom, just plops like rain. Hallowed be thy name, hallowed be thy name, let us partake of your kingdom O lizards, seek seek creep. I could hear Mackenzie protesting, I could hear him say, ‘Don’t forget the Morlocks, Goblin. Don’t forget. They’ll eat you alive, crunch!’ But Mac wasn’t here and anyway I knew there were no Morlocks, the Morlocks are the future and this is the present. And in the present we walked, for hours in the darkness, through tunnels and caves, we rest in caves and we sleep, we drift and we sleep, dreaming the dream of the lizards with glinting eyes made of emeralds.

  Edinburgh, 7 July 2011

  The past is creeping up and I’m sick, spending days in bed. Ben is looking after me and he says, ‘Why didn’t ye tell me yer not the witch? Why didn’t ye tell me yer the goblin?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters,’ he says. ‘At least now I know what the “G” stands for.’

  ‘You never asked. You always call me old lady.’

  ‘Aye, well, it would be good to know if yer best mate is a goblin. I shouldnae have to ask.’

  I get up to take Mahler for a walk but Ben won’t let me.

  ‘Yer sick, old lady. Yer feverish. The doc said ye need some rest.’

  ‘I don’t remember a doctor.’

  ‘Ye need to get back to bed. I’m looking after Mahler. Ye dinnae need to worry about a thing.’

  Ben looks after me and Ailsa from next door brings me soup. Monsta is always by my side.

  ‘You’re not real,’ I say to spectre-Monsta. ‘You were buried.’

  But Monsta only sways in defiance, wrapping tentacles round my arm.

  ‘You’re not real,’ I say. ‘You were in the papers. Your remains are in London.’

  The phone rings and I hear Ben talking in the hall. He knocks on my door and brings me the phone.