Goblin

by Ever Dundas

  He winked at me and I scowled, getting a firm hold of CP, who was shaking and wide-eyed. I stroked him and whispered in his ear and I stroked his ear too and rubbed his snout and patted his back and he calmed down. I eyed the one who had flicked open the knife. He stared at us, using the knife to pick dirt from under his nails.

  ‘Sons of bitches,’ I said every few minutes, chewing on gum Squintsmiler had given me, but soon no one was really listening. They went back to their card games and nude magazines.

  ‘Don’t mind us, kid. We were just playing.’

  ‘Sons of bitches.’

  ‘You’ve got some mouth on you, kid.’

  I chewed on my gum, stroking CP. I looked around, just daring any of them sonsofbitches to come near us.

  ‘You’re a wild one, boy. Whatcha running away from?’

  ‘Sons of bitches.’

  ‘You’re trouble. You’ll give the girls a hard time, won’t you? I can see it in those eyes. You like pussy, kid?’

  He showed me one of the nudey pictures, and I said, ‘Sure. Sure, I like pussy.’

  ‘The kid likes pussy, boys!’

  They cheered. I was patted on the back.

  ‘You can keep that kid. For the lonely nights.’

  He winked at me and I stuffed the picture in my pocket.

  ‘How old are you, boy?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘That right? You not too young to be travelling on your own?’

  ‘I’m not on my own – I have Corporal Pig. He’s a trusty companion.’

  ‘You look after each other?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He smiled at me and nodded and I shifted as close to CP as possible, laying my head on his side. I fell asleep, curled up practically wound right round CP to protect him. I woke to Squintsmiler shaking me and I almost strangled CP in panic.

  ‘It’s alright, I don’t want to hurt your bleedin’ pig. It’s your stop, kid. You’re getting off here.’

  He lifted me and Corporal Pig like we were nothing and set us down on the road.

  ‘Here, kid, take some of these.’

  He threw me sweets and cigarettes.

  ‘You got any money, comrade-sir?’

  ‘Have I got any money?’

  ‘Yes, comrade-sir, we’re weary from walking. We need money for train fare.’

  The truck was pulling away, too fast for us to keep up. Squintsmiler disappeared, moving back into the throng of soldiers.

  I could hear them chanting. ‘Corporal Pig! Corporal Pig!’

  ‘You hear that, CP? The soldiers, they love you, CP. They really do.’

  I saw something fall from the back of the truck as it rounded the corner and I waved, but they’d gone. I broke into a run, hoping it was more cigarettes or candy I could use to barter for a ticket or some food, but when I got to it I saw it was just a piece of the nudey magazine. I picked it up, unfolded it and found money nestling between the woman’s legs.

  ‘I sure like pussy, CP,’ I said, shoving the money in my pocket. ‘I sure do.’

  *

  No pigs. That’s what he said. Dirty animals. Show some respect to the Corporal, I said. I’m not having that animal shitting all over this train, he said. I protested, I cajoled. I pleaded with my fellow humans. London, I said. I miss my family, I said.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Leave the pig behind and we have no problem, but that animal isn’t staying on this train.’

  ‘I can pay extra,’ I said, holding the remaining money in my hands. ‘I’ll clean up any shit.’

  ‘There will be no shit to clean up. No pig, no shit, and no you. Now get lost.’

  I thought for a moment then pulled out the packet of cigarettes. I smiled.

  ‘Huh? What do you say?’ I shook the packet, raising my eyebrow.

  ‘Get!’

  CP trotted in front of me, half falling onto the platform. I started after him, cursing my way down the corridor when I felt the nudey picture in my pocket.

  ‘Wait!’ I said, turning back to the conductor. I unfolded the picture, holding it up.

  ‘You like pussy, eh?’

  He barrelled after me, crushed the nudey picture in his hand and grabbed a hold of me by the back of my shirt, manhandling me right off that train. I lay on the platform, bruised, wielding my ticket and yelling ‘I paid good money for this, sir! Comrade-soldiers paid good money for this. I’ve got to get to London. We’re refugeesevacueesescapees.’

