Ever Dundas - Goblin

‘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 requisitioned. 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.

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.’