Guardian of the Dead Read online

  We were supposed to be meeting in the student-union building. I was vaguely familiar with the university grounds – Mansfield students were allowed to use the library, which was much better stocked and stayed open later than ours – and the fastest way there would have been to turn south at the road and walk straight down the block to hit the student-union car park.

  But I was enjoying the walk, and I still owed Kevin for dragging me into this. It would serve him right if he had to wait for me. I carried straight on into the university. Out of my school uniform, I could pass for a first-year student, I thought. Maybe even a second-year. Studying Commerce, maybe, or Law, or Forestry. Or Classics – why not, in a daydream, even if it was useless for getting a job – a Classics honours student, soberly occupied with a translation of Euripides that would make her famous and admired the world over . . .

  Caught up in the fantasy, I realised I was in danger of walking right through the campus. I dodged around two girls practising Mori as they walked, turned southwest at the next path, and found myself in a strange spot I hadn’t seen before.

  The ground had been shaped into a semicircular hill – an amphitheatre, really, sloping down to an outdoor concrete stage jutting out of the building behind it. The cherry trees that studded the top of the rise must have looked pretty in bloom, but now their black branches glinted sullenly in the heavy air and the feet of other shortcutters had churned a straight line of muck through the grass, up and over the slope. I avoided that sodden path as I crested the hill, more out of fear that my worn sneakers might skid than out of fastidiousness.

  With a shiver of fear, I saw that the others had all vanished into school buildings or other paths.

  I was alone, in the growing darkness, when the red-haired woman walked out of the fog.

  I ducked my head nervously, but though she surveyed me from my sneakers to the collar of my coat, she didn’t meet my eyes. I gained the impression that, my heavy body being of no interest, my face could hold nothing more, and flushed, half-furious, half-ashamed. Of her, I saw white skin, red hair, piled and pinned, and a tight, short-waisted jacket.

  As she came closer, her beauty struck me, almost physically – a weird, ageless beauty that lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. I felt like an alley cat, bristling at the sudden appearance of a Siamese.

  I pulled my hands out of my coat pockets. She was almost as tall as I was, but her wrists were delicate and the high sweep of her cheekbones almost painfully fragile. If it came to a fight, I could hit for her face, and run.

  The rush of aggression subsided a little in the bloody horror of that image. My hands were in fists so tight they squeezed my bitten-down nails into my palms and I forced them flat against my thighs. They stiffened there, blades of bone and sinew.

  But the gesture gained her attention. She tilted a glance at me as she passed, and I saw her eyes, undimmed by dusk and fog. They were strong and dark – like greenstone under water – but there was something wrong with them. It took me a long moment to realise that her face gave reason to my fears.

  The woman had no pupils.

  A shout stalled in my throat as she regarded me with that inhuman gaze for seconds my heart stammered out in double time. My throat was too dry for words, too tight for air; I felt breath whistle harshly out through my nose and a straining tightness in my chest.

  Then she smiled slightly and stepped past me, precise and measured through the mud.

  I managed a sound that was more a whimper than a cry and scrambled up the rest of the slope, bracing myself against a tree trunk before I dared to look after her. I half-expected her to have vanished, but I could still make out the straight line of her back through the fog. When she did disappear, it was into one of the university buildings, via a door held open by one of a group of chattering boys. One of them brushed against her, and I saw her move with the impact before he made his cheerful apology.

  I was panting like a dog, breath coming in short sharp huffs of chilly air. Head pounding, I leaned against the rough trunk and tried to put my thoughts back in order.

  She wasn’t a ghost. Just someone with weird contact lenses, a fetish for Victoriana, and bad manners. Any campus had its share of crazies who got their fun out of scaring the normal people.

  ‘Hi, Ellie!’ someone chirped behind me, and I screamed and whipped round, my hands ready to strike.

  Iris Tsang stepped backwards hastily, her sleek fall of black hair swinging back and forth across her shoulders. She looked alarmed, as well she might, with a giant girl screaming at her.

  I leaned one hand against the tree and bent my head as the adrenaline subsided again, fighting the urge to pant some more. ‘Oh, my God! I’m sorry! Oh, God!’ So much for polished and composed.

