Raven Revivals Page 2

  “It certainly is rather miraculous that you're so... perky,” he replies.

  “That's perpetual grace for you,” Sam mutters.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I do think we should... pay some attention to your situation,” Doctor Burnham tells her. “While it is a blessed relief that the knife has not incapacitated you in any way, we cannot simply ignore its presence.”

  “I'm ignoring it,” Sam replies. “Trust me, ignoring it works.”

  “I'd like to send you to a specialist,” Doctor Burnham continues, opening the top drawer in his desk and taking out a blank form. “I have a colleague in Aldershot who specializes in serious head injuries. I've already told him a little about your case, and he's most interested in meeting you and examining you properly. He proposes a head scan, and some restorative therapy that might include a small invasive procedure. It's his opinion that by studying you, he can not only help you with your problems, but he can also help others. There's also the matter of what might happen to you if the knife moves. Even a fraction of a millimeter could be disastrous. The journey to the hospital would be -”

  “I can't leave Rippon,” Sam says firmly.

  “I'm sure the cemetery can survive without you for a few days.”

  “No, I mean I really can't leave Rippon,” she continues. “It's absolutely out of the question.”

  “You're not giving me much to work with here, Sam,” Doctor Burnham replies. “Rippon is a small town, and I'm afraid we don't have all the services that might be required by certain patients. You're far from the first person I've referred to another facility and I can assure you that the whole journey could be undertaken in less than seventy-two hours, including -”

  “I can't leave the town,” she replies. “I literally cannot cross the boundary. Not even one foot over the limits, not even a toe.”

  “Because?”

  “Stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “It would just be very bad for my health. I know that probably sounds weird, but it's true. A very reliable person explained to me a while back that being in Rippon is very, very good for my health, and that I shouldn't jinx it. Besides...” She pauses again, and for a moment she feels a twinge of sadness as she remembers herself placing Henry on the steps of a church in Leeds. “There's nothing for me out there. It's better if I stay here, 'cause out there there's nothing but temptation. Things would go wrong, even if leaving was a possibility.”

  “I see.” He looks down at the form for a moment, before sliding it toward her across the desk. “If you change your mind, Samantha -”

  “I prefer Sam.”

  “If you change your mind, Sam, you have only to come back and let me know. Fill in this form, drop it off at reception, and I can get the ball rolling.” He pauses, as if he's genuinely concerned about her. “I know it's tempting to take on all the strain and try to deal with mental illness alone, but the fact that you came to see me today suggests that you're at least willing to consider outside help. This in itself is a very good step.”

  “It's not a mental illness,” Sam replies. “It's a thing about voices. I came here so you could double-check that I'm completely sane. I kind of thought you'd have some kind of test you could run.”

  Doctor Burnham smiles politely.

  “Don't you...” Sam pauses. “Can't you issue, like, a certificate?”

  “Stating that you're sane?”

  “It'd be useful,” she continues. “Just for my own peace of mind.”

  “Have you considered surgery to remove that item from your skull?” he asks, changing the subject. “It looks very alarming, and I'm sure something could be done.”

  “All things considered,” she replies, “I think I should just leave it alone. As long as I remember to duck when I go through low doors, I should be okay.”

  “But it must be affecting you,” he continues. “I mean, it's quite remarkable that you're even alive, and that you can talk and walk and seemingly act perfectly normally. In all my years of medicine, I don't think I've ever seen anything like it. Tell me, have there been any changes in your personality at all?”

  She shakes her head.

  “What about your motor coordination? Do you have any trouble with coordination?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “And people around you. Your friends and family -”

  “I don't really...” She pauses. “I've been in Rippon almost a year now. I'm fine here. Every day is pretty much the same as the one before it. I get up, I tend to the cemetery, I mow the grass and fix up the flowers, occasionally I deal with an incoming funeral, and I find ways to keep myself busy until eight in the evening, when I close the main gate and my day is done. Then I get an hour to relax, and to thank God that nothing crazy happened, and then it's time for bed.” Another pause as, for a fraction of a second, she's reminded of the life she had before she arrived in Rippon. “I'm happy,” she adds. “Life's good. If there was anyone out there in the big wide world who might care about me, they're better off being looked after by someone else. I'd only let them down again.”

  “But living all alone in a little house in the middle of a cemetery...”

  “I'm not alone,” she replies. “I have a friend living there with me.”

  “Oh? Well, that's certainly good. And this friend, is she... helpful?”

  “Helpful?”

  “Does she help with your chores?”

  “Um. Not really.”

  “So her role is mainly to provide conversation and company?”

  “I... Yeah, I guess so.”

  Well, that puts my mind at ease somewhat. We must all have company, and I was worried about you living all alone in that place. I wasn't aware that anyone else was there with you, but so long as you have someone to talk to, someone who can listen... Tell me, is she someone you feel you can confide in?”

  “I guess she is.”

  “And she helps you to maintain your routine?”

  “Oh yeah,” Sam replies, frowning gently. “She... Yeah, she's...” She pauses again, trying to find the right word. “She's very helpful,” she adds finally, with a forced smile. “I honestly don't know how I'd manage without her.”

