by Amy Cross
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 gl
ass, 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.
Chapter Eleven
"There," Sam says, as she finally finishes dragging Sparky's heavy stone form away from the window. Using a leather strap from the shed, she's just about managed to haul the damn statue far enough to one side so that it won't seem too creepy, although the effort has almost killed her in the process and the angel almost toppled straight on top of her twice. "No offense, Sparky," Sam says as she takes a deep breath and stretches her sore arms, "but you're not the lightest statue in the world." She pats the angel's stone shoulder before walking over to the front door and reaching inside for the scythe and a small torch she found in the kitchen drawer. "Right," she continues, turning to face the imposing darkness of the cemetery. "Let's find the fuckers who tried to freak me out. And maybe I should try talking to myself a little less."
Switching the torch on, she shines a beam of light straight ahead, picking out the tops of countless gravestones. Although she doesn't know who, exactly, went to all this trouble to play a prank on her, she's got a pretty good idea; thinking back to Mayor Winters' comment about local children, Sam has decided that a bunch of kids probably climbed over the wall and moved Sparky while she was out. Kids being kids, they almost certainly stuck around to witness the aftermath of their prank, so Sam's fairly sure they must be lurking somewhere nearby, probably giggling behind one of the mausoleums. They've probably even got their phones trained on her, so they can video the entire thing and put it online. There's just about enough moonlight to make that possible, and she can easily imagine the kids sharing her torment on social networking sites. In one fell swoop, she could be poised to become the laughing stock of Rippon.
"I get it!" she calls out, waving the torch beam around in a futile attempt to catch sight of her would-be tormentors. "It was very funny! You got me! But let's just call it a night, okay? You can come back tomorrow and try something different." She waits, half-expecting someone to come out and own up to the prank. "I've got a sense of humor, okay?" she continues eventually. "I can totally see how it was funny, and it's kind of something I'd like to do to someone myself, but let's just knock it on the head for tonight, okay? It's getting late, and I need to make sure you're out of here!"
She waits for a reply.
Nothing.
"Damn it, I sound like my grandmother," Sam grumbles, taking a few steps forward. She can't help but imagine the teenagers sniggering behind a gravestone, and she can't stop worrying that unless she nips this whole thing in the bud immediately, she'll become a figure of fun for all the local kids. She notes wryly to herself that this is probably exactly why the gardening job here at Rippon's cemetery has proven so difficult to fill, and she's determined to ensure that she doesn't get run out of town like her predecessors. Still, she remembers what it was like to be a kid herself, and she knows that she's going to have to be smart if she wants to avoid becoming the plaything of a bunch of bored teenagers.
"Okay," she says out loud, "I'm going to be honest with you. All I care about is keeping my job, so if you can just get out of here, I'd be grateful. I'm not being unreasonable. A joke's a joke, and it was hilarious, but let's end the night on a high, okay?" She winces as she realizes she sounds like some kind of wannabe-cool science teacher, attempting to get down with the kids and prove herself on their terms. Sighing, she reflects that there's probably no way she can ever start a meaningful exchange with these teenagers. They just see her as a target, and even though there's probably little more than a few years' difference in their ages, the kids undoubtedly view her as that most mockable of things: a grown-up.
Continuing to walk along the winding path, and using the beam from the torch to scan the grass around her, she figures she might as well conduct a full check of the cemetery's perimeter. She knows she has to be up early tomorrow in order to get started with her work, so she decides she might as well use this late-night excursion as a chance to get an understanding of the lie of the land. Besides, a plan is starting to form in her mind, and she needs just a couple more seconds to work out the details. Finally, with a smile on her lips, she turns and looks back toward the cottage. Flicking the torch off, she ducks down behind a gravestone and listens to the silence. She figures she might as well play the kids at their own game: using a torch is basically like sticking a big red arrow to her back and advertising herself as a target. At least this way, she's on level terms. They can't see her, and she can't see them, so this little game is going to come down to a question of who has the best strategy and the greatest reserves of patience. As far as Sam's concerned, there's no contest: she knows she's going to win this.
After a few minutes, and still not hearing anything, she starts crawling across the soft grass. Making her way from gravestone to gravestone, she keeps stopping to listen for any kind of noise. So far, there's nothing; she's certain, however, that eventually she'll hear the kids giggling or setting up their next prank. They probably think they can scare her to death, but Sam knows she has an ace up her sleeve, something that potentially marks her out from all the other people who have taken the gardener's job in Rippon before her: Samantha Marker is a proud non-believer in the existence of ghosts, ghouls and any other type of creature that might leap out of the dark. These kids can set up all sorts of pranks and jokes at her expense, but she'll see them all for what they really are: a series of immature and dumb set-ups orchestrated by bored, hormonal kids who have nothing better to do than try to rattle the new girl in town. They'll learn. After tonight, they'll never try this again.
Eventually, Sam gets close to the cottage. She's surprised that she hasn't heard the kids so far, but she figures this is a battle of wills and wits. They're out here somewhere, and she's not going to let them get the jump on her. Leaning against the nearest gravestone, she resists the urge to peer over the top and look at the cottage; she figures she might give her position away, which would be a fatal mistake. Taking a deep, quiet breath, she decides that her best option is to just wait it out. There's no way she's going to let a bunch of kids outwit her, and she can wait until sunrise if necessary. Listening to the quiet night, she's alert to any hint of movement, but there's nothing except the faintest rustling of the grass as a soft breeze passes through the area. Finally, after almost half an hour, Sam starts to wonder if perhaps she's made a mistake; perhaps the teenagers are long gone, their final joke being to get into bed while thinking about the poor gardener freezin
g behind a gravestone. Torn between patience and a desire to get the night over with, Sam delays a decision for a few more minutes before finally standing up and turning to face the cottage.
"Okay, you little fuckers," she mutters, before letting out a gasp as she finds herself face to face with Sparky.
Chapter Twelve
"The autopsy'll tell us exactly what happened," says Dr. Wellington, kneeling next to Mrs. Mayberry's dead body, "but I'm pretty sure it was just a heart attack. Judging by the look on her face, I'd hazard a guess that she got herself worked up into quite a state and probably brought it on herself through sheer panic alone." He turns to Mr. Matthews. "You said she phoned you up and reported a possible prowler?"
Sitting wearily on the end of the bed, Matthews nods.
"But there was nothing?"
"The doors were locked," Matthews replies, before letting out a long, slow yawn. "She had so many locks and padlocks, we had a hard time busting our way in. The old dear probably imagined the whole thing, just like she imagined all the rest. Barely a night ever went past when she didn't think there was someone in her back yard."
"I'll still do the autopsy," Dr. Wellington continues, getting to his feet, "but there's clearly nothing suspicious about what happened. She got herself all wound up over nothing, put too much stress on her ticker, and dropped dead. I've seen it before. She was on blood-thinning medication and she had a history of heart problems. I'm confident I'll be able to sign off on her death certificate without too much delay." Checking his watch, he sighs. "It's 3am. Let's just get her body to my surgery and we can do everything else in the morning. It's not like we're rushed off our feet around here."
"Maybe," Matthews says, clearly lost in thought.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dr. Wellington asks.
