‘You leave my Devil alone, you old bully,’ I’d say to her, scooping her up. She meowed, but was rag doll limp as I carried her down the stairs and put her in the garden.
‘He’s as clean as any dog should be, you terror-beast. You leave him alone.’
She’d yawn and stretch, wandering off into the darkness. But it would repeat – night after night Devil was terror-groomed. I was about to call a stop to it, build the barricades, mark Devil’s territory, but after the first night we’d spent in Kensal Green Devil must have enjoyed the peace and decided he’d had enough. Groo was up to her usual terror grooming but this time Devil stood up, pawed her, pushed her over, barked and wandered off. She lay there, startled, before meowing and slinking over to me. I was shaking with laughter before I realised she was standing on my pillow, chewing on my hair.
‘You’re a strange one, old Groo,’ I said to her. ‘You really are.’ I fell asleep as she chewed on my hair and licked my head.
The next day I went to visit Mac. His mum let me in this time. He was still sick, but a bit better. I told him about Devil giving Groo what for and how she terror-groomed me instead.
‘I woke up with my hair in weird clumps from where she’d been licking and chewing, but there was no sign of her. She must have gone back to Mr Fenwick’s for her breakfast.’
‘She’s a strange one, just like you,’ he said, then had a coughing fit. His mum came in and shooed me out.
‘But I’ve only been here a minute, Mrs Mac.’
‘That’s right, and you’re already making him worse. Come back next week, I’m sure he’ll be better by then. Now, get.’
I was pretty down in the dumps at the thought of another whole week without Mac. I went home and listened to some of David’s records and just stared at the ceiling. Devil pawed at me and barked, so I took him for a walk but my heart wasn’t in it and I went back home after he’d done his business. I was lying on the sitting room floor reading my book when da came back from work. He sat in the chair next to me and lit his cigarette.
‘Goblin,’ he said. ‘Come ’ere. I’ll tell you a story.’
He usually didn’t talk much, so I just looked at him, not moving an inch.
‘Come here,’ he said, patting his knee.
I walked over to him and just stood there. I could smell the sweat and dirt of a day’s work. He picked me up by the waist and put me on his knee. He didn’t usually touch me, so I just looked at him, confused. He held up his hand, spreading his fingers.
‘A man lost his finger at the factory today,’ he said.
I looked at him, wide-eyed.
‘How?’
‘He was stupid. He used one of the machines wrong.’
‘He used it wrong?’
He nodded.
‘And, chop! Off came his finger.’
He held one of his fingers down with his thumb, pretending it was missing. I sat up, stiff, staring at him. Ma came in, glanced at us, and went over to the mirror.
‘And that finger fell to the floor and it kept moving.’
‘What are you doing?’ said ma, checking her make-up.
‘Telling a story,’ he said, not taking his eyes off me. ‘It moved along the ground like this, like a caterpillar, and it kept on going, crawling right across the factory floor.’
‘No! No, it didn’t. Fingers can’t crawl on their own.’
‘Of course they can,’ he said, ‘and we could have fixed it back on, but it crawled too far and was eaten up, snap! by the big jaws of a rat. Just like this!’
His huge hand snapped shut on mine and I yelped and fell on the floor. I rolled and laughed, and said ‘No, no! You’re telling tales.’
Ma put on another layer of lipstick and smiled into the mirror.
‘Don’t fill her head with more nonsense,’ she said.
‘It’s just a story,’ said da.
‘She’s too stupid to realise. She probably thinks it’s the truth.’
‘I know it’s just a story,’ I said.
‘Get out from under our feet, runt. And go wash yourself, you stink like a sewer.’
‘Go on,’ da said, ‘do what your ma says.’
I stood up and said, ‘Thanks for the story.’
He nodded. Ma sat on da’s lap and they kissed. She ran her hand through his hair. They laughed and I left, closing the door on them.
Edinburgh, 12 July 2011
I’m at my desk in the sitting room while Ben sits on the couch, Mahler’s head on his lap, Sam squeezed in next to Mahler.
‘That Detective called again last night.’
‘I don’t want to talk to him.’
‘Yel need to eventually, eh?’
‘I’m not ready.’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘What’re ye writing?’
‘About when I was a kid in London.’
‘I thought ye didnae want to think about all that.’
‘It’s too late now, isn’t it?’
‘But ye just said—’
‘It wasn’t all bad. I had a family of animals. And I got a new mum and dad.’
‘What happened to yer old mum and dad?’
‘Da went to fight the Nazis and never came back. Ma left too, eventually. But when the war started she had to go work in a factory and she’d come home, her hands blackened, stinking of sweat. When she paid any attention to me I was “dirty rotten Goblin-runt”. She called me Goblin-runt from the day I was born and it stuck.’
‘Join the club,’ said Ben. ‘My parents were right cunts too.’
‘I had a good brother, though. I loved David and he loved me. He called me Goblin, not “runt” like ma called me, apart from once when he was in a mood, but I knew he felt bad about it. We shared a room since as far back as I remember, and he was good to me. Ma loved David. He mustn’t have been born blue.’
London, 16 March 1939
I was nine years old on 16th March 1939 and David gave me a present. He’d fixed up some old bashed camera for me.
‘There you go, Goblin,’ he said. ‘You capture your world with that.’
I was speechless as he slung it over my neck. Ma and da usually forgot my birthday. If ma did remember she’d just go on about how I never should have been born, so I avoided being at home on my birthday and spent it with Mac and Stevie and I’d sleep in our den.
‘Come meet me at my work at five,’ said David, ‘I have a special treat for you.’
I was so excited I got there early and just sat in the street with Devil for half an hour until David came out.
‘What’s the treat?’ I said.
‘You’ll see. C’mon.’
I followed him, all antsy and asking him where we were going every few minutes. He thought it was funny at first but eventually told me to shut up or we’d be going home so I shut up and kicked a stone along the pavement until we arrived at the cinema.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Bride of Frankenstein.’
‘I don’t wanna see some film about a boring old bride.’
‘Look at the poster, you idiot.’
I looked – The Bride of Frankenstein in electrified letters; a woman with strange big hair, white zigzags at either side; lightning striking at a huge frightening face - all heavy brow, hooded eyes and dark shadows.
‘It looks amazing.’
‘I saw it when it came out, when you were too young to come with me. You’re gonna love this, Goblin. I know it.’
I nodded, gawping at the poster.