Grave Girl (15 page)

Chapter Six

"Is this it?" Father Jones asks as he stands in the town square with just a handful of bored-looking people gathered around him. "Is this town so ungodly that its people do not care about the Devil's presence?"

"It was very short notice," Mayor Winters says, looking a little uncomfortable. "You know how it is around here. People tend not to do things unless they've had a considerable period of time in which to contemplate their options. It's just not possible to rouse the entire populace to come out and..." He pauses for a moment. "Well, perhaps we could reschedule this event to a more convenient time?"

"A more convenient time?" Father Jones shouts, his eyes wide with shock at such a horrific idea. "Do you propose that we should just sit around and twiddle our thumbs? Do you propose that the Devil will do the same? This is pure idleness! None of you can be bothered to save yourselves from the Devil's whip!" Turning, he sees that a couple of members of the dwindling crowd have begun to slope away. "Where are you going?" he calls after them. "How do you expect us to repel this satanic intruder if you will not join with me? Do you expect me to do everything for you?"

"Perhaps we should go and get a drink," Mayor Winters suggests, putting a helping hand on the old man's shoulder. "We can talk about the situation and maybe come up with a better plan."

"A drink?" Father Jones shrieks, pulling away. "A drink? Is that your answer to everything? The Devil himself is wandering our streets, undoubtedly with an eye on some horrific deed, and you would prefer to gather people together so they can drink alcohol and wait for this town to collapse under the weight of its own sin?"

"Well..." Mayor Winters pauses for a moment. "It's just that my legs aren't so good these days, and I thought that maybe -"

"Excuse me," says one of the men standing nearby. "Is this going to take long? I thought it'd just be a quick thing -"

"Go!" Father Jones roars. "Leave this place immediately! If I am the only man left standing, the only man pushing back against the Devil's visit to our fair town, then so be it. I will stand here and I will proclaim my love of God, and I will use my faith to single-handedly repel this dark intruder. The Lord will surely hear my cries and have mercy on Rippon. If he does not, He will elevate me to Heaven and leave the rest of you foul people to rot!"

"I don't think anyone's going to be rotting," the Mayor protests. "People just want to get on with their lives. They want to work during the day and rest during the evening. I think all this talk of the Devil is rather off-putting. It makes people wonder."

"It makes them wonder?" Father Jones asks incredulously.

The Mayor nods.

"About what?"

"Well, about..." There's a pause. "The future. I mean, the Devil isn't exactly a welcome guest, is he? If he actually came to Rippon, I imagine he'd cause quite a commotion."

Father Jones stares at him for a moment. "Are you in league with the beast?" he asks after a moment, as a strange new idea ripens in his mind. "Is
that
why you show no keenness to smite the Devil and run him out of town? Has he passed some gold across your palm and offered you the wages of sin? Are you luring these poor people to their doom as part of some sick and twisted game?"

"Perhaps you're over-heating," the mayor replies, patting the old man's shoulder. "No-one is in cahoots with anyone. I'm afraid it's just that people don't believe the Devil is really here. Look around. Why would such a beast ever come to Rippon? This is such a small, quiet town. Nothing ever happens here, so what could possibly compel the Devil to come strolling down our streets? If I were the Devil, I'd certainly go somewhere more interesting. London, perhaps, or New York. The idea of the Devil being in our fair town is just impossible to believe."

"Then you are a more craven man than I had ever imagined," Father Jones replies darkly. "You are clearly content to wallow in the moral filth you have created. I pity all those who share you views, but I will not stand around and beg the Lord to forgive your sins. Good day to you, Sir. Good day, and good luck." Turning, he walks quickly away, feeling a kind of righteous anger start to boil through his body.

"If you change your mind," Mayor Winters calls after him, "I shall be in my office for most of the day, and later I shall be in the cafe! I would happily buy you a drink if you think we could discuss the matter further!"

