Guardian of the Dead

by Karen Healey

  Mansfield’s boarders’ dining hall was happy to give us hot breakfasts and dinners, but school-day lunches were packed for us in the morning, and available for pick-up at the morning break. I sat huddled in my jersey at my usual bench in the covered area outside the Frances Alda music centre and occupied myself in picking the bacon out of my cold BLT. No matter what I put on the order form, I never got my vegetarian options for lunch. The kitchen staff was notoriously bad at ‘special’ diets, although Samia’s sustained campaigning had finally got them to have halal beef and lamb sometimes. I was glad for her, but it didn’t do me or my mood much good.

  Despite my best efforts at making eye contact, Mark Nolan had sat in the back row of Classics, and resolutely ignored everyone but Professor Gribaldi all period. It was his modus operandi, but I’d been hoping for more. Some shared joke, about my clumsiness, or his bracelet, or something.

  ‘Hey,’ Kevin said, and dropped onto the bench beside me, large and resplendent in his blazer.

  I sat up straight. ‘Hey! Are we expelled?’

  He took the piece of bacon from my fingers and dropped it into his mouth. ‘Yep. We’ll have to run away into the woods and live on nuts and berries.’

  ‘I could eat bugs,’ I offered courageously. ‘When the hunger pangs get really bad.’

  He grinned. ‘Nah, we’re good. Walked in the door, told the guys I’d gone running. Even found a fresh pair of socks. Hey, did you hear there’s been another Eyeslasher murder?’

  I grimaced. ‘Samia said in Geo. A phone psychic in Tau ranga. God, I hope they catch the bastard soon.’

  ‘Me too. Murder’s bad enough, but taking their eyes is sick.’

  ‘I think the murder probably matters more.’

  ‘Sure, but eyes are tapu, Ellie.’

  I blinked at him. Kevin’s parents, on the two occasions I’d met them for uncomfortable dinners, had been as stiffly Anglo-Saxon as posh New Zealanders came, but Kevin’s light-brown skin wasn’t the result of a good tan. I knew that his great-grandmother had been Ngi Tahu, and that he was one of the leading lights of Mansfield’s kapa haka performance group, but I hadn’t realised his desire to learn more about his roots had meant this much investment in Mori beliefs about the sacred.

  ‘You’re right. Sorry. Wait, don’t you have kapa haka on Wednesdays?’ I made vague hand gestures meant to invoke the poi twirling the girls did; Kevin rightly ignored me in favour of stealing my apple and holding it above my head.

  ‘Give that back or I won’t turn up to your play,’ I threatened. ‘And then there’ll be no one to be the no-woman’s-land between you and the admiring hordes.’

  I meant it as a joke, but he scowled and shoved the apple into my palms. I blinked at him, awaiting explanation.

  ‘Iris keeps . . .’ he said. ‘She keeps . . . looking. Like maybe I’ll like her back if she can just be there enough.’

  ‘She’s stalking you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You could tell her what you told me last night,’ I ventured. His scowl deepened.

  I tried to smile, but the humour in my voice was too forced. ‘Come on, it can’t be that hard. You just say, “Hi. My name is Kevin. And I’m asexual.” ’

  Kevin stared at his big hands. ‘Great. You think it’s like alcoholism.’

  ‘No!’ I said, and tried to think of something not stupid to say. Nothing came to mind.

  There was a pause while Kevin picked at his cuticles and I scraped my teeth down the apple. ‘Now that we’re sober, just to clarify,’ I said at last, and let my voice trail off when my courage gave out. I couldn’t stop myself from picking at scabs, either.

  ‘I’m not gay.’

  ‘Okay,’ I mumbled.

  Kevin’s lips twisted. ‘People understand gay. Even if they think it’s sick. But asexual . . . they don’t understand someone who’s not interested in sex at all.’

  ‘Really not at all?’

  He flattened his hands on his thighs. ‘Really.’

  I thought about saying Maybe you’ll change your mind, and then remembered Dad saying exactly that to Magda when she came out, and my sister’s strained, white face as she fought back equal measures of fury and despair.

  ‘Okay,’ I said instead, and covered one of his hands with mine. A smile appeared at the corners of his mouth and rested there a while.

