by Rachel Burge
Karl stands to one side, talking animatedly to Ruth and the seamstress. He shouts for them to stop the performance, but his voice is no match for the ringmaster’s. Refusing to be beaten, the old man hurries across the field and climbs the rigging of the platform. He yanks the loudspeaker from the ringmaster’s hands and dozens of people below pause and stare in bewilderment. Eventually Oskar appears and waves his arms, signalling for them to break. A few drift away, but most of the performers crowd around him and demand answers, their voices full of fear.
‘How do you know Loki wanted you to find the dead?’ Stig asks me.
I tell him about the puppet and invitation and his eyes grow large.
‘Can I see it?’
‘The card?’
He nods and I shrug. ‘Sure, it’s in my caravan.’ I don’t know what Stig thinks he can do to help, but it’s a relief to have someone to talk to about it. As we near my door, I see something that makes my throat close. The puppet is sitting on the step, back straight and head tilted to one side, its red slash of a mouth twisted in a smile as if happy to see us. I turn away, not wanting to think about how it got there. Maybe it crawled out of the snow. Thinking about the jester makes me feel weak. I don’t know if my life is in danger, but I know that he can control me, that I am completely powerless against him.
Stig sees my face and frowns, his jaw set with determination. ‘I’ll get rid of it.’
‘Be careful, Stig.’
He strides to the door. ‘I think there’s some matches and lighter fluid under the sink.’
I hand him my key, careful not to go near the thing, and a moment later he emerges with his pockets bulging. He lifts the puppet by its foot and it hangs limply from his hand. ‘I’ll take it to the far side of the site. I’ll be as quick as I can. Will you be OK on your own?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
He hesitates, his eyes full of concern. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ll be fine, really.’
He gives me an uncertain smile and then takes off. I watch him hurry across the field and let out a shaky breath, grateful that I won’t have to deal with it. Dozens of performers are walking back across the site, so presumably Karl managed to stop the rehearsal.
I spot Ulva heading towards her caravan and walk in her direction. I don’t know what Loki wants with me or what kind of perverse game he’s playing, but I won’t let him distract me. I need to find out what happened to Nina, and Ruth said that she and Ulva were like sisters. She must know something.
I reach Ulva’s caravan just before she does. She’s wearing the same costume as before, a grey cloak with a lavish fur-lined collar, the wolf mask tucked under her arm.
She greets me warmly. ‘Hi, are you looking for Stig?’
‘Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is it OK to come in?’
‘Sure.’
She looks a little confused, but takes out her key and opens the door with a tentative smile. Her place is bigger than mine but just as shabby. Everything is pale and faded, from the floral sofas and curtains to the laminate wood-flooring and cupboards. Dirty plates clutter the counter and it smells of cooking: mashed potatoes and the tang of pickled fish.
She places the mask on the table, and the wolf leers as if daring me, its empty eyes seeing both nothing and too much.
‘Do you want a drink or something to eat?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
She gestures for me to sit then goes to the counter and says over her shoulder, ‘Sorry, I’ll be with you soon. Work always makes me hungry.’ While she fixes a sandwich, I slide onto the bench and then look around the room. The flowery wallpaper is peeling and in places it’s been picked off, or ‘Ulva’ is scrawled over it in green crayon. There are no pictures, just a few flimsy magazine posters stuck to the wall: one of a snowy mountain scene and one of a snake. A pile of children’s picture books lies abandoned on a dusty corner unit. Stig said that Ulva was raised by the circus. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her. No wonder her daydream felt desperate when I touched her chiffon scarf. She must miss her mum so much.
She puts a glass of water and a plate on the table then sits opposite me. For a moment neither of us says anything, then she smiles nervously. ‘You do know Stig and I are just friends, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Stig said.’
I watch her eat and wonder what he’s told her about me. Presumably she knows I didn’t get a job here by chance. Does that mean others know too? Would she have told Ruth?
‘Good.’ She swallows another bite of her sandwich and looks at me kindly, her voice sincere. ‘Only you seem nice and Stig deserves to be happy, especially after Nina.’
