Guardian of the Dead (10 page)

He grinned – definitely a grin this time, not a smile. ‘Oh, you're a laundry procrastinator? I wouldn't have thought it.'

‘What would you think?'

‘Oh, well, I figure being a Mansfield student's just a disguise. You're really undercover for an international spy ring.

You only write essays in between running over rooftops and disarming bombs. Or maybe you're a member of the Justice League, or the Birds of Prey—'

‘You read superhero comics?'

‘Sometimes. Wait, you too?'

‘I used to. I kind of got out of the habit last year.' I sat back, shaking my head. ‘I can't believe you read comics!'

‘Why not?'

‘It seems so—'
normal
, I nearly said, and bit it back. ‘— not like you,' I finished.

‘Yeah? What do you know about me?' He was still smiling, but it suddenly looked a little forced.

‘Oh, you're the original mystery man,' I said flippantly, wanting the real smile back. ‘I know nothing.'

‘Maybe we could do something about that. I'd like to take you up on that study offer. If the offer's still open?' The look he slanted me was shy, but eager.

He was flirting. Mark Nolan was flirting with
me
.

‘That would be great,' I blurted, far too eagerly. I could feel a blush roaring up my throat and cast around for something to keep the conversation going before he noticed. Something to make me look cool and superhero-like. ‘I'm doing the fight choreography for a play at the uni, so we'll have to work out a good time.'

‘Yeah? What's that like?'

‘Oh, it's really—' I discarded
fun
and went for ‘— interesting.'

‘I bet there are some
interesting
people in theatre.' His head was bent and his hair was falling over his face. I wanted to brush it back to see his eyes again, but at least he wasn't staring at my red cheeks.

‘Well, there's this one girl who's kind of off. She has these allergies, so I shouldn't be mean about her, but she's pretty much rude and nasty to everyone.' Honesty made me add, ‘Well, except to Kevin.'

His head came up sharply, but he still wasn't looking at me. ‘Kevin likes her?'

‘Yeah, I think so,' I admitted, and bit at my thumbnail. I should stop bitching about Reka before Mark decided I was an awful person. ‘And, hey, he has good taste in friends, so I should give her more of a chance. She's a really good actor.' I looked out the window. ‘I hate this weather.'

‘Yeah, me too,' he said absently.

I had totally turned him off. I kept prattling anyway.

‘Last night I dreamed that there was fog inside my room so thick I'd gone blind.'

His half-hidden face went tight. ‘That sounds more like a nightmare. This is my stop.' He lunged up and caught the red cord that dangled across the window, setting off the chime. ‘Can I get you to—' He lunged across me and caught the red cord that dangled along the windows, setting off the chime. As he stood I caught a glimpse of something in his hand. ‘Oh. You've still got the Bible.'

He turned his green-eyed stare on me, rubbing his wrist. ‘What Bible?'

The bus doors opened onto the foggy afternoon, and the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves rushed in. My head hurt. ‘You've got the . . . book,' I said. ‘The . . . people, the faceless smiles.'

‘I'll catch you later, Spencer. We'll work out a time to study.' He was hanging his coat over his arm. I caught a glimpse of something tucked against his side before it was shrouded.

‘Sure,' I said. ‘Weird weather.'

Mark's eyes were strong with some unrecognisable emotion. ‘That it is. Gotta go.'

He leapt down the steps and into the night. I slumped back into my seat, staring out the window. The view was totally obscured by fog droplets, and I smeared my coat sleeve across the glass, straightening as the cold shock of contact cleared my mind.

‘The Bible!' I exclaimed, to the disapproving stare of the elderly woman in the seat opposite. I sank back, rubbing at my temples, and nearly missed my own stop. Getting off the bus, I paced down the damp street in time to the pounding in my skull. I couldn't work out why Mark had taken the book. Maybe he'd forgotten he had it. No, I'd reminded him. And he'd hidden it, under his coat.