  ‘Then you’re going the wrong way!’ he yelled at me.

  I rubbed my bruised knees as I watched the train pull out of the station.

  *

  ‘You’re going the wrong way,’ the man said.

  I told him my story of woe, adding here, taking away there. I didn’t get in trouble at all, not this time, but elicited pity from the stationmaster, or more like he just wanted me to leave him be, but he took my ticket and returned my money and I bought food for me and CP. We stayed there a day and a night and I stuffed CP full, as full as can be, then off we trudged, but this time CP had a spring in his step.

  ‘This time, CP, we’re sticking to the roads and we’ll hitch a ride. No more weary fat-stealing walking for you and me. We’ll hitch a ride and be fat as kings.’

  Many passed us by, or stopped when they saw I was a kid, but like that evilsonofawhoreticketmaster, wouldn’t take me with CP, not until one kind man who after listening to my story of woe and a litany of CP’s strengths, stopped me mid-sentence. ‘Boy,’ he said, looking as weary as us skinny walkers, ‘I don’t need a story, just get in the car.’

  ‘Yes, sir! Yes, sir, in the car! C’mon CP, stop that loitering. Quick march, in the car!’

  The man sighed and I pushed CP into the back. I climbed in and we were off.

  ‘Thanks, mister, sir!’

  He gave me the side-eye and said, ‘You’re going the wrong way, boy.’

  I told him the story of how we were escaping unholy bastards and he listened, not saying a word. I dropped off to sleep, still trying to talk, still trying to tell my story, but me and CP we were weary and off to slumberland we went.

  When I woke I didn’t start back on my story. I just watched the clouds, dreaming of London.

  London, March 1941

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ he said, dropping me off on the outskirts of the city. I dragged a snoring CP out of the car.

  ‘I had pigs when I was your age,’ he said to me. ‘Good animals. You watch out for him, you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ I said, standing to attention and saluting. ‘Me and Corporal Pig, we’re comrades, friends for life.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, and started up the car. ‘Good luck, comrades.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He drove off and I had some trouble waking up CP to restart our weary walking. He’d resumed his snoring on the pavement and I pushed and shoved him and flicked his ear.

  ‘Comrade, CP! You get up! You’ve slept an age in the back of that car. We’re back on our mission. There’s a war on, CP. Look lively!’

  With a bit of prodding, ear flicking, tail pulling and a ration of oats, CP was soon on his feet and sleepily shuffling along by my side.

  ‘We’re almost there, CP. You can sleep all you want when we’re home.’

  We wandered through the suburbs of London. It was a glorious day; baby blue sky and gossamer clouds. Not knowing the way through my city I felt like a foreigner, a Martian, a German spy. Street names had been removed or obscured. I asked directions, not a single person suspecting me of being a German spy, everyone saying, ‘You’re going the wrong way, boy.’ The last person I approached, I berated them, ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on? Don’t you know I’m a German spy?’

  I could see the familiar landscape in the distance, my heart aching for the silhouettes of my neighbourhood buildings. It was peaceful here. The sun cast long shadows and turned buildings a warm orange. Birds fluttered and sang. I passed open gardens, their fences requisi
tioned. As the sun set and darkness descended, the distant sky was lit up with searchlights. The sun had melted into the landscape, setting it alight. The East End was on fire.

  I felt sick at the thought that our home might not be there anymore. All the time I was travelling home I felt like I was travelling back in time. But I wasn’t. This was the future. The months had gone by, but I thought of London frozen in time. I’d heard reports of the bombs, but it was a fantasy, a story.

  I could see the Luftwaffe, but they looked unreal; little slivers of silver circling London, caught in the searchlights. Smoke roiled in the sky, a black mass, blacker than the night sky. Dark clouds billowed, cut through by beams from the ground, illuminated by flames. My home was being obliterated as I returned. Those familiar streets, those familiar silhouettes, razed.

  I could hear nothing. It was like watching a silent film.

  ‘The Martians have come,’ I said to CP, who was hoovering up insects. ‘We’re going home and the Martians have come.’

