I slam the door and drag the bolt across. Stig is doubled over, palms on his knees, panting hard. Droplets of water cling to his hair and clothes ‘You OK?’ he asks. I shake my head, unable to speak. ‘You’re fast! I couldn’t keep up,’ he laughs.
My lips twitch upward but I don’t feel like smiling. There’s something wrong with that tree. Unnatural. I inhale deeply through my nose but my stomach won’t stop churning. Just the memory of that putrid smell makes me want to heave. The hole can’t have been there when I came last summer, I would have noticed. It seemed too big to have been dug by an animal, yet the grooves in the wood looked like claw marks.
Stig peers out the window. ‘The fog is right on top of us!’ He wipes his breath from the glass and gestures for me to look. The world outside is gone, replaced by a dense uniform grey. Mist swirls over the porch, wrapping itself around the balustrades like a scarf looking for a neck to strangle. The room darkens as fog drifts across the window, devouring us whole. The cabin is freezing, colder than I’ve ever known. I look at the stove, expecting to see a pile of ash, but the embers glow orange.
‘Did you notice anything funny – I mean, odd? Just now, outside?’
Stig shushes the dog, who growls at the door as if Death itself were standing on the porch. ‘You mean Gandalf? Dogs can be affected by the weather. He’ll be fine.’
I sit on the sofa and shiver as a ribbon of mist wisps in through the keyhole. I was sure Stig had felt it too – he must have noticed the awful smell and strange noise, but he wanders from the room, humming under his breath. Maybe it’s all in my head. Mum says I have a vivid imagination, just like Mormor.
Gandalf snaps at his tail. I don’t know whether he’s afraid, excited or preparing to fight – and I don’t think he knows either.
Stig reappears holding a towel. ‘Do you want to wash first? There might not be much hot water. It can take a while to heat up.’ He grins good-naturedly, but I don’t smile back. The more he makes himself at home, the more out of place I feel.
‘No, it’s fine. You go ahead.’
Stig flashes me his dimples. ‘I can save you my bathwater if you like.’
I frown, unsure whether he’s being serious. Sharing water with family is one thing, but not with a complete stranger.
Stig grins. ‘Only joking! We Norwegians do that sometimes. Joke, I mean.’
Ignoring him, I glance at the kitchen. It’s nearly three in the afternoon. The toast we had this morning has long gone. ‘I’ll start dinner, I guess.’
‘Great, I’m starving!’
‘Who said anything about making you dinner?’
Stig looks hurt, and not play-acting hurt.
‘I thought you Norwegians liked a joke?’ I say, trying to sound upbeat.
He raises his eyebrows, then turns on his heel with a grin.
Bending down, I open a cupboard and grab an onion, a few potatoes and a cabbage. Yrsa was right, the place is well stocked. I take some bread from the freezer, ready for later, then start on dinner. I’m halfway through peeling a potato when I hear the water run. The cabin has never had good soundproofing – it didn’t seem a problem before, but now the idea of using the toilet knowing I can be heard in the next room makes me cringe.
I hear singing. Badly and in Norwegian. I shake my head but can’t help smiling as Stig’s voice builds to a death-metal crescendo. I don’t know the song, but it sounds like he’s murdering it. Just when I think he’s finished, a series of wails assaults my ears. As he returns to the deep-throated chorus, I grab a knife and find myself chopping in time with the tune.
Something darts past the window. The knife slips and I gasp as it slices my flesh. Sucking my finger, I wipe away the steam from the cooking and peer outside, but there’s only fog. It’s so dense I can’t have seen anything.
Even though I’m unable to see the tree, I know it’s there – why do I feel like it’s watching me? I yank the curtain shut. There’s something rotten about that tree. I can feel it emanating in waves.
I tear off a piece of kitchen roll and wrap it around my finger, pressing hard against the throb of pain. Blood oozes and spreads across the tissue, making it more red than white. Mormor must keep plasters around here somewhere. I open a drawer to find a stack of papers and riffle through them. Bills and shopping lists. No plasters, and no envelope with my name on it either.
I pull open another drawer and start to rummage, when Stig strides into the room dripping water.
‘Vannet er iskaldt!’
