Grave Girl (5 page)

Chapter Nine

To her surprise and astonishment, Sam finds that the town square is actually quite busy. Having written the town off as the kind of place where the streets would be empty at night, she sees that the cafe is bustling, with people sitting on chairs under the awning while music comes from within. For a moment, Sam starts to think that perhaps she'd under-estimated Rippon, but then she notices that over on the other side of the square, the small newsagent appears to be closed. Ruefully, Sam reminds herself that while she was used to twenty-four hour opening in Leeds, she's probably going to have to get used to a more sedentary lifestyle now that she's in Rippon. This isn't the kind of place where someone can just wander out their front door at any time of the day or night and find exactly what they're looking for; life in Rippon is probably going to take some planning, she realizes, which means adjusting her state of mind to an entirely new way of living.

Wandering over to the cafe, she can't help but notice that the locals - most of whom appear to be fairly elderly - are glancing at her with suspicion. Figuring that this is the kind of town where strangers don't often turn up, Sam smiles politely and squeezes her way inside, where she finds that the place is packed to the rafters with people standing around and drinking beer. Trying to avoid the inquisitive stares she receives, Sam manages to make her way to the bar, where the cafe owner is wiping up some kind of spillage.

"Good evening," he says with a smile. "Come out to sample the nightlife, have you?"

"Kind of," Sam replies nervously. "Actually, I realized I don't have any food at home." She pauses, feeling a little weirded out by the fact that she just referred to a cemetery as her home. "Anyway, I was wondering if you've got anything. Just to keep me going until I can get to the shops tomorrow."

"Let's see," the man says, walking over to the far end of the counter and quickly returning with a piece of cake. "I know cake isn't exactly a healthy dinner," he says, setting the plate on the counter, "but we can't have you starving to death, can we? Everyone needs a little sugar now and then. Anyway, you look like you need fattening up."

"Thanks," Sam says a little awkwardly, looking over at one of the other counters. "You don't have any bread, do you? And maybe a glass of water?" Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the crumpled envelope of money and removes a note, sliding it across the counter.

"Water?" the man asks, raising an eyebrow. Grabbing a pint glass, he starts pouring a beer. "Don't you think you should have something a little stronger on your first night? On the house, of course." He places the beer on the counter.

"No, thanks," Sam replies, pushing the beer back toward him. "Just water, if that's okay."

"You sure?" the man asks, pushing the beer back at her.

"Really sure," she replies uncomfortably, sliding the beer back at him. "I don't really drink much."

"Not even a glass of wine?"

She shakes her head. She can almost feel her liver screaming in terror at the thought that she might be slipping back into old, bad habits.

Smiling, the cafe owner grabs another pint glass and fills it with water from the tap, before picking up a loaf of bread from his work bench and placing them both on the counter. "Bread and water," he says, "as requested. And put your money away. On your first night, everything's on the house."

"New here, are you?" asks a middle-aged man who has wandered over to the bar, beer in hand, to listen to the conversation. Smiling benignly, he sets his glass on the counter and offers a hand for Sam to shake. "Ben Tovey," he continues. "I run the butcher's around the corner."

"Sam Marker," Sam replies, shaking his hand. "I'm the new gardener at the cemetery."

Instantly, everyone in the cafe stops talking and turns to look at Sam. Apart from the fact that music is still blaring from the speakers in the corner, it's almost as if someone has come along and flicked a big 'Off' switch for the entire room. Swallowing hard, Sam waits for someone to say something, but it seems like everyone else is waiting for
her
to start talking.

"I'm the new gardener," she says eventually, as the cafe owner turns the music down a little. Glancing about nervously, Sam tries to work out what she should say next. "I just arrived today," she continues, her voice trembling slightly. She'd hoped to slip into Rippon anonymously, so this kind of attention is the absolute last thing she wanted to happen. "I'm going to be keeping the cemetery neat and tidy, so... I guess I'll be seeing some of you up there." Grabbing her pint of water, she feels for the first time in many weeks that she'd actually like something stronger.

"
You're
the new gardener?" Ben Tovey asks, staring wide-eyed at her.

Sam nods.

"You?"

She nods again.

"Seriously?"

