‘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 his 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.