"Go to Hell," Father Jones mutters under his breath. Tired of being mocked for his faith, he has decided to let these fools face their fate without his help. He has tried for so many years to maintain a little godliness in Rippon, and now he feels that it has all been thrown back in his face. He's quite certain that, eventually, the townsfolk will be banging on the door of his church, begging to be saved, but he has no intention of helping them. He will simply pray to the Lord and ask that these poor souls are spared the fires of eternal damnation.

Chapter Seven

After an eternity of silence and calm, Sam hears a creaking sound in the darkness, and finally the door starts to swing open. At first, she can't quite believe that it's really happening; she feels like she's been in the mausoleum forever, curled up in a ball at the far end. Blinking in the bright light of late afternoon, she slowly and achingly gets to her feet, overawed as a figure pushes the door all the way and then stands staring at her.

"You alright in here?" he asks with a thick northern accent.

Stumbling toward the light, Sam finally steps out of the mausoleum and takes a deep breath. She feels kind of weak, but at least she's out now. For a while there, she thought she was maybe going to be trapped inside forever with that... She pauses, before turning to look back into the darkness. Where did it go?

"You okay?" the man asks.

Sam steps back toward the door and peers inside. There's no sign of the creature that fell down onto the floor. Earlier, it crawled slowly toward her until, quite suddenly, the noise stopped and it seemed to disappear. After that, she's not quite sure what happened. Looking up, she sees the three bandaged figures still hanging from the ceiling and she figures that maybe she imagined the whole thing, or at least the part with the wriggling dead bodies.

"Who are you?" she asks, suddenly turning to the man. He's a scruffy-looking guy, wearing a faded old leather jacket, and he seems vaguely familiar.

"The name's Ben Tovey," he replies, reaching out and shaking her hand. "Pleased to see you again."

Sam stares at him for a moment. "You were in the cafe," she says eventually, as she starts to remember where she's seen him before. "I met you the first night I was here."

He smiles. "Nice to know I'm memorable."

"But how..." She turns and looks back into the mausoleum for a moment. "How did you know I was trapped in there?"

"I didn't," he says, "but luckily for you, someone else
did
. Sent me to get you out. In fact, he asked me to give you a message. He wants you to meet him at the cafe right now, if you happen to have the time?"

"Who?"

"Mr. Fenroc."

"
Who
?"

"You don't know him?" He pauses. "Well, he seems to know you, and he wants to have a chat." Sniffing, Tovey looks up at the statue of Death on top of the mausoleum. "This damn thing always gave me the creeps. I keep thinking he's waiting for something, like he's poised to strike. What the bloody hell were you doing in there, anyway?"

"I wasn't
doing
anything," she replies. "I just got stuck. Someone shut the door, and I couldn't open it from inside, and..." She pauses, as she realizes that she can't really explain everything that happened. "Did you see any kids around here?" she asks, glancing over at the gate. "Anyone at all?"

He shakes his head.

"Huh."

"Well, then, I guess you'll just have to owe me a favor, won't you?" Tovey continues with a smile. "Wouldn't like to think that a nice girl like you ended up stuck in a place like this." He steps closer and leans into the mausoleum. "Cold in here," he adds after a moment, before looking up at the bandaged bodies hanging from the ceiling. "Bloody hell. You've gotta wonder about some people, haven't you? There's some weird ideas floating around."

"This Mr. Fenroc guy," Sam says cautiously, "is he waiting for me right now?"

"Yep," Tovey says, stepping back and starting to push the door shut. "He said to tell you there's no hurry, but he definitely wants a word."

"Why didn't he just come here, instead of you?" Sam asks.

As the door creaks shut, Tovey turns the key to make sure it's locked. "Well, that's a rather delicate matter, I'm afraid. Mr. Fenroc is somewhat limited in terms of his movements, if you know what I mean. He tends to stick to certain places and avoid others entirely. Say what you like about him, though, he's a good guy. I've got a lot of time for him."