I take a deep breath and keep my voice level. ‘I heard about the accident.’
Ulva raises her eyebrows and I have a feeling I need to tread carefully.
‘Ruth told me about it,’ I explain. ‘She said you and Nina were like sisters. You must miss her.’ I wait a moment then add, ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but Ruth sounded like she was upset with Nina about something. She mentioned they had some kind of argument and I wondered if you knew –’
Ulva tears off some sandwich and barely chews before swallowing and taking another bite. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then reaches towards the mask on the table and strokes the wolf’s fur, her eyes burning with quiet intensity.
‘Ruth is a good person. She was just looking out for me.’
‘How do you mean?’
She glances at me as if suddenly aware of my presence. ‘Nothing, sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Please, go on.’
‘I was planning to leave the circus with Mum, but Nina tricked me into staying.’ She looks away and her face darkens as if she doesn’t like remembering. ‘When Ruth found out she got angry, really angry. She even put a binding spell on her.’
‘A spell?’
Ulva shrugs. ‘She’s into magic and things. She wanted to stop Nina from doing anything like that again.’
I remember the evening I had dinner in Ruth’s caravan. There was a shelf with some candles and a figure wrapped in green thread. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but maybe it was an altar.
Ulva adds quickly, ‘Please don’t mention it to anyone. Ruth didn’t have anything to do with Nina’s accident, but I can tell she worries about it, and I don’t want her to feel bad.’
I nod and Ulva forces a smile then changes the subject. ‘I wanted Nina and Stig to be happy, I really did, but they weren’t good for each other. They made one another miserable, arguing all the time. Anyway, he has you now. I guess you’ll be going home together soon.’
She sees my expression and adds, ‘Sorry, did I get it wrong? Stig said something about going to the island with you. I forget the name of the place . . .’
I smile in surprise, realising that Stig must have told Ulva he wants to move to Skjebne. He seemed so different in the forest, honest and open in a way he hasn’t been before. Maybe we could have a future.
A noise makes me startle – a swish, snap and thud.
We turn and look together.
‘What was that?’ I ask.
Ulva meets my gaze, her face pale.
She stands up and walks across the room and I follow her, the skin on my arms prickling. It sounded like it came from inside. There are two closed doors at the rear of the caravan. She pauses before one of them and I hold my breath. I can’t hear anything now, but I have a bad feeling about what might be behind the door.
Ulva pushes it open and Nina is swaying from the ceiling, scrabbling at a seemingly invisible rope around her neck, her eyes bulging. I cover my mouth and swallow a scream. Her skin is grey, the veins on her forehead protruding as if they might burst. She struggles, gasping for breath, then her body goes limp and her head drops. ‘Weird, must have been something outside.’ Ulva carries on talking but I barely hear her. I want to shout an
d point at the dead girl hanging from her bedroom ceiling, but I don’t. I want to look away, but I can’t. How horrific it must have been to fall from the trapeze. Nina has put me and Mum through so much, but there’s no anger inside me now. All I feel is a gnawing sense of pity. If only there were something I could do, some way I could help her.
‘You OK? Martha?’ Ulva touches my arm and I nod without turning my head.
Nina’s eyes snap open. She looks at me pleadingly, as if I’m the only one who can save her, and I hold her gaze, silently promising to get justice for her. And then she vanishes. I rest a hand on my chest and try to calm my nerves, and that’s when I notice it. Under Ulva’s bed is an open shoebox, with a gold catsuit inside it.
Coldness blooms in the pit of my stomach. I know it’s hers. Nina wanted me to find it, that’s why she appeared. I turn to Ulva, my heart racing.
‘Actually, could I use your toilet, please?’
She points to her right. ‘Sure, it’s just there.’
I watch as she walks into the kitchen and turns on the tap. Now’s my chance. I slip into her bedroom and pull the door closed. My blood pounds in my ears. I don’t stop to catch my breath or ready myself. I drop to my knees and pull out the box. Ignoring the photos, letters and jewellery, I grab the catsuit.
