A jogger passed her at the bumper cars, which were shut up for the winter, and a little further on she saw two people out for a walk who seemed to be following her at some distance. Otherwise there wasn’t a soul. The closed rides had something almost surreal about them; deprived of their function, they became spooky, sinister. No shining, flashing, twinkling lights, no announcements, no voices, no shrieking people on the roller-coaster, no children laughing on the big wheel or begging their parents for popcorn or candy floss. And no music—except for the elusive waltz melody that seemed to come from very far away, swelling and fading, swelling and fading.

And suddenly there was nothing. The music had died away altogether; there was nobody far and wide—only Norah and the darkness and, looming in the distance, the big wheel, turning in slow motion. That was where she had to go. To the big wheel. The main entrance. The place the music was coming from. That was where she would find him—where he was waiting for her.

Norah kept going.

On her right was a deserted swing ride, the swings hanging forlornly, like the branches of a weeping willow, the bright pastel colours almost completely swallowed by the darkness. A metallic screech came from somewhere, a sound as painful and false as in a bad dream. Norah walked on, all her senses alert. She thought of Valerie and Grimm; of the book in her kitchen cupboard and the gun in her bag; of Valerie’s mother and the woman in the photos. She thought of Coco and she knew she wouldn’t turn back now, whatever happened.

The big wheel was coming closer and Norah could hear the music again.

The night was cold and crisp, the stars clearly visible over the dark fairground. The wind whistled round the corners and from somewhere came the distressed sound of a hinge that needed oiling. There was a smell of storm in the air.

Norah had almost reached the open space in front of the big wheel when she suddenly had the feeling that somebody was there. She stopped and looked about her, but could see no one. Then, just as she was about to go on her way, she glanced down.

They were small, barely noticeable in the dim light of a distant lamppost, but now she saw them. The path was littered with dead birds.

ART AND DEATH

I am often asked why I do what I do.

Jörg Immendorff once used the brilliant metaphor of a soup bowl to explain his work as an artist. Imagine that you have a soup dish. You know that it is decorated with a beautiful design, but you can only get to that design by eating up the thick soup filling the dish.

That is exactly what I do. I spoon up the soup because I want to know what the bottom of the dish looks like. I do it over and over again, because each time the design is different. Each time it is a surprise. And each time, although I am old, I am as excited as a child.