‘Sorry, what?’
He’s wearing a towel around his middle. His wet hair hangs over his shoulders and his smooth chest is covered with a film of tiny bubbles. I turn away, then glance back at his muscular legs. I may be half blind, but even I don’t need Kelly to tell me he’s hot.
Stig seems unconcerned by the fact he’s almost naked, which only makes it more awkward. Resisting the temptation to look at him, I stare at my throbbing finger.
‘Helvete! What happened to you?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just slipped with the knife.’
Stig gestures to a chair and I dutifully sit while he searches the dresser.
‘I think I saw … Wait, I remember.’ He pulls out a green box from behind a row of cookery books and I tut. Of course, I should have asked him to begin with.
Stig reaches for my hand and heat floods every part of my body; this must be how it feels to blush down to your toes. I pull away, but he grabs my finger and inspects the damage, informing me of what I already know – it’s a deep cut – before smoothing on a plaster.
‘You OK? Maybe you should lie down.’
I stand and turn back to the chopping board, doing my best not to look at his bare chest. ‘See. Perfectly fine,’ I say, snatching up the knife and stabbing an unsuspecting potato.
I don’t know whether I’m irritated with him for wandering around half naked, or with myself for being bothered by it. As I bring the knife down, I can feel his eyes on the back of my head.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. ‘Anyway, what’s up with you? Did you forget the words to the song?’
Stig gives an awkward laugh. ‘Oh, you heard that? Sorry, I didn’t mean to be, er …’ He frowns as if he’s trying to think of the word. ‘Insensitive.’
‘It’s OK,’ I mumble. I liked hearing him sing. Though his voice sounded dreadful, it made the cabin feel less empty.
‘I got out because the water turned cold.’
Strange. It shouldn’t run out that quickly. I put the dinner in the oven, then head to the bathroom. Stig follows me as I step into the steam and turn on the bath tap. The water warms my fingers instantly. ‘Feels hot to me.’
Stig’s black socks drip water over the side of the deep wooden tub. Mum used to complain it was like showering in an oversized barrel, but I loved sitting in there as a child, pretending I was voyaging the high seas in my own little boat.
Stig holds his finger under the tap and frowns. ‘The lights were flickering too, but they seem OK now.’ His face is so close to mine I don’t know where to look. For a horrible moment I think he’s staring at my eye – but he isn’t. He’s looking at my mouth. I turn the tap off and start to walk away, somehow managing to trip over my feet in the process.
Stig grips the towel at his waist. ‘You must have a magic touch.’
If only he knew. His black shirt and slashed jeans hang on the back of the door, and I can’t help wondering what they might tell me. I think back to his coat in the woodshed. How can he feel love and sadness and at the same time be consumed by such jealousy and hate? If I run my fingers over his jeans, maybe they’ll show me a memory. I want to touch them. The realisation gives me butterflies.
I step towards his clothes, then stop. Wouldn’t it be nicer if he told me, if we just got to know each other the normal way?
Stig coughs and looks at me expectantly. It takes me a moment to realise why. I glance at the floor. ‘Sorry, right, I’ll leave you to it,’ I mutter.
As I turn to leave, I notice a blurred, misshapen face in the mirror. He must have drawn the sad hollow eyes and gaping mouth in the condensation. I think about remarking on his artwork, but when I look back the image has gone. The only monstrous face is mine.
I take my time in the shower, letting the warm water wash away the strangeness of the day, then change and towel my hair.
Stig is kneeling by the stove, feeding a log to the fire. He’s brushed his hair and applied fresh eyeliner. Instead of the usual black, he’s wearing a white shirt with ruffles down the front. There are no creases in it, so I guess he must know where Mormor keeps the iron. The boy is either incredibly nosey and likes poking around other people’s houses, or he’s been here for longer than he said. The thought brings me out in goosebumps.
Stig glances up with a grin and my fear evaporates. He hasn’t done anything to make me doubt him. I’m being overly suspicious. ‘Something smells good,’ he says. For a second I think he means me, then instantly feel stupid.
