by Ever Dundas
In the evening after we’d returned from the cemetery I sat on the steps of my caravan with Fish Boy, basking in the glow of the fading sun. I thought of the times I was entertaining in the Underground and I thought of meeting dad, how lucky I was. I was where I belonged. End the story here. The past be damned.
London, 25 November 2011
I try to cancel the exhumation.
‘It’s not there,’ I say. ‘I’ve forgotten. Mac doesn’t know, don’t trust him. It’s all forgotten.’
But it goes ahead and I go along. The old worksite is a worksite again; it was all set for new development when the bankers failed us.
The media are here. Only a handful of them, the few that are after something different to the Eurozone crisis, something different to riots and phone hacking. They stand around behind the police line. I can’t imagine they’ll last long; there’s nothing to see.
‘Where’s Mac?’ I ask Detective Curtis.
‘He helped us. Told us where he thinks it’s located, then he left. He wasn’t feeling well. What do you think? Does this look about right?’
‘I don’t know. It’s hard to get my bearings. It’s all changed.’
‘We’ll start here,’ said the detective. ‘Maybe we’ll be lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It would just make things easier if this was quick.’
‘Did Mac tell you everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know it all?’
‘I do, but I’d like to hear it from you.’
I say nothing.
‘You can tell me when you’re ready.’
I nod.
‘This is going to take some time,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to stay. I’ll call if we find anything.’
I stare at where they’re digging.
‘I’ll call you,’ the detective says and walks over to talk to one of the workmen.
I hover, still staring. It’s difficult to see the past here, hard to see this as the place where Mac, Stevie, Devil and I used to come and sit by a fire telling stories.
‘You’re Goblin?’
A woman stands next to me, one of the reporters.
‘You’re Goblin, right?’
‘I am.’
‘I’m Belinda Cartwright. You can call me Linda,’ she says, offering her hand. I take her hand and she says, ‘Mind if I record?’ She holds her phone up, nods and smiles as if I responded and says, ‘What’s your real name?’
‘Goblin.’
‘You don’t look like a goblin. In fact, you’re awfully pretty for your age, if a bit skinny. I need your real name.’
‘My name is Goblin.’
‘You changed it?’
‘It’s been my name since the day I was born.’
‘Do you have something to hide?’
‘No.’
‘Then surely your name won’t hurt.’
‘I’m Goblin.’
‘Your surname?’
‘Just Goblin.’
Linda smiles and says, ‘Is it true you used to pretend to be a boy?’
‘You spoke to Mac?’
‘Mr Mackenzie? I did.’
‘I didn’t pretend. I just wore my brother’s hand-me-downs and had short hair.’
‘So, this is where all the animals are buried?’
I look at her for a moment and she prompts me, ‘The pets killed in World War Two?’
‘Some of them, yes.’
‘And you saw it?’
‘I did.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Nine.’
‘That must have been a horrible thing to see.’
‘It was.’
‘Why do you think people did it? Killed them in such vast numbers?’
‘I thought it was Nazis,’ I say, remembering when we played Nazis, Frankenstein’s monsta and Martians. I look across the worksite, searching for our den, trying to imagine it as it used to be. ‘Stevie was the Nazi.’
‘Who’s Stevie?’
‘No one. Just a friend.’
‘He was a Nazi?’
‘We used to play a game, that’s all. He pretended to be a Nazi. At the time we thought it was Nazi spies who’d killed the pets. I couldn’t believe we were responsible.’
‘Why would Nazi spies kill pets?’
‘To demoralise us.’
‘And what do you think now?’
‘There was worry about how animals would react to bombing, so people thought it was a mercy killing. Animals weren’t allowed in public shelters, weren’t allowed on evacuation. There were laws against feeding your pets food humans could eat and you’d be fined if you did.’
‘But why euthanize them so soon after war was declared? In such vast numbers when there hadn’t been any bombing yet?’
‘It wasn’t euthanasia,’ I say. ‘There was nothing wrong with them. They weren’t ill.’
‘“Kill”, then. Why were so many of them killed so soon?’
‘I don’t know… Worry about what was to come.’
‘Why did you bury the camera?’
‘What?’
‘The camera. You’re the one in the photo, aren’t you? The camera was found in a graveyard with some old bones, doll parts and a rat head.’
‘Shrew. It was a shrew head.’
‘Why did you bury those things?’
Queen Isabella stands next to Linda, the pinned heart dripping blood.
‘Yes, Goblin, why did you bury those things? Are you going to tell her?’
Linda looks to where I’m staring, then back at me.
‘What is it? Do you remember something?’
‘No. I just… What was the question?’
‘Why did you bury things in the graveyard?’
Spectre-Monsta appears from behind Linda, slowly climbing up her arm.
‘It was like a time capsule,’ I say, watching Monsta’s ascent. ‘That’s all.’
‘So you meant it to be found?’
Amelia walks along the worksite with Scholler, joining us.
I shake my head and say, ‘I need a drink.’