  ‘It’s okay. Are you all right? You’re completely white!’

  ‘I’ve always been white,’ I cracked feebly, and straightened to give her my usual envious once-over. I knew that ‘China doll’ was racist, even just in my head, but I couldn’t help thinking it. Iris had skin like fragile porcelain, dark eyes that tilted sweetly under a delicate fold of eyelid, and that gratuitously gorgeous hair. I was proud of my own hair, which was blonde and straight, and the only thing that was vaguely pretty about me, but Iris had me beat without even trying. And she was wearing boots, knee-high black ones that looked great with her grey skirt and white jersey.

  ‘What happened?’

  I frowned. ‘Nothing. I was just . . . it’s spooky, I guess. The fog.’

  She nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, come on in. We’re in the lower common-room tonight. Oh! Did you hear? We found a new Titania!’

  I fell in beside her as we went down the hill and across the bridge over the creek. Passersby looked at us, and I bristled inwardly at the inevitable comparison, hunching down into my coat. ‘I didn’t know you’d lost a Titania.’

  ‘Sarah pulled out yesterday, and with only three weeks to go, can you believe it? I thought we might have to promote one of the fairies. But Reka got a hold of me.’ She frowned a little. ‘She had some conditions . . . oh, well, I’ll explain when I can talk to everyone. And thank you so much for helping! I just have no idea what to do with the fight scenes.’

  She really did look grateful. ‘No problem,’ I said, and resolved to be a nicer person, kind to animals and old people and irritatingly gorgeous nice girls who had never done me any harm.

  The rehearsal room was filled with earnest, stretching people in white martial-arts uniforms, which, unless Iris had vastly underestimated the fighting abilities of her cast, seemed out of the ordinary for a rehearsal. Kevin was just sticking a notice on the door when we arrived.

  ‘We’ve been booted out by the karate club. We get the theatre.’

  Iris sighed.

  ‘Isn’t that better?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s freezing in the theatre,’ Kevin explained. ‘Iris, why can’t we do this outside? In summer?’

  Iris smiled at him. ‘One, the only reason a mere first year is directing is because no one else wanted to take on a production this close to exams. Two, my directorial vision requires a decent set. And three, I want to do it now, and you’re helping me out because you love me. Did I miss anything?’

  Kevin’s smile suddenly looked forced.

  ‘Four, he’s allergic to bees,’ I said quickly.

  Iris turned to me, eyes shining brightly. ‘Oh, of course. Four, possible horrible death.’

  ‘Iris!’ someone cried from behind us, and I twisted to see a pair of petite girls in the student uniform of sweatpants and pink polar-fleece hoodies coming up the stairs. ‘Oh, how are we translated?’ the smaller one asked, which made no sense to me at all.

  ‘Transported, more like,’ Iris said, and pointed down the corridor. ‘To the theatre.’

  We wandered through the smokers’ lounge and past the photos of past student executives, beginning with the faded black-and-white photos of the early 1900s. Kevin tossed a mock salute at his missing Great-Uncle Bob whe
n we passed his photo, and we had to stop so Kevin could explain the tragic story of his uncle’s disappearance to the two girls. The photograph had been taken in 1939, a week before he’d gone missing. The boyish, handsome face was eerily similar to Kevin’s – a bit darker, maybe – but some photographer’s trick had given Robert Waldgrave’s dark eyes an intense, suppressed excitement that Kevin had never demonstrated.

  The girls made the expected sad noises at the story and then introduced themselves to me as Carrie and Carla. They were playing Helena and Hermia, and they were delighted that I was going to teach them how to catfight properly. I wondered if Iris had cast them for the alliteration, but she was staring pensively at Kevin, and I didn’t ask. I began to edge forward, and the girls followed me, talking about the fight.

  ‘I thought we could fall over things,’ blonde Carrie said. ‘Like, maybe I break a walking stick on her, and then she tugs at my foot and we roll around. And then I kick her in the face!’

  I pictured the impact of Carrie’s flailing shoe against Carla’s snub, brown nose. ‘I’ll work something out,’ I said diplomatically.

  ‘Nothing that tears at clothes,’ Carla said. ‘We’re hiring all the Edwardian stuff.’