I enter the kitchen to find the table set, complete with wine glasses, napkins and candles. He’s even used one of Mormor’s best tablecloths. Feeling underdressed in my grey jogging bottoms, I drag my fingers through my damp hair, wishing I had blow-dried it. Stop it, I tell myself. You can’t do anything about your face, so what’s the point of worrying about your hair?
Gandalf is curled up in his basket, head on his paws. ‘Feeling better now, boy?’ His ears prick up at the sound of my voice. I kneel down and pat his head, and he licks my face in return. That’s the good thing about animals: they love you for who you are, not how you look. He stares at the door as if he’s trying to tell me something. ‘What is it?’ I whisper, but he only lowers his head with a sigh.
Stig’s right, dinner does smell good. Grabbing a tea towel from the rail, I open the oven and take out the casserole. Mormor was the one who taught me to cook. Not that I made much in London; it was something we did together. Disappointment tugs at my heart as I remember that we’ll never do it again.
Stig sees my face and gives me a sad, knowing smile. He grabs some oranges from the fruit bowl on the dresser, then starts to juggle. ‘What do you think? Good enough for the circus?’
I try to sound impressed. ‘Not bad.’ I know he’s trying to cheer me up and that Mormor would want me to be happy, but it feels wrong to have fun without her. Like it feels wrong to be using her best tablecloth and wine glasses.
Stig’s oranges tumble to the ground. I reach out and grab one, then knock my head on the table.
‘You OK?’ Stig crouches down and I move away from him without thinking.
‘I’m fine,’ I snap, annoyed with myself for being so clumsy.
Stig picks up the oranges, then stands and takes a banana from the bowl. He threatens me with it. ‘Do you know what the Swedish think Norwegians call a banana?’
I shrug.
‘Gulbøy. It means, yellow bend.’
‘Really?’
Stig laughs. ‘Yes, really,’ and starts to juggle again.
I watch the fruit whizz in circles, then lay the plates on the table. ‘Let me guess – fruit salad for dessert?’
Stig grins. ‘I tried juggling custard but it got messy.’
We sit at the table and smile shyly at one another. Stig clears his throat and I wonder if he feels as awkward as I do.
‘So you don’t speak any Norwegian?’ he asks.
I pick up my spoon and feel a pang of regret. At the time, it didn’t seem worth learning a new language when we only came out for summer holidays.
‘Mormor wanted to teach me, but no. I wish I did.’
‘I can teach you a few words, if you like.’
‘OK.’ I try the casserole, which tastes just how I remember: rich and meaty mutton with cabbage and peppercorns, and a dash of cumin for warmth.
‘So, where did you learn to juggle?’ I ask.
‘My ex-girlfriend was an acrobat.’ A shadow of sadness passes over his face. He opens the bottle of red wine on the table and his expression changes as quickly as it came. ‘Nina went to the same school as me, but her parents worked for a circus in Oslo. I watched them train sometimes – trapeze, high wire, contortion, that kind of thing.’
I nod along. ‘Sounds cool.’ But how would I know? I’ve spent months making jewellery in my bedroom with only a handsaw and metal for company.
Stig pours me a glass of wine, then fills his own and raises it. ‘To making the best of things.’
My fingers caress the stem of the glass. Red wine always goes straight to my head, but I guess a little won’t hurt. I raise my glass and clink it to his.
‘Skål!’ Stig drains his drink in one gulp.
I narrow my eyes, wondering if he’s trying to get drunk. The thought of his coat nags at me. Maybe someone with an alcohol problem would be like two different people – maybe he gets angry when he’s had a drink.
‘Skål,’ I say, and swallow my unease down with the wine.
‘See, you’re learning already,’ he smiles. ‘So, any plans for tomorrow?’
Get through each hour without being overwhelmed by grief or creeped out by a tree – but I’m guessing that’s not the answer he’s looking for.
Stig refills his glass. ‘Maybe we can walk to the sea?’
We could be on holiday, the way he talks. Surely he must have plans to go back to school or whatever he does? I take a sip of wine and consider asking, but what if he thinks I’m trying to get rid of him and takes offence? My only real plan is to turn the cabin upside down. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Mormor would have left me a letter.
‘Actually I was planning to sort through Mormor’s things.’
Stig lowers his gaze, abashed. ‘Sure, sure. Of course.’