‘You’d like a drink?’ asks Linda. ‘It’s a bit early, but I’d be happy to take you for one. We could find somewhere nice, have a good long chat.’
‘No, forget it,’ I say, scowling at Amelia and Scholler. ‘I think I should—’
‘The camera, the things you buried, you meant people to find them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You said it was a time capsule. You meant for people to find it in the future.’
‘Not really,’ I say, looking at Monsta, now sat on Linda’s shoulder.
‘Not really?’
‘I don’t know. It was just a game. That’s all.’
‘Why don’t you just tell her,’ says Amelia, crossing her arms. ‘It’s all going to come out anyway.’
‘They might not find him,’ I say.
‘Find who?’ asks Linda.
‘No one,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry, but I need to get going.’
‘How did you feel when you saw the photographs in the papers?’
‘How did I feel?’
‘Were you happy to see them?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? Why didn’t you come forward?’
‘Leave the past in the past.’
‘So you didn’t mean for it to be found?’
‘No, I don’t know. I didn’t expect it. I’d forgotten. It was all forgotten.’
‘Why are they digging up the animal remains?’
‘They’re going to relocate them, give them a proper grave with a marker.’
‘Seems like a lot of time and money just for animal bones.’
‘It’s right that they should be remembered,’ I say. ‘It’s right that we pay tribute to them.’
‘But wouldn’t the money be better used for an animal shelter? Isn’t that a better tribute?’
‘I don’t… I’m not…’
‘She will,’ says Queen Isabella.
‘I need to go,’ I say. ‘I need to get back home.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘A hotel.’
‘What hotel? Give me your details so I can get in touch and clarify anything.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘It’s in your interest. You can make sure I have everything right.’
I walk away.
‘Wait! Here’s my card. You can call me, Goblin. If there’s anything you want to add, give me a call.’
I take the card and leave the site, followed by Queen Isabella, Amelia and Scholler. I leave spectre-Monsta perching on Linda’s shoulder.
*
I lie in bed with the papers, Red Queen snoring at my feet. I’d found her in the street, a skinny and dirty ginger cat. I took her to the vet. They kept her in a couple of nights then I sneaked her into the hotel. She peed everywhere but in her tray and I tried to clean it up the best I could. This can’t last. I have to find somewhere else to stay.
I flick through the papers and find the pet massacre stories buried underneath all the articles on phone hacking and the financial crisis: ‘Pet slaughter shame for nation of animal lovers’, ‘WWII Pet Holocaust’, ‘Pet massacre grave in central London’. I glance over the articles. A WWII RAF veteran said ‘all this fuss over some pets is an affront to all those who lost loved ones in the war. It’s disgusting, it’s sentimentality gone mad.’
I find the article written by Linda. She’d discovered the name that’s on my birth certificate and uses it throughout the piece so it feels like I’m not reading about myself. Linda describes not-me as ‘frail and easily confused’. Queen Isabella, who’s reading over my shoulder, snorts. Linda concludes the piece saying that in this time of financial crisis it’s a waste of money to dig up the pets and give them a memorial.
Ben calls and says, ‘Are ye eating properly, old lady? Are ye staying off the drink?’
‘I’m eating like a queen,’ I say. ‘And I haven’t touched a drop. Don’t believe everything you read, Ben.’
‘I’m just worried about ye. I know how confused ye get when ye drink and I know when ye drink ye dinnae eat.’
‘You don’t need to worry, Ben. I’m fine.’
‘Aye well, ye better be looking after yersel.’
‘I am.’
‘Take care, old lady.’
‘You too, Ben.’
I put down the phone and stare at the paper. I should have refused the interview.
‘Wait,’ says Queen Isabella, right next to my ear, making me jump. ‘Just you wait until they find out you covered up a murder.’
‘I didn’t cover it up.’
‘Wait until they find out you were arrested for murder yourself.’
‘I was innocent.’
‘Just you wait,’ she says. ‘Just you wait.’
Romania, Hungary, Austria, Italy, France, 1964 – 1966
After a show, the clown troupe would get together for a drink, to unwind and dissect our performance, discuss what we could improve, but when we travelled through Romania Horatiu would go straight to his caravan. The other clowns didn’t say anything so I let him be, except when he was late for rehearsal one morning and I went to fetch him. I barged into his caravan, not even thinking, just all breezy, all ‘C’mon, Horatiu, you had too much to drink last night? Look lively, you’re late for rehearsal.’ But there he was sat on the edge of his bed, tears and snot streaming down his face. He was holding a photograph.
‘Hey… You alright?’
He looked up at me, saying nothing, and I backed out of the caravan. I wanted to be as far away from him as I could, away from his scrunched up tear and snot-stained face. I returned to the clowns and told them Horatiu was ill and we got on with rehearsals.
After putting up posters of David in the town that evening I sat with Fish Boy, having a drink in my caravan.
‘I found Horatiu crying today, holding some old photo.’
‘He’s not happy being back in Romania, and it happens to be the anniversary,’ said Fish Boy.
‘What anniversary?’
