Grave Girl (19 page)

Chapter Six

"It's time to end this," Matthews says, sitting in Mayor Winters' office. "Too many people have died. If we just evacuate the town and call in the authorities, we can transfer the burden to someone else. This whole situation is insanity. We can't just sit around, thinking we can take care of it forever."

"Would you like a brandy?" Mayor Winters asks genially, getting out of his chair and hauling his bulky form over to the cabinet on the far side of the room. He takes two glasses from the shelf and sets them on his desk, before removing the cork from a decanter and taking a slow, careful sniff of the contents. "The finest brandy known to man," he continues, as if he hasn't even heard what Matthews has been saying. "Sometimes I feel the world would be a much happier place if everyone took time to relax and enjoy a good drink."

"Alcohol, at a time like this?"

"I know you're a man who likes his beer," the mayor adds, "but wouldn't you care to trade up, just once? Brandy is the choice of a gentleman."

"You don't even
like
the stuff."

"I'm educating my palate. I'm introducing myself to more refined tastes, with the aim of becoming a connoisseur over time. It'd be so easy to allow oneself to sink into the bland tastes of Rippon, don't you think? My philosophy is to try everything at least twenty times, and then make a decision about whether one wishes to continue."

"At least you're keeping busy," Matthews says, sighing at the mayor's complete inability to grasp the issue at hand.

"I'm enjoying the simple pleasures in life."

"You think you can ignore the problem?" Matthews replies. "That thing won't just go away, you know."

"It might," the mayor says as he pours a glass for himself and his visitor. "Stranger things have happened. After all, it's been down there for a very long time now, and we seem to be keeping the beast contained. Would it not be appropriate if we merely focused our efforts on continuing with our current plans?" He pauses for a moment, before looking down at the floor of his office for a moment. "We certainly shouldn't read too much into a few little tremors. I seem to recall reading about earthquakes as far south as Folkestone in the past."

"So this is your plan," Matthews says bitterly. "To ignore the truth until it's too late."

"There's no truth to ignore," the mayor replies blithely. "I'm simply going about my daily business as usual." He pauses to take a long sip from his glass of brandy. "It's very easy to get carried away, but everything's under control. As long as we ensure that everything goes as planned, there'll be no more of those messy little moments that we experienced in the past."

"We can't have 1965 again," Matthews says. "All those bodies -"

"Of
course
we won't have 1965 again. We've learned a lot from those dreadful events and we're a much stronger community these days. Why, just today, I was down at the cemetery, speaking to young Sam Marker. She's the new gardener, and she's doing such a wonderful job. Do you happen to have visited the cemetery recently? The young lady has absolutely transformed the place. You'd never know that..." He pauses for a moment. "Well, you'd never have any idea that the place has problems. I don't know whether she's oblivious to what's going on or just determined to ignore the truth but, either way, she seems to be rattling along very well. I've never seen the grass look so good -"

"You disgust me," Matthews says suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

The mayor stares at him for a moment.

"Two kids are dead, and you're drinking brandy in your office. The priest died last week, and you've made no move to replace him. It's as if these things don't matter to you at all."

"And what would you have me do instead?" the mayor asks. "Slit my wrists in sorrow? Put a rope around my neck and throw myself off the nearest bridge?" He finishes his glass of brandy and sets it down on his desk. "I've been in charge around here for a long time, Mr. Matthews, and you might have noticed that nothing untoward has happened. Nothing at all. The situation has been kept under control, and any sacrifices have been made in a way that doesn't concern the people of this town."

"The people of this town are sheep," Matthews replies. "Docile, accepting, unquestioning
sheep
. They swallow all your bullshit about the past, and they believe you when you talk about the future. There's nothing in your words, though; they're just sounds coming from your mouth, and they don't mean a damn thing when it comes to the future of this town. Rippon is going to suffer, and people are going to die, and the whole thing could be averted if you'd just acknowledge the truth."

"And what
is
the truth?" the mayor asks, raising a suspicious eyebrow. "Come on, Mr. Matthews. Out with it. What
is
the truth about this place?"

