Sandra Field - Travelling Light

Travelling Light

Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SHE felt at home.

It was ridiculous. Kristine was in Oslo, thousands of miles from home. She and her parents had left Norway when she was less than three, and she had grown up on a farm in central Canada; how could she possibly have concrete memories of this spacious, stately city? Yet, ridiculous though it was, she did indeed feel at home.

She had been strolling the length of Karl Johansgate, one of the main streets of Oslo, her eyes scanning the shop windows, the restaurants, the faces that passed her by. It was a fine evening in July and the pavements were crowded. As she wandered past an outdoor café, where experience had already taught her she could scarcely afford even a sandwich or a beer, she was oblivious of the male eyes that flickered over her, came back, and lingered, for she was immersed in her own thoughts.

This morning, at the border, she had almost turned back into Sweden, for somewhere deep within her she was afraid of this return to her birthplace, and of what she might learn here. Right now she was truly glad that she had taken her courage in her hands and driven past the checkpoint with its brave red, white and blue flag.

Further up the street clowns were cavorting on the pavement, and a group of Bolivians in colourful costumes were singing folk melodies accompanied by drums and throaty flutes. Her mouth watering for a, the Norwegian version of a hot dog, or for one of the baked potatoes the street vendors were selling, Kristine stopped to listen to the musicians. She had all the time in the world, she thought contentedly, aware that the long summer evening was gradually drawing to a close, the sky darkening above the buildings. The key to Harald’s apartment was safely tucked away in one of the many pockets of her shorts, and he would not be back until the weekend. She was accountable to no one.

Another vendor tried to sell her a long-stemmed rose with petals the colour of apricots. She shook her head, smiling, and said awkwardly, ‘ Nei takk .’ The language felt rough on her tongue. She should have made an effort to study it before she arrived. But then until last Saturday when she had phoned Harald she had not really been sure that she was going to come here...

A reggae singer attracted her attention, and then two young men in skin-tight black outfits with white-painted faces doing some very clever mime. The audience, she noticed, was mixed: tourists draped with cameras, indulgent middle-aged couples, and every now and then an archetypal Norwegian youth, tanned, blond, lithe and healthy. Her own hair was blonde and her eyes blue. She fitted right in.

From the slim leather bag that looped over her shoulder and hung in front of her Kristine extracted enough money to buy an ice-cream cone, and because she was relaxed and happy her normal caution in a foreign country deserted her; she did not realise that eyes were following her for reasons other than her looks any more than she had noticed the girl-watchers in the cafés. She heard music down one of the side-streets and wandered in search of it, licking the mint-flavoured ice-cream.

The music came from a bar that she couldn’t afford to enter. Then she saw a small leafy park further down the street, and from beyond it heard the lilt of an accordion and the sound of singing. Even if she couldn’t go into the bars and cafés it was fun to watch the people. A people to whom she was related by ties of birth, she mused, munching at the crusty cone as she followed the narrow pathway through the park in the direction of the singing.

In the last two years Kristine had travelled through Thailand, India, Turkey and Greece, and in none of these countries would she have walked alone at night through a city park, for she had a very healthy sense of survival and had soon learned to be streetwise. But this was Norway, and she felt at home, and now that she was finally here her mind was already dwelling on her next decision. She had a grandfather, father of her father, living in Fjaerland, a little village many miles north of Oslo. Her grandfather had no idea that she was here in Norway. Was she going to visit him?

She would have to decide soon, because her money was running out fast. Or else she would have to get a job to tide her over. Frowning to herself, some overhanging branches brushing her shoulder, she ducked into the shadows of the tree.

From nowhere a figure out of a nightmare sprang up in front of her. A grinning white face with a slash of red lips. Black-circled eyes. A black costume that was part of the shadows of the night. And hands that grabbed for her purse.

The hands were real. Male hands with dirty fingernails. Acting instinctively, Kristine thrust the remains of her ice-cream cone at his face, gathered her breath to scream and from behind felt another hand clamp over her mouth.

So there were two of them. Men dressed as clowns. How could she have been so stupid? So abysmally careless?

The man’s fingers dug into her cheeks. His skin smelled acridly of greasepaint and nicotine, and it would have been all too easy for her to succumb to mindless panic. But Kristine had not been travelling for the better part of two years without learning a few tricks of her own. She sagged against her attacker as if overcome by fear, and reached for the tiny nail scissors that she always carried in her pocket. Twisting, she dug them into the first clown’s hand, heard his yelp of pain, and kicked out viciously at the man behind her.

Philippe, with whom she had travelled in Turkey, had taught her that particular trick. Philippe had a face like a Raphael cherub and had been the meanest fighter she had ever seen.

The kick worked. And she was lucky. The second clown tripped over the iron bench on the edge of the path and crashed into the bushes. His curse, fortunately, was in Norwegian.

Adrenalin pumping through her veins, Kristine screamed as loudly as she could. The first clown swung at her with his fist. She ducked, hearing the swish of air past her ear, and struck out again with her lethal little scissors. As they grazed his flesh, his sideways swipe knocked them from her hand. But in the instant that he was off balance she whirled and fled between the trees.

A branch struck her cheek as cruelly as a whiplash. Almost certain that the clowns were following her, she flung her body through the shrubs, burst out on to another path, and ran straight into the man who was waiting there.

Her gasp of terror drove the last of her breath out of her lungs. Yet even then Kristine did not give up. For Philippe had taught her something else. ‘Always you must have two weapons,’ he had said in his charmingly accented English. ‘One for every day, and one for the real emergency.’

She had a Swiss army knife in her back pocket. Just before the man’s arms could close around her, she hauled it out of her pocket in a blur of movement and raked the sharp point of the corkscrew down his bare arm.

He gave a grunt of pain. But he did not let go. Instead he pushed her away from him and said something urgent and incomprehensible in Norwegian.

He had been a fool to push her away, Kristine thought, and brought her knee up to his groin with malevolent speed.

His countermove was swift and decisive and her knee struck nothing but air. He gasped, ‘Stop! I’m trying to rescue you. Je suis un ami...ein Freund .’

Her fingers were already clawing for his eyes. Then her body went still as his words penetrated her haze of fear. For the first time she realised that he was not in a clown costume and that he was not fighting back: all his moves had been defensive. She said blankly, ‘ What did you say?’