  Chapter Two

  “Yellow,” Anna exclaims, standing in the bathroom and examining her left arm under the light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. “That's new. I didn't have any yellow yesterday.”

  Stepping back, she turns her arm a little. Having spent the past year rotting, albeit at a dramatically reduced pace, she now has multiple blotches of discolored skin. While some areas looks as if they've suffered nothing more than a nasty bruise, others are clearly dying and turning to mush, while maggots have left several small holes as they continue to make their way through her meat.

  “Still some green and gray, that's not news. But yellow, that's a new color. That's bad. Next thing, I'll end up with some blue, and then it's head-first into gray and red.”

  With her right hand, she gently pulls back a flap of rotting skin from her left arm. Beneath the skin itself, her muscles have begun to atrophy and maggots are crawling in the space between her bones. She instinctively starts picking a few of the maggots out and dropping them into the sink, before realizing with a sigh that there's no point. It's a never-ending battle, and although the decomposition process has been extremely slow, it's inching forward a little further every day. There can no longer be any doubt: eventually, bits of her are going to start dropping off.

  “Zombie,” she mutters, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “That's all you are. You're a disgusting, rotting zombie. Worse than a zombie, you're some kind of horrific freak. If anyone could see you right now, they'd run away screaming. The best thing for everyone would be if you just hide away from the real world. Normal people don't want to see someone like -”

  Before she can finish, a bell rings in the distance.

  Startled, she turns and l
ooks through the bathroom door.

  A moment later, she realizes she can hear voices somewhere nearby, as if there are people outside the cottage.

  “Go away,” she whispers. “Please, just go away. Whatever you want, it can wait.”

  She waits, and the bell rings again.

  “Sam?” she calls out, hoping against hope that Sam might have returned home without making her presence known. Realizing that she's definitely alone in the cottage, Anna steps out of the bathroom and looks toward the front door, at which points she sees three people staring at her through the glass. She ducks back into the bathroom, but she already knows that it's too late. She and Sam have spent the past year working together pretty well, but there was always an unspoken agreement that Sam would be the one who spoke to members of the public.

  Right now, however, it's too late for Anna to hide. She knows they saw her.

  “Hello?” a male voice calls out. “We... Um, we were sent here by the undertaker. I'm afraid we... Well, we have a funeral to arrange.”

  Anna opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out.

  “Hello?” the male voice continues. “Please, we just want to arrange our daughter's funeral!”

  Sighing, Anna realizes she can't just leave them out there, not in their hour of need.

  “Um... Just a moment!” she calls out. “I'll be with you in a couple of minutes. I just need to...” Panicking, she looks over at the counter and spots Sam's meager collection of make-up. “I'll be with you in a moment,” she adds. “Just give me a minute to freshen up and put my face on.” She looks at a pot of concealer. “Literally,” she adds, while wondering just how much the concealer can conceal.

  ***

  “I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting,” Anna says with a smile and her politest voice as she opens the door. “We weren't informed that you were coming, and usually my colleague is here to, er, deal with any inquiries.”

  “My name is Roger Havershot,” the man replies, with a hint of sorrow in his eyes. “This is my wife Elizabeth, and our son Scott.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Anna replies somewhat stiffly. “Please, won't you come in? I'm not really in charge around here, but I'm sure Sam will be back soon to take down your particulars and help you with whatever you need.”

  “That's a wonderful shade of blush,” Elizabeth Havershot replies as she and her family enter the cottage. “Very... striking.”

  “Thank you,” Anna replies.

  “Cool make-up,” Scott adds. “Are you, like, going somewhere?”

  “Going somewhere?”

  “To a show or something? Fancy dress?”

  “No,” Anna replies, glancing at her reflection in the hall mirror and realizing that her hasty make-up job has left her looking almost like a clown. Still, she knows that she had no alternative: although the make-up has been applied thickly all over her face and arms, at least it covers up the fact that she's slowly rotting. Plus, a heavy dose of cologne should be enough to disguise any lingering decomposition odors. “It's just a look I'm trying out,” she adds sadly, thinking back to the days when she was still alive and make-up was just for fun.

  “I'm afraid it was our daughter,” Roger Havershot explains. “She... Her name was Ruth and -”

  Before he can finish, his wife bursts into tears, and he puts his arms around her in an attempt to comfort her.

  “She died in a car crash,” Scott explains. “It happened last night, on the road just outside town.”

  “The police think it was very quick,” his father adds, with tears in his eyes. “Her car went headfirst into a tree. She probably didn't even realize what was happening.”

  “Actually,” Scott replies, “there were tire marks on the road, like she was swerving all over the place before she -”

  “It was quick,” his father says firmly.

  “Dad, that's not what -”

  “It was quick, Scott!” As his wife lets out another pained sob, Mr. Havershot hugs her tightly and whispers into her ear. “It was quick, my darling. Poor Ruth didn't suffer. She didn't even know what was happening to her. One moment she was driving, and the next she was gone. No pain, no fear. She just floated up toward a big white light.”

