Ever Dundas - Goblin

‘Who’s responsible for this, Goblin? Don’t you want them brought to justice?’

‘I’m responsible,’ I say.

He sighs.

‘I was born blue,’ I say. ‘I could have died. Could’ve, should’ve.’

‘Give me their names.’

‘There is no justice. There can never be justice. It’s too late.’

‘Where was this? Where did you take the photograph?’

‘I don’t remember, Detective. It was a long time ago.’

He looks at me, taps his pen on the edge of the table and stands up. He leaves the room and I stare at the photos, a few minutes passing before he returns.

‘You know who this is, don’t you, Goblin?’

I look at the man standing in the doorway next to Detective Curtis. He rubs his grey beard nervously before taking off his cap to reveal a balding head. I was about to say no, no I don’t know him, when he smiles tentatively. I know that smile, I know those eyes. He sits down in front of me.

‘Yes, Detective,’ I say, looking at Mac. ‘I know who this is.’

‘You can catch up. I’m sure you both have a lot to talk about.’

He closes the door, leaving us sitting in silence.

‘The detective said you were in the circus.’

‘Yes.’

‘Makes sense. How long?’

‘Several years. I retired in Venice, where I wrote articles, busked, ran history tours. You?’

‘Teacher. Not as exciting as you.’

‘A teacher is good.’

Mac looks at the photos, spreading them out, pinning one down with his finger.

‘I pretended it never happened. But I had nightmares about it,’ he says. ‘For years.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘No?’

‘No. Only dreams of the sea.’

‘I heard you came back, you know. From evacuation. I knew you were back in the city when I came home, but I couldn’t face you. We moved away, shortly after. We moved.’

‘You took this,’ I say, holding up the photo of me standing in front of the mound of animal corpses.

‘I threw up. When I saw it in the paper, I threw up.’

‘Then you went to the police.’

‘Not straight away. I looked them up first,’ he says, drumming his fingers on the photo. ‘Do you know they’re war heroes?’

‘I found out.’

‘It was then I picked up the phone,’ he says.

‘What good is it now?’ I say.

‘I couldn’t take this to my grave.’

‘Why not? It’s where it belongs. Buried.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

‘They’re going to exhume the body,’ I say.

‘You think it’s there?’

‘Where else would it be?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Mac says. ‘If you want me to.’

‘You think it will stop the nightmares.’

Gathering up all the photos, he piles them on top of one another, burying the one depicting what we were going to unearth. He looks up at me.

‘Tell me about the circus. What did you do?’

‘I was a clown. And I helped look after the animals.’

He smiles. ‘Of course.’

UK, 1950 – 1961

I know how it felt for them; like disappearing into another world. Greeted at the entrance by the guardians of the realm, ushered in to the sound of music, enveloped by an intoxicating medley of scents, surrounded by laughter and yells as they jostled for space and made their way down the aisles, finding their seats. I’d peer out at them, looking at the faces of the children, remembering my first experience of the circus with Pigeon. Now I was one of them. I was a clown, a fantasy, a freak.

The thing I loved the most about circus life was the feeling of anticipation and excitement when we arrived in towns. We’d set up camp on the outskirts before travelling into town to parade through the main street and in some cities thousands would turn up to watch us. The animals were the star attractions. As the elephants lumbered by with the glitter girls astride them you could see the sense of wonder in everyone’s eyes, even the adults. It made me feel that this Goblin-runt born blue was meant to be. In the circus I was a bringer of joy. I was no longer the travelling Goblin with her Devil dog or her Corporal Pig or her Monsta. I was travelling Goblin-clown-freak with a family of hundreds, humans and other animals.

I was with the clown troupe, Marv, Ali, Paul, and later on there was Horatiu who we picked up on our travels. I loved clowning and took it very seriously. We trained with the acrobats – learning the rules before breaking them; it took a lot of grace to look clumsy. I came out of it mostly unscathed, with lots of bruises and aching muscles, though Paul was laid up for a while with a sprained wrist.

We teamed up with Milly, the tiger trainer, devising an act where Ali’s Jack Russell, Rusty, was replaced with a tiger cub but he pretended not to notice. This was a real hit with the audience – they’d yell for him to watch out and he’d feign deafness, shrug and continue on with this tiger cub at his side. The tiger ‘mum’ would enter the ring and the audience went wild. Ali just looked confused for a moment, shrugged and continued walking round the ring. The tiger mum padded up behind Ali, took the tiger cub by the scruff of the neck and exited the ring – there was an audible sigh of relief from the audience every time. Ali turned round, saw his Jack Russell was gone and started searching, lifting up women’s skirts and looking under men’s hats. The audience, distracted, laughing at Ali, didn’t see the tiger mum at first – she’d re-entered the ring, carrying the Jack Russell in her mouth. There was a gradual ripple through the crowd, followed by yells. Ali turned, saw his dog and stomped his way back into the ring. Two pats on the head of the tiger – a collective gasp from the audience – and Ali had his dog back.

It was one of my favourite acts – the whole troupe had devised it and it was always a success – but I ended it. The trainers had trouble breeding tigers; it wasn’t successful whatever they tried, so they bought cubs from traders or zoos. I didn’t know much about zoos, but I didn’t like separating the cubs from their mums, and I felt uneasy about cubs from the wild. It took me a while to persuade mum and dad, but I got them to effectively kill our best act. The clown troupe never knew it was me; mum and dad took full responsibility. I felt pretty bad about it and did all I could do make it up to them; working harder, helping other acts, doing more than my share if we needed extra hands for the erection and dismantling of the tents. Mum and dad reassured me, telling me they understood – ‘We know how much you love animals, G’ – but I decided I wouldn’t rock the circus boat from then on. The clown troupe bitched and moaned about Mad and James’ decision, saying, ‘Sorry, G, but it’s just—’ and I’d nod and say, it’s fine. I get it.

‘We don’t need the cub anyway,’ I said. ‘We can stand on our own clown feet.’

And we could. The audience loved us and I loved being a performer. Sitting in front of that mirror each night, Goblin becoming clown. I wasn’t as skinny as I was during the war but no one could tell I was a woman as my body disappeared beneath my costume; layers of blue and white stripes with ruffles at my neck. I wore a pointed hat with blue pom poms down the front, and we all had our signature make-up; I whited out my face, my dark eyebrows and my big lips disappearing, giving me a strange otherworldly look. I then exaggerated my lips to the point of grotesqueness, smearing lipstick over my philtrum and chin, each side curling high up on my cheeks. My eyebrows were thick black triangles, high on my forehead, giving me a look of permanent surprise and I drew in vertical lines at each eye. The other clowns coloured their noses, but I left mine white – from a distance it looked like I didn’t have a nose at all.