  Edinburgh, 6 August 2011

  London is on fire. I pick up the phone.

  ‘Detective?’ I say, watching the flames flicker across the screen. ‘I’m coming home.’

  Goblin and Monsta and Corporal Pig. Off we trotted to London, and here I am, returning too, and it’s time travel. My home is being obliterated. Those unfamiliar streets, those unfamiliar silhouettes, razed.

  Now’s not a good time, he says. Wait until the rioting has passed. We have our hands full, he says. ‘What happened to needing me, Detective? What happened to the court order?’ London is in flames, he says. I know, I say. I’m coming home.

  Chapter 7

  London, March 1941

  ‘Hail thee lizards down below in the darkness in the depths. O Lizard Queen and King of the deep, O guardian lizards, the word shall be made flesh and this flesh shall be given new life blood. I beseech thee O lizards of the depths bring forth this monsta-child who was struck down by servants of all that is corrupt and evil, struck down and pulled apart and desecrated. Resurrect these hewn pieces, I beseech thee. I offer thee blood.’

  ‘So you’re back?’

  Amelia, Queen Isabella, Scholler. All three stood in waiting.

  ‘I’m back,’ I said.

  ‘Things didn’t go so well for Monsta, I see.’

  ‘A nasty little bastard ruined it all. But I put rabbit guts on him and I became a vice-versa refugee, evacuee, escapee.’

  ‘Is that hideous beast yours?’

  ‘That’s Corporal Pig and you should salute him.’

  ‘I’m not saluting anyone. I’m a queen. And you should be having that beast for dinner – you’re all skin and bone.’

  ‘Why don’t you open up that pig instead of yourself?’ said Amelia as I rolled up my sleeve and held the penknife over my arm.

  ‘You’re ruining the ceremony,’ I said. ‘Don’t you want Monsta back? And you’ll treat Corporal Pig with respect. He’s an adventurer, an explorer and a sure and steady comrade.’

  Scholler sniffed at CP’s behind before nuzzling into his snout.

  ‘That’s more like it. You two should take a lesson in politeness from Scholler.’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not sniffing a swine’s behind,’ said Queen Isabella. ‘Come, Amelia, it’s obvious when we’re not wanted.’

  ‘Wait!’ I said. ‘Wait.’

  I turned to them, gesturing with the penknife.

  ‘I missed you.’

  Queen Isabella looked down at me, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘You know it, you snooty old queen. I missed all of you.’

  I watched her expression soften.

  ‘I saw you in Cornwall, you know.’

  ‘We weren’t anywhere near Cornwall,’ said Isabella.

  ‘No, nowhere near,’ said Amelia. ‘We don’t leave London.’

  ‘You were. You were in the attic and you helped me. But that’s all in the past. This is the present.’

  ‘Monsta has sunk into the past,’ said Amelia, ‘Monsta is over.’

  ‘This is the past,’ I said, pointing at Monsta’s broken body. ‘And Monsta’s resurrection is the future.’

  I cut my arm and my blood drip-dripped onto Monsta’s corpse. I sank my teeth into four apple-hearts, dripping the juice onto the blood. I could see Monsta’s eyes rolling beneath the lids, the tentacles twitched, the crow foot stretched.

  ‘Holy, Holy, Holy,’ I said as Monsta’s eyes opened.

  I cradled Monsta in my arms and we all went to the mausoleum where I fell asleep telling Queen Isabella, Scholler and Amelia about Cornwall and Angel.

  *

  In the morning, I awoke to find Monsta asleep on my chest, tentacle arms wrapped around my fingers. CP was making a godawful noise and snuffled at the door.

  ‘Alright, you old foghorn, I’m getting up.’

  Monsta sleepily crawled onto my shoulder and sat snoozing against my head, tentacles threaded through my scraggly hair. I let CP out and he was off, crushing flowers and searching for insects.

  ‘We’re going home, CP,’ I said as I led him through the cemetery and out into London’s streets.

