Grave Girl (10 page)

Chapter Six

As he makes his way up the hill, Dr. Wellington spots a young man standing by the wall of the cemetery, smoking a cigarette and looking remarkably as if he's up to no good. Dressed in a leather jacket and wearing old, faded jeans, the young man has the kind of callous, uncaring expression that Dr. Wellington finds so disturbing in the town's youth. In fact, the boy is such a stereotype, it's almost as if he's stepped out of some 1960s teen-terror movie poster. Crossing the street in order to give the young man a wide berth, the doctor is surprised to see a young girl hurrying out of the cemetery gate and making straight for the other youth. Then again, he thinks to himself, why should he be surprised? Hormonal idiots are attracted to one another the world over.

"Did you get it?" the young guy asks as Dr. Wellington walks past them.

"Here," the girl says, holding up a small necklace.

"Can we
go
now?"

"Yeah, it's just..." the girl pauses, as if there's something else she wants to say. "She's weird," she says eventually.

Turning the corner, Dr. Wellington stops for a moment, keen to listen in to the conversation. He has an aversion to youth, and he tends to believe that most of the young people in Rippon are up to no good. Already, he's convinced himself on very little evidence that the young man's cigarette contains rather more than pure nicotine, and he's certain that the pair of them must be planning something reprehensible. The thought of their illicit, immoral youthful sex and cursing sends a shiver through the old man's body.

"Of course she's weird," the young man says. "She works in a fucking cemetery. How could she not be weird?"

"Yeah, but it's more than that," the girl says. "There's something about her that gives me the creeps."

"Where'd she come from, anyway?"

"She's not from around here. She's got this weird accent."

"Huh. Maybe I should go and introduce myself."

"Not today, Dean."

"What's wrong? You worried you've got some competition?"

"You wish."

"Fine. Come on. I need to work on the bike."

After a moment, Dr. Wellington hears two sets of footsteps coming closer. He quickly removes his glasses and starts cleaning them, so as to make his presence less suspicious in case he's spotted. Fortunately, the young couple walk quickly past him, apparently not even noticing his presence. Leaning around the corner, the doctor watches as they make their way quickly up the hill and off into the distance. Something about their youthful energy, and the way they seem to have no cares in the world, sends a shiver of envy and anger through the doctor's soul, and he finds himself hoping that some stark reality will come scything its way through the town to lop off the happy tip of their youthful hedonism and show them that life is about more than just sex and good times.

Heading over to the cemetery gate, the doctor peers through the bars and spots a figure walking out of the cottage door. Squinting to get a better look, he sees the new gardener making her way past the line of beech trees and over to what appears to be a freshly dug grave. Smiling, the doctor realizes that preparations are underway for the burial of Ethel Mayberry. As far as he's concerned, the sooner that old woman is underground, the sooner her vile life can be forgotten. For all her polite smiles and insistence on the old-fashioned ways, Ethel Mayberry was a vicious, nasty old busy-body who almost certainly had a hand in the death of her late husband. For Dr. Wellington, her death came not a day too soon, and he would as soon spit on her grave as mourn her passing.

"Burn in hell," he mutters with a smile, before turning and continuing his walk up the hill.

Chapter Seven

Using the edge of a large hoe, Sam carefully trims the sides of the grave. When she worked in a newsagent back in Leeds, and then later when she worked in a cafe, Sam didn't give a damn about what she was doing; she just wanted to collect her salary and get through each shift with the minimum of effort. Now, however, she finds herself taking a strange kind of pride in her work. As she lops off an inch here and an inch there from the grave's gaping chasm, she finds herself totally wrapped up in the job of making the grave look perfect. The job is so absorbing, she barely even thinks about herself at all, and she doesn't notice the sound of someone wandering toward her.

"Excuse me," says a frail voice from nearby.

Snapping out of her trance-like state, Sam stops working and turns to see a little old lady standing on the other side of the grave. Dressed in purple and wearing a large, rather elaborate hat, the visitor clutches a small purple purse and smiles benignly.

"Can I help you?" Sam asks.

"Are you in charge here?"

Sam nods.

"Well," the old lady says, frowning. "Times have most certainly changed, haven't they?" She pauses for a moment, before smiling. "I'm here for the funeral. Would you be so kind as to tell me what time it's due to start?"

"Tomorrow," Sam says. "Or maybe the day after. I'm not sure yet."

"Oh." There's another awkward pause. "Do you happen to happen to know what
time
the ceremony is due to start tomorrow?" She looks at her wrist, frowns, and then taps her watch. "I'm afraid this poor old thing seems to have stopped overnight."

