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.’