Goblin

by Ever Dundas

  ‘There’s a detective for ye.’

  ‘I told you they’d find me.’

  He offers me the phone and I shake my head.

  ‘He wants to talk to ye about the things they found.’

  I fold my arms and turn away.

  ‘She cannae talk jus now, Detective. She isnae well.’

  He goes silent, listening. I watch him.

  ‘Just hang up,’ I say.

  I can hear the murmur of the detective’s voice. Ben’s brow is furrowed.

  ‘I think ye should talk to ’im,’ he says to me, still listening to the detective.

  ‘Give me that! What did he say to you? What did he say? Let me speak to him.’

  Ben hands me the phone.

  ‘Detective,’ I say. ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘We need you in London,’ he says. ‘We need you down here.’

  ‘You need me?’

  ‘We need to discuss what we found.’

  ‘I won’t come, Detective. I can’t go back there.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice.’

  ‘I have a choice.’

  ‘We can issue a court order.’

  ‘There’s no need. I won’t come. I won’t say a word. There’s no need. Leave the past in the past.’

  I put down the handset and give the phone back to Ben.

  ‘I knew they’d find me. I won’t take any more calls,’ I say. ‘Bring me that album,’ I say, pointing at the shelf. ‘Bring it to me.’

  He hands me the album and I open it, looking at the photos.

  ‘I was in the circus,’ I say. ‘Mad and James, they were my new mum and dad and we all worked in the circus. We were happy.’

  ‘I think ye should go see the Detective,’ says Ben. ‘When yer better.’

  ‘I was a clown. Did I tell you that?’

  ‘I can believe it,’ he says.

  ‘And I looked after the animals.’

  ‘Think on it,’ he says, standing up to leave. ‘Ye can think on it.’

  ‘I loved looking after the animals.’

  I drop off to sleep and wake up with the album clasped to my chest. Amelia is standing over me, offering me soup, and she says, ‘I was executed in 1896.’

  No, not you, it’s not you who brings me soup. It’s Ailsa. And you, dear Ailsa, you weren’t executed at all.

  I can control this. There is no sinking or falling.

  ‘Ailsa, I don’t need soup. I need a drink.’

  ‘You need nourishment.’

  Drink gives me nourishment.

  Ailsa leaves, and clink clink clink go the treasures under my bed. I pour myself a glass and I’m in control. Until Ben comes and takes them all away.

  ‘It’s cold turkey for ye, old lady. Eat yer soup.’

  And I eat my soup.

  ‘Why didn’t ye tell me yer not the witch? That yer the goblin? I thought we were friends.’

  ‘It’s nobody’s business,’ I say, ‘whether I’m a witch or a goblin.’

  I come out of my fever and I know that I need to be in control. The past will not sweep over me. I walk into it, with Monsta and Devil and a fortune in my pockets, a severed hand at my belly. A camera in my hand.

  Goblin, I can tell you now, was never haunted by the past. She held the past in the palm of her hand. She travelled, she bathed in circus lights, she wove stories around history, brought to life the ghosts of Venice, treading the streets with the tourists. Goblin, I can tell you, was a storyteller. Goblin controlled time.

  I’m a storyteller. I control the past. I greet it as it comes in fragments, in ink, in the ether. I shall greet it and we shall dance in the darkness, scuttling and climbing and speeding through tunnels with the lizards down below.

  Everyone’s gone, and it’s me and Monsta, back in London. I’m too far ahead, and mixed up, back and forward. The memories just come and I let them. I must bring order, a little order, move away from the bombs and back to glorious thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven.

  They merge. Those years before the war. The long summers, the running wild, playing cowboys and Indians, Martians and humans. I don’t remember when we first found the worksite, or when David first told me his dreams of the sea, or when I became friends with the Crazy Pigeon Woman of Amen Court. They merge, and I jump forward and back. I must bring order.

  ‘What ye doing, old lady?’

