by Rachel Burge
‘He had long orange hair, though I think it was a wig. He was about your height, and he had thin lips and a husky voice.’
Karl shakes his head. ‘There is no one here like that.’
‘And the masks are . . . strange.’
‘Strange how?’
If he hasn’t seen them move then he probably wouldn’t believe me. I decide to take a different line.
‘Nina, the girl who died – do you still have her belongings?’
His bushy white eyebrows jump in surprise.
‘Why?’
‘Ruth mentioned you brought them back from the hospital. Could I see them, please, just for a moment?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Who are you?’ When I don’t answer he lets out a sigh. ‘They are no longer in my possession. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘The gold catsuit she was wearing . . .’
His expression darkens, telling me the conversation is over. He turns to walk away and I grab his arm, hoping to find some clue in the material. His duffle coat is riddled with resentfulness and apprehension; half-formed fears that have eaten into the fibres of the wool. He knows the circus is in danger. There’s a monster at the gates he has to keep out, but he doesn’t know how to fight it. The realisation makes me shiver. I knew there was something wrong about the circus, but I hadn’t considered it might be in danger.
He gives me a wary look, and I release his arm and lower my voice to a whisper. ‘I know there was more to her death.’
Harsh caws sound from the edge of the clearing. Dozens of ravens sweep the sky and blacken the treetops, calling a warning to each other.
‘Please, Karl. Something isn’t right. I just want to know what’s going on.’
His face pales. ‘I should never have let them perform the myth of Baldur.’
‘Why? Because of Loki?’
‘Never say that name. We call him the Sly One. I wouldn’t let an actor play him, but yes, I allowed his story to be told.’
A tiny pulse of excitement beats in my throat. Could he know that the gods are real too? But his coat revealed only vague fears. I watch his expression, unable to decide if his apprehension is based on mere superstition, or if he believes that Loki had something to do with Nina’s death. ‘So you think it was Lo— the Sly One’s doing?’
Karl sniffs. ‘I am not a child. I know the gods are not real. They are not here, walking among us.’
I frown, confused. ‘But you think it brought bad luck somehow?’
‘Stories change over time but the myths are different. No matter how much they change on the outside, their meaning inside stays true.’ He taps out a rhythm – one-two, one-two – on his chest and adds, ‘You can feel it between the words like a heartbeat. My father used to say the myths are a vessel of truth.’ He studies my face for a reaction then shakes his head, seemingly frustrated. ‘Some things are not meant to be changed.’
He turns to leave and an angry gust of wind shakes the treetops, making the firs tremble. Dozens of ravens line their branches, watching the circus with dark intent. I’m sure there weren’t that many before. A sudden foreboding grips me, and I have the feeling that things are spiralling out of control in a way I can’t understand.
Karl turns his watery eyes to the sky. ‘A storm is coming.’ I glance at the slate-grey clouds and shiver. He speaks so ominously I can’t help wonder if he’s the one who’s brought bad fortune on this place. He gazes into the distance and continues without looking at me. ‘I’ve lived and worked here all my life. My father managed the circus before me. I belong to these tents and these people; it’s in my blood.’
He falls silent, and I consider what strange coincidence brought me to this place. I may not belong to the circus in the way that he does, but I have a place with the gods, and like my ancestors I am part of their stories. And yet I know so little. Perhaps I am in over my head.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, Karl turns to me, his face stony. ‘Whatever happens, my place is here. But not yours. You should leave while you still can.’
10
STIG ISN’T HERE BECAUSE HE MISSES ME
R
uth lied. It doesn’t get any easier. The seventh customer eases herself up from the chair opposite and I sniff back a tear as she exits through the curtain. Her husband used to beat her. It started on their wedding day and lasted for five years, until she called the police last week. She left with nothing, just a body covered in bruises, a suitcase and her two children. She’s staying with a friend in town, who paid for her to have the reading with me. How will she feed the children, where will they go? What if he comes after them? She wanted so much to know what her future holds. I couldn’t give her any answers so I gave her a hug.
