Ever Dundas: Goblin

Goblin closed her eyes for a moment and said, ‘I remember – da and I fixed his wireless. Hey,’ she said, opening her eyes, ‘where’s Stevie?’

‘Thinks you have a down on him.’

‘Why would I? I was pummelling him. I would have done the same.’

‘Yeah, I said that.’

‘Get him here. We’ll read The Time Machine again.’

‘Nah, I’ve got to go. Mum said I can’t wear you out.’

‘I’m good. You’re not wearing me out.’

‘You look like shit, Goblin. You look like a ghost. You’re all bled out.’

‘Tomorrow then, eh?’

‘Always. It’s boring without you.’

Edinburgh, 6 July 2011

Mahler wakes me at five a.m., pawing at me, licking the ocean on my arm, snuffling at a faded ship. Bored of the taste of my tattooed skin he barks and runs off to his food bowl, skittering across the kitchen floor. I get up, follow him through, and scoop his food out. I pour myself a glass of whisky and shuffle my way to the sitting room. Seeing someone asleep on the couch, I jump, spilling whisky over my hand before realising it’s Ben. I sit next to him, licking the whisky from my fingers. I shake him awake.

‘Aye, alright, alright. I’m awake already.’

‘You half frightened me to death,’ I say. ‘I don’t remember you staying the night.’

‘It wis to look after ye, remember?’ he says, sitting up. ‘After yer fainting fit. Issat whisky? Jesus, woman.’

He grabs the glass from me.

‘Hey, watch it! What kind of guest are you?’

‘The kind who makes ye a proper breakfast. Get yersel dressed and I’ll rustle up a healthy fry up.’

‘A healthy fry up?’

‘Aye, well, healthier than whisky. Nae wonder yer all skin an bone.’

I go to the bedroom and pull on some clothes as I sip whisky from the bottle under my bed. I hear Ben rummaging through the kitchen and cursing. He knocks on the door.

‘Ye decent?’

I hide the bottle.

‘Yes.’

‘Yer worse than I thought,’ he says, putting his head round the door. ‘Not a scrap in the cupboards or the fridge. Where’s yer money?’

‘Money?’

‘Aye, yer money. I’m no gonna rob ye, ye old skeleton. I’m gonna get yer messages in.’

‘I don’t need any messages.’

‘When all yev got in the kitchen is whisky, seeds, ketchup and some mouldy bread, ye need messages.’

Ben roots around in his pockets and counts out some coins.

‘I’ve a few quid from yesterday, so I can put that towards whatever ye have. We’ll both be sitting down to a proper breakfast.’

‘My purse is in my bag,’ I say. ‘Take whatever you want.’

‘Dinnae think I’ll gyp ye. I’ll get a receipt and ye can see exactly what I bought.’

‘I trust you, Ben. It’s fine.’

‘Right. Sit tight, I willnae be long.’

‘I need to take Mahler for a walk.’

‘He can come shopping with me.’

‘I walk him every morning before work.’

‘Yer not doing anything until yer so stuffed full ye cannae do anything anyway.’

‘I’m not an invalid,’ I say, but he just whistles for Sam and Mahler, who come running.

When he leaves I get the whisky out again and sit in the living room, enjoying the morning sun, feeling the warmth of the drink spreading through my belly. I go through to the kitchen and pick up the seed jar before heading down to the street. I sit on the front step, throwing seeds across the pavement for the pigeons. People passing by give me dirty looks, but I ignore them and listen to the happy noises the pigeons make.

Gio says, ‘La Pazza dei Piccioni.’

I look up, startled, but it isn’t him. He isn’t there. Just a stranger, a man, staring down at me.

‘Stupid woman,’ he says.

‘What was that?’

‘They’re rats,’ he says, ‘rats with wings.’

‘I like rats,’ I say.

‘They spread disease. They should be exterminated.’

‘Humans spread disease,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘Should we exterminate them?’

‘Old witch,’ he says, kicking at the pigeons, causing them to scatter.

‘Sonofabitch!’ I yell. ‘Get off my street.’

He sneers at me and walks off.

‘Rats have better manners,’ I say to the one pigeon left pecking at the seeds. I go back upstairs and slump on the couch, drinking more whisky. I doze off in the sun, waking to the sound of the door. I put the whisky bottle behind the couch and join Ben and the dogs in the kitchen. I peer into all the shopping bags, wrinkling my nose up.

‘I’m not eating any animals,’ I say.

‘That’s for me,’ he says, snatching the sausages out of my hand as I go to put them in the bin. ‘I bought them with my own money and I got ye some veggie sausages. God knows what they put in those, mind.’

‘Fine,’ I say, helping him unpack the rest of the shopping.

‘Here’s yer receipt,’ he says, pulling it out of his pocket, a couple of pages of his secret chewing stash falling on the floor. ‘So ye can see I spent yer money on necessities. I bought some cakes but that’s cos we need to fatten ye up.’

‘You better not be eating my books,’ I say.

‘What? Where’d that come from? That’s appreciation for ye, getting yer messages in and ye jus go on about yer books.’

‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ I say. ‘I appreciate you getting my messages.’

He looks at me, uncertain.

‘Alright. Good.’

‘We’ve been friends a few years, Ben. I know you’re looking out for me.’

‘Give it a rest about the books, then.’

‘I will. I’m sorry.’

I nudge the book scraps under the table.

‘They found the witch, ye know,’ he says, waving the morning paper at me.

‘Which witch?’

‘Which witch? Which witch? Which witch?’ he chants.

I roll my eyes and finish unpacking.

‘Turns out it’s not a witch.’

‘What’s not a witch?’

‘The witch. The witch isn’t a witch.’

‘No?’

‘It’s a goblin.’

‘A goblin?’

‘Wasn’t a witch at all, but I was nearly right. A nasty little goblin. It’s in the paper.’

He spreads the paper on the counter and hunches over it.

‘“Mr Brian Mackenzie came forward to say he knows who buried the assortment of objects. She’s the child in one of the photographs and he knows her only as Goblin.” That’s what it says right there. And goblins can live for years, until at least a hundred and fifty.’

‘Is there a photo?’

‘Of the goblin? Yeah, look. There’s all the dead pets behind her.’

‘Not the goblin. Is there a photo of Brian?’

‘Just the goblin. Here, ye can sit and read about it while I make breakfast. Fried eggs, sausages, toast and beans coming up!’

I sit at the table and stare at the name, Mr Brian Mackenzie. As I run my finger across Mac’s name, Monsta’s tentacle-arm slithers over my hand. Spectre-Monsta sits on the table, swaying gently, those deep black eyes glinting.

London, 1941

Underground is where the lizard people live, and I go in search. I don’t want to stay with the people scrunched up with misery, squeezed in with their blankets and their stench. I hop on the train with Monsta, and we go in search.

I stay on for miles and miles and hours and hours, wheeeeee, we’re on an adventure, Monsta! Lizard seekers. We must flick out our tongues and smell them, taste them, the lizard people in the darkness in the depths.

We pick our way through the recumbent bodies, little hillocks, obstacles to our search. I huff, the bodies snore, or yell out, oi kid fuck off, and I pretend I’m a Martian, floating, nimble, no Devils to bite my ropes, no Devils at all, just me and Monsta.

Monsta sees me stop and sway, uncertain. Monsta’s head shakes gently, the worm arm floating to me. I’ve not to sink. There are no Devils, but there are Monstas, and the lizard people await. Gently gently Monsta climbs, encircling my neck with worm tentacles, gently gently, casting a spell of forgetfulness, forgetting the loss above, revelling in London below.