  ‘About Iris. She’s my oldest friend.’

  I took my hand back. ‘I know.’

  ‘And you’re my best friend,’ he said, matter-of-fact, as if it was something I should have already known. ‘I want my oldest friend and my best friend to get along, you know?’

  I swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in my throat, and knew that I’d never ask if he’d only befriended me in the first place because I’d been too withdrawn to go all gooey over him. What did it matter? It was real now. ‘You’re my best friend too.’

  ‘I’ll tell her. In my time. Okay?’

  ‘Like I should have any say in it,’ I said, exasperated and flattered. ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Idiot. Go to kapa haka. Shout manly things.’

  He bumped my shoulder with his and strode away. I returned to the contemplation of my soggy sandwich. Maybe I could skip lunch too. No; that led to eating disorders and hunger headaches. I bit into the apple instead and caught a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.

  Mark Nolan was walking toward the music centre, covering the ground with his stalky heron gait. His gaze was unerringly fixed on me. ‘Spencer.’

  I chewed and swallowed, little lumps of apple burning on the way down. ‘I do have another name.’ That was tarter than anything I’d rehearsed in my head while I waited for Classics, but there was no reason for him to scowl at me like that.

  His frown deepened. ‘Eleanor?’

  ‘Only if you’re a teacher. Ellie.’

  ‘Ellie,’ he said. ‘Can I have a word? In private?’

  I glanced around. Most of the older students preferred to eat in their common rooms on cold days, but there were a bunch of younger girls at a picnic table in the nearby quad, and a mixed group of Year Twelves flirting a little way beyond them.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and shouldered my backpack. We were actually the same height, I noticed; only Mark’s slenderness and my slouching made him seem taller. ‘We can talk in the music centre.’ I could feel an echo of that same tingling thrill, and tried to tamp it down. No need to get excited, just because someone who never spoke to anyone was talking to me.

  He nodded shortly and led the way through the glass doors, going left at the foyer, toward the smaller practice rooms in the back. In his wake, I had little time to admire the centre’s blond wooden floors and atmosphere of peaceful light.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked, wondering if I’d damaged the bracelet in our crash. He turned into the small corridor that led to the bathrooms. ‘Hey! Mark!’

  He spun to face me, and I felt my breath catch at the angry tension in his face. ‘Did you know?’ he asked, long fingers sliding over his bracelet’s charms.

  I stared at him, and he moved closer, bringing the blood to my cheeks. ‘Spencer. Do you know what you are? What you could be?’

  ‘No,’ I said, dazed, knowing it was a strange question, but unable to work out why. I had no idea who I was or what I could be; wasn’t that normal, for people my age? My skin felt vibrant, warm and loose, as if it might slip off and tap-dance up the walls. I giggled at the thought.

  Mark ignored my laughter and muttered to himself, eyes darting around the hall. ‘Do you break curfew?’ He was wearing that frightening face again, and his green, green eyes were intent on mine.

  The euphoria vanished and I swayed back into the wall.

  My head was pounding. ‘Sometimes.’

  He stepped easily to the side as a skinny boy exited the bathroom, tugging at his belt. Mark’s long, lean body was suddenly right next to mine, his voice clear and quiet in my ear. The hai
rs on the back of my neck rose. ‘Don’t go out after dark alone,’ he ordered, his breath soft against my throat.

  Something was not right. I struggled for a moment, shaking my head and shoving my palms hard against the wall, but Mark’s hand clenched tight around his braceleted wrist and my resistance faded. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I won’t.’

  The tension went out of his shoulders and his hands relaxed. ‘Okay, Spencer. I’ll see you later.’ He hesitated a second. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘I had no idea.’ Then he brushed past me and vanished around the corner, back stiff against some invisible strain.

  I walked into the bathroom, uncertain of why my cheeks were flushed, and unable to remember how I’d got there. I had the dimming notion of an odd conversation, but not of whom I’d spoken to or what had been said. When I tried to mentally retrace my steps, my scalp suddenly stung as if I’d been yanking out fistfuls of hair. The pain swallowed whatever had jolted my memory, and I splashed water onto my face and frowned in the mirror until the colour in my cheeks faded.