As the pain flowed out of her coat, I whispered what it was like for her living in fear all those years. There was such relief on her face. Maybe it was realising that someone believed her, or having someone put into words what she had kept hidden for so long. She didn’t have to tell me the awful things he’d done, because I saw them. Part of me wishes I hadn’t, but it’s over now. And I will gladly carry it with me if it helps her the tiniest bit.
Sandrine’s feathered face appears around the curtain and I lean back in my chair, relieved the session is over. ‘There’s one more, sorry.’ From the strange expression on her face, I’m guessing it’s not going to be an easy customer. She goes and I rub my pounding head, not helped by the fog of incense. I sigh, desperately wanting to be alone. I’ve barely had a moment to think about my conversation with Karl.
The curtain draws back and I stand up to welcome my last client.
Stig.
My heart roller-coaster dips. I don’t know whether to feel angry, relieved or happy. I blink at him, my emotions tumbling inside me. His dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he wears his usual black eyeliner. He smiles, revealing two perfect dimples, and I jump up.
‘You’re OK!’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he laughs.
‘So you went back to the island, you got my letter?’
He frowns. ‘No, I haven’t been there. Sorry I didn’t reply to your texts. I’ve been busy and . . .’ He opens his arms as if to hug me. ‘It’s so good to see you, Martha! I’ve missed you.’
He’s been busy?
The words are a cold fist, reaching into my chest and stopping my heart. I step back and glare at him, unable to hide my hurt. Do I mean so little to him that he could just disappear without a word? I was convinced that something must have happened to him, that he would have got in touch if there was any way he could. And now here he is, larger than life and not a trace of worry on his face.
He looks at me expectantly but I have no idea what to say. In the end, I manage a terse, ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’ There is something different about him, and now I realise what it is. His clothes are still black, but his battered leather trench coat is gone. In its place is a military-style jacket that looks brand new. Even his jeans are clean and less ripped.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask. And then it occurs to me that maybe he didn’t. ‘Presuming you came to see me.’
‘Of course I came to see you!’ He gestures to the armchairs. ‘Can we sit?’
‘Actually I’ve just finished for the day.’
He smiles. ‘I’ve paid for twenty minutes.’
I frown, wondering if he’s joking, and he looks slightly bewildered. What was he expecting – that I would throw myself into his arms? I grab my coat and he touches my arm.
‘Can I walk with you then? Please?’
‘If you want, but it’s not far to my caravan.’
‘I know.’ I throw him a sideways glance and he adds, ‘Ulva told me where you’re staying. We’re friends – that’s how I knew you were here. She called me yesterday and mentioned someone new called Martha had started; a psychic who reads clothes.’
We step through the curtains and Ruth looks up from reading for a client, her smile falteri
ng when she sees who’s with me. Stig nods in her direction then quickly drops his gaze, and I realise they probably know each other. He must know a lot of people here. I hope Ruth didn’t overhear our conversation. If she knows I’ve met Stig before, she’ll realise I didn’t come here by chance. She’ll know I lied. She’s been so kind I don’t want her to think badly of me – or make me leave.
Outside, the sky is heavy with snow and the cold is more ferocious than ever. Stig pulls up his collar and we walk in uncomfortable silence, the wind ringing in our ears. All around us tents suck and billow in the breeze. I look at the frayed ropes, wondering how many storms they’ve weathered, and how many more it will take until they snap.
An icy gust pushes us back and Stig grins at me. For a moment it’s like before, us battling together. I frown, confused by how I can feel so many things at once – angry and upset and yet relieved to see him at the same time. Part of me wants to turn on him and demand the truth. Did he ever have any intention of coming back to the island? Could he really not have found the time to send one text? Pretending not to notice the hope in his eyes, I drop my head and keep walking. I like the chill of the wind. Numbness is a relief from the tug-of-war emotions inside me.
