Read Online Guardian of the Dead by Karen Healey - Free Book Online Page B

room, their accounting notes spread over the coffee table, and they didn’t look up as I came in; I tiptoed past into my room and quietly shut the door.
    It was my second load of laundry today, and the building designers had not been generous with storage space. I grabbed some of the folded jerseys and yanked open one of the drawers under the bed.
    The contents clattered.
    â€˜Oh, crap,’ I breathed, staring at the empty beer cans. I’d completely forgotten about them. Three days later, even in my cold room, they were distinctly fragrant. I’d have to smuggle them out in my backpack, pretend I was going to the library, and dump them in a bin at school when no one was watching.
    There was a sudden bustle in the living room, all the glad greetings and excitement that hadn’t met my entrance.
    â€˜Ellie?’ Gemma said. ‘She’s in there.’
    I shoved the drawer closed, wincing at the sliding rattle, and dumped the jerseys on my bed.
    â€˜Ellie?’ Iris called from outside my door.
    I twisted on my knees. ‘Come in!’
    She poked her head in. ‘Are you ready to go?’
    â€˜Go?’ I wondered, then stood up, remembering. ‘Go! Oh, props shopping! Yes, just a minute.’
    â€˜Am I interrupting? I can wait.’
    I emptied my backpack, shaking books onto the bed, and threw my wallet in. ‘No, not a problem.’ What the hell was wrong with my memory? I’d remembered Mark wanting to speak to me, only he hadn’t; I didn’t know the Eyeslasher victims, but it felt as if there was something in the way they’d died that I’d been warned about. But where the warning had come from, I couldn’t remember. My head felt as if it were stuffed with used tissues.
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜These are so fake,’ I said, running my fingers over the monstrous little faces.
    â€˜Forty-foot rule,’ Iris said. ‘And two dollars