by Rachel Burge
I recall standing under its branches with him. He asked what the dead looked like and I told him that I didn’t want to talk about it. It was just after we had kissed. A prickle of heat creeps into my face, remembering about how much I liked him. I’ve had crushes on boys before, but not like that. When we kissed it felt so right, like it was the start of something. Needing something to do, I sip my tea but it’s so disgusting I spit it back out. I thought it was a weird thing to ask me about at the time, but I never imagined that’s why he wanted to know. Not that I could have told him anything. Nina looks nothing like the restless souls I helped get back into the tree. She seems more solid and real somehow.
Stig speaks quietly, almost to himself. ‘I had to go home. I had to know if she was dead or I was going mad.’
He looks so stricken I feel sorry for him. I guess that explains why he said Nina had woken from the coma and was fine one day and then seemed to change his mind the next.
‘Why didn’t you just tell me though? At the time, I mean.’
‘I’m not like you.’ I narrow my eyes and he adds, ‘You could cope with seeing the dead. Part of me couldn’t believe what was happening. I needed to be surrounded by ordinary things. I needed to go home – to be normal.’
I start to speak but the words turn to stone in my mouth. What exactly does he think I am? I didn’t ask to see the dead. And I certainly didn’t ask to be haunted by his ex-girlfriend. I should be at home with Mum building a new life; one that doesn’t involve her screaming as crockery flies at our heads.
‘Why didn’t you answer my messages?’ I ask.
‘No, you’re right. And I’m sorry. When I found out that Nina had died I couldn’t face anyone. It brought it all back – losing Dad.’ He draws a quick breath. ‘I should never have walked away from her. If I hadn’t left that day, then maybe . . .’ His voice wavers and I wish I could say something to help. I know how much his dad meant to him; I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose his girlfriend too.
Seeing him upset brings a lump to my throat. Those first few days after Mormor died were so hard, and listening to him talk about his own grief made me feel a little less alone. I’ll always be grateful he was there for me. I squeeze his arm, wanting to reassure him, and his coat sleeve buzzes with remorse. The energy is weak and stretched thin, making me think he can’t have worn it many times.
The material starts to show me something else but he pulls away. I take back my hand, suddenly self-conscious. He knows about my gift; I don’t want him to think I’m prying. But it’s not suspicion I see on his face; it’s sadness and loss and a flicker of hope.
‘I really am sorry. I thought about coming back lots of times, but if I’m honest I couldn’t face it. I didn’t want to think about the dead and the idea of being in the cabin surrounded by ghosts, I just couldn’t do it. You’re so brave, Martha.’ I raise my eyebrows and he peers into my good eye. ‘Seriously, not everyone could have killed that creature. It’s not just your ancestors that make you special. You’re smart and kind – and you know how to swing an axe.’ A smile comes to my face and he grins. ‘I’ve missed you. Did you miss me, even a bit?’
He touches my arm and I shake my head, trying to make sense of things. I understand why he’d be anxious about going back to the island – you don’t get over being attacked by a walking corpse that easily. And he came to the circus the moment he heard I was here, so maybe he really did miss me. But none of that explains why he ghosted me.
‘You could have replied to my texts, Stig. Even if you didn’t want to call, you could have messaged to let me know you were OK.’
‘You’re right and I’m sorry.’ He looks down, then steals a glance at my face. ‘I wondered if you’d come to the circus to find me?’
I cross my arms, unsure how to answer. It occurred to me that I might find out more about him if I came here, but I wasn’t exactly scouring the country searching for him.
‘Actually, I came because Nina is haunting me. It started the day you left.’
His eyes widen. ‘What? Why?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘What do you mean, haunting you?’
‘Doors banging, things falling off shelves.’
His gaze darts around the caravan. I don’t have to touch his clothes to know what he’s thinking. If Nina is haunting me that means she’s here; maybe in the room with us right now.
He swallows hard. ‘But why would she? Nina didn’t even know you.’
