A thud sounds behind me.
I twist in my seat and see a pot plant lying on the floor, dirt everywhere. Nina stands over it, her pale skin mottled blue and veined with purple. She sees me looking and reaches a hand to her neck. Her lips are rough and cracked, the skin flaked away. She opens and closes them like a fish, desperately trying to speak.
Ruth stands and clears up the mess and it’s all I can do not to point and yell. She gives me a curious look. ‘It must have been balanced on the edge, nothing to worry about.’
Nina looks at me imploringly, her empty black eyes huge. She clutches at her throat and makes a pitiful sobbing sound and my heart breaks in two.
8
AN EYE BLINKS IN THE HALF-LIGHT
R
uth opens the caravan door and the cold night air tastes dry on the back of my throat. She apologises for ending the evening early and I smile to hide my disappointment. After she cleared up the pot plant, she complained of a headache and said she needed to lie down. I’m not sure if it was the wine or talking about Nina, but her face looks blotchy and flushed.
‘Are you sure you’ll be OK walking home?’ she asks.
‘I’m fine, honestly. Thanks again for dinner.’
‘You’re welcome. Here, you’ll need this.’
I turn and Ruth hands me a torch. She stands in the doorway and watches me go down the steps. At the bottom I glance back at her, an angel haloed in light, and she waves. And then the caravan door closes like a clam rocking shut and I am plunged into darkness. I look at the window, hoping to see Nina’s face, but as always she vanished as quickly as she came.
Darkness crowds around me and I fumble with the torch then sigh with relief when it comes on. Thick grey clouds drift across the moon, smothering its light. It’s only a five-minute walk, less if I hurry, but there’s something about stepping into nothingness I don’t like. On the way here I had the twinkling lights of the tents to see by. Now they’ve been switched off and blackness obliterates everything, even the big top. It’s as if the circus never existed.
I wish I could have stayed and asked Ruth more questions, but at least I now know how Nina died. The fact that the police couldn’t find a harness, even though they believed she was wearing one, has to be a clue. If I can find out what happened on the day of her accident, who was with her, it might lead me to the truth. And then maybe Nina will leave me alone and I can go home to Mum.
Pointing the torch down, I follow the sludge of footprints through the snow. Apart from the squelch of my boots and the distant murmur of a TV, the night is achingly quiet. A caravan looms out of the murk, its light on but the curtains selfishly drawn. Anything could be hiding in the shadows gathered around it. I long to swing the torch beam towards it, but I know the light would be swallowed up. Better to keep it fixed ahead, on the ground.
If only my attention would stay on the path. Instead it wanders the walkways between the tents, imagining all kinds of creatures in the darkness. An image of the Norns scuttles across my mind, their spider-like legs carrying them towards me. And then another image intrudes: the grinning face of the jester. My stomach churns at the thought of seeing him again. I grip the torch with both hands and walk faster.
A flash of white moves to my right. I turn and look, my heart in my mouth. It’s just a plastic sheet swaying on a washing line. I lower the torch and keep going. After a minute or so the hulking shape of the costume trailer comes into view. I pause before it and something occurs to me. The photo in the newspaper . . . Ruth said it was taken on the day Nina fell. If I can find the outfit she was wearing when it happened, maybe it will show me her last memory. Karl brought Nina’s belongings back from the hospital. There were lots of clothes still on her rail; perhaps he put it with the others. I don’t remember seeing a gold catsuit, but it could have been there and I didn’t notice.
I climb the steps and press on the door handle, expecting it to be locked, but it swings open. The smell of musty fabric mixed with the penetrating odour of mothballs is even stronger than before. Inside it’s dark and I blink against the gloom. I could switch on the light, but I don’t want anyone to know I’m here; better to use the torch.
I make my way towards Nina’s rail when a flash of orange catches my attention. A matted wig lies sprawled across a plastic tub. It looks like the one the jester wore. I move the torch, not wanting to remember, and the beam falls on a severed arm covered in blood. I gasp and step back, then shake my head at my stupidity. It’s just a model. Of course it is. Relief floods through me, quickly replaced by a stab of fear. I’m certain I’m being watched.
My skin prickles and I glance around, sweeping the torch in every direction. There’s hardly going to be anyone here at this time of night, but I walk along both sides of the rails just to be sure. When I get to the masks, I stop and listen. Apart from the moan of the wind, the silence is brutal. Nothing moves, nothing makes a sound, and yet something about the trailer feels oddly alive. Even the clothes seem different in the dark: empty hanging skins waiting for a body to bring them to life.
I glance over my shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that dozens of eyes are watching me. And then I realise and a tiny laugh escapes me. It’s the masks. The way they stare is creepy, but they’re just objects. I turn to the wall and immediately recognise Hel, Queen of the Underworld. One half of her face is carved and painted white to look like a skull, and the other is a beautiful woman. The mask has been made so that she appears to be looking down, her mouth set in a grimace. Whoever made it captured her severity with frightening accuracy. Knowing I will have to face her again one day fills me with dread.
Not wanting to think about that, I scan the rest of the masks. Above Hel is a man with a wide forehead and a beard, who I’m guessing is Thor. Close by is a woman with long yellow hair, his wife maybe, but I don’t know her name. The gold mask of Baldur is there, gleaming in the darkness. Next to it is a dark-green mask, the holes angled to make the wearer look as if they’re laughing, which I’m guessing is Loki. The twig-covered faces of the Norns hang together in a trio. Below them is Odin, the mask crooked so that the eye painted black doesn’t quite line up with the opening on the other side.
There are lots more faces, but I’m not aware of their names or their stories. Realising how little I know about the gods and my own family history makes me feel hollow inside. I haven’t read all of my ancestors’ journals, but Mum translated some of them before I left. They were filled with questions; the women who came before us musing about why they were chosen and their place with the gods.
Like them, all I know is that Odin tasked our family line with taking water from the well by the tree and pouring it on the tree’s roots to stop it decaying. If Mum had told me everything from the start, I would have been honoured to do my duty – like all the women before me – and watered the tree after Mormor died. But she didn’t, and without Mormor it began to rot and the dead escaped. That was when I turned to the Norns and Hel for help. Even though the experience was terrifying, I was privileged to meet them. But what about Odin, the god whose blood flows inside me? Is he even aware of my existence?
Bang.
I twist around, my heart racing.
The door swings open then smacks shut. I snatch my hand to my chest and let out a shuddery breath, my mind still spinning with thoughts of the gods. It’s just the wind. I walk over and close the door, then turn and face the rails of clothing. The sooner I do this, the sooner I can get out of here.