  ‘Carla’s doing costumes,’ Kevin informed me. ‘Since the original costume designer quit.’

  ‘Do you want to be onstage too?’ Iris said, perking up. ‘You could be a fairy, Ellie.’

  ‘What do fairies wear?’

  ‘Bodysuits,’ Carla said promptly. ‘With koru designs drawn on them, and the girls get grass skirts.’

  I envisioned myself on stage, wearing spandex decorated in curling patterns and surrounded by tiny women like these. ‘Ah . . . no. Thanks.’

  ‘I’m glad I don’t have to wear one,’ Carrie chirped, rubbing her flat stomach. ‘I’ve put on the first-year five kilos since March!’ I was probably imagining her sly look at my bulk, I told myself, uncomfortably aware that my ‘dinner’ had comprised three chocolate-chip biscuits and four pieces of peanut-butter toast. I had to get some exercise. My tae kwon do gear bag was in my wardrobe, untouched since I’d moved down in February. Maybe I could join the university karate club after the play. It might be interesting to see how they did it.

  We had come to the end of the corridor, and entered the wide lobby. Kevin pushed on the wide, pale-blue doors, emblazoned with ‘Ngio Marsh Theatre’ in flowing script, and ushered us in.

  ‘Are any other—’ I began, but I had spoken into one of those sudden silences that occasionally punctuate group conversations. All the strangers gathered on the stage looked up at us.

  Empty, the theatre was immense and intimidating. The black side curtains were tied up in enormous knots, and the undressed stage stretched all the way back to the brick wall. The group of shivering bodies clustered on the stage’s scarred wooden floor barely covered a tenth of it.

  I skirted the sunken orchestra pit and joined them, making abortive attempts to smooth down my hair.

  Iris beamed at me. ‘Okay, guys, this is Ellie Spencer, from Mansfield, like Kevin! She’s our fight choreographer!’ She clapped. Everyone joined in.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, through my teeth, hoping it looked like a smile. There were cute boys, but none of them looked enthused by my introduction as a mere high-school kid. Probably not even my nice boots would have helped.

  ‘It’s good to see everyone here on time!’ Iris said encouragingly.

  ‘Sarah’s not,’ Carrie pointed out.

  ‘Sarah left,’ Iris told her, but before the groan from the other cast members could swell into real protest, she held out her hands. ‘It’s okay! We have a new Titania lined up already. Reka Gordon.’

  ‘Why did Sarah quit?’ one of the boys asked, looking disgruntled. I’d noticed him right away – he wasn’t really tall enough for me, but I liked his brown curls and wide mouth.

  Iris paused, a look of momentary confusion flickering over her face. ‘You’d have to ask her yourself,’ she said, then rallied. ‘But I’m sure it was a good reason.’

  ‘What’s this Reka done?’ he persisted.

  Iris blinked again. ‘Oh, lots of things,’ she said. ‘She’s just moved here, I think, so nothing recent . . . she has done Dream before, though, so that’s a real bonus. Just one thing, though, before she joins us! She’s allergic to the smell of cooked food. So we can’t bring anything that smells to rehearsal.’ She picked up her notebook and smiled hopefully at the group.

  Kevin raised his hand. ‘She’s allergic to the smell of cooked food?’

  Iris nodded.

  ‘That’s – uh . . . I’ve never heard of that.’

  ‘Like, is she allergic to peanuts?’ Carrie asked, pretty nose wrinkling. ‘Because that’s airborne allergies. My cousin can’t be around satay.’

  ‘Cooked food,’ Iris said swiftly. ‘All cooked food. Okay?’ Her voice was composed, but I could see her hands tensing and relaxing in her lap. ‘She’s joining us a little later. Let’s get warmed up.’

  I squished myself into one of the seats in the row nearest the stage and watched as she marshalled everyone into a circle like a hyper-efficient sheepdog and took the cast through a series of increasingly bizarre physical, vocal, and mental warm-ups. I couldn’t really see the point of making people howl, or asking them to visualise themselves dropping into a pool of black ink, or having them all clap in unison, but they did look more focused and intent when they were finished, so what did I know? And brown-curls boy looked even more interesting with his face screwed up in concentration.