Impressions slam into me. Snatches of images and feelings jumbled up together. Nina is screaming at Stig outside the big top. Betrayal, jealousy, anger . . . each emotion stronger than the last.
I take my hand away and catch my breath. The mix of materials is confusing. I’m seeing facts, so the catsuit contains cotton. But the way it hurls emotions at me, it must contain polyester too.
I clutch the fabric and demand to see a memory. This time I see the world through Nina’s eyes. She’s climbing the metal rigging in the big top, rage pumping her legs ever faster. The higher she goes, the more powerful she feels. Stig is far below, a small figure in the middle of the ring. She wants him to shout her name; she wants to make him care.
Stig calls up, ‘You’re being stupid!’ He paces and flaps his arms. ‘Just wear your harness, Nina. Please!’
‘It’s over, Stig! I mean it this time. I’m seeing someone else.’
She peers down, sure that he’ll say something. She wants him to fight for her but he just stands there, saying nothing. She grabs hold of the nearby trapeze and sways her body outwards. Her hands are sweating. She knows she should be wearing a harness, but she’s done the movement a thousand times before. Her muscles have a memory; her body carries a confidence of its own.
Why doesn’t he say something? She swings back the other way, changing her grip. His silence makes her reckless. She spins and turns, snatching the bar of the trapeze. If she carries on like this, he’ll be forced to climb up.
‘You OK in there, Martha?’
Ulva’s voice jolts me back to the present. I drop the material and swallow, my mouth dry. What do I do? Should I steal it? I hold still and listen, but I can’t hear footsteps. After a moment, I open the door. She’s wiping down the kitchen counter, her back to me.
‘Yeah, I’m OK. I’ll be out soon.’
She starts to turn around and I dip back inside, praying she doesn’t see the door move. I have to be quick. I pick up the catsuit and shut my eyes.
Nina is now standing on a high metal platform; the ring empty below. She gasps as two strong hands tug at her harness from behind. Stig, she thinks, his name like a kiss on her lips. She wants to take him in her arms, but the harness is holding her so tight she can’t turn around.
I drop the material, my heart racing. So she was wearing a harness; Stig fastened it for her. The police were right . . . they said she was wearing one and it must have caught around her neck. Of course. That’s why Nina kept clutching her throat; why she appeared to me hanging. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before. She’s been trying to show me how she died. She wanted me to know that Stig lied. He must have hidden the harness or the police would have found it, which means her death was no accident. I thought Loki was behind it somehow and it couldn’t be Stig, but now . . .
I stare into space, my chest heaving. Did he do it up wrong on purpose? Did he push her? I grasp the catsuit and knead the material, demanding to see. The thread of memory snaps and suddenly there’s nothing. No image, no emotion. It’s like before, when I tried to read Ruth’s shawl. Tears sting my eyes. My gift can’t fail me now.
15
AN UNWELCOME GUEST
I
burst out of the bedroom, my head throbbing. Stig isn’t a murderer, he can’t be! There must be an explanation. Something I’m not seeing. Ulva jumps up and gives me a strange look but I don’t stop to explain. I rush to the door, desperate to get away.
She follows me outside. ‘Are you going? What’s wrong?’
I mumble an apology and stumble down the steps. As I hurry to my caravan, I check all around me, hoping I don’t see Stig. A lump comes to my throat and tears prick my eyes. He said he would be honest with me; he said I could trust him.
I head in the direction of the big top, deciding to cut through the circus. The workers and performers have gone and a cold grey mist hangs over the ground, giving the site an unearthly feel. I pick up my pace, grateful the walkways have been cleared. They wouldn’t have done that if more snow was forecast. Maybe that means the road’s been opened now.
I follow the path around the side of the big top then stop dead. A huge wooden Viking ship stands in the field to my right. The thin wooden frame has a dragonhead at each end and a row of circular shields pinned to the side, painted with rune markings. There’s something unnerving about the way it’s suddenly appeared, as if it was left there by unnatural forces, not constructed by men working hard with hammers and ropes.
