by Amy Cross
"And there's been nothing else?" the mayor asks, eying her suspiciously.
"Nope," Sam says. It's a lie, but it's a convenient lie. The last thing she wants is to be thought of as insane, so she figures she should just keep quiet about some of the more unusual events that have taken place. "Sometimes it's just a bit weird living in a cemetery," she adds, "and it's pretty easy to just start imagining things." She waits for the mayor to say something, but he seems to be staring at her intently, which only makes her feel more uncomfortable than ever. "You don't have to worry about me," she continues. "I'm just pottering around in here, getting my work done."
"I see," the mayor replies.
There's an awkward silence for a moment.
"I'm not going mad," Sam says eventually. "I mean, if that's what you're worried about, or what you're thinking, then I promise I'm not. I'm totally sane. Can't you tell?"
The mayor stares at her.
"I'm just getting on with things and..." She pauses, finally realizing that she's protesting a little too much. "I should probably be finishing some jobs," she says after a moment, "but don't worry, I'm going to make this place look good. I'm going to put some fresh grass over the graves, and then I'm going to maybe go up there and clean that thing." Looking up once again at the statue of Death, she immediately regrets what she just said.
"I wouldn't go up there if I were you," the mayor replies. "In fact, you must promise me you won't. It's so high, and I'd hate for you to slip and hurt yourself. On a purely selfish level, I'd rather not have to look for another gardener so soon after your arrival, and as I've told you already, many of the parishioners have noted that you've really brightened the place up." Putting an arm around Sam's shoulder, he steers her over toward the cottage. "Concentrate on more earthly practicalities," he says, seeming to regain a little more of his usual good humor. "There's so much to be doing around this place, and I don't see that there's anything to be gained from scrabbling around on top of that old mausoleum." Stopping by the door, he turns to her. "Promise me, Sam, that you won't go up there."
"I promise," Sam replies, trying not to get freaked out by his tone.
"Excellent!" he continues, grinning for the first time in almost a week. "Now, I can tell that I've already taken up far too much of your time, and I have to get back to my office. You wouldn't believe how many pulls there are on my time, and I'm only one man! Sometimes I think there should be a team of people running this town, but I'm afraid everything is left to me. I'm not complaining, though. Most of the time, Rippon is the most perfect little bubble. It's just that when tragedy strikes, it tends to affect the entire community." With that, he turns to walk away.
"Actually," Sam calls after him, "there is one thing I was wondering about." She pauses for a moment. "It's just that I noticed something about the gravestones. There are ninety-nine in the cemetery now, and seventy of them are all from the same year. That seems kind of weird. Did something happen here in 1965?"
He stares at her, as if he's surprised by the question. "Not at all," he says eventually. "I'm sure these things tend to happen in clusters all over the place, don't they?"
Once the mayor has left, Sam finds herself standing by the door to the cottage, staring over at the mausoleum. She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the statue of Death, and despite her determination to force all 'crazy' ideas from her mind, she can't help but note that the statue has an unusual countenance, as if it seems to be constantly watching her. As ridiculous as she knows it sounds, Sam can't shake the feeling that the statue is in some way alive.
"I'm losing my mind," she mutters. "I tried so hard to stay sane, but I'm cracking up." Taking a deep breath, she decides to force herself to stay on the straight and narrow. Opening the door of the cottage, she steps inside... and a hand is immediately clamped over her mouth, while a voice whispers in her ear:
"Don't make a sound!"
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."
&
nbsp; "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 fro
m 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.