"That it can't continue. That it's built on lies and false hope. That sooner or later, this whole damn town is going to be brought crashing down, and you're going to let people snooze happily in their little houses until it's too late to save anyone. Meanwhile, you've got the rest of us running around, gathering the necessary bits and bobs to keep your ridiculous fantasies afloat. Do you really think that we can calm the beast with just a few offerings here and there? Have you learned nothing from the past?"

"I've learned to respect my masters," the mayor replies, "and I've learned to speak when it's my turn, and to stay quiet otherwise. Perhaps you should learn some similar lessons?"

"When this town falls," Matthews says, getting to his feet, "it'll be because of the mistakes that have been made by men such as yourself."

"I see," the mayor replies, finishing his second glass of brandy. "It seems we must agree to disagree on a number of matters, Mr. Matthews. In fact, I think I'm coming down with a bout of indigestion. There's clearly no point in us continuing this conversation."

Without bothering to press his case any further, Matthews turns and heads out of the office. He's had enough of Mayor Winters for one day, and he still has a nagging feeling that maybe he can find a way to deal with the town's problem, if only he's able to determine the precise nature of the beast that sleeps beneath the streets. To do that, however, he'd need considerable help, and it certainly wouldn't be the kind of operation that can be quickly carried out without anyone noticing. As he hurries out of the office and into the town square, he realizes that there's only one person in the whole of Rippon who can help him right now.

Chapter Seven

"You're not in any danger," the voice whispers, with a hand still clamped firmly over Sam's mouth. "Not from me, anyway. There's plenty of other things in this place that might try to take a bite out of you, but I'm safe enough. I can feel that you're panicking, though. I'm attuned to these things; I can feel your pulse racing, and I can smell the adrenalin that's coursing through your veins. Now, if I let go of you, are you going to scream?"

Sam shakes her head. She's just waiting for the right moment to knock this guy, whoever he is, flat on his face.

"Okay," the voice continues, removing his hand. "It's okay, I'm not going to -"

"Fuck you!" Sam shouts, swinging around and smacking her assailant square in the middle of the face with a perfect, well-honed right hook. After years of drinking in Bristol nightclubs, she's developed self-preservation skills that are bordering on ninja-level. Watching as the mystery man crumples to the floor, Sam reaches over and grabs her spade from the corner of the room. "Who the fuck are you?" she asks firmly, raising the spade above her head until it scrapes the low wooden ceiling, "and what are you doing in my -"

Suddenly she stops, as she sees the face of the man who attacked her.

"What?" she mutters, lowering the spade.

Sprawled on the floor before her, slowly getting up while wiping blood from his noise, there's an old man. Make that, a
very
old man. In fact, make that an
ancient-looking
man who, judging by his appearance, has no business being anywhere but a retirement home. He's thin and balding, with liver spots all over his hands, and there are bags under his eyes.

"You said you wouldn't do that!" he complains, as he slowly gets to his feet.

"No," Sam replies firmly, still holding the spade up in case she needs it. "I said I wouldn't scream. I didn't say anything about not punching you or not smashing your head in with a spade."

"Fair enough," he replies, as more blood oozes from his nose. "Can you at least get me a tissue? I'm bleeding to death here. At my age, clotting doesn't come so naturally."

Reluctantly, Sam steps past him and reaches out for some kitchen paper. Big mistake. The old man grabs her spade, quickly swings it behind her knees, and finally pushes her back so fast that she tumbles into the kitchen cabinet before landing hard, face down on the floor. Before she can react, she feels the metal edge of the spade pushing against the back of her neck; instinctively, she realizes she needs to stay completely still if she wants to avoid paralysis.

"There," the old man says, sounding satisfied with himself. "That's what you get for punching me. Don't get me wrong, Ms. Marker, I'm impressed. In fact, I'm
very
impressed. Still, I don't like having my nose half-broken, if you catch my drift." He moves the spade away from the back of her neck. "Do you want to get up? It seems kind of ungainly to leave you spread-eagled down there like that. Come on, let me give you a hand."

Reluctant to accept the old man's help, Sam manages to get to her feet under her own steam.

"You're probably wondering who I am," the old man says.

"It
had
occurred to me to ask," Sam replies.

"By the way, I'd love one," he continues.

"One what?"

"A cup of tea. I'd love a cup of tea. Peppermint, preferably, but I'm also fine with green tea or even a little old-fashioned black tea. You might want to rustle up some biscuits as well. After all, we've got a lot to talk about."

