The jester chuckles. ‘And where is Freya? In the back of a tent with a gang of dwarves, I shouldn’t wonder. I may not bring out the best in people, but you can be sure they always show their true colours when I’m around.’
Loki might have a problem with Freya, but why pick on Sandrine just because she plays the goddess’s falcon? I don’t know what he’s going to do, but the cruel sound of his laughter sends a jolt of fear through me.
I take a deep breath, determined to stay calm. If I’m going to help Sandrine I need to think. In the hall of mirrors, Loki said something about how he exposes the gods for what they really are. He thinks he’s justified in riling them up because only then do they reveal their true nature. That must be what he did to the masks – imbued them with the qualities of the gods and creatures they portray to amplify people’s personalities, to bring out the worst in them. Sandrine is excitable and a little vain perhaps, but nothing that deserves punishment.
‘Please! Whatever you think of her, she’s only human. Let her go!’
The jester snorts. ‘Come now, a beautiful bird should preen itself.’
Sandrine’s neck strains to one side, exposing her white throat. She sees me and tries to speak but all that comes from her mouth is a pitiful squawk. Her eyes flash with panic and then glow pale behind the mask like she’s possessed. I watch in horror as her right arm jerks up and her hand makes a claw shape. She drags her fingers down her face and blood gushes from her cheek. Her other hand does the same, long black nails ripping her skin.
She scrabbles at herself faster and faster and a stream of blood drips onto the frosty walkway, forming a puddle beneath her feet. She claws her head and clumps of hair and scalp drop to the ground. She’s tearing herself to shreds.
I rush forward but an invisible force holds me back.
Her talon-tipped fingers reach into the holes of her mask and Sandrine jerks and twitches her head, trying to pull away. Her hands keep moving, jabbing again and again.
‘Please! Stop this!’ I scream.
The joker laughs and Sandrine’s body thuds to the ground.
Another moment later Ruth appears in the doorway of the psychic tent and races towards us. ‘What happened? Is that Sandrine? Martha, what is it?’
I step back and shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop her. I tried.’
‘Stop her from what?’ Ruth runs past me and throws herself on her knees. ‘My God, her face!’ She turns and shrieks, ‘Help! Someone get help! Please!’
She sobs and rocks back and forth, gently patting Sandrine’s body like she doesn’t know what to do. ‘It’s OK, sweetheart, help is coming. It’s OK.’
Stig is bent over as if he’s trying not to throw up. I want to go to him, but my legs are so shaky I’m not sure I can move. Sandrine’s body lies on the walkway, her feathered mask soaked red.
Stig points a trembling finger. ‘Her eyes.’
I cover my mouth, not wanting it to be true. Behind the mask are two bloody pits.
A member of the crew and someone from security thump down the walkway and suddenly I’m pushed back. ‘Call an ambulance!’ ‘Get a blanket, keep her warm!’
Another man in a security jacket heads over to us and Stig straightens and shakes his head. ‘She did it to herself. She . . .’ He bends over again and the world starts to spin. The man is speaking to me but his words are muffled and slow. My head feels woozy and I stumble to one side. The security man beckons me over but I don’t have time to be questioned.
I turn and run, my boots pounding the walkway in time to the thud of my heart. I have to find Karl and Ulva, I have to make her confess. The jester appears before me and I skid to a stop. He holds out his finger and then brings his hand to his ear, gesturing for me to listen. I glance around but there is only the sound of drumming and the cheers of the crowd. And then a terrified scream cuts through the night, followed by shouting and a stampede of feet. This isn’t battle music played over the speakers. This is raw and real life.
The joker grins. ‘It looks like the last visitor will be leaving soon.’ A torrent of people streams towards me. Panicked cries fill the air as bodies jostle and push. I jump off the walkway and they charge past me, yelling and shoving. A swirling tide of dread washes over me. I’m running out of time.
The enormous fire giant strides up the path and I blink, unable to believe my eyes. His long wooden arms are aflame. He veers and stumbles, a towering inferno on legs, and people below scream and dash to avoid him. His burning arms flail like windmills, catching the string of lights that hang between the big top and other tents. He keeps walking, the lights tangled around him. Electric cables fizz and spark, writhing and jumping like snakes. Bulbs explode with a pop and shatter of glass. People shriek and cover their ears. Above them the lights go out one by one, leaving only the harsh glare of the floodlights.
A woman stops to catch her breath and I rush over. ‘What’s happening down there?’ I ask. Her face is streaked with ash and it looks like she’s been crying. She gasps and points to the bag on her shoulder. I open it for her and she pulls out a blue inhaler. She takes a few puffs then holds her breath a moment. ‘The performers turned on each other. Fighting, and the fire giant . . .’ She shakes her head and draws another desperate breath. ‘He was setting fire to people. A man with sackcloth over his face, his head went up in flames!’
I start to ask more but she hurries back into the crowd. It’s the masks, it has to be. Loki has gone too far. The masks aren’t just bringing out the worst qualities of the gods in people, they’re starting to possess them. The ringmaster said that Surt, the giant, started the battle at Ragnarok by setting fire to the world. The masks are making the performers act out the actual story. That’s why the man who plays Thor was thumping someone in the field earlier, why the man who plays Loki was stirring up trouble in the costume-change area, why Hel was so angry when I bumped into her. The actors are turning into the gods they portray. Loki is using the masks to make the place destroy itself.
A whoosh and bang sounds to my right and I spin around. The giant lies sprawled across the walkway, the tent next to him ablaze. Flames jump and crackle along the canvas at frightening speed. Panicked visitors cough and cover their mouths. The Chinese knife-throwers lift up the rope that lines the walkway and people duck under it and run into the dark caravan field, where they shiver and huddle together in groups.
Oskar paces up and down in his fluorescent jacket, holding a megaphone. He coughs into it and then takes a moment before shouting, ‘Do not run! I repeat, do not run! Make your way to the exit if safe to do so, or cross into the caravan field! Emergency services have been called. I repeat, do not run!’ His voice falters over the last few words, and he shakes his head as if determined to compose himself. He lifts the megaphone and says a few lines in Norwegian before repeating the message in English.
I shiver and look all around. Lots of people have already left the site. How long will it be before the last visitor goes?
A lady pushing a disabled teenage boy struggles with his wheelchair. The fire giant’s legs are blocking the path; she can’t get the wheels over them. I run over and drag what remains of the half-burnt stilts to one side and she mutters a ‘thank you’ with tears in her eyes. Members of the crew yell at one another and someone points a fire extinguisher at the giant, dousing the man inside with white foam. He screams and writhes on the ground, and the smell of burning flesh and charcoal makes me feel sick. I cover my nose and someone grabs my arm.