I look at the window. It’s something I’ve wondered about myself. Nina is nothing like the dead I helped return to the tree. They were shadowy and only able to form in darkness or low light, yet Nina looks almost solid. If she isn’t one of the souls I abandoned when I dropped the rope, where did she come from? All I can think is that she came to the cabin looking for Stig and then realised that I could see her. But if Stig saw her too, why not haunt him? For some reason, she chose me. ‘I think she wants me to find out what happened to her.’
‘Nothing happened to her. She was training and she fell.’
I lean back, shocked by how defensive he sounds. I watch his face and say, ‘Ruth told me the police think she was wearing a harness and it caught around her neck, but no harness was found. Doesn’t that sound odd to you?’
‘I’ve been over this with the police already. When I saw her, she wasn’t wearing a harness.’ He blows out an angry sigh. ‘God knows I begged her to wear one.’
‘So why didn’t she?’
A thud sounds above and Stig startles and stares upwards. Another clump of snow lands on the roof, then another.
‘Stig? Why didn’t she wear it?’
He pulls his gaze from the ceiling. ‘She did it to get a reaction from me, because she knew it would upset me. Everything had to be a drama with her.’
I glance out of the window and the snow has started to settle, an insidious white blanket hiding what went before.
‘Has Nina spoken to you?’ Stig’s voice brings me back to the room and I shake my head. ‘Then how do you know what she wants? Maybe there’s another reason she’s haunting you.’
‘Like what?’
The wind howls around the caravan, rattling the windows. And then the electric heater fizzes and goes out. Stig shivers and I feel it too, the sense that we’re being watched. A cupboard door in the kitchen creaks open. It moves painfully slowly, centimetre by centimetre. Stig glares at it and back to me.
Clink.
We turn and stare at the sink. Something fell – a knife.
I survey the empty kitchen, my heart racing. ‘Nina, is that you?’
Stig jumps up, his eyes wide. ‘Martha, don’t!’
I know he’s scared, but if Nina is here, I have to find out what she wants.
Stig reaches for the door, a spooked look on his face. ‘I’m staying with Ulva. I need to spend time with her, but can we meet later?’
I frown, wondering if they’re more than just friends.
‘I don’t know, Stig. I’m pretty tired.’
‘Tomorrow then?’
‘I guess.’
He opens the door then pauses. ‘Have you thought that perhaps Nina doesn’t want anything? Maybe she came looking for me and attached herself to you because she was jealous or something.’ He must be able to see the disbelief on my face as he adds, ‘Just be careful, Martha, you don’t know what she’s like. She plays with people.’ He gives me a pained smile then leaves, and I think back to something Mum said. She talked about a game being in play. Is Nina toying with me?
I wipe my breath from the cold window and disappointment settles over me like an overcoat as I watch him trudge away. Maybe I should have told him that I missed him, but then I can’t let myself be hurt again. I have enough to think about with looking after Mum and the tree. I need to focus on finding out why Nina is haunting me. As soon as I figure that out, I can go home.
Stig is nearing a line of caravans, almost out of sight, when two boys step into h
is path. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can tell they’re arguing from their body language. A guy with tattoos on his neck shoves Stig, who shouts at him. I open the narrow window and a blast of cold air hits my face, but I can’t hear anything. A moment later it’s all over, and Stig walks away. The boys head in my direction and I strain to hear their words.
‘He needs dealing with.’
‘Let’s get everyone together tonight. Then we’ll decide.’
The boy with tattoos glances over and sees me looking. I duck away then slump onto the bench. If the people here don’t like Stig, would he really risk coming back? And then it occurs to me. Maybe he isn’t here because he misses me. Maybe he’s come to stop me finding out what happened to Nina.
11
AN AUDIENCE OF THE DEAD
A
fter I’ve eaten dinner and taken a shower, I send Mum a text to say goodnight, even though the reception’s so bad she probably won’t receive it until the morning. Pulling the duvet over me, I open the book I bought at the ferry terminal. I read the same paragraph three times, my mind unable to settle. There’s something unreal about this place. I understand why Karl feels the way he does. It’s like there’s something bad at the circus, but it’s just outside – waiting. I don’t know if Nina’s death is connected to whatever strange thing is happening here, but some instinct tells me it must be.