"How about you get the fuck out of my house?" Sam replies sternly. "
Then
, maybe, I'll put the kettle on."

"My name's John Faraday," the old man says, smiling faintly. "John Faraday the seventh, actually. I come from a long line of Faradays, all of whom held more or less the same kind of position in this world. I don't know if you've heard my name, but I was the previous gardener here. You took over from me after I... well, after I was
believed
to have been killed."

Sam frowns. She
does
vaguely remember the name John Faraday being mentioned at some point, but she'd been under the impression that her predecessor was long gone.

"So you're the one, eh?" Faraday continues, stepping back and sizing Sam up for a moment. "I've got to admit, I'm surprised he ended up hiring a girl, but beggars can't be choosers. Old Winters is rather behind the times. You've got a bit of an accent. You're not from around here, are you?"

"Leeds," Sam says dourly.

"That kettle's not gonna fill itself," Faraday points out. "Come on, you damn near broke my nose. Don't you think you owe me a cup of tea?" Walking over to the little table over by the wall, Faraday takes a seat and lets out a groan as his bones creak. "My God, girl, there's a lot of things I can still do, but I don't half ache when I'm done. I swear, getting old is no fun at all. Bits drop off, bits stop working, other bits suddenly grow where you least expect them... When you reach a certain age, your body starts doing all the wrong things. If I was a younger man, I'd have been able to deal with the latest problems quite adequately. As it stands, I'm afraid I'll be needing your help."

Without saying anything, Sam grabs the kettle and starts filling it with water. Part of her wants to throw this guy out immediately, but on the other hand she's also kind of curious. If he
is
the guy who was in charge around here before she arrived, he's got a lot of explaining to do in terms of how the place became such a mess. There's also the rather important matter of his violent introduction. Whatever happened, Sam wonders as she places a tea bag in a cup, to the idea of just knocking on the door?

"I didn't hurt you too much, did I?" Faraday asks after a moment.

"Didn't feel a thing," Sam replies, trying to seem nonchalant. "So what are you doing here? I thought you'd... retired?"

"Not by choice. In fact, I was rather forced out. Mayor Winters thinks I'm dead, thanks to a judiciously positioned jawbone that I managed to liberate from one of the more recently dug graves. I'm afraid things got a little too hot in this particular kitchen, and I needed a way out. Unfortunately, it seems that leaving this place behind is rather tricky, and here I am again." He starts coughing, and it sounds as if he's half-dead already. "I swear, I thought I was done with Rippon, but Rippon certainly isn't done with me. I've got a little unfinished business that I need to take care of before I leave." He looks over at the door. "I'm sorry about the mausoleum."

"The mausoleum?" Sam replies, struggling to get her head around this latest turn of events.

"I had to shut you in a while ago," Faraday continues. "I'd been hiding since you arrived, but it got to the point where I had to come back into the cottage and do some digging around without running the risk of being disturbed. I would have let you out, but that pesky Tovey man turned up and did the job for me. I don't know why people have to stick their noses into the affairs of other people. I was living in the mausoleum for a while, you know. It seemed like a nice out-of-the-way spot. Anyway, it's good to be out of that place. Living in a dark, confined space with a bunch of dead bodies is hardly conducive to good mental health, and that's before you consider what's perched on the roof."

"The roof?" Sam asks, before stepping over to the window and looking out at the statue of Death. "Do you mind if I ask you something? I know this is gonna sound strange, but sometimes I get the feeling that it -"

"Moves?" he says, interrupting her.

She turns to him, filled with the sudden realization that this strange old man might actually have the answers to all her questions.

"It
does
move," he continues. "When I was in the mausoleum, I could hear the grinding as it shifted on the roof. Sometimes it even gets down and goes for a little walk. There's no need to be scared, though. He's not here for you. I doubt he views you as anything more than a distraction from the tedium of his main job."

"Main job?" Sam replies, pausing for a moment. "And what's that, exactly?"

Faraday smiles. "Well, that's what we're here to talk about, isn't it?" He pauses for a moment. "He's scared. Terrified, actually. I know you might not be able to see the signs on his stony face, but I can assure you that right now, Death is absolutely petrified."

