I wander down the trailer, the floor bouncing slightly under my feet. There are all kinds of costumes: opulent velvet gowns, rough-looking linen shirts and leather waistcoats, feathered cloaks and bodysuits covered with sequins. A laminated name label is taped to the leg of each rail. I scan the racks, my pulse quickening when I see the word Nina.
Her rail is stuffed with clothes: leotards and catsuits, a black corset laced with red ribbon, lots of dresses and several coats. This could be my best chance to get to know her, maybe even to read her memories. If I could see the last moments before her accident, I would know what happened. Maybe even figure out why she’s haunting me. I reach for an embroidered pink dress with layers of rainbow netting, but then I’m drawn to a velvet frock coat with gold brocade on the collar. In the end, I rest my fingers on a plain white jacket and close my eyes.
It shows me an image of Stig and my stomach somersaults. He’s outside the big top, his black eyeliner smudged. He yells then jabs an accusing finger in Nina’s face. I’ve never seen him so angry. I pull my hand away and try to make sense of the memory. The jacket must be pure cotton as the material shows facts without emotion. I can see what Nina saw, but I have no idea how she felt. It’s like watching television with the sound turned off. I know what’s happening, but something is missing.
Seeing Stig again is confusing, especially through someone else’s eyes. It was like looking at a different person. Not the boy who juggled fruit to make me laugh when I was feeling sad, or held me close when I was scared. He was so caring and kind to me. The Stig Nina saw is not the Stig I know, but then did I ever really know him? A sudden sadness stabs my heart. Even if we didn’t end up together, I thought we’d always stay in touch.
I glance along the rail of costumes, wanting to feel them but anxious about what they might reveal. I don’t want to believe that Stig is a bad person. He can’t be, I would have known from touching his clothes. But then so much about him doesn’t make sense. Like why did he tell me Nina had recovered from the coma and was fine, only to then say he needed to visit her in hospital to check if she was OK? When I asked him about it, he claimed it was just his way of changing the subject. The first time he mentioned her accident, he said she was fine because he didn’t want to keep talking about it. He made it sound so plausible, like it was nothing and I was overreacting. I tried asking more questions but he got defensive, as if I was accusing him of something. Soon after that he asked Mum for a lift to the ferry. At the harbour everything seemed fine; he kissed me and said he’d be back in a few days. He meant to return to the island and find work so we could be together.
My shoulders slump as a heavy feeling settles over me. I could accept him not wanting to see me again if he called and explained. It’s the not knowing that hurts. Maybe he’s lying in hospital and can’t contact me. Or perhaps he had no intention of coming back.
If there’s one thing I hate more than anything, it’s the feeling that I’ve been lied to. Tricked somehow. And no matter what anyone says, you don’t lie to people you care about. I try not to dwell on it, but seeing him again brings it all back. If only I could find out what happened to Nina, it might be the missing puzzle piece that completes my picture of him.
The door bangs open, startling me.
‘Hvem er du?’
It’s the girl with the wolf mask I met when I first arrived. Only now she’s wearing jeans and a black bomber jacket. She strides towards me and says something else in Norwegian. Maybe she thinks I’m trying to steal stuff.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’
Her gaze flicks to my blind eye and a look of recognition crosses her face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it was you. So you got the job.’
‘Yes, I’m Martha.’
She smiles. ‘That’s great. I’m Ulva. Welcome to the family.’
She holds out her gloved hand and I reach out to take it. As soon as I touch the fabric, I see an image of her surrounded by a green haze. Her arms are bound and she’s howling and thrashing. It doesn’t feel like a memory. It feels like a nightmare.
My head pounds and I rub my temples.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I just need some fresh air.’
I hurry down the steps and lean against the side of the trailer. She starts to follow me, but then stops when Karl arrives. He calls up, ‘You wanted to see me, Ulva?’
‘Yes, I want to know who’s going to play Baldur now that Nina –’
Karl huffs. ‘No one! We’re going back to the original set.’
‘But Oskar said –’
‘Nei! I’ve told you, we are never doing that myth again, not after that poor girl died!’
Karl walks off and Ulva chases after him.
I start to follow her, excited that she mentioned Nina by name – she seems friendly and maybe she can tell me something about the accident – when a movement catches my attention. I spin around and a little girl, no older than five, races towards me clutching a green balloon. She sees my face and stops in her tracks, her eyes wide with fear. For a moment I want to turn away, ashamed of my weird-looking eye, but I hold her gaze and smile. She’s just a child, she doesn’t know.
Distracted, she lets go of the string and the balloon glides away. I grab hold of it but it slips through my fingers and sails over the ground towards the big top. The girl starts to wail.
‘Don’t cry. It’s OK, we can get it back.’
Her parents rush over and the mother smiles at me, her expression changing to one of suspicion when she sees my face. They usher the girl away and I watch them, feeling guilty. The balloon was in my grasp. I should have held onto it.
I glance back towards Ulva, but she’s already disappeared. The balloon is floating and bumping along the ground; maybe I can still get it. I give chase and nearly catch it, when it blows through the doorway of a tent. It’s the one playing carnival music.
Inside, the place is empty apart from a statue of a jester. It stands on a low plinth at the back, a curtain of dark netting behind it. I blink and wait for my sight to adjust to the dim light then search for the balloon. It’s not exactly a big tent; the balloon has to be in here somewhere. I walk towards the statue. Maybe it blew behind there and got caught on something.
The jester stands with both arms behind its back, staring at the floor. It wears a tattered green tunic and baggy black trousers, and on its head is a grubby green-and-black striped cap with two horns hanging down at the front, each one tipped with a bell. Beneath the cap is a mane of orange hair. There is something terribly lonely about it and I wonder why it’s been left here on its own.
I walk around the statue, keeping my distance. The jester’s face is covered with a thick layer of flaking white paint, a smear of red over its lips. Its nose is dotted with pink and there are green diamonds painted over each eye. Its eyes are the worst thing about it. The glassy eyeballs bulge in its head, as if whoever made it used the wrong size or didn’t set them in deeply enough. A fly buzzes around me then lands on the jester’s face. It crawls over the statue’s cheek and then walks across its eyeball, and my stomach turns.
Rasping sounds. Faint at first and then louder, coming from behind the statue. I lean forward, my face next to the jester’s, and peer into the gloom. The balloon is on the ground; the string caught on the netting. I smile and reach for it when the statue blinks. I yelp and leap back, my heart banging in my chest.