The Crooked Mask Read online

  My heart leaps with hope and then plummets. I’m not sure I want to see him again, not unless he has a good reason for not having contacted me. ‘Do you know when? Is he OK?’

  Ruth grins. ‘Come on then, what’s his name? I want to hear all about him.’ She leans forward and I realise that’s why she offered to read my cards. It’s a way to find out about me. As much as I want to hear about Stig, I don’t want her to know why I’m really here. I’m sure she didn’t have anything to do with Nina’s death, but Mum said not to trust anyone.

  Ruth starts to shuffle the cards and I take a deep breath, determined to turn the conversation to something useful. ‘Actually, I don’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounds disappointed.

  ‘There is something I’d like to know though.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I looked around the smaller tents after I finished work. I went into one with a living statue, dressed like an old-fashioned jester. I wondered if you knew him?’

  Ruth lowers the cards. ‘Hmm, can’t think of anyone like that. There are three clowns here, but they’re all French mime artists.’

  My stomach lurches with unease. If he doesn’t work here, then who is he? I know there’s something strange about this circus – I didn’t imagine seeing the performers’ masks move and I didn’t daydream the jester.

  ‘Maybe it was someone who’s just joined,’ I suggest.

  ‘Christ on a bike, I hope not. If Oskar’s hired a new act, Karl will go mad!’

  Thinking about the old circus manager gives me an idea. ‘I saw Karl earlier today. He was talking to a girl called Ulva. She asked who would play Baldur now Nina’s gone, and he said they were never doing that myth again. I wondered why.’

  Ruth rolls her eyes. ‘He has this book of stories – some can be performed and others can never be done. Honestly, the way he goes on, sometimes I think the whole superstitious thing is an act.’

  Now’s my chance. I sip my water then ask, ‘Who’s Nina?’

  The extractor fan stops and the caravan is painfully quiet.

  Ruth clears the plates. ‘Have you had enough to eat? Can I get you another drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. I heard Karl say she’d died?’

  Ruth sighs, her face a picture of unease. ‘Nina was training and she fell.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She slides open a kitchen drawer then takes out a newspaper and lays it on the table. It shows a group of people posed in the big top, each one clutching a mask to their chest. I recognise the girl in the centre instantly. She holds a gold mask and has short dark hair and is strikingly beautiful. Nina shines with a light of her own, and not just because she’s dressed all in gold. There is something luminous about her. She seems so happy. So alive.

  Ruth pours herself another glass of wine. ‘One minute we were about to open the new season, Nina was smiling and happy, the star of the show, and then suddenly she was gone. It was hard on everyone, but Karl was broken. I’ll never forget his face the day he came back from the hospital, clutching a bag with her belongings in his hand.’

  I look at the photo. ‘She was beautiful,’ I offer, realising how weak my words sound.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth briskly, as if trying to pull herself together. ‘It was taken on the morning of the accident. Nina was going to play Baldur for the first time that afternoon.’

  ‘I don’t know the story. Is Baldur a god?’

  She nods. ‘He’s the son of Odin and Frigg, the fairest and most beloved of the gods. When Baldur dreams of his death, Frigg makes everything in the world swear an oath not to hurt him. Convinced he’s invincible, the other gods throw weapons at him for sport, knowing they will bounce off him.

  ‘One day Loki asks Frigg if there’s anything that hasn’t sworn an oath. She mentions that she didn’t ask the mistletoe, as she thought it too small and harmless to bother with. Loki straight away makes a spear from some mistletoe and gets the blind god Hodr to throw it at Baldur. It pierces him and he falls down dead.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  Ruth stares deep into her wine glass. ‘It gets worse. After that, one of Baldur’s brothers journeyed to the underworld to ask Hel if she would release him. She agreed to give Baldur up, but only if every living thing shed a tear for him. The whole world wept, apart from one creature – a giantess, who was Loki in disguise. So Baldur was doomed.’

  We sit in silence, the wind a low moan outside. I don’t know how true the story is, but I can’t imagine Hel giving up anything easily. Meeting the dark mother goddess was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. After Stig was attacked by the draugr, I journeyed into the bowels of the tree to beg for his life. In return for giving him up, Hel tasked me with returning the souls that had escaped from the underworld. She gave me a cord and told me to put one end inside the tree and hold the other until all the dead had followed it back.

  But I didn’t. When Mormor appeared, I knew she would never leave me. She was determined to try to protect me from the draugr, even if it meant not returning to the underworld. I couldn’t bear the idea of her soul wandering the earth, lost for eternity. I had to do something, so I dropped the rope. As I hoped, it coiled around her and dragged her into the tree. My cheeks burn with shame as guilt wraps around my heart. I didn’t stop to think what would become of the poor souls I abandoned. I didn’t do as Hel asked.

