Ever Dundas - Goblin

She half-stood, half-fell her way out from under, her back legs not working properly. She collapsed in front of me, on her side, breathing heavily.

‘What’s wrong, old thing? You’ve gone all lopsided like Monsta.’

A tumour, Colin said. She won’t have long to live, Colin said. Best to let her go.

‘I can’t let her go, she can’t go. She’s all I have left.’

‘You have me,’ said Fish Boy, ‘you have us.’

‘I should have looked after her more. I should have stayed here every night with her. I neglected her and now she’s dying.’

‘G, there’s nothing you could have done. She’s old. She had a good life. You loved her.’

‘It wasn’t enough.’

Fish Boy and I holed up in my caravan and lay on the bed with Groo. We stroked her and spoke to her and tried to get her to drink and eat, but she only lay there, her breathing more laboured. Fish Boy went for Colin and I put Groo on my lap, my arms around her as Colin inserted the needle. I kissed Groo’s head. I smelled behind her ear like I always did, but she didn’t smell of anything anymore. I watched her slip away. She peed on me, the warmth seeping through to my skin, and she was gone. I said I was sorry over and over, so so sorry. I kissed her head again and held her paw. My tears and snot darkened her fur.

Before we buried Groo, I let Rusty see her and smell her. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do but I thought maybe he would understand and I wouldn’t have to deal with him plaintively following me around, wondering where she’d gone.

He sniffed her, licked her, growled, circled her and barked at me before running off. He turned up at my caravan a couple of times, sleeping at the bottom of the bed, then I didn’t see him again apart from the performances and I was glad.

After Groo died I stayed in bed for a week. Mum and dad, Fish Boy and Angelina all came to see me, but I couldn’t get up. I had nightmares again, about Quatermass and Martians, about Devil and old-ma. I stayed in bed until one afternoon I woke up and felt like a weight had fallen from me as I slept. I had all the energy in the world and the first thing I did was print posters of David. I’d let it slide, so wrapped up in work and Angelina and Fish Boy that I’d only put up a few here and there. But now I had hundreds and I’d put them up in every town and city we stopped in.

We didn’t usually get much time to sight-see as we travelled, but when we were in Prague I walked down Charles Bridge and touched St. John of Nepomuk’s five stars, hoping the silent saint would grant my wish. When we were in Paris mum and dad gave us all a couple of days off and several of us went up the Eiffel Tower. Two of the acrobats were arrested for doing dangerous stunts on the top level and mum and dad had a hell of a time getting them out of jail, which gave us all a few extra days in Paris. I visited Père Lachaise Cemetery with Fish Boy, mainly to see Oscar Wilde’s grave, but I loved it there and we stayed until late afternoon. It reminded me of the days I’d spent in Kensal Green, but it was a soft, melancholy feeling, only a tinge of sadness as I remembered Devil leaping after bumble bees.

In the evening after we’d returned from the cemetery I sat on the steps of my caravan with Fish Boy, basking in the glow of the fading sun. I thought of the times I was entertaining in the Underground and I thought of meeting dad, how lucky I was. I was where I belonged. End the story here. The past be damned.

London, 25 November 2011

I try to cancel the exhumation.

‘It’s not there,’ I say. ‘I’ve forgotten. Mac doesn’t know, don’t trust him. It’s all forgotten.’

But it goes ahead and I go along. The old worksite is a worksite again; it was all set for new development when the bankers failed us.

The media are here. Only a handful of them, the few that are after something different to the Eurozone crisis, something different to riots and phone hacking. They stand around behind the police line. I can’t imagine they’ll last long; there’s nothing to see.

‘Where’s Mac?’ I ask Detective Curtis.

‘He helped us. Told us where he thinks it’s located, then he left. He wasn’t feeling well. What do you think? Does this look about right?’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to get my bearings. It’s all changed.’

‘We’ll start here,’ said the detective. ‘Maybe we’ll be lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It would just make things easier if this was quick.’

‘Did Mac tell you everything?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know it all?’

‘I do, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

I say nothing.

‘You can tell me when you’re ready.’

I nod.

‘This is going to take some time,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to stay. I’ll call if we find anything.’

I stare at where they’re digging.

‘I’ll call you,’ the detective says and walks over to talk to one of the workmen.

I hover, still staring. It’s difficult to see the past here, hard to see this as the place where Mac, Stevie, Devil and I used to come and sit by a fire telling stories.

‘You’re Goblin?’

A woman stands next to me, one of the reporters.

‘You’re Goblin, right?’

‘I am.’

‘I’m Belinda Cartwright. You can call me Linda,’ she says, offering her hand. I take her hand and she says, ‘Mind if I record?’ She holds her phone up, nods and smiles as if I responded and says, ‘What’s your real name?’

‘Goblin.’

‘You don’t look like a goblin. In fact, you’re awfully pretty for your age, if a bit skinny. I need your real name.’

‘My name is Goblin.’

‘You changed it?’

‘It’s been my name since the day I was born.’

‘Do you have something to hide?’

‘No.’

‘Then surely your name won’t hurt.’

‘I’m Goblin.’

‘Your surname?’

‘Just Goblin.’

Linda smiles and says, ‘Is it true you used to pretend to be a boy?’

‘You spoke to Mac?’

‘Mr Mackenzie? I did.’

‘I didn’t pretend. I just wore my brother’s hand-me-downs and had short hair.’

‘So, this is where all the animals are buried?’

I look at her for a moment and she prompts me, ‘The pets killed in World War Two?’

‘Some of them, yes.’

‘And you saw it?’

‘I did.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Nine.’

‘That must have been a horrible thing to see.’

‘It was.’

‘Why do you think people did it? Killed them in such vast numbers?’

‘I thought it was Nazis,’ I say, remembering when we played Nazis, Frankenstein’s monsta and Martians. I look across the worksite, searching for our den, trying to imagine it as it used to be. ‘Stevie was the Nazi.’

‘Who’s Stevie?’

‘No one. Just a friend.’

‘He was a Nazi?’

‘We used to play a game, that’s all. He pretended to be a Nazi. At the time we thought it was Nazi spies who’d killed the pets. I couldn’t believe we were responsible.’

‘Why would Nazi spies kill pets?’

‘To demoralise us.’

‘And what do you think now?’

‘There was worry about how animals would react to bombing, so people thought it was a mercy killing. Animals weren’t allowed in public shelters, weren’t allowed on evacuation. There were laws against feeding your pets food humans could eat and you’d be fined if you did.’

‘But why euthanize them so soon after war was declared? In such vast numbers when there hadn’t been any bombing yet?’

‘It wasn’t euthanasia,’ I say. ‘There was nothing wrong with them. They weren’t ill.’