Guardian of the Dead (9 page)

Iris jingled the car keys while she waited, and I resisted the urge to snap at her. ‘Thanks so much for this,' she said earnestly.

I tried a smile, aware that Samia and Gemma were watching and probably wondering why wonderful Iris Tsang was bothering with me. ‘No problem,' I said, and hoped I wasn't lying.

The drive to town from Mansfield was a nice one. We coasted down Riccarton Road, the green mass of Riccarton Bush rising above the houses on our left, and then cut into the road that ran through Hagley Park. Iris parked outside the Arts Centre, near the Botanic Gardens.

‘Okay!' she said brightly. ‘I did some resourcing this morning, so we only need a few things from here. Some plastic tiki, and some kind of mask, for Pyramus. I thought the square market might be a good place to start.'

We walked the few blocks up, and over the Avon Bridge. In spring and summer the punters took tourists up and down the river's sluggish waters, but their straw hats were nowhere in evidence today – only the green-brown of the water and a lot of desperate ducks. Iris described the set design (‘A backdrop, you know, with the forest on it, but with indications of Edwardian influence') and didn't require my participation. I tried not to notice people noticing her, in her black pinstripe pants and careful make-up, and me, in my jeans and too-tight jersey.

On a Saturday afternoon, Cathedral Square was bustling, complete with people taking wedding pictures outside the cathedral, two young women playing with the giant chess set, and a crazy man preaching at passersby from the benches beside the cathedral. Stalls roofed in primary-coloured tarpaulins displayed trinkets for tourists and for any locals looking for cheap gifts. I shot the souvlaki stand and its falafel a longing glance, but dutifully followed Iris to one of the stalls, where genuine greenstone pendants were carefully arrayed beside a box of green plastic tiki, red paint sloppily applied around the ‘carved' eyes.

‘These are so fake,' I said, running my fingers over the monstrous little faces.

‘Forty-foot rule,' Iris said. ‘And two dollars each, which is good for the props budget.' She handed over four gold coins and the stall owner tipped four of the tiki into a paper bag. ‘Can you see anything that might do for a mask? It doesn't need to be very good.'

I nodded and wandered through the stalls, scanning them lazily. The wares were a mess of colours and items. Bone carvings, stuffed kiwi and tuatara dolls, handmade jewellery and mass-made sunglasses, colourful fire poi and painted ceramics. Masks.

I saw the right one immediately. Where the other masks were covered in feathers and lace and elaborate patterns, this one was a bleached white, with high, moulded cheekbones. Long, fine black eyebrows arched over eyeholes edged with a dazzling sapphire glitter that fractured light into blue shadows over the pale cheeks. The mask's mouth was small and pouty, shockingly red in that disdainful face. The empty eyes stared straight back into mine. Something jangled in my skull, a tingling shock that seemed somehow familiar. Without thinking, I reached out to touch the cool porcelain.

‘Hey, no fingers,' said the stall owner, pointing to a sign. ‘If you want to touch, that's a hundred and fifty dollars.'

I couldn't afford it. Mum and Dad would kill me. But the idea of walking away without the mask was intolerable. I had to have it. I had to.

I pulled out my wallet.

After the exchange, I held the wrapped mask against my chest, half-dazed at my own craving. I walked towards the benches, where the crazy preacher was now delivering his sermon to a number of uninterested seagulls. He halted abruptly as he caught sight of me, but I avoided his eye and sat on the bench furthest from him.

I carefully eased the mask from its wrapping. There was a strange buzzing in my ears, like singing from someone else's headphones: something that had a coherent meaning, but only if you were close enough to hear it. When my fingers touched, just stroking around the edges of that beautiful face, it was like the completion of a circuit, or the moment before applause for a fine performance, or the hushed silence of Anzac Day dawn services, after the bugle sounded for the soldiers who had never come home. The buzzing vanished, replaced by a sense of deep contentment. I turned it over, preparing to lift that perfect face onto my own.

‘Excuse me,' someone said, and I looked up. It was the crazy preacher. His skin was either naturally dark or deeply tanned, but either way it contrasted shockingly with the head of wispy white hair. The whites of his eyes were yellowy, and his breath smelled foul. But he was smooth-shaven and clean, and the crease of his dark-blue pants was soldierly crisp. I wondered if he did the ironing himself, or if there was someone looking after him.

‘I have a message for you,' he said.

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘I have to get going.'

His face tightened. ‘Are you lying? That's not godly.' He leaned in close, and my repulsion was lost in a wave of sympathy. ‘People lie to me sometimes,' he confided. ‘But they'll burn in hell. We're all sinners, you know.' His lip trembled. ‘But now I'm redeemed. I escaped that woman's hell.'

‘Uh-huh,' I said. The mask was calm and waiting in my hands. I reluctantly wrapped it and put it back in my bag, and then stood. ‘But I'm really going, see?' I tried to catch Iris's eye, but she was bent over her mobile phone, frowning as she spoke.

The man's voice shook. ‘This is the message in the Bible,' he said quietly. ‘“While I slept, my heart was awake. I dreamed my lover knocked at the door. Let me come in, my darling, my sweetheart, my dove. My head is wet with dew and my hair is damp from the mist.” ' He cocked his head at me. ‘Don't listen. She says it will be wonderful but she lies. She says you can go home but our lives will pass away like the traces of clouds and vanish like fog in the heat of the sun.' He tapped his fingers on his briefcase, yellowing fingernails cracking against the worn black vinyl. ‘God warned me, but I didn't listen.'

