Ever Dundas: Goblin

‘Oi, Mister,’ I said. ‘Oi, Mister, how come you’re painted all over? How come the paint doesn’t just come off?’

His eyes were a pale blue so light they were almost white. He knelt down in front of me, the ships and anchors and sea rippling and shifting as he moved. He leant his elbow on his knee and I was face to face with a mermaid with faded red hair.

‘It’s magic paint, boy.’

‘I’m not a boy,’ I said, ‘I’m a goblin.’

‘You don’t look like a goblin.’

‘Well, I am. I’d like to be painted like you, ’cept I’d have a Jesus.’

‘Right here, little goblin.’

He turned and showed me Jesus on his back.

‘Just like that,’ I said. ‘Yeah, just like that.’

‘You come for the show?’

I nodded vigorously.

‘You got your ticket?’

‘Pigeon has it.’

‘Pigeon?’

‘Yeah, she has it. I’ll need to find her.’

‘Pigeons and goblins. You belong here, boy.’

He stood and yelled across the crowd, ‘Roll up! Roll up! The circus is about to begin!’

I bobbed through the streams of people, searching for Pigeon. I found her amongst a gabble of kids and we clasped hands, keeping close as we were swept along with the crowd, swept into the magical realm of a glittering aerialist, purple sequins catching the light as she flew through the air. The platform statue-clowns bumbled and tumbled into the ring and I said, Pigeon, there they are! We’ve seen those clowns. There they are! And some old man behind me hissed ssssh! through his squint teeth and some woman said keep quiet, will you? But I always talked and talked and I forgot to keep quiet and they weren’t even listening to much of anything anyway, it was all to look at so what did it matter if I said, Pigeon, that elephant, that big as a house elephant looks stupid in that tiny hat on its huge house-head. The clowns clambered and fell on its back, knocking each other like skittles. The elephant sprayed them all sodden with water and they drip drip dripped and I jumped up and laughed and cheered. Down in front! said that stupid old man but I was down anyway by then, glued to my seat mouth hanging open as a lady on a horse, balanced on one arm, went round and round the ring. Then me and Pigeon laughed and clapped like mad as the dogs all jumped through hoops and last of all out came the painted man holding a sword above his head and I squeezed Pigeon’s hand and said, I know him. I know that man! He has Jesus! Holy, Holy, Holy, I said as he walked around the ring, all great strides and flexing muscles before gripping the sword with both hands, his head back. There was a gasp from the crowd as he lowered it into his mouth and I said nothing but held Pigeon’s hand tight, waiting for the blood and the death and the panic. He swallowed it whole. There were cheers and claps and stamping of feet. Out it came, slowly, slowly, and cheers erupted into a roar as he swept it through the air. I stamped and yelled with the rest of them. All the performers came running in, swarming around him, dancing and cart-wheeling round the ring, the aerialist lady dangling from the trapeze. Everyone stood, clapping and whistling. The performers turned to us and bowed and bowed again and again. Flowers were thrown into the ring as the performers filed out, a swish of the curtain, they were gone.

On the journey back all I could do was talk about the acts but I was tired and half-asleep, leaning on Pigeon, her arm around me. I tried to keep my eyes open, looking up at her, telling her how I wanted to be a clown, be painted and do acrobatics, but my head would droop and I’d drift. I remember hearing her say, ‘I know you, you’re mad as a bag of cats, so don’t you go trying any swallowing of swords.’ I drifted, floating on glitter and lights.

I didn’t tell Mac and Stevie I’d been to the circus. I didn’t want them to be jealous, I didn’t want them to know about Pigeon. Instead, I made up stories about a painted man who ate swords for dinner, a troop of jesters with painted faces who entertained Queen Isabella, and a flying glittering spirit who cast mischievous spells far and wide across the city of London.

‘What you doing, boy?’

‘I’m not a boy,’ I said. ‘I’m a goblin.’

‘You don’t look like a goblin.’

‘Well, I am.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Looking for Pigeon.’

‘What?’

‘The old lady. I’m looking for the old lady.’

The neighbour leaned over, looking down at me, his eyes narrowing.

‘What do you want with her?’

‘Nuthin.’

I whistled to Devil and scuffed my way up the path. The neighbour called after me.

‘She’s gone, boy. She’s sick. Her family took her away.’

I looked down at Devil. He barked at me, but all I could hear was the drone of the insects. I swayed, mesmerised by the bees tumbling amongst the weeds.

‘Boy?’

‘Huh?’

‘You alright?’

‘Where’d they take her?’

‘I don’t know.’

I walked off. I felt dizzy and sat on the curb.

‘So what?’ I said to Devil.

I scuffed my feet on the ground.

‘So what? She was a stupid crazy pigeon woman anyway.’

It wasn’t until weeks later I thought about the pigeons. I went back, broke in through a window and there they were, all over the house, dead like the mummified things, but rotting and stinking. I’d let her birds die.

I cleaned up the best I could, got them all together and buried them in the garden. I remembered from somewhere that people buried things with pennies, so I put pennies on the pigeons and said a lizard prayer.

‘Forgive me lizards, for I have sinned. Forgive me my trespasses better than I forgive those who trespass me.’

I stuck a bit of wood in the ground and wrote, ‘Here lie Pigeon’s pigeons. May they rest with the lizards below.’

When Mackenzie was laid up with flu I kicked around with Stevie but I was bored pretty quickly. After pummelling him a dozen times and beating him at every race, I lost interest. I liked Stevie, but it didn’t work just the two of us and Devil. We needed Mac. He brought out the best in us.

Stevie and I were just sitting on a wall, kicking our feet, and I was all wound up, like I could just shoot off into the sky like a rocket. I kicked the wall and looked at Stevie, thinking maybe I could pummel him again, but got bored the moment I thought of it.

‘When, Stevie? When d’ya reckon Mac’ll be better?’

He didn’t respond, just shook his head. He was staring over at some kids playing Buttons. He had this faraway look in his eyes. It hadn’t occurred to me that Stevie could be just as sick of me as I was of him.

We kicked the wall some more, then he was gone. Just a vague ‘I’m just gonna—’ and he was running down the street to the Button kids.

I didn’t know what to do, so I got down and circled them, looking all aloof and too mature for it, but then I muscled in.

‘You kids can’t throw for shit.’

I got beaten by this little runt of a kid, a kid even runtier than me, with shit-hot aim. Stevie, he seemed to be enjoying himself, even won a few buttons. I just huffed and scuffed my feet and thought about pummelling the runtier-than-me kid but couldn’t really be bothered in the end. Instead, I just ruffled his hair like David did with me, but he didn’t even pay me attention.

‘Kid, you can’t throw for shit,’ I said, drawling it out like some cowboy in the movies, but no one was listening and Devil was all laid out in the street in the sun snoring like some old man.

‘When d’ya reckon Mac’ll be better, eh?’

No one was listening and I’d had enough of these runtier-than-me kids. I left Stevie to it, winning his buttons, finally good at something. I heard later that he got really into it and cut off all the buttons on his parent’s clothes, even his dad’s Sunday best. He got a hiding for that, so he stopped playing Buttons and came back to our den like nothing had happened, bringing some scrumped apples like a peace offering and trying to tell a story about how he got captured by Martians.