Ever Dundas - Goblin

People started to leave after midnight, but the circus folk stayed, talking and singing into the early hours, falling asleep on the floor, on the couch, under the table, just like when I lived with mum and dad. There was a subdued melancholy in the morning, everyone leaving to catch trains or buses, making false promises to keep in touch.

A couple of days after the funeral, Juliana returned to look after the animals and I stayed on to sort out dad’s affairs and his possessions. Dad owned the flat and had a small amount of savings. I gave most of the savings to the chess club, some to animal charities and kept the rest to cover travelling. He was frugal and didn’t have much; a few books, and two photo albums. I sobbed as I pored over the photographs of mum, of the three of us together.

I spent some time walking the streets of Edinburgh and getting lost down all the old closes. One of dad’s chess friends told me dad had spent a lot of time walking along Portobello promenade, so I followed in his footsteps.

I didn’t want to sell the flat, so we kept it and we went to Edinburgh on holiday two summers in a row and on our second visit I asked Juliana if she wanted to stay. She took time to think about it, but we’d both been talking about how Venice was changing; more hotels, more tourists, and several of our friends had already left. Juliana felt stuck in her job at the gallery and liked the idea of a new start. We brought Monty with us and Maria took in all our other strays, phoning every week telling me what animal had peed on what piece of priceless furniture. We moved into dad’s flat and Juliana made the spare room into an art studio. Our friends came over for holidays, which eased our transition; a constant stream of Venetians sleeping in Juliana’s studio. We both worked part-time jobs – Juliana a waitress in a local restaurant and I was a cashier in a local shop before getting a job doing ghost tours. It took Juliana a year until she got a job at the National Gallery, and it was then we felt finally settled.

And here I am still. Juliana and Monty are gone but I am here. Or there I was. I should be there, but not now. I’m in London with the flames and the stench and the rotting corpses. I’m in London and everything has turned to shit.

London, 18 January 2012

I sit having breakfast with Tim, staring at the morning paper.

‘Are you ready to tell me?’

‘Not yet,’ I say as Monsta strokes my hand, soothing me.

I read the headline over and over until the words become meaningless:

91 YEAR OLD WAR HERO ACCUSED OF 1939 MURDER.

Tim picks it up.

‘Do you mind if I read it?’

‘No.’

I drink my coffee, watching him.

‘It says you were a witness. To the murder.’

I nod.

‘You were nine years old.’

He reads the rest then folds up the paper and throws it on to the table. I pick it up.

‘I don’t think you should read it,’ he says.

‘Why not?’

‘I just don’t.’

I start to read and he says, ‘Please, Goblin, don’t read it.’

I look up at him.

‘What does it say about me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘That I’m a batty old lady? An unreliable witness?’

‘Delusional.’

‘Delusional?’

‘The family of the accused, they say you’re delusional.’

I laugh.

‘You don’t need to protect me, Tim.’

‘No? Tell me what happened, G. I want to help.’

‘I know you do. Just let me read.’

He stares at me for a moment, his face impassive, then gets up and gathers the plates. As he washes the dishes I sit and read, spectre-Monsta by my side.

Linda Cartwright had interviewed Detective Curtis, but he didn’t say anything other than that there’s strong evidence connecting the war hero to the murder. Linda writes that this strong evidence has to be more than the unreliable accounts of an old man and woman. She asks why Mac and I didn’t go to the police in 1939, suggesting we have an agenda, suggesting we have something to hide. She interviewed the war hero’s daughter: “My father is a hero . He doesn’t deserve this. He’s old and this has been causing him a lot of stress, and for what? The crazy ramblings of a delusional old woman. This could kill him, it very well could kill him and I’ll hold this woman responsible.” Linda writes that she met me and I was confused, often losing my train of thought. She said I couldn’t keep my story straight. She ends asking what it is I have to hide.

Ben comes in from walking Mahler and Sam.

‘Jesus, old lady,’ he says, ‘Why didn’t ye tell me?’

‘Morning, Ben. Nice walk?’

‘Dinnae change the subject. I thought we were friends.’

‘We are,’ I say. ‘Why wouldn’t we be?’

Mahler rushes over, puts his paws on my lap, and licks my face.

‘Friends talk to each other,’ he says, taking his coat off. ‘Tell each other their problems.’

‘Ben,’ I say, looking up at him. ‘It wasn’t just you. I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘That’s right,’ says Tim, drying his hands, ‘she didn’t tell me either.’

‘Aye, but she should have,’ Ben says to Tim before turning back to me. ‘Ye could have told me. Ye know that don’t ye? Ye can tell me anything.’

He sits opposite me and throws his copy of the paper on the table.

‘I know,’ I say, not looking at him. ‘It was just difficult.’

I stroke Mahler’s head.

‘Did ye do it?’

‘What?’

‘Murder. Wis it you?’

I stop stroking Mahler and turn to Ben.

‘Jesus, Ben. Don’t believe everything you read.’

‘Well, what do I know, eh? Ye dinnae tell me anything.’

‘I didn’t murder anyone.’

‘Well, ye should sue.’

‘What?’

‘That reporter. For casting aspersions.’

‘She didn’t actually say I murdered anyone.’

‘Aye, but she may as well have.’

I stand up.

‘Do you want some tea?’ I say, walking over to the counter.

‘Always changing the subject,’ says Ben as I put the kettle on.

Tim rubs my arm and says, ‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s not okay,’ says Ben, twisting round to face us.

‘She’ll tell us in her own time,’ says Tim.

‘Her own time? It’s been seventy years—’

‘Seventy-two,’ I say.

‘Seventy-two, then. She’ll be dead before she tells us the truth.’

‘You’re acting like I’ve been lying to you. I didn’t lie.’

‘Aye, ye just hid it. That’s just as bad.’

‘Don’t you have any secrets?’

‘Not from you.’

I don’t know what to say to that. I go back to the table, sinking into my seat.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, looking down at my clasped hands. ‘It wasn’t personal, Ben. I know I can trust you, that you’re there for me. I just don’t know how to talk about it.’

‘It’s okay, old lady. I didnae mean to be angry with ye, I just—’

‘I understand, Ben,’ I say, looking up. ‘I’ll tell you,’ I say, looking from Ben to Tim. ‘I’ll tell you both everything from beginning to end and back again.’

London, 27 January 2012

You’re a storyteller, aren’t you, Goblin?

Yes.

I want you to tell me the story of this photograph. Of all of these photographs.

He spread them out across the table, but he keeps the focus on the one in front of me.

Let’s start with names. Who are they?

London, 6 September 1939

We were in the worksite; me, Devil, Mac, and Stevie on lookout. We crept until we came round the side of the rubble and there was another animal pit, and in the pit were the neighbourhood bullies who’d hurt David and me that time after the cinema. There was Jack, Simon, three others, and David on his knees. I couldn’t see him properly at first. The light was going, his face was bloody. When I saw it was him it took me a moment to make sense of it. I had just been thinking of him at home, I had an image of him in my head. He was supposed to be stretched out on his bed, smoking a cigarette, telling me to leave it, telling me he didn’t want to hear another bleedin’ bible story. But he wasn’t there, we weren’t there, we were here. My brother was on his knees and Jack had a gun to his head.