  ‘You,’ I said softly, ‘are never drinking again.’

  SUDDENLY STRANGE

  MRS CHAPPELL was the Sheppard Hall Dorm Officer, which was the new term for Matron. She had a bony face, a thin platinum bob, a rotating set of pastel cardigans, and, it was rumoured, her husband’s skeleton arranged neatly on his side of the bed, not that I could catch any glimpse of the alleged bones from my uncomfortable seat in her austerely decorated office.

  I needed her permission to attend Iris Tsang’s heavy rehearsal schedule, so I had taken the trouble to change into my nicest pair of jeans and my best-fitting pink wool jersey under my black winter coat, and the effort seemed to be paying off. My lack of school spirit had not endeared me to Mrs Chappell, but when I explained I was trying to increase my participation in extra-curricular activities, she very nearly managed a smile.

  ‘I must say, it’s good to see you with some enthusiasm for something, Eleanor. Even if it is an out-of-school affair.’

  I beamed. ‘I’m very interested in stage production.’

  ‘My nephew is a costume designer, you know. He works in Wellington.’

  ‘How interesting!’

  ‘He once helped in a rush at Weta Workshop with that Peter Jackson,’ she confided, and then straightened, hair swinging stiffly. ‘Now, as this is a non-Mansfield activity, I will need your parents’ written permission.’

  I nodded gravely. ‘My mother said it was okay in this email from Florence.’ I was mildly proud of myself. I’d even looked up today’s weather for Tuscany to give the forgery that extra-realistic touch.

  Mrs Chappell made a pretence of looking the printout over. ‘We would normally prefer a signature, but under the circumstances, I suppose that will be fine. How will you be travelling to and from the university?’ She gave me a stare that was probably supposed to frighten details of non approved debauchery out of me.

  I smiled and looked straight back. ‘Kevin Waldgrave has car privileges and his full licence. He’ll be attending all the rehearsals I’m going to and he’s offered to escort me.’

  Mentioning golden boy Kevin, scientific genius and – as far as the school knew – perfect boarder, neatly did the trick. ‘Excellent. We don’t want you girls wandering around at night with that awful murderer on the loose.’

  I refrained from pointing out that all the Eyeslasher murders had been in the North Island, and that only one of the five victims had been female, and nodded obediently.

  ‘All right. As with weekend and ordinary after-school leave, you will sign out on leaving and in on returning, and be back in your building by ten. This is, of course, conditional on your completing all your homework and class work to your usual standards. Having no official lights-out for the senior girls doesn’t mean you can stay up until the wee hours completing rushed assignments.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, realising that I would actually have to do this. Oh well, it would make Kevin happy.

  Mrs Chappell pursed her lips. ‘Have you given any further consideration to what you might study at university next year, Eleanor?’

  Typical Mansfield. Ambushing you with the grim prospect of Your Future every other time you turned around. ‘I thought a Bachelor of Teaching at Waikato. Like my mum.’

  ‘Professor Gribaldi has noted your good work in Classics.’

  ‘Really?’ I blurted, then shut my mouth at her raised eyebrow. Classics was my favourite subject, and I’d always managed decent marks, but La Gribaldi had made me love class more than I’d have thought possible. She had her share of eccentricities – like insisting on Professor instead of Ms – but she demanded nothing less than the best from her students, and I ended up giving it. If she’d complimented me to someone else, I must have been somehow nearing her astronomical standards. But Waikato didn’t offer any Classics courses.

  ‘Mmm.’ As if regretting the almost-warmth, Mrs Chap pell glanced at the golden watch swinging around her skinny wrist. ‘Well, I think you’d better get going, don’t you? You don’t want to be late for your first day.’

  I levered myself out of the chair, which was reluctant to release me. ‘Thank you, Mrs Chappell.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Eleanor. I will look forward to attending one of the performances.’

  Oh, excellent. I managed a sickly smile and edged my way out of the office.

