The jester lifts its head with a tinkling of bells and looks at me. The paint around its mouth flakes as it speaks, its voice a gruff whisper. ‘You let go of it, didn’t you?’
Panic floods my body. I stare, unable to move. The jester grins, revealing two rows of uneven yellow teeth, his red lips pulled back too wide and too thin. I turn and race for the door, and he laughs and calls after me, ‘Don’t you want to play?’
7
BALDUR DREAMS OF HIS DEATH
I
still feel queasy as I walk to Ruth’s caravan two hours later. I tried to rest, but every time I closed my eyes I saw an image of the jester. I tell myself it was just one of those living statue things, a man in a costume, but I can’t get his grinning face out of my mind. Something about him was disturbingly familiar, and the way he spoke to me, it was like he knew me. The more I think about it, the more uneasy I feel, my thoughts a poisonous drip in a cave so vast it could swallow me whole if I let it.
I stand outside Ruth’s then quickly check my phone. I left Mum a message hoping she might have some clue as to what’s happening, but there’s no reply. I’m sure she’s fine and has watered the tree. The alternative is too awful to think about. Straightening my shoulders, I knock on the door and force myself to smile. One way or another, I’m going to find a way to ask Ruth about Nina.
The door opens and steam billows out. ‘Martha! Perfect timing!’ Ruth wipes her forehead and beckons me inside. ‘Make yourself comfortable, dinner won’t be long.’ The caravan is bigger than mine, though still old and tatty. It has the same benches and pull-down table at the front, laid for dinner, and two sofas facing each other down the sides. Unlike mine, there’s a door at the back, so I’m guessing she has a separate bedroom.
The extractor fan rumbles noisily and Ruth raises her voice to be heard. ‘The canteen food isn’t bad, but I miss cooking. It’s chicken and roast potatoes. Hope that’s OK.’
‘That’s great, thanks.’
She waves a tea towel at the steaming oven like she’s trying to tame a dragon, and I sit down and glance around the room. There’s greenery everywhere: ivy trailing down from shelves, shiny-leafed yuccas and rows of cactuses in pots. Crystals clutter the window ledges and the floor is piled high with books. Even the sofas are overflowing with balls of wool and knitting needles, not to mention clothes and magazines, so that there’s barely any room to sit.
Ruth places a jug of water before me then opens a bottle of wine. ‘Thank God today’s over. I thought it would never end. You were great by the way.’ I smile, relieved to know she thinks I did well. She offers me some wine but I shake my head. After a few minutes she lays two plates of food on the table and the smell of rosemary makes my stomach rumble. Just being in the warm, surrounded by her things, makes me feel a little better.
‘Thanks for this, Ruth.’
‘No problem. Sorry about the noise – the fan will go off soon. So how did you find it today?’
The psychic tent feels like a distant memory, even though it was only a few hours ago. I do my best to sound positive. ‘Good, thanks. I think I helped most people. There was one lady . . . she was upset about her husband and cat dying. I tried to comfort her but I think I said the wrong thing and made it worse.’
Ruth picks up a ball of wool and a half-made shawl from the bench. ‘You know, in Ireland it’s said that you leave a bit of your soul trapped in everything you crochet. You’re meant to work in a hidden mistake so that your soul can escape.’ She chucks the wool onto the sofa and sits down heavily. ‘What feels like a mistake at the time doesn’t always turn out that way. The lady might look back on your words and feel differently later.’ She sees the look of doubt on my face and laughs. ‘It will get easier, I promise.’
Ruth pours herself some wine then raises her glass. ‘Here’s to your new job.’ I lift my water and smile, but the thought of having to work in the psychic tent tomorrow doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. I don’t have time to give readings, I need to speak to people if I’m going to find out anything.
Once we’ve finished eating, she goes to a shelf covered with a black cloth. On it are two candles, a metal dish with incense, and what looks like a small cloth figure wrapped in green thread. Arranged around the edge are sprigs of mistletoe and greenery with red berries.
She grabs a nearby pack of tarot cards. ‘Want me to read for you?’
I shrug, unsure that I want to hear my future, even if it’s possible. Ruth looks at me hopefully. ‘I can do a general reading, or you can ask a question if you like?’
There are lots of things I want to know – like why is Nina haunting me, where is Stig, and what’s happening in this weird place, but I doubt a pack of cards will give me the answers. Ruth looks disappointed. Not wanting to appear rude, I smile and say, ‘A general reading is fine, thanks.’
‘Grand.’ She closes her eyes then shuffles the pack and places it on the table. With her left hand she cuts the deck into three and then reassembles it. The first card she pulls has a red heart with three swords buried in it. The second shows a tower being struck by lightning, and the third has a picture of a man and woman kissing.
‘There’s someone you’re confused about, a boy.’
I sip my drink, wary of giving her anything to go on. She points at the middle card. ‘Something he did made you question what you thought you knew about him.’ Under the couple are the words The Lovers. She glances at the card at the bottom of the pack. ‘You’re going to be faced with a difficult decision. He’s coming back.’
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!’