The wind screams and howls like a banshee. I know the caravan is too heavy to be blown away, but I don’t like the way I can feel it rocking beneath me, or the way the air whistles and whines through the cracks of the windows looking for a weakness in the structure, testing the metal, trying to get in.
The overhead light flickers and threatens to go out, and I close my book and shiver. The caravan feels colder than usual, the shadows darker. I pull on another jumper and stare around the room, checking the gloomy corners of the kitchen. Even with the heater on, I can see my breath. Water drips from the tap, landing in the sink with a rhythmic plop. The sound makes me feel lonely and I shuffle down the bed and close my eyes. A moment later, I’m drifting towards sleep when a knock at the door startles me awake.
‘Who is it?’ My voice sounds small and unsure, and I clear my throat then call again, louder this time. ‘Who’s there?’
I hold still and listen, but the only answer is the low moan of the wind.
I get out of bed and cross the room, then take a deep breath and turn the lock. A rush of icy wind spits in my face as I scan the dark caravans in the distance. Whoever it was didn’t wait around. I turn to go inside when I spot something on the step: a cardboard box. I peer in every direction, half expecting someone to appear, but the night is empty.
I stare at the box, unease stirring within me, and then tell myself not to worry. I’m sure it’s nothing untoward. Stig probably left it, or Ruth. I pick up the box and take it indoors. It can’t contain tins of food, it’s much too light. I place it on the table and turn it around but there’s no label on it. No writing at all. The top is open and I reach inside and feel straw. There has to be something . . . I dig deeper and my fingers touch string. I remove a chunk of packing and a fly buzzes out. I bat it away then look in the box. Under a pile of cord is a slender wooden arm.
I lift out the puppet and it dangles to one side, a mass of long blond hair hanging down. The head is smooth wood – no face at all. It’s dressed in jeans and a jumper, its hands and feet on crude lengths of string. Wedged between its arms is a crisp white envelope.
I drop the puppet on the table and it lies in a jumble of limbs and strings, its blank face watching me as I open the envelope and take out a piece of card. Written in neat black handwriting are the words: The big top – tonight.
The tattooed guy who was arguing with Stig said something about a meeting. Maybe he saw Stig leaving my caravan earlier and decided I should know what they’re saying. I pull back the curtain and wipe the cold glass. The tents rise from the darkness like snow-capped mountains, the circus lights trembling on the wind, their yellow glow blurred and hazy as if I’m looking at them through tears. An eerie light emanates from the big top, shadows dancing against the canvas walls like flickering flames. Something about it makes me uneasy.
Ignoring the anxiety rising inside me, I get dressed then grab the torch. Judging by the lights in the big top, the meeting must have already started. If they’re discussing Stig, I have to be there. I open the door and the wind is so fierce it nearly blows me back inside. I jump down and my boots sink into snow half a metre deep. The quickest way to the big top is past the costume trailer, but I can’t face going near it in the dark. Instead I turn right and head towards the trees at the edge of the clearing.
The forest is a wavering mass of black. Tall slender trees knock together in the wind, their branches creaking and groaning under the weight of ice. The lower parts of their trunks are covered with short spiky branches that stick out like daggers, making the dim light even murkier. I walk quickly, keeping my head down.
A twig snaps and then another, as if something is moving through the trees. I stop and stare into the gloom, my heart racing.
White fingers creep around the edge of a trunk.
I hold my breath and wait. A moment later a pale face emerges. Nina looks at me imploringly, her eyes filled to the brim with emotion – with fear.
I step closer and call, ‘Please! If you can talk to me . . .’
She shakes her head and it feels like a warning. I will her to speak but she just stares at me, and then she’s gone.