  ‘I’m writing,’ I say. ‘I’m in control.’

  This is the past, this is my story of the war, of London; the realm above, the realm in-between, the realm down below.

  Chapter 2

  London, 1937 – 1938

  Disappearing into another world, ushered in by the guardian in the long white robes and still I felt I was sneak sneak sneaking. I followed Mac’s family, dipping my fingers in the water, touching my fingers to my body. I couldn’t see clearly what they were doing, so I copied clumsily, my fingers bouncing off my chest to a random rhythm of my own. Mackenzie smiled at me, shaking his head, so I stopped, feeling like an idiot. I watched as people knelt in the aisle, stood, and filed into the pews. I followed close behind Mac and did the same, my eyes flicking round the church, but no one was looking, no one noticed if I did anything wrong. I stumbled after Mac, sitting with him and his family.

  The service was confusing and I was faint from the smoking incense and the mesmeric chanting – the Lord be with you and with you Holy Holy Holy forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us the body of Christ the blood of Christ in the name of the Father Son and Holy Ghost go in peace thanks be to God Amen. I swayed and hummed and tumbled out into the world, Mackenzie by my side.

  ‘Jesus, that was boring, eh Goblin? Let’s go kill Martians.’

  ‘Aiyaiyai!’ I answered, ‘Holy Holy Holy, the blood of Christ!’

  We sprinted off to the worksite, picking Devil up on the way. I anointed him, spraying water across his body.

  ‘Amen!’ I said, and he chased after us.

  I never spoke to Mackenzie about how I felt about this other world but I turned up at his door every Sunday and off I went with him and his family, disappearing into worship. I loved the stories, turning them over in my head, weaving my own. I floated on the smell of incense, felt safe in the soft light.

  I drove my brother mad as I turned our bedroom into a shrine. David would come home to find me surrounded by saints and Jesus and Mary, incense choking up the room, bible in my hand.

  ‘David,’ I’d say, ‘David, you won’t believe this story—’

  ‘Jesus, Goblin, leave it.’

  And he’d flop onto his bed, lean up on his elbow and put on a record. He’d listen to our grandad’s old records: Liszt, Schubert, Berlioz. Grandad had died in The Great War, but gran had sat with David, listening to the records, telling him stories about grandad. I barely remember her; she died when I was four. Ma hated grandad’s music so she let David keep the old gramophone in our room.

  He’d lie on his bed, smoking his cigarette, pictures of Marlene Dietrich peeling off the wall behind him. He was the coolest thing there was. There was something about him. I knew one day he would conquer the world. Jack Alexander, Simon Mayhew and their gang didn’t think so, though. They were a couple of years older than David and lived two streets down. David used to play with them, years before, but not now.

  ‘Why’d they pick on you?’

  David was lying back, staring at the ceiling, his left arm behind his head. He took a draw on his cigarette, exhaled, ‘It’s just the way they are.’

  ‘But why you? You’re the best.’

  He laughed.

  ‘What? You are.’

  ‘They don’t seem to know that.’

  ‘They’re idiot bastards.’

  David sat up, crossed his legs and leaned against the wall, Marlene partly obscured by his shoulder.

  ‘At least I have you on my side, G.’

  ‘Always.’

  He traced his hand through the smoke, swaying to the music.


  ‘The other day, when we passed them, why’d they say you were “one of them”?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of them. Why’d they say that?’

  ‘Because they’re idiot bastards.’

  ‘What did they mean, though?’

  He took another draw on his cigarette and looked at me, eyes narrowed.

  ‘I’m not one of them,’ he said. ‘They just call me that because I read.’

  ‘Because you’re smart?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Then they’re right. You are smart, you are one of them.’

  ‘That’s not what— Jesus, Goblin. Just leave it, okay? Go back to your bible.’

  ‘But you are smart. They’re just jealous.’

  David smiled and stubbed out his cigarette. He picked up a book and said, ‘Just leave it, okay? I don’t want to talk about idiot bastards.’