  ‘Okay, Ellie! How do you want to start?’

  Panic swamped me. I’d been so intent on complaining about Kevin making me do this that I hadn’t come up with any practicalities. ‘How about if I see the scenes like you’ve got them, and then come up with some ideas?’

  Iris nodded as if that made perfect sense. ‘Okay! Act three, scene two. From Helena’s entrance.’

  Carrie and Carla eagerly disappeared into the wings, and two boys whose names I had already forgotten began mock-punching each other, while another two sat at the back of the stage. Everyone else trooped into the auditorium, setting up camp in the front rows. Iris sat down beside me, so I took out a notebook and tried to look serious.

  Carrie ran from the wings, pursued by one of the boys protesting his enchanted love for her. I’d studied A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Year Eleven, but it was hard to follow Shakespeare’s lines at speed. I thought that they were probably pretty good, though. Carrie’s Helena was maybe a little too stagy, but Carla’s Hermia was really distraught. Brown-curls boy was playing Puck, and he caught my eye more than once, smirking gnomishly to himself, or lifting his fingers in gestures that mocked the girls’ earnest arguments.

  Carla floated around in front of her Lysander in a pretty useless attempt to stop him duelling, then turned on Carrie, launching into the speech about their comparative heights. It came off oddly, since they were almost the same size, but I grimaced when she scorned Carrie’s ‘tall personage’.

  ‘I am not yet so low but that my nails can reach unto thine eyes!’ she declared in a rising shriek, and then stopped, looking expectantly at me. ‘And then we fight.’

  I nodded. ‘Just speak the lines you say during.’

  She looked disappointed, but they continued until the boys stormed off to duel and the girls followed in bemusement. Iris twisted to smile at me. ‘Any ideas?’

  To my surprise, I did have a few. It wouldn’t be real training, but I could make them look a little less like actors and a little more like girls who genuinely wanted to hurt each other. ‘I think so. Is there someplace I can take them to try it?’

  ‘The greenroom is back there,’ she said, pointing to the right wing.

  Kevin tagged along, either to offer support or out of boredom. Backstage was dimly lit, and we walked cautiously around untidy piles of wood cut-offs and rolls of canvas. The chill air smelled of paint and sawdust, simultaneously sharp and musty. I shivered and tucked
my numbing fingers into my coat pockets.

  ‘How old are you, Ellie?’ Carrie asked.

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Really? I thought you might be older. You’re so tall.’

  ‘I noticed that myself,’ I said blandly, and watched her cover her fluster by reaching for the greenroom door.

  The handle yanked out of her grip as the door swung abruptly back. Carrie stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding collision with the red-haired woman on the other side.

  ‘Careful,’ she snapped, and strode through. She looked ready to move right through us, before she spotted Kevin and her whole demeanour changed. From the cool scorn of her lovely face she produced a beautiful smile, and aimed it directly at him.

  Reflexively, Kevin smiled back.

  The moment hung in the dusty air, and then the woman made a neat quarter-turn on the heel of her ankle boots and stepped surely onto the stage. The bare lighting edged her red hair with gold before she moved into the auditorium and out of sight.

  Kevin stared after her.

  ‘Is that Reka?’ Carla wondered.

  I was staring myself, but with the shock of recognition. In the fog she’d looked no age at all, and now she looked in her early twenties, just a few years older than me. But all the mystery of that odd encounter was explained – clearly an involvement in student theatre was sufficient reason for strange clothes and weird contacts. Although she must have taken them out. The light from the green room had shown two perfectly normal pupils in her dark-green eyes.

  ‘She must be,’ I said. ‘Let’s get started.’

  SITTING INSIDE MY HEAD

  THE GREENROOM WASN’T green. One of the sagging couches was, though, a sort of greenish-brown that I hoped was just faded upholstery, and not mold. The walls had once been off-white, now much more off than white, and the ragged curtains over the dressing-room windows were black hessian, clearly there to ward off prying eyes during costume changes, and not as decoration. The three small dressing rooms didn’t have doors, though, so apparently it was only outside eyes they were worried about. Or maybe shy people changed in the bathrooms.