Iris had finished her conversation, I noted, relieved. She was heading toward me, frowning.

The man opened the briefcase and pulled out an equally decrepit book. ‘This is for you.'

‘No, thank you.'

‘You need it,' he insisted, waving it at me. ‘It will save your soul.'

‘No,' I said firmly, and began to turn away.

He grabbed me, chilblain-cracked fingers biting deep.

It was the first time I'd ever taken my training to the street, but I didn't have to think about it at all. I felt the pressure on my right wrist and twisted, my weight shifting automatically, my backpack swinging from my arm. Even before I fully understood what I was doing, I recognised the sure motion of my left hand as I raised it, knife-edged, and struck along my imprisoned arm to the fleshy spot between his thumb and fingers.

He let go, stumbling away. I held my weight on my back leg, fists raised.

‘Let her go!' Iris shouted.

‘Go away!' I said over her, staring into the man's eyes,

round with hurt surprise. He dropped the book and ran, unbuttoned jacket flapping around him like broken wings.

‘Oh my God!' Iris yelped. She came up beside me; way too close for the adrenaline singing in my blood. ‘Are you okay?'

I stepped sideways. ‘I'm okay,' I said, and covered for my shaking hands by picking up the book. ‘I'm fine.' The man's dark eyes had been familiar, but I couldn't work out why.

‘We can go to the police kiosk!'

‘No!' I said. ‘He's just a crazy old guy. I don't think he was going to hurt me. He grabbed me, that's all. I can take care of myself.'

She gave me a grin that lacked her usual polish. ‘I'll say. Could you teach them that for the play?'

I laughed. ‘Edwardian women who know how to break wrist grips? I don't think they taught them that in finishing schools.'

She smiled, going pink. ‘It just looked really cool. Are you sure you're okay?'

I nodded and put the book in my bag. ‘Look! I got a mask.'

I unwrapped it for her, and caught the tiny frown between her eyebrows. ‘That's really nice, but the props budget . . .'

‘No,' I said. ‘No, I bought it. It's mine. But I'll lend it to you for the play.' The air buzzed and I frowned. I didn't really want to lend the mask to anyone. But that was why I'd bought it, right? I had that stuffed-head feeling again.

‘— you okay?' Iris was asking. ‘Do you need to sit down?'

‘I think I'm catching something,' I said slowly. ‘The last couple of days . . .'

She looked worried. ‘The marketing manager just called; I have to go pick up posters right now. Do you want me to drop you home afterward?'

‘No, it's okay. Just give me a minute.'

‘You really don't look great. I can do the rest of the props myself.'

‘Okay. I'll catch the bus.'

Her concern for me warred with concern for her play, and the former surrendered without much of a fight. ‘Okay,' she said. ‘If you're sure.'

I walked to the bus centre, feeling better as the cold air helped clear my head and the last of the adrenaline rush eased. I was just in time to queue for the next bus leaving for the university end of the city, and rooted in my backpack for my wallet as the line decreased. The crazy man's book kept getting in my way, so I fished it out with one hand, dropped the coins into the driver's machine with the other, and sank into a seat near the back.

I glimpsed a flash of copper-red hair from the corner of my eye and looked up. Last in line, Mark Nolan was getting onto the bus.

He tilted his head at me as he made his way down the aisle. ‘Can I sit here?'

I grabbed the bag and book onto my lap, clearing the space beside me. ‘Sure. Were you in town?' Oh, God,
stupid
, of course, how else had he got on the bus in the first place?

‘Yeah. So how's it going?' He was smiling at me, even white teeth gleaming behind his curved lips.

‘Pretty good,' I said, astounded. This was very nearly a conversation, like normal people had. He was sitting right beside me in the small seats, long thigh pressed against mine. I could feel it through my jeans, a line of heat that suffused my entire body.

His gaze had suddenly refocused to my lap, and he pointed. ‘What's that?'

I held up the book, realised too late that it was a Bible, and tried to indicate with a face that it wasn't mine. I didn't want Mark Nolan to think I was the sort of girl who read her Bible on the bus. Or the kind of girl who read a Bible at all. Gemma had that theory that he was a religious nut, which might mean that he liked girls with Bibles; but then I might not like him so much.

‘Where did you get that?' He reached for the book too fast, and I tensed automatically, shifting back. His hand stopped, hovering over mine.

I cursed myself for being an overreactive idiot and pushed the book into his hand. ‘This crazy old guy in the square grabbed me. He wanted me to have it for some reason. You know, the one who stands on the cathedral steps preaching?'

Mark was turning the Bible over, apparently fascinated by it. ‘I know the one,' he said. I peered at it, grubby and worn in his long, pale hands. The front cover was rubbing away to reveal the battered heavy cardboard underneath, but it was still possible to make out the illustration of well-scrubbed people of various ethnicities, all wearing bell-bottom jeans and huge smiles. The darker colours had flaked off, so that everyone with a skin tone darker than peach had skin of pale-beige background with flecks of blacks and browns. Untouched by wear, wide white grins hung, Cheshire-like, on their faded faces.

‘How's the
Odyssey
essay going?' he asked, dropping the book into his lap.

I wrinkled my nose. ‘I haven't started it. You?'

‘Well, there are so many
Star Trek
reruns that require my attention.'

I matched his poker face with my own deadpan expression. ‘Personally, I don't see how I could possibly concentrate on Homer's image clusters when my sock drawer is in such desperate need of reorganisation.'