3
YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYONE
T
he light is fading fast as we weave our way through the maze of trucks and trailers. A group of performers in white masks comes towards us, twisting their heads to look as they pass by. One of them stares a moment too long, eyes glittering behind an expressionless face, and I find myself shivering. I can’t explain it, but it feels like I’m looking at a creature from another world and not a man in a costume, as if the performer and the mask are one, or the mask is wearing the person instead of the other way around.
Ruth says something about extra rehearsals and points out the canteen tent, but I barely notice. My mind is a whirl of questions. When we were in the cabin, Stig showed me a photo of Nina on his phone and told me she’d fallen from the trapeze. Karl said he’d known something bad was going to happen. If he was talking about her, why did Ruth say he shouldn’t blame himself? Maybe he was at fault.
‘Why was he so angry?’ I ask.
‘Karl?’ she laughs. ‘A few sandwiches short of a picnic, that one.’
I want to ask more, but I don’t like to admit I overheard their conversation earlier. I need to wait until I can bring up the subject without it seeming strange. Ruth will probably be surprised I’ve even heard of Nina. Part of me wishes I’d told her the truth to start with, but then she might have turned me away and not given me the job. I don’t want to tell her I lied. The whole point of working here is for people to get to know me and feel comfortable talking to me, and they aren’t going to do that if they regard me with mistrust.
We trudge through the snow to the edge of the clearing and I pull my coat tighter. Dark fir trees tower over us, the tallest among them leaning inwards as if suspicious of the vehicles parked beneath their boughs. Ruth stops before a small dirty caravan half hidden beneath a mass of shivering branches. Greedy vines crisscross its rounded back, from which a pair of grimy windows stares out like hopeless eyes.
She tugs open the dented door and it squeals a rusty complaint. Inside isn’t much better. There’s a tiny sink, an oven, and a few dilapidated cupboards to my left. Facing the kitchen are a couple of small benches with a table fixed to the wall, which I’m guessing you pull down to eat. Beyond them are two sofas which run the length of the room. I don’t know when the caravan was made, but orange and brown must have been in fashion.
I peer around a concertina door and find a toilet and discoloured shower. The air is damp and smells of musty socks. Ruth switches on an electric heater fixed high on the wall then opens a cupboard and tuts at the mouldy food inside.
‘We’ll soon have this place sorted out. Back in a tick.’
I smile and try to hide my disappointment. Ruth said it wouldn’t be much, so it’s not like she didn’t warn me. Once she’s gone I drop onto the lumpy sofa. Dead leaves cluster in the corners of the floor and the ceiling is strung with cobwebs. Perhaps I was wrong to come here. I let out a sigh and remind myself that the sooner I find out what Nina wants, the sooner I can go home.
I check my phone but there’s still nothing from Mum, then open a side pocket of my rucksack and pull out the drawings she did before I left. The first one shows a group of creatures in tattered robes with animal skulls for faces. Each one holds a long pole, decorated with feathers and topped by a ram’s skull. In another picture, men wearing antlers on their heads rise up from a swirl of fog. She’s drawn other, creepier things, and I put them aside, looking for the ones of Stig.
The first drawing shows him by a caravan that looks a lot like this one. In the next, he’s standing outside the big top, but his face is scrubbed out with angry black lines. I think about the night she drew it and suddenly I’m back in the cabin.
My eyes snap open to darkness, the sheets drenched with sweat. I stare across the room, half expecting to see claws creep under my door. It was just a nightmare . . . not real. Taking a deep breath, I get out of bed and head to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Mum is sitting at the table in her nightdress, a sketchpad before her. The pencil in her hand moves back and forth scratching at the paper, though her eyes are closed. I know she has visions of the future and has to get them out of her head, but I’ve never seen her do it before. Part of me feels like I shouldn’t be here, that I am intruding, but she looks so cold I can’t just leave her.
‘Mum, are you OK?’
I will her to open her eyes and smile at me, to say that everything is fine, but she doesn’t. Her hand carries on drawing, moving with a will of its own. She looks so eerie and vulnerable with her long blonde hair hanging loose about her face, and I have a sudden fear that she might be unravelling; that she might never come back to me.
I walk over, then look at the paper and gasp. She’s drawn Stig outside a circus tent. ‘Mum, can you hear me?’ I touch her shoulder and suddenly her hand moves faster, scoring out his face.
‘Mum! Stop!’ I shake her and her eyes open. She looks at me in a daze and I point at the drawing. ‘Do you know where Stig is? Do you know what’s happened to him?’ She turns away, but I have to know. ‘Is he in danger? Please, you have to tell me.’
‘You should never have let him stay here,’ she mutters.
Ignoring her, I grab the sketchpad and flick through the drawings. Among the many pictures of circus tents are creatures wearing tatty robes with skulls for faces, and a girl with strings attached to her arms and legs like a puppet. And then I see something that makes me turn cold. Mum has drawn a close-up of my face outside a big top, a look of anguish in my eyes and tears rolling down my cheeks.
She rips it from my hand. ‘Promise me you won’t go there, promise you won’t leave me!’ I reach out my arms, about to reassure her, when Gandalf gets up from his bed and growls. His grey fur bristles and a chill runs through me. He always does that when . . .
A cup slides across the kitchen counter with a sharp scraping sound. Then a plate leaps from the wooden dresser and smashes on the floor.
Mum rushes to the open door but it slams in her face. The light above our heads begins to sway and Gandalf bares his teeth at something I can’t see. A picture jerks and then bangs against the wall and Mum leaps away, her eyes wide with terror.
I glare around the room, my heart hammering in my chest. I’ve only seen Nina through the window before, but I know it’s her. ‘What do you want?’ I yell. ‘Stig isn’t here. He’s gone!’ Mum covers her face with her hands and sobs as sheets of paper fly into the air. ‘Please, just leave us alone!’ I scream. ‘Leave us alone!’
The door bangs open letting in a rush of icy air and I snap back to the present. The memory of Mum’s tear-stained face brings a lump to my throat and I rub my arms, feeling helpless. I would give anything to erase her fear, to be able to protect her. Ruth walks inside, carrying a cardboard box with a pile of bedlinen folded on top. She places it on the counter then unpacks cleaning stuff, along with teabags, milk, and bread and cheese. ‘The canteen tent opens at seven for breakfast and does lunch from twelve. Dinner starts at six, but if you want to eat here I’ve brought you a few things.’ She pulls out some tins then opens a cupboard above the sink to reveal a microwave.
I take a moment to calm my thoughts and then go over to her. ‘Thanks, Ruth.’