"You have, huh?" Sam says, taking the key from the lock and slipping it into her pocket. "I guess I could spare a few minutes," she adds, feeling as if maybe she's being lured into some kind of trap. There's something decidedly odd about this whole situation, almost as if it's some kind of a set-up. It just seems too convenient that this Mr. Fenroc guy
happened
to know that she'd got stuck in the mausoleum, and then he
happened
to send the town butcher along to rescue her.

"Well, my work's done here," Tovey says, patting Sam on the shoulder. "Glad to have been of service." With that, he turns and walks away, heading for the gate.

"Thanks!" Sam calls after him, before turning to look up at the statue of Death. The weird thing is, she could swear something has changed about the statue; whereas earlier it had one hand outstretched, now it seems to be leaning a little closer, and its hand seems to be slightly more closed, as if it's reaching for something. She stares at the statue's eyes for a moment, feeling as if the dark, hollowed sockets are staring straight back at her.

"I tell you what," she says out loud after a moment. "You keep out of my way, and I'll keep out of yours. Deal?"

Without waiting for a reply, she turns and head over to the cottage, which she locks up before making her way to the gate and out into the street. There's a part of her that wants to just forget everything that's happened today, and to put it out of her mind; at the same time, she's kind of intrigued to find out what this Mr. Fenroc guy has to say for himself. Right now, the whole town is starting to feel particularly creepy, and Sam definitely wouldn't mind a few answers.

When she reaches the cafe, Sam immediately sees that there's only one customer. Sitting out in the sun, with a pint of beer in front of him, there's a good-looking middle-aged guy with black curly hair, wearing a long, dark green coat. He looks over and smiles when he sees her, and he immediately gets up and reaches out to shake her hand.

"Ms. Marker," he says with a strong Irish accent. "A pleasure to see you again."

"And..." she starts to say, before she realizes where she's heard his voice before; he was the guy who spoke to her briefly at the cemetery gate on her first night, standing in the shadows. "It's you," she says, taking a seat.

"Beer?" he asks, signaling to the waiter.

"No," she says quickly. "Thanks. Just water."

"You don't drink?"

She shakes her head.

"Not even that bottle of wine I left in the cottage?"

She shakes her head again.

"Very wise. Rots the soul. I've seen a lot of good men get pulled under by the sauce. It's like poison, spreading through the body from the liver, dismantling a man from the inside. Takes a bloody long time, too. Decades, sometimes. One day, you'll look back on your abstinence and realize you made the right choice."

"I already realize that," she says, trying to play it cool. She wants to just ask him about what happened today, but at the same time she knows that she needs to be a little more tactful. After all, she doesn't want to seem desperate.

"I'm glad to see you're all in one piece," Fenroc continues. "Being trapped in a mausoleum must be a traumatizing experience. I hope it hasn't left any mental scars."

"None that I've noticed so far," Sam tells him, as the waiter brings her a bottle of water and a glass. "Do you mind if I ask something, though?" she continues once the waiter has gone back inside. "How did you know I was in there?"

"Sixth sense," he replies, tapping his nose. "Well, that and I happened to be walking past the gate when I saw the door closing on you."

"You
happened
to be walking past?"

"Just like that," he says with a smile.

"Did you see who pushed the door?"

He shrugs. "All I saw was you going inside, and then the door swung shut."

"And no-one pushed it?"

He shrugs again.

"And you didn't come in to help me?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but then he pauses for a moment. "It's tricky, Ms. Marker. There are certain parts of this town in which I sometimes feel rather less than welcome. I'm not a forceful man, so I prefer to remain in the areas where I face less resistance."

Sam stares at him, trying to get his measure. On the one hand, he seems fairly nice and friendly, and there's nothing specific that she feels should make her be wary of his motives; on the other hand, he never quite seems to answer a question directly, and she gets the feeling that he's holding something back.

"You seem troubled," Fenroc continues. "Are you sure I couldn't tempt you to share a beer? Just this once?"

