Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (13 page)

Ewan finally regained his sight, the chamber still nothing but a blur.  He could just make out the hulking, grotesque shape of Apollyon ten feet in front of him hunched but still towering over the limp, shredded body of its creator.  Apollyon’s body remained still, giving a sense of purpose to its thrashing arms as it cut away Archibald’s flesh.  Whimpers were heard amongst the ungodly growls and grunts, weakening after each strike until the body eventually gave up the fight.  Ribbons of flesh hung down from Apollyon’s claws like trophies from each kill.

His limbs slowly began to jerk back to life, as his brain urged every inch of his terrified frame to move.  As his senses started to return, he retched when he finally breathed, smelling and tasting the foul air that started to fill the chamber.  The odour, the sounds and the images of this hell started to overcome him once more.  The air was tainted with the copper-essence of spilled blood, and the visceral remains of the Council met each glance as he turned his head.

He spied the way out - the
only
way out – an impossible hundred yards ahead; the door the guards had clambered through, when they had made their swift exit, remained open.  More fortunate members of the Council must have been able to take their leave whilst the beast and Archibald had been otherwise engaged.

He turned once more towards Apollyon, who still busied himself picking the remains of the scattered bodies beneath him.  He estimated that he could make it if his legs still possessed the speed and strength they once had which seemed unlikely. Still he hoped.

Ewan’s body was acting on instinct and made the decision for him.  He scrambled to his feet and briskly took two paces.  Apollyon remained undeterred so Ewan tried a run.  The pain shot up through his feet, his knees and up the centre of his back stopping him momentarily, as his body fought to keep itself moving.

That moment cost him dearly. The soft crunch of hardened dirt beneath his feet as his body stopped dead instantly alerted the beast.  The massive head shot around as if released by a catapult, its red eyes fixed on Ewan as a mixture of blood, drool and grey matter oozed from the corner of his mouth.  The snarl that followed emanated from somewhere so deep within its stomach, that Ewan wondered if it were from the ground itself.

Ewan took two more steps.

He heard and felt the mammoth frame shift and lurch towards him.

He managed three more steps before the ground was taken from under him, and then returned to him with a force that brought the darkness back to envelope him. But this time it was not warm and comforting.

All light faded as consciousness left him.

The ringing inside his head brought Ewan back to consciousness, but only briefly.  His eyes were still blurred; the pain in his head quickly spread through his entire body. His eyes managed to focus long enough to make out the massive bulk of Apollyon, above him. As his eyes became heavier he thought he saw not one but two shapes above him, the second appearing just as large as the beast, shrouded in black.  The end was near and now all he could do was pray it would come swiftly.

Chapter Eighteen

March 10th 2002

Truman awoke to find the room still in darkness.  Not that he had slept much.  His body was stiffening more every morning.  The mattress on the floor had worn thin, the duvet having also seen better days.  It did little to keep the chill away, though spring was finally on its way.

These days, he found it difficult to bring himself to close his eyes.  The drink helped in a way but the more his mind relaxed around his constant nightmares the less his body was fit to fight off sleep.

She came to him at night, mostly.  The image of Lorraine Thacker stayed with him throughout the day too but at night he could almost reach out and touch her again, talk to her, tell her he was sorry and that he…loved her?  Would anything have been any different if he had actually forgotten his pride and bravado for once and actually told her that?  Probably not, knowing how stubborn she could be. But it may have meant his warnings about Colin Dexler would have held more weight.  Truman may have even done more to help Lorraine, and to stop her getting so close to that monster.

Dexler was a monster, an animal.  Truman had experienced every emotion imaginable when Commissioner Roberts had marched into the Criminal Investigations Department on that day two weeks ago.  There had been a call, he said, from a frantic patient at Wildermoor Brook.  Two bodies, he had been told.  The news had caused mini explosions in Truman’s mind, then had come the A-bomb that would kill all hope, joy and faith that Truman had clung to throughout his life. One of the bodies was that of Lorraine Thacker. 