  Ruth sighs heavily and my thoughts return to her story. She sips her wine then confides, ‘The crazy thing is that Karl blames himself. The owners had been putting pressure on him to change the routines to bring in more custom. He introduced the myth against his better judgement. He’s convinced the two things are connected, but it’s just a tragic coincidence.’

  I lean over and study the photo. ‘What was she like?’

  Ruth huffs and her face tells me the answer is complicated. ‘Nina was an amazing flier, the best we had. She lived for the spotlight, in more ways than one.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She had notions about herself; loved being the centre of attention. She was a drama queen but she could be kind when she wanted to, especially to Ulva. When Ulva’s mum first took off, she was like a sister to her.’ An edge of accusation sharpens her voice. ‘And then she went and did that.’

  I raise my eyebrows but she shakes her head. When she doesn’t say anything, I reach for my glass and deliberately brush her arm. The sleeve of her jumper bristles with outrage. Nina did something to come between Ulva and her mum, something she had no right to do. Ruth is angry on Ulva’s behalf, but there’s a deeper hurt there too: a rawness that I can’t quite place. Another thread of emotion tugs at my mind. Ruth feels uneasy about Nina’s death. Not guilty exactly – it’s as if she worries her actions contributed to what happened.

  I glance at the Norwegian newspaper on the table. When I searched for the circus online, I asked Mum to translate the story that came up, but it was old and didn’t say much – just that she’d fallen from the trapeze and was airlifted to hospital, where she was in a coma.

  ‘How did it happen? Did she slip, or was her harness faulty?’ I ask.

  ‘She wasn’t wearing one. At first the police were convinced she’d been wearing one due to the marks around her throat. They think it can’t have been done up properly and caught around her neck before she fell through. But no harness was found.’

  ‘Didn’t she know it was dangerous?’

  Ruth frowns as if I’m stating the obvious. ‘No one can understand it. She was a professional; she knew the risks. Her boyfriend told the police she refused to wear it.’

  My pulse quickens and I bite my thumbnail, wondering how much I can ask her. ‘What was he like, her boyfriend?’

  Ruth wipes her mouth as if she’s already said too much. ‘I’m not saying he had anything to do with her death, but not everyone believed his story, put it that way.’

  I lean back and try to ignore the sinking feeling inside me. It doesn’t see
m right to talk about Stig when he’s not here to give his side of things. ‘Did the police question him?’

  ‘Of course. They will take months to reach a final verdict, but everyone thinks it will be accidental death. We had to close during the investigation and the circus lost a lot of money. We thought we’d go bust but then the owners secured a loan and brought in Oskar. It was a relief when we could open again.’

  ‘So what happened to Nina’s neck?’

  ‘Lots of performers get injuries from the silk ropes. The marks could have been caused by them.’

  My mind clouds with questions, but at the same time I feel clearer than I have in weeks. That must be it – the police knew there was something suspicious about her accident but they weren’t able to prove anything. If they pass a verdict of accidental death, the truth will never be known. Nina wants me to get justice for her.

  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 exi
stence?

  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.

  Nina’s section is near the end, by the masks. The wooden floor bounces under my feet as I hurry towards it. I run the torch beam along the costumes, past the dress with rainbow netting and the white jacket, then stop when I come to a collection of catsuits. Red, blue, black, green . . . something glints and hope flickers inside me. It’s a catsuit, but this one is white, not gold.

  A shaft of moonlight shines on the back wall and an eye blinks in the half-light.

  I gasp and stare in disbelief. One of the masks moved. I run my gaze over the faces, my heart beating wildly. Nothing happens and I swallow, praying it was a trick of the light, even though I know it wasn’t. There was Ulva’s wolf mask that moved too, and the wooden faces of the Norns. The wind builds from a moan to a wail. I hold still and wait, afraid to look away in case it happens again. A mouth twitches and then, on the opposite side of the wall, nostrils flare. Here an eyebrow is arched; there a lip curls. All at once the masks blink into life.

  Hel lifts her gaze and I shrink back. She sees me and a look of recognition passes over her grim countenance. I run for the door and turn back and see her single empty eye socket boring into me, her mouth open in a silent howl of rage.

  I sit in bed with the duvet bunched around me, my chest heaving. I ran back to the caravan, barely stopping to draw breath. The bars of the electric heater blaze orange but the icy feeling inside me won’t go away. It’s not just the masks and the jester – there’s something horribly wrong about this place. Even the man in the psychic tent didn’t seem quite of this world. Maybe it’s not the circus, maybe it’s me? I recoil from the thought and remind myself that the impossible is real, magic is real. I’ve experienced too much to doubt my own mind. The people who work here might not know what’s happening, but some intuition tells me it’s connected to Nina’s death. I just have to figure it out.