  Kevin was waiting on Behn Road, looking unreasonably good in a pair of dark jeans and a maroon school rugby jersey. ‘Yes?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘You sound nervous. “It’s a sure thing, Ellie. It’s just a formality, Ellie.” You didn’t mention “You’ll get thoroughly interrogated, Ellie.” ’ His eyes went huge and round, but before he could panic I gave him the thumbs-up and crossed the road, heading toward the car park. ‘Of course it was a yes. I am a master.’

  His grin flashed. ‘Mistress, I think.’

  ‘Sexist,’ I scoffed. Kevin’s ancient blue Volkswagen Beetle wasn’t with the other boarder cars. ‘Where’s Theodore?’

  ‘Iris borrowed him yesterday. We’ll have to walk.’

  ‘I just told Chappell—’

  ‘Only this first time,’ he said. ‘Come on, it’s not far.’

  I glanced at the grey sky. The dim reddish glow of the sun was settling on the mountains to the west of Canterbury’s wide, flat plains. ‘It’s getting pretty late,’ I said, scrubbing my gloved hands against my denim-clad thighs. In mid–winter, sunset came in the late afternoon. It would be nearly dark by the time we followed the creek to the university grounds.

  Kevin snorted. ‘Since when does that bother you?’

  There was a twisting pain in my scalp. ‘Since . . . I don’t know.’ There was something I wasn’t remembering, something important.

  ‘You’re Wonder Woman. I’m counting on you to protect me.’ He took a few steps down the path and then turned when I failed to follow, looking mystified, then concerned. ‘You’re really worried about this?’

  ‘I — I won’t be alone.’

  Kevin touched my shoulder. ‘I’ll be right here.’

  ‘I can’t go out alone,’ I said, not entirely coherently, and managed to make my legs work. The prickling sensation in my head eased after a few steps, but I glanced nervously at the gathering fog. It was ridiculous, was what it was. ‘Bloody Chappell. She started in on the Eyeslasher and now she’s got me scared.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kevin said, in tones of enlightenment. After a brief pause, he continued. ‘So, did you hear that Mr Reweti nearly blew up the lab this afternoon?’

  I let him go on about the interesting properties of potassium, the monologue washing over me as I settled into the freedom of being outside the school on a weekday. Most of the weekends were our own, provided we didn’t drink or smoke (even if, like eighteen-year-old Kevin, we were legally allowed to) or violate curfew. And it wasn’t hard to get permission for after-school leave. But I was used to a more complete freedom – I’d been able to roam Napier at will since I turned sixt
een. My parents trusted me, and had relied on me during the Cancer Year; Mansfield’s rulebook treated me like a stupid kid, and I found myself acting like one. Drinking in my room was a total moron move, and it hadn’t been the first time.

  Kevin’s chatter trailed off after a while, and we walked in friendly silence. Even cold and smog and the thick smell of burning couldn’t make the path completely unpleasant. Ducks floated serenely along the creek, occasionally passing on an important piece of duck-related news. The houses between Mansfield and the university were invariably owned by the wealthy, and lush lawns and well-kept gardens showed in glimpses over red-brick walls. Most of the gardens were populated with imported English varieties, but there were a couple of house owners who had made some effort with native New Zealand vegetation, and the dark greens and rich browns stood out among the bleak, bare branches of the non-native trees that seemed to claw at the grey air.

  We followed the creek, which divided one of the university halls of residence from another, and cut into the sports fields that stretched all the way to the edge of the university proper. Wet grass and mud squelched under my sneakers. There were going to be boys in the play – possibly hot uni boys – but choosing not to wear my decent boots in this muck had obviously been the right decision. Still some way distant, the tall column of the main library loomed up to dominate the skyline. Kevin picked up the pace; I pointedly checked my battered watch.

  ‘Got to pee,’ he said. ‘I’ll jog ahead.’

  ‘It’s getting dark,’ I protested, but not too loudly. There were plenty of people around now, students lugging backpacks and making their way back to their halls for dinner. The important thing was that I not be alone.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kevin said, not sounding very sorry, and took off at something close to a dead run.

  ‘I can’t take you anywhere!’ I yelled after him, and continued at my own speed. I could have kept up, but only at the price of arriving sweaty and rumpled. Iris made me feel grubby even at my most polished and composed; there was no point in spotting her an advantage.