Wiping a thick layer of sweat from her brow, Sam shakes her head. "Sorry, I don't really know the details. Maybe you should talk to her family, or the mayor, or someone. I'm just the grave-digger."

Shuffling forward, the old lady peers into the pit. "Is it straight?"

"The edges?" Sam shrugs. "I'm not sure yet. I'm still working on it. This is my first one."

"It is?"

Sam nods. "It's harder than it looks."

"Well, I hope you'll have it all sorted out by tomorrow," the old lady continues, looking a little concerned. "I suppose everyone has to start somewhere. It wouldn't do to have a wonky grave, though, would it?"

"It'll be fine," Sam replies. "I'll get it straight, even if I have to stay up all night."

"That's what I like to hear," the old lady says with a smile. "A strong work ethic. Back in the war, there were plenty of jobs that women couldn't do, but we had no choice. We just had to roll up our sleeves and get on with things. Sometimes, you know, if you wait for a man to come along and help, you'll end up waiting your whole life."

"Don't worry," Sam says. "By the time this is done, it's gonna be the most perfect grave that's ever been dug. Your friend would be proud if she could see it."

"I'm sure she would," the old lady says. "I'm just going to have a little sit down for a while. My feet are killing me." She turns to walk away, before stopping and glancing back. "Are you the one who's cleaned this whole place up?"

Sam nods.

"Such a wonderful job," she continues. "It was so overgrown before, one almost didn't want to come and visit. And now look at it, all neatly trimmed and put back to how it should be. You've restored so much of the dignity to this place. Sometimes I think that's one of the things that this world overlooks. Dignity is so important. I'm quite sure there's not a soul in this town who won't want to shake your hand and thank you personally for the work you've done here."

"All part of the service," Sam says, once again feeling that strange sensation of pride that was previously so alien.

The old lady smiles sadly. "Tell me one thing. Have you heard anyone talking about the funeral?"

"Not really," Sam replies.

"You haven't heard any gossip?"

Sam shakes her head.

"It's just that, when she was alive, she did some rather... bad things. I'd imagine that a lot of people think she'll be going to hell." She pauses for a moment. "I hope not." She looks down at the ground. "Do you feel something? Every so often today, it's as if there's some kind of distant tremor."

"I'm sure it's nothing," Sam replies.

"Perhaps," the old lady says wistfully, as she turns to walk away. "Perhaps."

Once the old lady has gone to sit on a bench at the far end of the cemetery, Sam gets back to work. Finally, after a few more hours, she stands back and sees that at last the grave is perfectly rectangular. There are no rough edges, no inaccurate angles: it's a perfect grave in every respect, the product of almost an entire day's work. Frankly, as she stands and stares at her own handiwork, Sam starts thinking that it's kind of a shame that the whole thing is going to have to be filled in after the ceremony tomorrow, and that all her hard work is basically for something that's only going to exist for a day.

Heading back into the cottage, Sam goes straight through to the bathroom and takes a quick shower, before drying off, getting dressed and putting some beans into a pot for dinner. Opening a cupboard by the sink, she's suddenly stopped in her tracks as she sees the bottle of wine from earlier. Taking it out and setting it on the counter, she stares at the top of the bottle and imagines what it would be like to open the damn thing. Back in Leeds, she'd happily open half a dozen bottles in a single night, sharing the contents with her friends. Even now, she can remember the sweet taste of a mouthful of red wine, and she closes her eyes as she imagines the velvety liquid slipping down her throat. Opening her eyes again, she continues to stare at the bottle, wondering why she hasn't just poured its contents down the toilet. After all her hard work, and months and months of staying sober, she's now so close to giving in to temptation.

"One glass," she says quietly. "Just one glass. No-one gets drunk on
one
glass." Opening the kitchen drawer, she pulls out a corkscrew and starts to open the bottle. Even though it's been a few months since she last did this, her hands remember the mechanics and her mind fixates on every detail: removing the plastic that covers the top; slowly screwing the corkscrew down into the cork; gripping the side of the bottle and pulling up with the metal handle; watching as the cork slides smoothly out of the neck and makes a clear pop as it comes free. Finally, she pours a perfect glass of wine and then sets the bottle down. She stands and stares at the glass, imagining what it would be like to put it to her lips and take a mouthful. Hell, she doesn't even need to drink the whole glass; she could just take a single sip, enough to wet her lips but nothing more. She's not such an alcoholic, she tells herself, that a single sip will make her devour the entire bottle.