  ‘What’re you reading?’

  ‘Treasure Island.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Treasure. On an island.’

  ‘Ha!’ I said, throwing my old bear at him. He ducked and it hit Marlene.

  ‘It’s about pirates,’ he said, throwing the bear back at me. I caught it and hooked my arm round its neck, holding it close.

  ‘When I save enough money,’ he said, ‘I’ll sail around the world. I’ll meet a girl and we’ll make our home by the sea – a place where the sea is everything, where it changes people.’

  ‘So you get fins and gills and become a sea monster.’

  David laughed. ‘Not quite what I meant, G. But maybe… why not? A place where anything is possible.’

  ‘You should join the Navy.’

  ‘I can’t, G.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t think I’d take orders well. And I don’t want to kill anyone.’

  ‘Be a pirate then.’

  ‘I think pirates kill people too.’

  ‘You don’t have to kill people – you could get someone to do it for you.’

  ‘That’s just the same.’

  ‘You’ll just have to go alone then.’

  David shook his head.

  ‘No, G – it’d be me and you.’

  I smiled.

  ‘I’d kill people for you, then.’

  ‘Would you now?’

  ‘If I had to.’

  ‘Best not, G.’

  I flopped onto my stomach and opened the bible where I’d left off.

  ‘People get killed all the time in the bible, but sometimes they pray for help and God makes everything okay, but only sometimes.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘You could pray for help, you know.’

  ‘With what? Going to the sea?’

  ‘Getting Mayhew and Alexander off your back.’

  ‘What good would praying do?’

  ‘Maybe God would smite them or something.’

  ‘Smite them how?’

  ‘Lightning or floods or locusts.’

  ‘You want storms and locusts in London?’

  ‘Not all of London, stupid – just on them. You need to be specific so God doesn’t mess up.’

  David smiled, ‘That right?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Goblin!’

  It was da, shouting from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Coming!’ I shouted as I tossed my bible aside.

  I ran down the stairs, almost banging right into da.

  ‘A wireless?’

  He nodded and I followed him into the back garden. He was good at fixing things; a wireless, bikes, cars, pretty much anything, so the neighbours always went to him. They’d pay what they could, or give him some veg from their veg patch, or bake us a pie. Da had me helping out since as far back as I could remember. When I was really young he’d get me to hand him what he needed, teaching me the names of each tool, and I’d watch as he took things apart and put them together again. Soon I was helping out properly and he’d give me a few pennies, or extra pie at dinnertime. He didn’t speak much as we worked, but I’d rattle off stories and he didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes he’d grunt in response or say, ‘That so?’ There was only a couple of times when some old gramophone was giving him grief that he told me to be quiet so he could concentrate.

  ‘Whose is it?’ I asked as he opened up the wireless.

  ‘Mrs West’s.’

  I sat cross-legged on the grass and lay out the tools. We’d sometimes work in people’s houses, but da couldn’t tolerate interference, so he started wheelbarrowing things over to ours. Ma went mad when we worked in the sitting room, so we worked in the garden, da saying one day me and him would build a workshed.

  Da grunted.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just a loose wire.’

  ‘That all?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You sure, da?’

  He gave me a foul look and I said, ‘I was just hoping—’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  I watched him as he secured the wire and I said, ‘You read the bible, da?’

  He shook his head, so I rattled off some bible stories, speaking fast as I knew that wireless would be fixed in no time, but he was slow about it and when he finished he sat for a moment, his hand on the wireless, looking over at Devil who was chasing flies.

  ‘…and she turned round and turned to salt!’

  ‘That so?’ he said.

  ‘Mh-hmm. And he just left the salt-woman there. I would have scooped her up and kept her for soup.’

  Dad laughed and I blushed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  He shook his head and stood up.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘help me wheel this back.’

  He lifted the wireless into the barrow and I pushed it up the garden path.