I scan the trees, desperately searching for a glimpse of white. Maybe she wants me to follow her into the forest. I push away a snowy branch and step into the woods. It’s so dark; what if she doesn’t reappear? I glance over my shoulder towards the big top. I have to know what they’re saying about Stig.
I turn away from the forest and hurry across the site. The ground before the big top is pristine white without a single footprint. Yet there are lots of people inside. I can see their silhouettes against the walls of the tent. They must have entered at the rear, via the costume-change area. Aside from the wind, the only sound is the angry slap of canvas.
The door is hooked partially open, snapping in the breeze like it wants to bite me. I duck under it and enter the fabric tunnel, relieved to escape the wind. There’s no murmur of voices, not even a whisper. I point my torch at the ground and something brushes my face. I gasp and reach up, but it’s just strips of fabric. I push them aside and enter the shadowy ring.
Inside is empty, the seats of the auditorium dark. It’s freezing without the heaters on and I stamp my feet, my teeth chattering. A movement makes me glance upwards. The trapeze is gently swinging – with no one on it. I glance around, but there’s no girl in a white dress. There’s no one here at all. How can that be?
Something moves in the corner of my eye. I turn to my left and scan the rows of vacant chairs. It’s hard to see in the dim light, but I’m sure I glimpsed someone at the top of an aisle. I sweep the torch up the steps and, sure enough, there is the figure of a man. More shadows flicker at the back of the tent. I peer into the gloom and the top section is full of people, some seated and others milling about.
Grasping the torch with both hands, I climb higher. A man is sitting at the end of the row to my left. I can’t make out his features, but he seems to be watching the empty ring. Maybe he’s waiting for someone to start the meeting.
‘Hello?’
He swivels towards me and I stifle a sob.
The top part of his face is missing; his dented skull a gleam of white. He looks through me with empty black eyes. I sweep the beam of the torch along the row behind, my hands shaking. The circus is full of ghosts: an audience of the dead.
A tall thin woman with wild hair stumbles down the steps and my heart skitters. Like the others, her eyes are two inky pools. I turn to run, but the man is standing right behind me. Holding my breath, I move to one side, hoping the woman will walk by.
Sh
e passes me and I sigh with relief. And then she pauses and takes a slow step backwards. Her head twists towards me and a look of recognition flickers across her pinched face. Panic rises inside me, every muscle in my body tense. Please don’t see me. I say it in my head, over and over again, but it’s useless.
She reaches out to grab my throat and I turn and hurl myself down the steps. The man moves in front of me and bares his teeth. His fingers swipe through my body and it feels like a knife has cut into my flesh. Iciness burns where he touched me, and I cry out and clasp my hand to my middle. I race for the door, the beam of the torch swinging wildly as I run through the tunnel and into the night.
I curse my feet, willing them to move faster, but the snow is so deep. My lungs burn in my chest, but I don’t stop. I keep running, not daring to look back. I can sense them behind me, gaining on me. At last I see my caravan and tears of relief sting my eyes. The shadowy dead only form in the darkness. Once I’m inside I can put on the lights.
Hundreds of grey figures fill the night in a vast writhing fog. Men, women and children: their mouths opening and closing, pleading with me. I scream as hands reach out to grab me. I race for the caravan; fumble with my keys, bite off my glove. A mass of cold air presses against my back. I shove the key in the lock, my fingers trembling.
Slamming the door shut, I lunge for the light switch then rush to the window. The light forms a yellow pool of safety, keeping the dead away. Beyond it are masses of shadowy figures, all jumping and snatching. They remind me of the restless dead at the tree, but I haven’t seen anything like that for weeks. Not since I dropped the rope to save Mormor. If these are the dead I didn’t return, why are they here now – at the circus?
The fly buzzes around me and I knock it away then stare at the puppet on the table. It’s wearing the same clothes as me. Why didn’t I notice that before? I nudge it and it turns over, its face smothered by hair. Taking a deep breath, I lift up the handle and its body twists and turns. A bitter taste comes to my mouth. The face is no longer smooth wood, but has features.