Ever Dundas - Goblin

‘“Kill”, then. Why were so many of them killed so soon?’

‘I don’t know… Worry about what was to come.’

‘Why did you bury the camera?’

‘What?’

‘The camera. You’re the one in the photo, aren’t you? The camera was found in a graveyard with some old bones, doll parts and a rat head.’

‘Shrew. It was a shrew head.’

‘Why did you bury those things?’

Queen Isabella stands next to Linda, the pinned heart dripping blood.

‘Yes, Goblin, why did you bury those things? Are you going to tell her?’

Linda looks to where I’m staring, then back at me.

‘What is it? Do you remember something?’

‘No. I just… What was the question?’

‘Why did you bury things in the graveyard?’

Spectre-Monsta appears from behind Linda, slowly climbing up her arm.

‘It was like a time capsule,’ I say, watching Monsta’s ascent. ‘That’s all.’

‘So you meant it to be found?’

Amelia walks along the worksite with Scholler, joining us.

I shake my head and say, ‘I need a drink.’

‘You’d like a drink?’ asks Linda. ‘It’s a bit early, but I’d be happy to take you for one. We could find somewhere nice, have a good long chat.’

‘No, forget it,’ I say, scowling at Amelia and Scholler. ‘I think I should—’

‘The camera, the things you buried, you meant people to find them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You said it was a time capsule. You meant for people to find it in the future.’

‘Not really,’ I say, looking at Monsta, now sat on Linda’s shoulder.

‘Not really?’

‘I don’t know. It was just a game. That’s all.’

‘Why don’t you just tell her,’ says Amelia, crossing her arms. ‘It’s all going to come out anyway.’

‘They might not find him,’ I say.

‘Find who?’ asks Linda.

‘No one,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry, but I need to get going.’

‘How did you feel when you saw the photographs in the papers?’

‘How did I feel?’

‘Were you happy to see them?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Why didn’t you come forward?’

‘Leave the past in the past.’

‘So you didn’t mean for it to be found?’

‘No, I don’t know. I didn’t expect it. I’d forgotten. It was all forgotten.’

‘Why are they digging up the animal remains?’

‘They’re going to relocate them, give them a proper grave with a marker.’

‘Seems like a lot of time and money just for animal bones.’

‘It’s right that they should be remembered,’ I say. ‘It’s right that we pay tribute to them.’

‘But wouldn’t the money be better used for an animal shelter? Isn’t that a better tribute?’

‘I don’t… I’m not…’

‘She’ll find out soon enough,’ says Amelia.

‘She will,’ says Queen Isabella.

‘I need to go,’ I say. ‘I need to get back home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘A hotel.’

‘What hotel? Give me your details so I can get in touch and clarify anything.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘It’s in your interest. You can make sure I have everything right.’

I walk away.

‘Wait! Here’s my card. You can call me, Goblin. If there’s anything you want to add, give me a call.’

I take the card and leave the site, followed by Queen Isabella, Amelia and Scholler. I leave spectre-Monsta perching on Linda’s shoulder.

I lie in bed with the papers, Red Queen snoring at my feet. I’d found her in the street, a skinny and dirty ginger cat. I took her to the vet. They kept her in a couple of nights then I sneaked her into the hotel. She peed everywhere but in her tray and I tried to clean it up the best I could. This can’t last. I have to find somewhere else to stay.

I flick through the papers and find the pet massacre stories buried underneath all the articles on phone hacking and the financial crisis: ‘Pet slaughter shame for nation of animal lovers’, ‘WWII Pet Holocaust’, ‘Pet massacre grave in central London’. I glance over the articles. A WWII RAF veteran said ‘all this fuss over some pets is an affront to all those who lost loved ones in the war. It’s disgusting, it’s sentimentality gone mad.’

I find the article written by Linda. She’d discovered the name that’s on my birth certificate and uses it throughout the piece so it feels like I’m not reading about myself. Linda describes not-me as ‘frail and easily confused’. Queen Isabella, who’s reading over my shoulder, snorts. Linda concludes the piece saying that in this time of financial crisis it’s a waste of money to dig up the pets and give them a memorial.

Ben calls and says, ‘Are ye eating properly, old lady? Are ye staying off the drink?’

‘I’m eating like a queen,’ I say. ‘And I haven’t touched a drop. Don’t believe everything you read, Ben.’

‘I’m just worried about ye. I know how confused ye get when ye drink and I know when ye drink ye dinnae eat.’

‘You don’t need to worry, Ben. I’m fine.’

‘Aye well, ye better be looking after yersel.’

‘I am.’

‘Take care, old lady.’

‘You too, Ben.’

I put down the phone and stare at the paper. I should have refused the interview.

‘Wait,’ says Queen Isabella, right next to my ear, making me jump. ‘Just you wait until they find out you covered up a murder.’

‘I didn’t cover it up.’

‘Wait until they find out you were arrested for murder yourself.’

‘I was innocent.’

‘Just you wait,’ she says. ‘Just you wait.’

Romania, Hungary, Austria, Italy, France, 1964 – 1966

After a show, the clown troupe would get together for a drink, to unwind and dissect our performance, discuss what we could improve, but when we travelled through Romania Horatiu would go straight to his caravan. The other clowns didn’t say anything so I let him be, except when he was late for rehearsal one morning and I went to fetch him. I barged into his caravan, not even thinking, just all breezy, all ‘C’mon, Horatiu, you had too much to drink last night? Look lively, you’re late for rehearsal.’ But there he was sat on the edge of his bed, tears and snot streaming down his face. He was holding a photograph.

‘Hey… You alright?’

He looked up at me, saying nothing, and I backed out of the caravan. I wanted to be as far away from him as I could, away from his scrunched up tear and snot-stained face. I returned to the clowns and told them Horatiu was ill and we got on with rehearsals.

After putting up posters of David in the town that evening I sat with Fish Boy, having a drink in my caravan.

‘I found Horatiu crying today, holding some old photo.’

‘He’s not happy being back in Romania, and it happens to be the anniversary,’ said Fish Boy.

‘What anniversary?’

‘His boyfriend was shot. Horatiu witnessed it.’

‘How do you know?’ I said. ‘How do you know what’s going on with Horatiu?’

‘We got to talking recently, that’s all.’

‘What kind of anniversary is that anyway?’

‘One he can’t forget.’

‘Well, he should. What’s the point in holding onto that?’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Well, tell me – what’s the point? He should let it go, leave the past in the past.’

Fish Boy knocked back his whisky and said, ‘Maybe you should take your own advice.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘What’s with all the posters, G?’

‘You know I’m searching for David.’

‘I’d thought you’d given up. Then Groo died.’ He looked at me for a moment, then said, ‘She was an old cat who loved you and now she’s gone. It’s just the way it is. You need to move on.’