  “She was such a good girl,” sobs the mother, “and such a careful driver.”

  Scott raises a skeptical eyebrow as the whole cottage briefly shakes. Everyone looks back across the cemetery just in time to spot a set of huge trucks making their way along the narrow street.

  “This really isn't the time for festivities,” Mr. Havershot mutters darkly. “And anyway, who wants some big American carnival coming to town?”

  “So you're here to arrange a funeral,” Anna says, hoping to at least sound as if she knows what she's talking about. “Well, you've definitely come to the right place. I mean, obviously you have, or...” She pauses as she realizes that this might not have been quite the right way to phrase things. “As I explained a moment ago, my colleague Sam Marker is the one who really runs things around here. I mean... Samantha Marker. Unfortunately she's currently at a doctor's appointment, but I'm expecting her back at any moment.”

  “The undertaker helped us pick out a coffin,” Mr. Havershot explains, “and the basic details of the church service. All that's left is for us to choose a plot and make a few other arrangements.”

  “Please, won't you come through?”

  As Anna leads the three Havershots through to the main room, she desperately tries to remember how Sam usually handles visitors. The problem is that Anna usually makes herself scarce whenever a grieving family arrives at the cottage, so as she grabs a few wooden chairs and arranges them in the middle of the room, she can't help but feel that she's doing everything wrong. Thinking back to the episodes of Six Feet Under she used to watch, she still can't come up with much. Besides, Six Feet Under is American, and in a time of crisis Anna can feel her Britishness coming to the fore.

  “Do you want tea?” she asks finally, turning to them. “Or coffee?”

  “Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Mr. Havershot replies.

  “Wait right here!” Anna continues, hurrying through to the kitchen before suddenly remembering one more thing. She leans back through the door. “Oh, and I'm very sorry for your loss!”

  Chapter Three

  “And then you'll end up talking to yourself,” Sam mutters as she makes her way past the gravestones, heading to the cottage. “And then where will you be, huh? Need to watch out for that. Mental note: conversations with self must be recognized and treated with due caution.”

  Stopping at the cottage door, she glances up at the stone angel nearby.

  “Come on, Sparky,” she continues. “How much longer are you going to be sulking?”

  The stone angel doesn't move. Sparky's face stares up at the sky with the same implacable expression he's worn for the past twelve months, ever since the day he declared that he needed time to recover from the events with Fenroc. Sam and Anna had assumed that he only meant he'd be incommunicado for a few days, but now they've come to accept that he's gone for the long haul. In darker moments, Sam even finds herself wondering if he's coming back at all.

  “You're no use,” Sam mutters. “You know that, right?”

  Again, no reply.

  “I need someone to talk to,” she continues. “Someone who actually knows what's going on around here. It's fine when there's nothing more to do than mow the grass, but sooner or later something's going to happen, and I need someone who can give me advice. You will come back then, won't you?”

  She waits.

  Nothing.

  “Whatever,” she adds wearily, pushing the door open. As soon as she enters the cottage, she realizes that there are voices coming from the other room. When she looks through, she sees that Anna is talking to three strangers.

  “Sam!” Anna calls out with obvious relief. “Thank God you're -” She pauses for a moment, trying to find a more respectful tone. “I mean, it's so good that you're bac
k. I was just telling the Havershots that you're the one to -”

  “Busy,” Sam replies, grabbing her shovel and heading back to the door.

  As she gets outside, she hears someone running up behind her, and she turns just as Anna grabs her sleeve.

  “They're here to arrange a funeral,” Anna tells her with wide, terrified eyes.

  “Cool,” Sam replies. “You always said you wanted me to let you take charge some time. This is your chance.”

  “No,” Anna continues, “I never said that, not even once. I'm not really doing a very good job, either. Can you go in and take over? I don't know what I'm talking about, and I'm pretty sure they're starting to get suspicious.”

  “The undertaker sent them, right?”

  Anna nods.

  “So most of the work's done, they just need to pick a plot. And I need to go and visit that undertaker one day. He sends all this work our way, but I've never actually met him. Don't you think I should meet him?”

  “Yes, but -”

  “And then I'll dig the grave this afternoon.”

  “Yes, but -”

  “First I have to do something,” Sam adds. “I'm sorry, I know I must seem a little preoccupied right now, but I've got a lot on my mind. There are...” She looks over her shoulder for a moment, as if she's worried that something might be nearby; seeing nothing, she looks the other way, before finally turning back to Anna. “I really need to go and check on something,” she continue. “It's important, and I've been putting it off for long enough. Don't worry, I should be much more chatty once it's done.”

  “Can't you just speak to the Havershots first?” Anna pleads.

  “You'll be fine,” Sam continues, patting her on the shoulder. “The only way to learn is to go in at the deep end, just like I'm doing with this whole saving-the-world thing. Just take them out to the east side of the cemetery and get them to pick a spot, then mark it on the map so I can get to work after lunch. The rest of the job just involves smiling and being lovely, which are two things you're brilliant at and...” She pauses. “Are you wearing make-up?”