"Give the girl a break," says the cafe owner, patting Sam on the shoulder. "You never know. She might do a great job."

No-one says anything. It's as if they're all so shocked at the idea of Sam taking on responsibility for the cemetery, they've taken leave of their senses and have been reduced to the level of a bunch of blank-eyed zombies.

"It's not a big deal," Sam continues after a moment, feeling as if she has to say something. "I guess most of you don't even go to the cemetery very often, so maybe you won't even notice me." She looks over at the cafe owner, then at Ben Tovey, and then at the mass of people who are staring at her, some of whom have come to the doorway from the tables outside. "I guess I'll just be in the background, really," she continues eventually. "I'm really not going to cause any trouble. I'll be in the cemetery most of the time anyway, so..." Taking a deep breath, she tries to think of something - anything - to say, and eventually she gives up. Feeling herself starting to blush, she turns and grabs the loaf of bread from the counter. "Thanks," she mutters, before hurrying through the crowd of people and out into the town square. She walks several paces from the cafe before stopping dead in her tracks.

"Please don't be staring at me," she whispers under her breath. "Please don't be staring at me." Slowly, she turns to see that all the people from the cafe are now standing under the awning, staring at her.

"Good night!" she says meekly, giving them a quick wave before turning and hurrying across the square and down the side road that leads to the cemetery. Feeling a cold sweat pass through her body, she picks up the pace, desperate to just get to the cemetery and lock herself in the cottage for the night. As she gets closer to the gate, however, she spots a dark figure loitering nearby.

"So you're the new gardener, are you?" the figure asks with a man's voice, as Sam reaches into her pocket for the key.

"That's right," she says nervously, fumbling slightly with the lock. "If you want to come in, I'm afraid we don't open again until eight in the morning."

"That's fine," he replies. "I've spent enough time in there to last a lifetime anyway."

"Well, if you change your mind," she continues, opening the gate, slipping inside, and then pushing it shut again. As she tries to lock up, she drops the key and has to crouch down and reach around for it in the dirt.

"You don't mind being alone in there?" the man asks, stepping closer. He's still in the shadows, so the only thing Sam can make out is that he has a hint of an Irish accent.

"I'm fine," she says, finally finding the key. She stands up and locks the gate, before looking over to find that the man is just a few feet away on the other side of the bars.

"You're not from around here, are you?" the man continues.

"No," Sam replies, desperately wanting to end the conversation but not wanting to be rude. She feels as if she's already made a bad impression tonight, and the last thing she wants is to get fired less than a day into the job.

"That accent," the man says. "Yorkshire, right?"

"Leeds."

"Aye, Leeds." He pauses. "Never been there myself, but I've heard some grand stories. A big place, I gather. Very different to boring old Rippon."

"Every town has its charms," Sam replies, aware that she doesn't sound very convincing.

"I guess that's true," the man says. "I hope you don't mind me saying so, but it seems to me like you've got a very wise head on your shoulders, especially for someone so young. How old are you, anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

"Twenty-one," she says.

"Is that right?"

"That's right," Sam says firmly, even though it's a lie. She figures she wants to make herself sound a little older, just in case this guy gets any funny ideas.

"Twenty-one, and already in charge of a cemetery." The Irish man pauses for a moment. "You must be by far the youngest gardener we've had here yet, that's for sure. I guess old Guff Winters is trying something new. Mixing it up a little and bringing in some new blood. Can't say I blame him, after all the failures he's had of late."

"Failures?" Sam asks.

"Aye. You're the fifth or sixth new gardener we've had this year. Didn't old Guff tell you? He's had a hell of a time filling this position. People just keep quitting in unexpected and rather nasty ways, and you know how it is. Eventually, word spreads and there's no-one who'll take the job for love or money. Almost no-one, anyway. I suppose I can't really blame him for trying to find someone different, and you're certainly about as different as it's possible to get from the succession of old boys who've traipsed through this gate with a key in their pocket."

"I really have to get going," Sam says, trying to extract herself politely from the conversation. "Like I said, we're open from eight in the morning, so if you want to come and visit a grave, you're more than welcome to do so." She pauses, shocked by how professional she sounds.

