Ever Dundas: Goblin

In this market economy they’re called customers. In this time of cutbacks and closures. If the library closed, where would I go? I’ve worked here for years. Where would people like Ben go? Ben comes and he stays, hours and hours. He began by reading his way through the fiction section A-Z, and we’d discuss the books together in the evening. Then he got distracted, eating all the James Joyce – rip, chew, spit.

‘Ben,’ I say. ‘Ben. The Tories are doing a good enough job without you helping them.’

‘It’s just James Joyce,’ he says.

‘It costs money. It costs the library. Why don’t you pay for it?’

But I pay for it. For every book he eats.

‘Why don’t you go back to reading?’ I say. ‘You can’t just stop at J.’

‘Aye, I will, old lady. I always finish what I’ve started. So I have to finish this.’

I leave him in his corner, chewing and spitting. When I finish my shift, Ben and his dog Sam walk me home.

‘You got a place to stay tonight?’

‘Aye, I wis begging this morning and got enough to pay for the hostel.’

‘You don’t need to spend it on a hostel. You can stay with me. You know that.’

‘I dinnae want to take advantage.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘I’m fine, old lady. Ye dinnae need to worry about me.’

Sam jumps up on a low garden wall and runs across it before sitting down and snuffling at some ivy.

‘At least bring Devil back to mine for a bit. Mahler always likes to see him.’

‘Devil?’

‘Sam. I mean Sam.’

‘He’s well behaved. Sam’s no devil.’

‘I know, I didn’t mean that. Devil was a dog I used to know.’

London, August 1939

Bulbous silver slugs glittered in the sky; a stunning sky, shot through with a hazy pink as twilight fell. Pure white clouds were erupting on the horizon, a shifting billowing mass bringing a cool breeze. Goblin climbed to the top of the wall, scraping and bruising her already scarred, bare legs. She watched as the breeze buffeted the silver slugs.

‘The Martians have come!’

Goblin cantered on the wall, arms reaching up. Devil ran back and forth below, barking. Goblin sat on the wall, watching the sunset, the balloons swaying and glinting. Mackenzie turned up and pushed Devil up by the arse, his front paws scrabbling, Goblin hooking her arm round his neck, pulling. He sat by her side, panting, licking her ear. Mac climbed up after Devil, the three of them sitting, watching the lazy Martian invasion.

‘Where’s Stevie?’

Mac shrugged. ‘His ma said he couldn’t come out.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Dunno.’

Goblin pointed to the barrage balloons and said, ‘The Martians have come.’

‘They’re to stop the Martians.’

‘I suppose,’ said Goblin. ‘But they look like rocket ships.’

‘Fat rocket ships.’

They sat in silence for a while, staring at the rocket ships, Goblin gently ruffling Devil’s fur.

‘Do you think there will be a war?’ said Goblin.

‘Mum says for certain after the Russians made that pact with Germany.’

‘What’s a pact anyway?’

‘I dunno,’ said Mac. He chewed on his lip and said, ‘Think it just means they’re on the same side.’

The sun had set and darkness crept in, catching them by surprise. It was like the tide, seemingly so far off, suddenly sweeping over them. The barrage balloons no longer seemed futuristic or comical, but simply ominous black masses weighing heavily across London. They clambered down, ineptly assisting Devil, who half-fell, landing across Mac. He writhed, yelling the Martians had got him and they ran after Devil in the darkness.

‘Get the Martian!’

Edinburgh, 5 July 2011

Sitting at the top of Granny’s Green Steps, Ben and I eat our lunch and watch the tourists down in the Grassmarket. Sam rests his head on Ben’s knee, snoring.

‘What’s the book?’ says Ben, peering into my bag.

‘ War of the Worlds ,’ I say, as he pulls it out. ‘Haven’t read it since I was a kid. Have you?’

‘Seen the film.’

Ben holds it up to his nose before flicking through. He stops when he sees my bookmark.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Mad, my mum. My new mum.’

‘New?’

‘She adopted me.’

I take the photo from him and smooth my hand across it as if to feel mum’s skin.

‘She usually had it perfectly pinned up,’ I say, looking at the way her hair is tumbling over her shoulders, ‘but not here. Look how carefree it is.’

She hadn’t washed it for days. You can tell from the photo, if you look carefully, you can tell it has lost its sparkle. I remember it sparkling red in the sun. There’s a curl of hair matted against her forehead. The rest is messy, framing her face. You can see the wrinkles forming around her lips, beautiful perfect lines. She’s wearing lipstick, some of it straying into one of the lines. I can smell her. The warm smell of jasmine and earth, the smell of sweat and the grease that dulled her hair.

‘I told you I was in the circus after the war, didn’t I? My mum and dad ran it together. I helped out a bit. Mum was an aerialist.’

‘Yer mum wis hot,’ says Ben.

I laugh and nudge him.

‘You’re right.’

Her skin was paper thin, transparent. The freckles on her cheeks were sunken, dulled by the dirt and dust of a day’s work. They used to dance. They used to dance across her skin and she glowed. Iridescent. She was glamour, and I loved her with an ache that made my dirty little heart know it wasn’t all black and rotten through.

‘My new dad, James, he found me in the Underground. Underground is where the lizard people live.’

‘Yer an odd one, old lady.’

‘I was, and that’s why I belonged with them. They took me in.’

‘The lizard people?’

‘Mad and James, my new mum and dad. They rescued me.’

‘From what?’

I don’t respond. I put the photo in the book and close it.

‘Rescued ye how?’

Ben takes the book from me and I say, ‘Don’t. I’m reading it.’

‘I don’t eat books anymore.’

‘No?’

‘No. I smell them.’

‘You do what?’

‘Smell them.’

‘What do they smell of?’

‘Doughnuts, vanilla, old pants.’

‘Don’t they smell of ink?’

‘Not always. Some of the really old ones smell of rotten teabags.’

‘What’s your favourite book smell?’

‘ A History of Scottish Canals . It smells of chocolate, vanilla, and a hint of whisky.’

‘Sounds good enough to eat.’

‘But I don’t do that anymore, eh? I smell them and I can tell ye the exact date a book wis bought by the library.’

‘That’s very specific.’

‘I’m a very specific person.’

He pulls a book from his rucksack and thrusts it at me, moving it gently beneath my nose.

‘I’m the bloody book connoisseur of Edinburgh,’ he says, ‘and that, old lady, is the shit.’

I can’t smell much of anything other than a generic book smell.

‘Better be getting back to work,’ I say, looking at my watch.

‘I’ll chum ye before I go check on Mahler.’

We walk through the Grassmarket, weaving our way through the tourists.

‘What’s that all about, eh?’ says Ben, gesturing at a woman walking towards us. ‘What’s she doing all dressed up like that? It’s not the feckin festival yet and it isnae Halloween. Hey, love! It isnae Halloween.’

She stares at me. Not Ben, but me. She stares with her grey-green-blue eyes. The Lizard Queen. She glitters and glimmers and shimmers. She’s dressed in black and has bright red hair pinned up at each side of her head. Her skin is porcelain white, studded with jewels and painted with patterns of cobalt blue struck through with green and wisps of red. Her lips are red.