‘Anyway, Yrsa said we should stay near the cabin.’
‘Oh, that? Northern superstition. Like I said, it’s probably just a stray dog.’
I nod, but Yrsa doesn’t strike me as the nervous type. And they must be properly worried or why go to the trouble of buying a gun? I should tell Stig that I saw something outside the window earlier. I open my mouth, but he speaks first.
‘I’m glad you turned up. I was getting bored of boiled potatoes.’
My spoon clatters to my plate.
Stig swallows hard. ‘I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.’
Suddenly it’s like the first time we sat opposite each other, after I brought him in from the woodshed. What am I doing playing house with the boy who broke into Mormor’s cabin? Cooking him a meal and using her best tablecloth and drinking her wine! I shovel casserole into my mouth. It burns, but not enough to melt the ice in my belly.
Stig lays his palms on the table. ‘You have been so kind to me and I never said thank you.’ His face is flushed from the wine. ‘Seriously, you didn’t have to lie for me. I want you to know that I appreciate it. Really.’
I nod and feel the tightness in my shoulders relax a little. I hadn’t realised until now, but I’ve been waiting for him to say those words. Stig holds my gaze. ‘I would have frozen to death if it weren’t for you.’
My heart melts the tiniest bit. I guess things must be bad at home if he’d rather sleep in the woodshed than go back. ‘Like a penguin lost in the snow?’ I ask.
Stig laughs. ‘Yeah. As cold as a penguin with no one to love me.’
I feel my cheeks burn and look away. Next to the sink is a pile of dirty pots and pans. ‘You can make it up to me by doing the dishes,’ I offer.
Stig grins. ‘Sure, sure.’
‘And make breakfast tomorrow.’
‘No problem. For you, Miss Martha, extra-special pancakes!’
I take a sip of wine, enjoying the smoothness as it slips down my throat. We eat in comfortable silence; the only sound the hiss and crackle of the fire. When we’re finished, Stig looks at me, his eyes startlingly blue. ‘Takk for maten.’ He holds out a hand for my plate. ‘It means, thanks for the food.’
‘Takk for maten,’ I repeat, liking the taste of the Norwegian words on my tongue.
Stig looks pleased. ‘Det var deilig. It was lovely,’ he adds.
Gandalf whines at the front door and I feel my body tense. Stig puts our plates by the sink. ‘We could walk him on a lead if you like.’
‘OK.’
A lead sounds better than Gandalf running off into the night, but I’d be happier if we didn’t have to leave the cabin. Still, I guess he has to be walked.
Stig zips up his boots, then attaches Gandalf’s lead and slides back the bolt. It’s cold and damp, but the fog has nearly lifted. Dark clouds smother the sky so that the moon is a faint blurred halo. As I do up my coat, the thought of going near the tree makes my stomach turn. I can’t face it, not after such a nice meal. ‘I might stay here and watch, if that’s OK?’
Gandalf charges down the steps towards a clump of grass. ‘Sure!’ shouts Stig, his arm waving wildly as he’s pulled by the lead. Gandalf sniffs like a dog possessed, then lurches again, his nose close to the ground. I laugh as Stig is dragged around. I’m not sure who’s taking who for a walk.
Stamping my feet against the cold, I watch as they jog past the woodshed to the rear of the cabin. Even with the light of the moon, they soon become shadowy shapes. The longer I stand on the porch, the less I like it. Maybe I should call them back. But it’s only been a few minutes; Stig will think I’m silly. Besides, I can hear his voice complaining in Norwegian – they can’t be far. I watch my breath hang on the air and peer into the gloom. There’s something odd about the darkness. It doesn’t feel as empty as it should.
A howl shatters the night. A terrible, guttural sound – on and on like it might never stop. My heart batters against my ribcage. ‘Stig!’ I scan the darkness and yell his name again, but the only thing I hear is Gandalf barking.
Another terrifying howl. What the hell is that? I’ve only ever heard a wolf howl in movies, but this is nothing like that.
Something races past me. Not a person, but the shadow of a person.
I spin around, my fists clenched. Another shadow flickers past my shoulder, and another. I turn around and more rush past me into the cabin – all of them on my left side. The side where I am blind.