‘His boyfriend was shot. Horatiu witnessed it.’
‘How do you know?’ I said. ‘How do you know what’s going on with Horatiu?’
‘We got to talking recently, that’s all.’
‘What kind of anniversary is that anyway?’
‘One he can’t forget.’
‘Well, he should. What’s the point in holding onto that?’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Well, tell me – what’s the point? He should let it go, leave the past in the past.’
Fish Boy knocked back his whisky and said, ‘Maybe you should take your own advice.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What’s with all the posters, G?’
‘You know I’m searching for David.’
‘I’d thought you’d given up. Then Groo died.’ He looked at me for a moment, then said, ‘She was an old cat who loved you and now she’s gone. It’s just the way it is. You need to move on.’
‘I need to find him.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t let him go.’
‘You always skirt around the past, you always say, “Let the past stay in the past”, but you cling onto this. Why won’t you let him go?’
‘Because I’m his family. He’s my family. Because he was supposed to take me with him to the sea.’
‘We’re your family now.’
‘I know.’
‘Then why not let him be? Why are you chasing a different life, a future that didn’t happen? Maybe he doesn’t want the past – you – catching up with him. Maybe he has a new life and he’s happy. Even if he isn’t, who says he wants to be found? He disappeared for a reason.’
‘I’ve always searched for him.’
‘Maybe if you stop, he’ll come to you.’
Fish Boy put his arm around me.
‘Goblin, just let it go,’ he said. ‘The past be damned.’
‘The past be damned,’ I said, and drank my whisky.
*
I went to Horatiu’s trailer and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I walked in. I searched through his belongings until I found the photo he’d been holding. I sat on his bed and stared down at Horatiu and his boyfriend. I imagined him being shot, I imagined it and I thought, what’s the point? What’s the point in holding on to that? I threw the photo on the floor, stepping on it as I left. I changed towards Horatiu after that. I shot him down any chance I got and his look of confused hurt made things worse. I started to hate him. He should burn it, I thought. Burn it, bury it. Be rid of it.
*
We stopped in a small town in southern Austria where mum and dad were running auditions, trying to get some new blood after two of our acrobats had left to settle down. I was chatting with Matt when a scrawny teenage boy disappeared into the audition tent. Matt had been one of our star acrobats but there was an accident in one of the rehearsals and he’d broken his spine. He was in a wheelchair now; couldn’t feel his legs but could still use his upper body so he worked the wheelchair into the show. He was a spectacular showman. Matt would come over to my caravan in the evenings, bringing his guitar, and we’d drink whisky and sing with Fish Boy and Angelina.
We were chatting, about to head off to rehearsals when the scrawny teen stomped out of the audition tent. I looked up, squinting at him.
‘Another reject, I guess.’
‘Seems that way.’
The boy made to leave but he spotted us and headed over.
‘Who the fuck is this?’ he said, gesturing at Matt. ‘I get sent away, but this cripple-leech can stay? You belong in the gas chambers, you waste of fucking space.’
He stabbed his penknife into Matt’s leg. I hadn’t even seen it in his hand. Without thinking I flew at the boy, knocking the air out of him. P
inning him down, pushing on his lungs, I punched his face to a bloody mess before Matt had me by the neck and pulled me off him.
‘I can fight my own fights, Goblin, and that wasn’t worth it.’
‘He stabbed you. He just came right up to you and stabbed you.’
Matt looked down at the forgotten knife.
‘And I didn’t feel a thing.’
‘The things he said to you.’
‘I didn’t feel that either.’
‘I did. I fucking felt it.’
He pulled the knife out and grinned at me.
‘I could join Freaks and Wonders. The human pincushion.’
We both laughed, laughing so hard we cried as the boy rolled over, pushed himself up on his hands and knees and spat blood and teeth onto the ground. This is how mum and dad found us, laughing as this boy dribbled blood.
Mum and dad had Matt’s wound seen to, making sure it didn’t get infected. The boy reported me to the police and I spent the night in a cell. We paid a huge fine, all of it coming out of my wages. I explained what had happened but mum and dad still had me mucking out the animals for the next three months. No clowning, no Freaks and Wonders, just piss and shit.
London, 29 – 30 November 2011
I need an anchor. Queen Isabella, Scholler, Amelia and Monsta are keeping me safe but I need more than those old ghosts. I avoid Mac because all I can think of when we’re together is the last time I saw him when we were kids and I can’t be reminded of that all the time.
I’d kept in touch with Tim over the years; no real details about our lives, just sending each other postcards of art we liked, sending holiday greetings. I never thought I’d see him again, but here I am, going to see Tim, my Fish Boy.
It isn’t a shock to see him. He looks much the same. My imagination had exaggerated his age so much that the actual changes don’t matter. His scales have faded. They emerge from beneath the collar of his shirt, flow up his neck and disappear into his grey beard. It was all polite niceties all hello how are you can I take your coat would you like a cup of tea, weren’t the riots a blast.
‘I danced amongst the flames,’ I say.