Little sparks exploded, hanging in the air an inch before my eyes. I gasped and leaned against the stone sign at the entrance to Sheppard Hall. Even with my eyes closed, light flared in my skull.

‘Hey,' someone said sharply behind me. It was Kevin, full laundry basket on his hip. He must have been collecting clothes from the dryers. ‘Are you okay?'

‘No,' I said. ‘My head. Mark Nolan—' The wind shifted to bring the scent of the dining hall to my nose, the rich smell of grease cloying in my throat. I leaned over the sign and threw up into the flowerbed.

For some little time, all I could do was retch and cry and shake with the pain. I gradually became aware of Kevin's hands smoothing back my hair and his low, calm voice. ‘Did you eat something bad?' he was asking. ‘Is it the flu?'

‘My head hurts,' I said. My own voice sounded fuzzy in my ears. I spat, and spat again, and rubbed at my wet chin.

‘Migraine?'

‘Dunno. Never had one.'

‘Okay. Bed for you. And up we go.'

I had never wanted so badly to be dainty and delicate. I could lean on Kevin, but I couldn't ask him to carry me, and each step through the Sheppard grounds reverberated, a jarring blow to the skull. When we finally made it, and he knocked on my building's door, I groaned at the noise. Samia opened the door, scarf wrapped hastily around her hair.

‘What happened?' She peered at me. ‘Is she
drunk
?' ‘Migraine,' Kevin said. ‘Can I help her in?'

‘Uh, sure,' she said. ‘I've got some codeine if it's really bad.'

I managed a half laugh at the conditional. If anything got worse than this, I didn't want to be alive while it happened. I collapsed upon my bed amid the piles of folded laundry. Kevin and Samia held a low-voiced conversation outside the door and then he came back in to tug my shoes off and persuaded me to crawl under the covers.

Samia handed me a small white pill and a glass of water, then hovered in the doorway. ‘Thank you,' I managed.

Kevin tucked the covers up over me and drew the curtains, then turned out the light. ‘Go to sleep, you sad sack.'

He closed the door softly behind him.

I gave it a slow ten count and stood up, staggering against the sharp white pain.

Mark had done something to me. He'd stolen the Bible, and made me forget, given me this agony as a deterrent against memory. And it wasn't the first time, I thought – there was something about standing by the bathrooms in the music centre, trying to resist his quiet order . . . his order to . . . More pain, and I bit my lip against a scream.

Hypnotism or enchantment or drugs; I didn't know, and it didn't matter. This time I would not forget. I would not.

‘Write it down,' I muttered, and scrabbled on my desk. Kevin had thoughtfully piled my folded laundry onto the desk, on top of the scattered class notes and my battered laptop, a hand-me-down from Magda. The throbbing increased. I was going to vomit again. I was going to faint. My brains were going to explode and dribble out of my eyes.

I found a golf pencil I'd stolen from my mother and the back of a returned Geography assignment. There was an odd tension in the way the pencil left grey marks on the wrinkled paper, as if the paper itself was resisting.

M
ARK
! I wrote. B
IBLE
! D
ON'T FORGET
!

There.

I dropped the paper, not caring where it landed, and released the memory, stumbling back to bed.

The codeine lifted my head off my shoulders, and wrapped me in clouds of cotton wool. I curled around my pillow and let them carry me away.

LOVE IN THE AIR

I
SAT UP AND
groped for the bedside lamp, alarmed awake by a half-familiar tune and wondering why I was so uncomfortable.

Blinking in the sudden light, I realised that I was still in my jersey and jeans, and the irritating beeps were coming from my mobile phone, muffled in the depths of my backpack. I stumbled to my feet and fished it out.

‘Hello?'

‘Hi!'

‘Iris. Hi.'

‘Did you forget about the rehearsal this evening? Kevin said he thought you might come by later.'

‘No, I'll come.' I jerked the curtain open one-handed and stared, appalled, into the black sky. ‘Wait, what time is it?'

‘Five-thirty.'

