Ever Dundas - Goblin

We met every evening at the den. We’d eat our berries, play cowboys and Indians in the gully, listen to the wireless. One night we both fell asleep there, waking up curled up together, freezing. We walked home in silence, leaving each other at the fork in the road just after we entered the town. I watched her walk away in the dark.

Angel wasn’t allowed out for a week but all I got was a slap across the face and told never to do it again. Tom wasn’t much bothered, as long as I did my work.

The week without her was strange. I didn’t go to the den the first couple of days. I went to the beach and went swimming and caught some fish to take home. The third day I went to the den and listened to the wireless but it felt wrong without her there so I didn’t go back. The week after was a strange kind of bliss. We swam, we went to the den, we had a fire on the beach. Apart from Angel having to be back by nine sharp every night we did what we’d always done. But it didn’t feel the same. We knew it could all be taken away. It was taken away the day I shot John.

Tom didn’t believe I’d shot him. But I had. Only it wasn’t through the heart.

I was out hunting. John would sometimes come with me, even though Tom had given him other tasks after he realised how useless he was at it. John tagged along and I put up with him. Ever since my threat he wasn’t so annoying. He was mostly quiet, which gave me the creeps, but it was still better than his taunts.

I had a rabbit in sight, waiting for the right moment, when I heard a shot just beyond the hillock, followed by a whooping. I cursed the Idiot; my rabbit had gone.

I went to look for John, finding it hard to believe he’d managed to hit anything. When I found him, he was crouched down, hunched over something and there was a horrible noise. I circled and saw what it was. He’d shot a rabbit, but badly. It was wounded, and he was shoving a stick into its wound. I shot it in the head. Blood spattered on John. Barely thinking, I swung the gun over and shot him in the foot.

I walked away. That was that. The beginning of the end of my life in Cornwall.

Tom didn’t believe him. And I lied. When I left John I was so angry that I was ready to barrel on in to the house and confess with pride, but as I walked through the woods and past the den, all I felt was fear.

I walked in and said to Tom, ‘John shot himself in the foot. I need help to get him home.’

John accused me the moment he saw us, but Tom said nothing. John had stemmed the flow with his shirt and we removed it, putting a temporary bandage in its place. I lifted John onto Tom’s back and the Idiot pinched my arm. I bit on my lip as he kept pinching and pretending he couldn’t get onto Tom’s back because I wasn’t helping properly. He let go of me and climbed onto Tom, piggybacking the whole way home, ranting about how I’d shot him. Tom didn’t say a word.

We dropped him off at the doctor, who fixed him up. He kept him there overnight and told us he could return the next day, but that he’d be laid up for a good few weeks. Tom, who still hadn’t spoken, grunted.

I knew my workload would double and there’d be no more evenings with Angel, but somehow I felt that was right. I had to pay for what I’d done. I’d have to pay for my lie.

It was in the evening after supper that Tom sat me down and asked me.

‘Did you shoot him?’

‘No.’

He nodded. Just like that, he believed me. I knew if I confessed I’d be sent away, maybe be locked up, and I would never see Angel again.

‘You’ll need to cover his work while he’s recovering,’ Tom said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What was that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’ll look after him. Serve him his food, change his bandages, whatever’s needed. We’re not having our lives disrupted by this.’

The thought crossed my mind that I should have shot John dead.

‘Yes, sir.’

I expected taunts, for him to make things difficult for me, to be smug as I changed his bedpan and brought him food, but there was nothing. There was no expression on his face and he wouldn’t look at me. I did what I had to do and I left. Doing double the chores was exhausting, but Angel helped when she could. Tom didn’t believe it was right for women to do manual labour, but when he wasn’t supervising, Angel would help me out.

It was much later, back in London when I was telling Queen Isabella what had happened that she said to me, ‘Goblin, are you telling me you hadn’t even thought about revenge?’

‘I was busy,’ I said, ‘with the extra work and looking after him and getting away from him as soon as I could. I never thought about his revenge.’

Weeks had passed, he was back on his feet, using a walking stick, doing the chores he could and avoiding me as much as I avoided him. I just wanted things to be as they used to be, with me and Angel swimming in the sea every evening, hiding in our den. I didn’t see it coming.

‘Well,’ Queen Isabella said, rolling her eyes at me like I was the biggest fool there was, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’

I came in from mucking out the pigs, covered in mud and shit. I dumped the potatoes I’d collected and said to Margaret, ‘I’m going to wash up then I’ll be in for supper.’

I glanced around the kitchen as I turned to leave. A reverend was there, but not the one from our local, and several others I didn’t know. Supper wasn’t on. I knew something must be up, but I thought it was just adult stuff and I’d do best to get out of there.

‘You’re not going anywhere, Luke. You’ll be staying right here.’

‘But I need to clean up.’

‘Sit,’ Tom said.

There was an empty chair right in the middle of the room. I shuffled over, thinking I was clearly in some deep trouble if they’d let me traipse through the kitchen covered in dirt and smelling like the pits of hell.

I hesitated at the seat, glancing at Margaret. They’d trained me well and I didn’t want to get dirt on the chair.

‘Sit, demon.’

I looked at Tom and sat. I saw John standing behind him, leaning on his walking stick, his hair slicked back like on Sundays for church. He smiled slightly. My chest tightened.

No one said anything. They just sat, impassive, staring at me. I looked from person to person, licking my lips. I looked over to the door, wondering if I could make it, but the group had closed in, forming a circle, blocking my exit. I waited for someone to say something and looked over at Tom and Margaret. Tom was holding my War Of The Worlds .

I frowned and said, ‘What’s this about?’

‘Hold your tongue, demon.’

I turned to the reverend who held a bible up at me. I thought, that John, he’s sank me down into a whole heap of shit. I eyed up the reverend to try and figure out who I was dealing with, but didn’t figure out much of anything. I squinted at his lap. There was some sort of dead animal on it. I couldn’t make it out until he shifted it a bit so he could put the bible on his lap and it was then I could see. It was Monsta, all broken up. It was then I lost sight of trying to figure out the situation, like David would have said. ‘Sit back, Goblin. Assess the situation, figure it out, then act. You’re too impulsive, and that’s gonna get you into all kinds of trouble one day.’ Up until that moment I’d thought that pretty good advice, even if I didn’t always heed it, but now for certain was a time for war. ‘Goblin,’ I could hear David say as I stood up like a piston and kicked back my chair, ‘there’s never a time for a war.’

I lunged for Monsta but didn’t get near, everyone likely thinking I was about to eat that reverend’s soul or whatever it is that demons do. I didn’t stand a chance. I was pinned to the floor, yelling, sobbing, ‘Monsta, Monsta!’ but I think they thought I was casting some demon spell because pretty soon there was an old rag shoved in my mouth and tied tight with rope right round my head. Then it was my arms and my legs and there I was all parcelled up, and up up up I went, the demon ascending, raised on a throne of bony old hands as they took me to the attic room.