Authors: Amy Cross
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 freezing 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.
Matthews groans as he gets up. As he walks over to the door, he glances down and spots something on the carpet. "Where do you think that came from?" he asks, peering at what appears to be a fine sprinkling of stone dust. He looks up at the ceiling, but there's no sign of a crack. "There's some more on the stairs," he continues, "and on the mat in the hallway."
"I wouldn't go complicating things if I were you," Dr. Wellington replies. "I think this is going to be a fairly open-and-shut case. Let's not go worrying about a bunch of silly little side matters and old wives' tales."
"Sure," Matthews says, "but -"
"Do you really want to go waking Mayor Winters up at this hour? Seriously? And then what? Drag him down here just to show him that an old lady dropped dead after giving herself one late night fright too many?" He pauses for a moment. "I'm more than happy to sign the death certificate and say that, in my professional opinion, Ethel Mayberry died of a heart attack. Can't we just leave it at that?"
"It's your call," Matthews says, leaning down and grabbing Mrs. Mayberry's ankles. "You ready?"
Hauling the dead body up between them, the two men carefully carry her out the door. As they go, they step through the small pile of stone dust, tramping it out onto the landing, down the stairs and ultimately all the way out to Dr. Wellington's waiting van. As the body is loaded into the back of the vehicle, Dr. Wellington notices that he has forgotten one small but important part of the process. Leaning into the van, he places a hand over Mrs. Mayberry's face and gently closes her eyes.
Chapter Thirteen
Opening her eyes, Sam stares up at the ceiling and struggles - just for a moment - to remember where she is. It's only when she realizes that her alarm is ringing, and only after she's grabbed her phone and switched it off, that she notices the time. It's 7.30am, which seems to her to be an unnaturally early time to get up until she remembers that she's supposed to unlock the gates of the cemetery in half an hour, and then get to work putting the place back into some semblance of order.
She sits up in bed and looks across the room. It's so bare in here but, in a way, that's kind of how she likes it. No distractions. No temptations. No laptop and no internet, no DVDs and no video games. Just an empty wooden room and a cemetery outside that needs some urgent attention. She thinks back to that time, about a year ago, when she briefly worked in a coffee shop. If she was late to work back then, the worst that would happen would be that a bunch of stressed commuters would have to wait
slightly
longer for their lattes. Here, however, the grass is going to keep growing day and night, whether or not it gets cut. Nature provides a less flexible, and more important, deadline.
"Morning, Sparky," she says, glancing over at the window. As the morning sun shines through the glass, Sam can just about make out the silhouette of Sparky, who has been chained to the drainpipe since the early hours. Having suffered the indignity of letting the teenagers push the stone angel toward her without being caught, Sam was determined to end their fun, so in the middle of the night she grabbed a chain and a padlock from the shed and secured Sparky to the side of the cottage. At least this way, she's certain that the kids will have to come up with some other way to torment her.
After getting dressed quickly and eating some bread, Sam steps out the front door and looks out at the vast untamed cemetery. She's decided to tackle it systematically over the course of three days, starting by mowing the grass and trimming the borders. It's a big job, and it won't be easy, but in some way she's actually looking forward to doing something constructive. After the events of the past six months, she feels like losing herself in a task that doesn't require too much thought. The old Sam Marker would have
hated
the idea of working in a cemetery and spending her days as a gardener, but the new Sam Marker thinks it's a splendid task, and one that should keep the old Sam Marker from come back to cause trouble.
"My kingdom," Sam says, walking over to the edge of the grass before turning and looking back at the cottage. "And my castle," she adds. Although it might seem like a strange, quiet life, she's starting to get used to the idea of living here. After all, there aren't many people who get to live in a place like this. It's tempting to think of her old friends, still out partying and living life in the fast lane back in Leeds; for a moment, she feels a pang of nostalgia for the days of sleeping 'til noon and job-hunting, and the nights of stumbling out of nightclubs with Nadia in the early hours. Still, even if she
wanted
to go back, it wouldn't be an option. Not now, and maybe not ever. Those days are over.
At 8am precisely, Sam unlocks and opens the front gate, swinging it back and propping it open with a small rock. She glances out into the street, but there doesn't seem to be anyone around. In the early morning sunlight, Rippon doesn't seem so bad, and Sam relishes the peace and quiet after spending her formative years in the hustle and bustle of Leeds. She's so used to loud noise, it rather amazes her when she realizes she can hear her own footsteps as she makes her way back along the shingle path toward the cottage. Going around the back, she continues to enjoy the simple noises of her job: the slide of the rusty latch on the shed door; the clanking of the mower as it's maneuvered out from the back; even the mower's wheels as it's pulled across the grass in preparation for the day's work to begin. Finally, Sam stands and smiles as she prepares for a hard day's work.
At the last moment, just as she's about to start pushing the mower, she pauses and listens to a new sound. Something's banging nearby, as if some kind of metal is being repeatedly struck against another surface. Walking around to the front of the cottage, Sam's heart sinks as she wonders whether the teenagers from last night have returned. The banging sound continues as she makes a complete circuit all the way around her little home, before finally she reaches the other side of the cottage and the banging abruptly stops just a couple of seconds before she sets eyes on Sparky, still chained to the drainpipe. Pausing for a moment, she stares at Sparky's face as a kernel of suspicion begins to form in the back of her mind. Curious, she reaches out and grabs hold of the chain, before banging it against the drainpipe in the manner of someone who's trying to get free. To her shock, Sam realizes that this is
exactly
the same sound she heard a moment ago. She glances around the next corner, but there's no sign of any kids.
"Careful, Sparky," she says, turning back to the statue. She pauses for a moment, almost as if she expects a voice to reply. Staring at Sparky's blank stone eyes, Sam leans a little closer and reaches out to poke the side of the statue's face; when this produces no results, she reaches down and once again bangs the chain against the drainpipe. Finally, she smiles, realizing how easily she allowed herself to be spooked. "Don't worry," she says, patting Sparky on the shoulder, "I'll find somewhere to put you soon." Turning and walking back over to the mower, Sam tries to ignore the wild ideas taking root in her subconscious. As she pushes the aged, clanking mower toward the spot by the tree where she intends to start her work, she can't help but glance back over at Sparky and stare for a moment at the chain that runs over his torso, through the gap under his arm, and around the drainpipe. Although she'd planned to unchain the statue first thing this morning, she decides to wait a little longer. Just to be safe.