"You know," the man continues, "last time I was in the cottage, I left something in one of the cupboards. A lovely old bottle of red. I kept meaning to ask someone to bring it out to me, but now I think I'll bequeath it to you instead. Think of it as a house-warming gift."

"Thanks," Sam says hesitantly, figuring there's no need to tell him that she won't be touching a drop of his wine. "I have to get inside," she adds, "but like I said, you can come and visit the graves from eight in the morning."

"Nah," the man says after a moment, stepping away from the gate. "You're alright. Have a good night." He pauses for a moment. "Actually, there was
one
other thing I was hoping to ask you. I heard you talking back there at the cafe, and it really got me thinking. What's a bright, pretty young thing like you doing locking yourself up in a fecking cemetery in the middle of nowhere?"

"It's a job," Sam replies.

"Aye, but there must be jobs in Leeds and London and all those places. Why here, Ms. Marker? What are you running from?"

"I don't have time to talk right now," Sam says, turning and hurrying along the path, making for the cottage. At first, she tells herself not to look back, but finally she glances over her shoulder and sees to her relief that the Irish guy has left. Stumbling in the moonlight, she makes a mental note to always carry a torch from now on, since there are no lights in the cemetery and she can barely see where she's going. Several times, she feels her feet straying from the shingle path and onto the grass, and she struggles to find her way again. Fortunately, the moonlight is just about picking out the shape of the cottage a few hundred meters ahead, so Sam is able to stick more or less to the right route. Just as she thinks she's going to get 'home' without any more problems, however, she walks straight into a gravestone, which hits her straight in the gut and makes her drop her loaf of bread. Slightly winded, she makes her way around and fumbles in the grass for the bread. It takes a moment for her to regather her composure, but finally she reaches the cottage.

"Stay calm," she tells herself as she struggles once again to work out which key should go in the lock. After what feels like an eternity, she manages to get the door open and she hurries inside, quickly turning to lock the door behind her. Setting the bread on the counter, she feels around in the dark for the light switch, quietly cursing herself for not having had the foresight to plan ahead and leave a light on when she went out. For a moment, it feels as if she might never find the switch, but finally her fingers brush against a nipple-like piece of plastic sticking out from the wall; she flicks the switch, and the chandelier stutters into life.

"Fuck," Sam says, letting out a big sigh as she finally allows herself to relax. She immediately starts to feel a little stupid, as if she allowed herself to get way too spooked out by the whole situation. Forcing herself to remember that there's no reason to be scared, she sets the loaf of bread on the counter and then starts hunting through the drawers for a knife. After a moment, she looks across the room and sees a small drawer almost hidden from view behind a chair. She hurries over and pulls the drawer open, finally finding the knife she was looking for. As she pushes the drawer closed, she happens to look up at the window right next to her, and that's when she lets out the loudest scream of her life.

On the other side of the glass, just a few feet away, Sparky the stone angel is staring straight at her.

Chapter Ten

At the very last moment, as her heart beats for one final time before falling still, Mrs. Mayberry stares straight ahead and blinks. She always wondered what it would be like to die, and now she's finding out. In some strange way, she can feel that her heart has stopped: when it was beating, she barely even noticed it, but now that it's stopped she realizes that her body is strangely still and quiet. It's almost as if she can feel that the blood is no longer being pumped through her veins.

She blinks again. So far, there's no pain, and the horror of the angel's eyes is starting to recede. She tries to think about her husband, to imagine him waiting for her in the next life. With her heart stopped, she wants to get this final moment over with, but her mind stubbornly refuses to die. All she can do is wait, as her long life races toward a black horizon and over the precipice.

She blinks again. She hopes that there won't be an autopsy. She hates the thought of her naked body being cut open and her ribs being forced apart so that her organs can be removed and weighed. She imagines someone sawing her skull open and removing her brain, before placing it in a metal dish that hangs from the ceiling. She wishes she could leave a note and request to be buried intact, but she knows it's too late.

She stares straight ahead.

Her eyes take on a dull quality as her thoughts and memories start to drift away like dust being blown from a window ledge.

Finally, she's gone. The only sound comes from a light breeze, blowing in from the open window, causing the curtains to flutter.