As she stares at the glass, Sam notices that the wine seems slightly disturbed, as if the glass is vibrating slightly on the counter. Just as the old lady said, it's almost as if something far away is pounding the ground, causing tremors.

"It's just one glass," she says again, quietly. "What's wrong with just having one glass?" Taking the glass in her hand and lifting it to her lips, she tries to persuade herself that there's nothing wrong with this; she tries to focus on the fact that no matter how much she drinks, she's never going to go back to her old life. That door is shut, and she's learned so much. And yet...

She stands completely still for a few minutes, with the rim of the glass just an inch from her lips. Finally, and with a heavy heart, she turns to the sink, tilts the glass and pours every last drop down the drain. Once the last of the wine has disappeared, she puts the cork back into the bottle and takes a step back, feeling relieved that she managed to stay strong. She's had moments of weakness before, but she's never come quite
this
close to slipping back into her old habits.

A few minutes later, eating her beans straight from the saucepan, she stands in the doorway and looks out across the cemetery. It's getting dark and she can barely see a damn thing, but eventually she spots the little old lady still sitting on a bench in the distance. Checking her watch, Sam sees that it's almost 8pm, which means she'll have to make sure everyone's gone for the night before locking up. As soon as she's eaten all the beans, she grabs her keys and wanders through the darkening cemetery until she reaches the bench. To her surprise, she finds that the old lady has finally left of her own accord, so all that's left is for Sam to make her way to the gate and attach the padlock. By the time she gets back to the cottage, all she can think about is how close she just came to drinking again, and how dumb she was to open that bottle of wine in the first place. She could have jeopardized her new life and her new job and ended up going back to her old lifestyle. Breathing a sigh of relief, she heads inside and pushes the door shut as she goes.

Chapter Eight

"Definitely a heart attack," Dr. Wellington says as he signs the death certificate. "No doubt about it. All the classic signs were right there, plain as day. In fact, it was a textbook case if ever I saw one." He passes the certificate to Mayor Winters. "No doubt about it," he adds, just to make sure that he gets his point across.

"Well," the mayor replies, stepping aside so the undertakers can lift Mrs. Mayberry's body off the examination table and onto their trolley, "I'm glad we've got that settled. I suppose the most surprising part of this whole thing is the fact that the old hag had a heart at all."

"If I had a penny for every time someone's made that joke today," Dr. Wellington points out, "I'd be able to retire by teatime."

"You did the original autopsy on her husband, didn't you?" the mayor asks. "I know what the official report said, but what did your gut tell you? Did the old dear hurry him along with some switched pills?"

"Who knows?" Dr. Wellington replies. "Such matters are beyond my area of expertise, although I've heard all the same rumors as everyone else. It certainly seemed odd that Mr. Mayberry just stopped taking the correct medication, but stranger things have happened. If she
did
do it, then I suppose it was the perfect crime. After all, she got away with it."

"Perhaps," the mayor replies as the body is wheeled away. "Or perhaps, wherever she's headed next, she'll pay the penalty for her earthly sins."

"You don't really believe in such things, do you?" the doctor asks. "Just this afternoon, you were telling me in no uncertain terms that ghosts and demons aren't real, and now you seem to be convinced that a nasty old woman is going to be dragged to hell. Those are some rather inconsistent points of view, are they not?"

Sighing, Mayor Winters heads over to the door. "Such things are not for us to debate," he says after a moment. "Whether or not Hell exists, our opinion on the subject is insignificant. I will simply state that it is my deepest hope that, if she did indeed kill her husband, Mrs. Mayberry will face, in death, the retribution she so skilfully avoided in life."

Once the mayor has left, Dr. Wellington gives his examination table a quick wipe and sets his tools neatly back where they belong. Deaths in Rippon are fairly rare, so he has high hopes that he won't be required to carry out another autopsy for a few months, although he can't shake the feeling that perhaps there's something dark afoot in the town. A man of science rather than a man of superstition, he nevertheless feels as if something is getting closer and closer, and that signs and portents of some great storm are starting to crop up in Rippon with alarming regularity. He's heard all the rumors about the stone angels in the cemetery, and like everyone else he's forced himself to dismiss the possibility that anything untoward might be occurring. Still, as he kneels to clean up more of the stone dust that fell from Mrs. Mayberry's internal organs, he can't help wondering whether his fears might be grounded in reality. After all, elderly ladies are not known for their ability to spontaneously generate stone dust in their bodies.