At the caravan I fumble with my key and open the door. Inside it’s freezing. The tiny sink is full of dirty cups and plates and I didn’t convert the bed back to a sofa this morning. It has that same smell of damp socks. I take in the squalid-looking sheets and feel my cheeks burn, but then why should I feel embarrassed? I wasn’t exactly expecting company.
Stig picks up the kettle. ‘I’ll make us a drink.’
I give him a tiny smile, thankful he’s busying himself in the kitchen so I can at least straighten the duvet and hide my dirty clothes. Once I’m done, I switch on the electric heater then pull down the table from the wall.
‘Tea or coffee?’ he asks.
‘There’s only tea.’
I sit on one of the benches and watch him slide open a drawer and take out a teaspoon. It was the same in the cabin; he always knew where to find things. How does he do that – just seem to belong wherever he goes? He’s so relaxed in himself that he takes up all the space around him, while mine shrinks.
He puts two steaming mugs on the table then sits opposite me. Most people glance at my blind eye, distracted by the way it faces the wrong direction, but Stig holds my gaze as if he doesn’t notice it. He was that way from the start; I’d forgotten how accepted he made me feel. He leans forward with a smile. ‘So how are you? How’s your mum doing?’
The question catches me off guard. He knows we haven’t always got on well, but that’s not why I feel uncomfortable. And then I realise. I liked the fact that no one here knows me. It meant I could be free of the past, free to be someone else.
‘She didn’t make you return to London and live with your dad then. I’m guessing you signed up to the school on the mainland?’
I wrap my hands around my mug and mutter, ‘I’m starting in a couple of months.’
‘Great. What are you doing?’
‘Norwegian Language with Tourism Studies.’
He grins. ‘Cool. That way you’ll be able to read your ancestors’ journals for yourself, and tourism studies will help when you open the guesthouse.’
I chew the inside of my cheek. I’d forgotten I’d mentioned the idea in front of him. After he left, Mum and I talked about it a lot. How we could sell the house in England and turn the warehouse by the harbour into an artists’ retreat. I even phoned my friend Kelly and told her about it. She said she couldn’t wait to visit and we talked about her coming to the island next summer.
Stig looks at me for a long moment. ‘You know, I still can’t believe you’re here. So are you just earning money before school starts?’
I sip my tea and it tastes funny, the milk sour. ‘Yeah, something like that.’ He’s the one who disappeared, so how come it’s me answering all the questions? I think about asking where he’s been, but I don’t want to appear desperate. If I really mean nothing to him, then why should I give him the satisfaction of opening my heart? Better to let him think I’m not bothered than reveal how much I care. Biting back the urge to ask what’s really on my mind, I find myself saying, ‘What about you? Are you working or studying?’ The fact that I have no idea what he does, never mind where he’s been for the past three weeks, makes me realise how little I actually know about him.
‘Mum wants me to apply to university but I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Oh?’
‘I always thought I’d be a mechanic like Dad.’ His eyes light up as he talks. ‘I used to help him restore vintage motorbikes. There’s something about bringing an old bike back to life and seeing it run again.’ He laughs and adds, ‘I had this crazy idea I’d fix up an old classic, and then go touring around Europe for six months.’
‘So why can’t you?’
He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again, a coy smile on his lips. When he finally speaks, I have a feeling it’s a different answer to the one that came to mind. ‘Dad’s bike business went bust and that’s when he started drinking and things went wrong between them. I don’t want it to be a painful reminder for Mum. She thinks I like fixing up and riding old bikes in memory of him, but it’s not that. It’s what I enjoy.’
He goes quiet for a while then glances around the room. ‘I like this caravan.’
I purse my lips, presuming he’s trying to be funny. Or is he skirting around the issue, hoping that I’ll break down and ask where he’s been? He can’t have come all this way just to make small talk.
‘It’s cosy. I used to stay here sometimes,’ he adds.
‘How come?’
‘If Nina threw me out, I’d sleep here.’