"This is a cemetery," Sam says. "It's not that weird that there'd be a statue of the Angel of Death."

"A statue?" Faraday says. "That's not a statue. That's Death himself, perched up there on top of that little stone house. And why do you think he's here, huh? Of all the cemeteries in all the world, why do you think he'd be sitting around
this
one?"

Sam swallows hard, trying but failing to quell a feeling of panic that's starting to spread through her body. As she looks at the statue, however, she suddenly realizes that it's moving; slowly, ominously, it turns its head to look directly at her. For a moment, the pair of them make eye contact, before Sam turns away and feels a shiver pass up her spine.

"This is the most important cemetery in the whole world," Faraday continues. "And why do you think one cemetery would be more important than all the others? I'll tell you why. It's because of who, or what, is buried here. Death usually hangs around a place 'cause he wants to claim a life, but that's not why he's here this time. He's here because he wants to make sure that what's buried in Rippon,
stays
buried."

Sam glances over at her spade. There's a part of her that wants to hang around and listen to this guy, but there's also a part of her that wants to get the hell out of here. While she was glad of the job when she arrived, she's starting to feel as if she's got in way too deep. Even as she considers her escape route, she's wondering whether she could just run out of the cemetery, out of Rippon, and back to the civilized world. It's pretty typical of her luck, she realizes, that just when she finally finds a decent job, it turns out to be full of fucked-up people.

"You can't run away," Faraday says suddenly.

"What?"

"You can't run. I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking of getting out of here. I don't blame you, but it's not an option. You're a gardener now. In fact..." He steps closer and looks deep into her eyes. "You're not just any gardener. You're the last gardener, and that's a problem, because if there are no more gardeners, there'll be no more cemetery, and if there's no more cemetery, it means that whatever's been buried here will rise again. This cemetery exists for a very precise reason, and I'm afraid that reason can't just be ignored."

Sam takes a deep breath. "Maybe we should go and talk to the mayor..."

"Trust me," Faraday continues, "all the people in Rippon know exactly what's going on. Well, they know enough to know they don't want to ask any more questions. That's why you so rarely see any of them out and about in the streets. It takes a certain kind of person to carry on living in this town after the things that have happened over the years. The sixties, in particular, were a very difficult period. Lots of pain. Lots of death. Things have settled a little since then, and no-one wants the nightmares to return. They think they can just ignore the problem and it'll go away. They're wrong, of course. It's returning, and it's going to be much worse than ever before."

"It was you," Sam says as she realizes what's been happening. "You've been hiding here all along, haven't you? I
knew
there was someone else in the cottage. I kept finding bowls and stuff you'd left out."

"Sorry," Faraday replies. "I had to come inside occasionally. I always waited until you were out there, getting on with your work, or asleep in your bed. I wanted to work alone and without any interruptions, so I figured it was better to just get on with what I needed to be doing."

"You freaked me out," Sam says.

"My apologies."

"So you were living in the mausoleum?"

Faraday nods.

"That's the most fucked-up thing I've ever heard."

"It wasn't so bad. Not once I got used to the company, anyway." He pauses for a moment. "So you're not going to ask?"

"Ask what?" Sam replies nervously.

"What's causing all of this."

Sam takes a deep breath. "I just -"

"You're not curious?"

"It's not
that
," Sam says firmly.

"You're scared?"

"I'm not sure this is real," she continues. "No offense."

"None taken. But it
is
real. Everyone in this town is ignoring the problem, Sam. Don't be like them. It never works. You can't run away forever."

"I can try," Sam replies.

"Is that how you got here?" Faraday asks. "Were you running from something?"

Sam shakes her head, but she knows that the look in her eyes must have given away the truth.

"What if I told you that the Devil himself is buried in Rippon?" Faraday says, with all traces of humor suddenly gone from his face. "What if I told you that someone built a cemetery, in fact someone built a whole town, on top of the most significant and dangerous grave in the world? What better way to hide one grave than to put a whole set of other graves on top? Of course, you can't expect to keep something like that buried forever, can you? Things have a way of leaking and pushing themselves back to the surface." He pauses again. "Tell me something, Sam. Have you felt anything strange beneath your feet while you've been here? Any tremors?"