"No," Sam says. "I'm sorry, I just don't quite understand why you sent someone else to get me out of the mausoleum, when you could have just come and done it yourself."

"As I said, I'm not welcome in the cemetery."

"Well... I think maybe you
are
. I mean, I'm the gardener, and I don't think anyone's unwelcome."

"That's very nice of you," he says, "and I promise you, I shall take the matter under advisement. Who knows? Perhaps, at some point in the future, things'll change and I'll be in a position to test your kindness. However, for now, I feel I'm much better off being a little cautious. I've made a few enemies in this town, and I'd really rather not cause any further antagonism." He pauses for a moment, and finally a strange smile creeps across his face. "Is there anything you'd like to ask me about the mausoleum, Ms. Marker? Did you find the interior to be interesting?"

Sam takes a deep breath. "The children -"

"Ah, yes, the children." He takes a sip from his beer. "A strange family, by all accounts. I only know what I've read, obviously, but it's claimed that the parents wanted their dead children to be arranged like angels, hanging from the ceiling of the tomb. Such a tragic story. All three of the little beauties were under ten years of age when they perished in a fire. The parents were distraught, but they took solace in creating a rather remarkable tableau. Tell me, were they still hanging up there, with their little wings and halos?"

"Um..." Sam raises her eyebrows for a moment, finding the whole thing to be kind of freaky. "Yeah," she says eventually. "I mean, they didn't really look much like angels..."

"Still, the intent was there. I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Petersen would have been glad to know that, almost a century later, their effort remains in place. I've often thought that it's a shame such a beautiful scene can't be witnessed by the general public, although..." He reaches into his pocket and takes out a folded piece of paper, which he slides toward her. "I suppose that, for those of us who are not lucky enough to be admitted into the mausoleum, contemporary newspaper accounts will have to be sufficient."

Unfolding the piece of paper, Sam sees that it shows the inside of the mausoleum. The three bodies are still hanging from the ceiling, while the two stone coffins are open, showing the dead faces of Mr. and Mrs. Petersen.

"Grim, isn't it?" Fenroc says with a grin. "Such a macabre and unusual family. One has to wonder whatever was going through their minds when they arranged such a thing, but I have learned over the years that it's foolhardy in the extreme to try second-guessing those who are in the throes of grief. They had their reasons, and we must simply abide by such an understanding."

"I guess they could afford to do what they wanted," Sam says.

"Oh, the perils of money," Fenroc replies. "I'm afraid that great wealth is often wasted on those who lack the good taste to spend it well. Meanwhile, those of us with strong principles and good ideas are left to scrabble about in the dust for a few meager pennies." He pauses for a moment. "This town is strange, Sam. I'm sure you've noticed already. There are people here with secrets, and there are things living in the shadows. One can never be quite certain that one is alone."

"I don't mind being alone," Sam says.

"I've noticed," Fenroc replies. "You're not alone in the cemetery, though, are you?"

"Aren't I?"

"You've got all those bodies with you," he continues. "All those corpses rotting in the ground. Doesn't it give you the willies, Sam? Don't you ever sit in that little cottage and think about the fact that you're surrounded by graves? So much company, even if your friends are all dead." He smiles. "Don't you have any friends, Sam? No-one from your old life who's going to come and visit you?"

Sam shakes her head.

"Interesting," Fenroc replies. "I'm always fascinated by people who seem to appear from out of nowhere. Speaking of which, have you felt the tremors lately?"

"I thought it was a small earthquake," Sam says.

"In Yorkshire?"

"Stuff happens."

"Maybe." He takes another sip from his beer. "It feels to me as if something's stirring. Something deep underground. Let's face it, Sam; you don't really know who, or what, is buried in that cemetery, do you? If you were to dig beyond the bodies you know about, what might you find far below?"

"It's just a cemetery."

"In a town that's built on a very pronounced hill. Do you think such hills emerge naturally, Sam, or do you think maybe someone gave this town its shape on purpose?"