‘Oh.’ I squirm in my seat, wondering what other revelations he might have. I want to ask why he argued with Nina. I want to know everything there is to know about his ex-girlfriend, but not for the reason he might think.
He takes a deep breath. ‘You must be wondering why I didn’t come back to the island.’
I shrug, determined to keep my face blank.
‘If I’m honest, I left because . . .’
My phone vibrates.
I grab it from my pocket, relieved to see Mum’s name. ‘Sorry, I have to take this. Do you mind?’
I glance at the door and Stig reluctantly gets up. ‘Sure, sure. Of course.’ He pulls his coat tighter and goes outside.
I smile, a tiny bit pleased that he’s the one being kept waiting for a change. Once he’s gone, I swipe to answer. ‘Yes, I’m here, Mum. Did you see the doctor?’ There’s so much interference on the line I can barely hear. ‘Say that again?’
‘I said he’s given me some sleeping tablets, and no, before you ask, I didn’t say anything about the tree. Please tell me you’re on your way home.’
‘Not yet.’
Mum sighs. ‘I know you had to go to the circus, I felt it when I drew the pictures, but I want you to come back now.’
When I don’t say anything, she whispers, ‘Please, Martha. I don’t like being on my own. When I water the tree I can feel someone watching me.’
My chest twinges as if a hand is squeezing my heart. I hate hearing her sound afraid. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. If you can sense something, it will be the Norns. They won’t hurt you.’
‘Please, you have to leave that place. He scares me. You mustn’t invite him inside.’
I look out of the window. It’s blowing a gale and Stig is pacing up and down, his chin to his chest.
‘Who are you talking about, Mum? Who scares you?’
The line goes dead. I call back but all I get is a recorded voice telling me to leave a message. Maybe I should go home. What if there really is someone watching her and it’s not the Norns? I sigh and return my phone to my pocket, then open the door.
Stig hurries up the steps and huddles under the electric fire. Whatever his story is, I hope it’s good. ‘You were about to tell
me something?’ I say.
He shoves his gloves in his pockets then worships his hands to the heater. ‘Yes. The reason why I left . . . It was because of Nina.’
‘I know. You told me you were going to visit her in hospital.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I mean I saw her in the cabin. You remember how you helped me inside after the draugr attacked me?’ Thinking about the corpse that clawed its way out of the tree makes my stomach shrink. Stig touches his neck, revealing a glimpse of pale pink scar, and I nod, the image of his frozen face clear in my mind. Mum helped me get him to the sofa and I covered him with blankets. We didn’t know if he was going to make it.
I sit down and Stig slides into the bench opposite. ‘When I opened my eyes, I saw Nina.’
A shiver runs through me. I remember him saying her name when he came around. I wondered why he was talking about her, and Mum said it was the cold; he was confused.
‘What did she look like?’
Stig’s eyes flash with alarm. ‘Dead. She looked dead!’
The anguish in his voice surprises me, and then I remember what he was like in the cabin. I was fearful of the ghostly faces in the shadows, but he seemed terrified.
I soften my voice a little. ‘I know. But what was she wearing?’
He pinches the bridge of his nose as if he doesn’t like remembering. ‘A short white dress, nothing on her legs and feet.’
‘Have you seen anything else, things moving in the shadows?’ I ask.
‘No, and I don’t want to. I only saw her that once.’
He rubs his arms and glances at the window. It’s snowing thick and fast, great eddies of white swirling to the ground. Perhaps it was his brush with death that allowed him to glimpse Nina. If Hel hadn’t released him, he would have died from his injuries that day, and it seems a coincidence that he saw her just as he came around. He wasn’t able to see the other shadowy dead, so perhaps it was a one-off. If he’s lucky, he’ll never see her again.
He doesn’t say anything for a while, and when he does, his voice sounds far away. ‘None of it feels real. The last I heard, Nina had recovered from the coma. I couldn’t believe it when I saw her. I tried telling you about it when we were at the tree.’