  When we got to the East End the ARP were still putting out fires. Some people were making their way to work, walking past the smashed up buildings as if it was normal. Some stood and stared at their lost home. One of the houses was spliced and there were framed photographs still hanging on the wall, a fireplace with a mirror above and vases on the mantle. A door remained intact but opened out on to nothing but the rubble below. Beams criss-crossed, leaning against the crumbling building as if supporting it.

  A woman was bent over, rummaging through the rubble, rescuing a cooking pot. She stood, clutching it, staring at the building, mesmerised by the insistent embers that glowed and crackled beneath the onslaught of water.

  I spotted a camera and picked it up.

  ‘This yours, Mrs?’

  She looked at me blankly and shook her head. The camera was a bit bashed but I knew David could fix it if it didn’t work. I shoved it in my bag and walked further on, reaching my street. A jagged hole hunkered down into old Fenwick’s home, revealing my house behind it. I wasn’t ready for this homecoming, I wasn’t prepared for this absence. I wanted to burrow down into the earth, into the Kensal Green crypt, into the underground tunnels with the lizards.

  I picked my way around the rubble that was Mr Fenwick’s house, not daring to clamber through the new thoroughfare. I circled round it, as if the emptiness would suck me in. I wondered if he’d died, or moved on. I wondered what had happened to Groo. I saw no sign of her now, but old Fenwick’s two chickens were pecking round the rubble in the garden. Their run was smashed open but they looked unharmed.

  I rounded them up, Corporal Pig snorting at their arses to keep them in line and there I stood, on my doorstep, with a pig, a monsta, and two chickens. That terrible absence pulsed at my back, pushing me to safety through the door, pushing me back to David, back to ma and da.

  London, 7 August 2011

  ‘So you’re back?’

  Amelia, Queen Isabella, Scholler.

  ‘I’m back.’

  I stand in Kensal Green Cemetery looking at the crime scene tape around Devil’s grave.

  ‘It’s almost as if they’re treating Devil’s death as murder.’

  ‘You look old.’

  ‘Yes, very old.’

  ‘It was murder, you know.’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘But it’s the photo that matters, not Devil’s bones.’

  ‘They’ve set fire to London. Is that why you’re back? Drawn to the flames?’

  ‘Like a moth,’ I say. ‘But I won’t burn just yet.’

  London, March 1941

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘So you’re back? Didn’t they want you?’

  ‘They said I was possessed by a demon.’

  She nodded, rocking a little, holding a pen like it was a cigarette.

 
; ‘Ma? Can I take your picture?’

  ‘So you can steal my soul, demon?’

  ‘I forgot what you looked like. When I was away, I forgot.’

  ‘Well, you’re here now, no need for pictures. 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.’

  ‘No.’

  She looked me in the eye.

  ‘You’re like a cockroach,’ she said.

  She chewed on the end of the pen and stared at the fireplace.

  ‘I got you cigarettes.’

  Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Where’d you get those?’

  ‘Soldiers.’

  ‘Give them here.’

  She lit up.

  ‘Where’s da?’

  She sucked on the cigarette and closed her eyes.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  I stared at the floor and scrunched my fingers into the folds of my shirt.

  ‘Died months ago, leaving me, just like that.’

  ‘How’d he die?’

  She exhaled and said nothing.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, ma? Why didn’t you write me?’ I gestured back into the hallway. ‘All my postcards and letters are just lying there. Ma?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why didn’t you read them? Why didn’t you tell me about da?’

  She waved her hand through the smoke and said, ‘No time for that. I’ve been working so hard, day in day out, while everyone just leaves me.’

  I stared at her, clenching my fists.

  ‘Where’s David?’

  ‘Where’s David, where’s David?’

  ‘Where is he, ma?’

  ‘No one’s seen David. Here I am on my own, everyone just leaves and I’ve got to run this house alone.’

  ‘He’ll come back.’

  ‘He better. What use is it otherwise?’

  ‘I’m here, ma.’

  ‘What use is it?’

  ‘I’ll help out.’

  ‘What use is it, huh? Just me alone.’

  She cried with the cigarette in her mouth, tears and snot and saliva slithering over her lips and down her chin.