Something out in the fog catches my attention. At first I think a group of performers are gathered in a circle, but then I realise that they aren’t people. Around twenty poles have been driven into the ground. Fixed to the top of each one is an animal skull: a ram’s head, one with antlers, another that looks like a dog.
A woman is coming along the path, half hidden in the shadow of a tent. Maybe she can tell me if the road’s been opened. I walk faster, relieved to see someone, when she steps into the light. Where it touches her, she all but vanishes. Part of her lower arm fades and then she turns and the side of her face disappears, her leg disintegrating in a swirl of mist.
My heart bangs against my ribcage. If one ghost has formed, it won’t be long until there are more. I clasp my hand to my middle, remembering the icy pain I felt when one of them swiped its fingers through me.
Beneath the big top is a patch of deep shadow. Something about it doesn’t look right. It pulsates, but the movement isn’t swirling fog; something is taking shape. A grey arm reaches out, fingers curling under the edge of the tent. More arms appear, grabbing and struggling, as if dozens of people are trapped under the canvas, trying to get out.
I run to the end of the walkway, then jump down and race to my caravan. It’s darker in the forest. Shadowy faces peer from between the trees, all of them pained and despairing. A young boy, no older than six, sobs and reaches out to me. What do they want from me? Why are they here?
I fumble with my keys and dart inside, then lock the door and switch on the lights. Exhausted, I drop onto the sofa and wipe the window. There’s no crowd of dead outside, but it won’t be long until it’s dark enough for more of them to form. The town isn’t far. If the road is open it should only take a taxi twenty minutes to get here. My heart sinks. I still need to walk across the site to get to the entrance and then cut through the forest to reach the road. When I was in the big top, the man’s hand cut through me like a shard of ice. Who knows how many of them are out in the darkness? I can’t risk it.
Tapping sounds at the door and I stare at it, not moving. Please don’t let it be the jester. I wait and it comes again, louder this time.
‘Martha! Are you OK?’
I
pull the curtain back a fraction and Stig is outside. He kicks at the snow. ‘I burned the puppet. Ulva said you left in a hurry. Are you OK? Did something happen?’
I keep quiet, hoping he hasn’t seen me. I feel bad for not answering, especially after he got rid of the puppet for me, but I can’t face talking to him right now.
‘I know you’re in there,’ he shouts. ‘I can see the lights on. Please, Martha, I’m worried about you!’
The door handle rattles, then goes quiet and I hold my breath. After a few moments my shoulders drop with relief. He’s gone.
But then a loud knock sounds at the door, followed by another. ‘Martha, please!’
I bite my thumbnail, my mind racing. If I don’t answer him, he might try to break in. I steady my nerves and call, ‘Sorry, but I don’t feel well. I just want to sleep.’
His voice softens. ‘Can I come in? Please, I just want to make sure you’re OK.’
Mum said something about a man who shouldn’t be invited inside. She called him an unwelcome guest. Stig broke into Mormor’s cabin and I let him stay, even though I didn’t really want him there.
Bang.
Something hits the side of the caravan and I scrabble away, my heart pounding. What will Stig do once he realises I know? I saw how angry he can get when I touched Nina’s jacket in the costume trailer. He came all this way to stop me finding out the truth, so how far will he go to keep me quiet? He’s silent for a moment then says, ‘If someone’s said something, you can tell me. You can tell me anything.’ When I don’t reply, he sighs. ‘OK. I’ll see you in the morning, I guess.’
I pull back the curtain and see him walking away, his shoulders slumped. Above him, the pale moon hangs lonely in the starless sky, its scarred face veiled with cloud. I watch him disappear from sight and then rest my arms on the table and lower my head. My brain aches from trying to make sense of it all. I don’t want to believe that Stig is a murderer, but then why did he tell the police that Nina wasn’t wearing a harness? I think back to what Ruth told me. She said they looked for a harness but couldn’t find one. If he did it up wrong on purpose, maybe he took it to hide the evidence. And what about everything else that’s been happening: the masks and Loki and the horde of dead? I was sure Nina’s death must be caught up in it somehow. Maybe Stig killed her but he was made to do it. Maybe it wasn’t his fault?