I'd slept almost twenty-four hours. ‘Oh, God! Iris, I'm so sorry. I had this massive migraine last night, and I've just woken up.' My stomach chose that moment to rumble.

‘If you're sick—'

‘No, I'm fine now.' Though there was something, trembling at the corner of my memories. My head hurt.

‘Okay, then! We'll see you soon?'

I grimaced at the foggy night. The fifteen-minute walk alone seemed suddenly dangerous. I ignored the little voice that protested I'd crossed the fields at night at least a dozen times. ‘Could someone give me a ride?' My voice sounded weak, even to myself.

‘Sure,' Iris said, sounding surprised, and there was a muffled consultation before her voice returned. ‘We're taking a break. Kevin will be around in ten minutes or so. Okay?'

‘Okay,' I said, vastly relieved, and dropped the phone, sprinting for the bathroom. Wearing my jeans to bed had worn a red ridge into my belly that didn't fade in the hot water, and there was something pale and smelly encrusted in a strand of hair. Shuddering, I rubbed in shampoo until my scalp tingled. I was out of conditioner, but Gemma wasn't. I mentally promised to replace it.

Wrapped in a towel, my hair a wet mass down my back, I hurried back to my room. Clean clothes, fortunately, I had. I ducked under my desk to fetch my shoes.

My hand closed on a scrap of paper.

The tingle went up my arm like a spark of static electricity. The headache abruptly disappeared. I pulled the scrap free and stared at it.

In the untidy capitals of my own writing, pressed so deeply into the paper that it was torn in a couple of places, were the words Mark! Bible! Don't forget!

I closed my hand around the paper and stood, shaking with fury and fear, as my memories returned. Mark had asked me if I knew what I could be in the music centre. He'd made me promise not to go out at night alone. And last night, somehow, he'd stolen the Bible, and the very thoughts out of my mind.

No wonder I'd had that head-stuffed feeling.

Someone knocked on my door.

‘Just a second!' I yelled, and sought a good hiding place for my precious piece of paper. In the end I dropped the note on the keyboard of my battered laptop, and closed the screen onto it.

‘I'm so sorry,' I said, yanking the door open. ‘I can't believe I slept that long.'

Kevin handed me a muesli bar. ‘How awesome am I?'

‘You are God on Earth,' I said, tearing the wrapper off and taking a huge bite.

He lowered his eyes modestly. ‘Maybe a lesser saint. Hey, you look a lot better. Now that you're not puking all over the flowers.'

‘Don't remind me.' The words tugged at something I should be recalling, and I frowned.

‘No worries; puke is probably good for flowers.'

‘You're so disgusting.'

‘Oh no, did I vomit into my hair?' he asked, eyes wide in pretended dismay, and dodged backward. ‘No punching! Are you really okay?'

I lowered my fist. ‘I feel fine.' I didn't; I had that nagging suspicion I was forgetting something, and my head was beginning to ache. But both suspicion and headache cleared as we left Mansfield behind.

The cast was still on break when we got there, Iris holed up in the lighting booth with the technical producer. Greens and reds flickered over the stage while the fairies practised their weird dance and Lysander and Demetrius scuffled good-naturedly in the wings. Iris had decreed it would add interest for them to fight hand to hand before they pulled out knives and Puck intervened to lead them astray, so I took them aside to practise the routine, with a few horror stories beforehand to stop them getting out of hand.

The stories made them cautious for a few minutes, but it didn't take long before they were careless and sloppy again. When long-limbed Demetrius clipped Lysander on the side of the head and sent him staggering, I'd had enough.

‘Stop,' I hissed, fists on hips. ‘Pay attention to what you're doing!'

Lysander, still rubbing his ear, looked inclined to take me seriously, but Demetrius shrugged. ‘Whatever, man. Sorry.'

I clamped down hard on my temper. ‘No. Not whatever. I have an ethical responsibility to my art. Either you do it the way I showed you, with care, or I stop coaching you. Understand?'