  *

  I went to church every week with Mac, but I sometimes went on my own too – even to confession, but not to confess, only to talk about the bible stories. I was so excited about it that the priest would get all swept up and forget about my sins. But then it was ruined.

  After confession I went to light a candle and pray. I asked God a question but he didn’t reply so I went to ask the priest who was talking with an old man by the door. I stood next to them, shifting from one foot to another as they continued talking, the priest eyeing me now and then. The old man finally left and the priest wasn’t even polite, he just frowned at me and said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can Devil come?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can Devil come and drink some blood of Christ too?’

  There was silence. And I waited, patient.

  ‘There are no devils here, child.’

  ‘Not a demon-devil,’ I said. ‘A dog-devil. I want to bring my dog to eat some Christ too.’

  Silence again, and I waited.

  ‘Animals don’t have souls,’ he said.

  He turned away from me. I stood, staring at his back, watching the swaying robes, taking in the beautiful interior, the warmth and the smells. I took it all in, realising it was over. I walked up to that priest and I spat at his feet.

  I never returned but sometimes I’d stand outside and breathe in the smells. That was before. That was before Kensal Green and before the Pigeon Woman of Amen Court who said to me, Goblin-child, you worship wherever you please. You make your own church.

  *

  The Crazy Pigeon Woman of Amen Court walked by our school every morning. If she walked by when we were on break we’d be at the fence, spitting and shouting. She’d shuffle along, talking to herself, spit sliding down her back. Soon, we got bored. We got bored after no reaction every morning. We would just mumble obscenities, shout lazily in her direction. There came a time we didn’t notice her at all and spat and shouted at each other instead.

  She would always have a troop of pigeons following her along the street. Some of the kids spat on the pigeons too, until I pummelled them. I spun tales about her magic abilities, that she collected our spit and used
it in potions. She could kill you, I said. She has your essence. She only has to say the word and you’d drop down dead. The little kids peed their pants, the others told me to fuck off, you’re as crazy as she is. I didn’t pummel them. I pretended like I was the Pigeon Woman of Amen Court, all calm and aloof.

  Soon I was the only one left at the fence and I’d watch her and her pigeon troop. One morning I saw her hair move, like it was alive, like it could move on its own. Then I saw the heads.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Excuse me.’

  As polite as can be, but she walked right by, muttering, scattering seeds. I jumped the fence and walked by her side, glancing up at her, staring at the little pigeon heads poking out from her mess of hair. It really was a bird’s nest; matted here and there, with bits of twig sticking out.

  ‘Are they babies?’ I said. ‘Baby pigeons in your hair?’

  She muttered and I leaned in to hear but caught nothing. She grabbed my hand and I was ready to pummel her but I couldn’t, not with pigeons in her hair. She dropped seeds in my hand, or tried to. It was all scrunched up in a fist and the seeds just bounced off, scattering for her troop.

  ‘You can feed them,’ she said. ‘Don’t you want to?’

  She bent a little and I opened my hand, catching the seeds, and I fed the pigeons in her hair.

  ‘We call you Pigeon,’ I said, trying to be polite, not telling her what we really called her.

  ‘I know what you call me,’ she said.

  She wasn’t stupid, that crazy pigeon woman.

  ‘Come inside,’ she said, ‘and have a cup of tea.’

  We’d reached her house. I’d left school without really knowing it, and I stared back down the road, and at her troop, and at her house, and in I went.

  Animals everywhere, staring fake.

  ‘Taxidermy,’ she said.

  I didn’t know what that meant and screwed up my face.

  ‘I find them,’ she said, ‘and I preserve them. I take out their guts and make them like this.’

  ‘Like an Egyptian mummy,’ I said. ‘Kind of.’

  She just grunted. I ran my finger along one of the shelves, wanting to touch the mummified animals, but I was all unnerved by their glassy eyes. Pigeons walked amongst them, pecking at seeds. Seeds and pigeon shit were everywhere. The smell was strong; a welcoming musty animal smell.