After those words were uttered, silence descended over his world.  He did not hear any more that Commissioner Roberts said. Even the level of noise in the rest of the department, which at times drove Truman to insanity, faded away.  He felt as though he was falling to the ground.  They could not identify the second body as the face was damaged beyond recognition.  Truman later heard from a few gossip agents that there was suspicion, according to the Commissioner, it might have been Lorraine’s receptionist, as she had gone missing shortly after lunchtime and never returned to her desk.

Truman vaguely remembered being escorted from the offices and out onto the street, his mind still numb until the confusion set in.  Whatever had gone on between him and Commissioner Roberts in that office still remained a mystery.  He understood he had to be kept off the investigation due to his past relationship with Lorraine, but to be deemed unfit to fulfil his duties was a kick in the teeth.

Then he had committed a fatal error.  His judgement had been clouded by rage and grief. Later that night he had found himself at Dexler’s front door, trying to break it down with his fists.  He had known Dexler was there.  Where else would a man like him go?  But there had been no answer.  No curtains had twitched suggesting he was inside, cowering from Truman like he expected he would.  Truman had told himself to leave, that this man simply wasn’t worth it and that it would not be long before his men would find Dexler and put him inside to rot his final days in Wildermoor Prison. He would be miles away from anyone or anywhere that he could cause any more harm. Except to himself. But Truman welcomed that thought.

As he had started to walk away, his eyes had spied an alleyway he had failed to notice before.  No longer in control, Truman had made his way down to the broken garden gate at the end of the walkway.  A few paces into the garden, with a helping hand from a few discarded plastic crates lying against the garden fence, and Truman had been in Dexler’s back yard.  The back door had been unlocked and too tempting to resist.

Stop.  It could be a trap.
  Truman had chosen to ignore his common sense once more.  Years of lawful intelligence had faded in one moment of madness as he had marched through the door and into Dexler’s kitchen-diner.  Nothing had seemed out of place, except for the cold, stale air that hung in the lifeless room.  Truman made his way through the next open doorway and into the hall.  He had felt no remorse when he had found the cold, dead body of Dexler slumped against the front door. Someone had gotten to him first.

No sooner had he knelt beside the corpse and felt for a pulse on the chubby neck, before the striking on the door and the shouted orders came from outside.  They had come for Dexler finally!  But why had they been shouting Truman’s name instead?  How had they known he was there?

He had had no time to ponder the question. His escape had been swift and messy, out of the open back door, scrambling over the next three neighbouring fences and away into the night, away from the flashing blue lights that had shone down the length of Exeter Street.

But now, without Lorraine he had nothing to live for and without his badge he had nothing left to lose. Whenever he pictured Dexler’s face, he saw Lorraine’s.  When he saw hers he could not bear to close his eyes again.  So he reached for the half-empty bottle beside the makeshift bed and took a large gulp enjoying the warmth it brought.  The taste was stale.  He had neither the inclination nor the strength to leave the solace of the room he had acquired for less than the price of a decent meal. He had not ventured far enough to find fresh water to rehydrate himself, not even to brush his teeth and have a shower, for about three days. 

His mouth was dry, his face thick with bristles and his body stained with dry sweat.  To let himself fade away in this hell-hole would have been a betrayal – to those he had inspired on the force, to himself and most of all to Lorraine.

He needed a wash.  He thirsted for a drink that would invigorate his senses rather than mute them.  He yearned for somebody to talk to, to help, to unload the thoughts that plagued his days.  Most of all, he desperately needed to know the truth of why this had happened to him. He was determined to find out.

As he began to rouse himself from his bed, his head dizzying with vertigo, an envelope slid under the door of his room.  The only person who knew he was here, to his knowledge, was the landlady, who worked nights down the main stretch of Harper’s Hill, and to whom he had not divulged his real name.  So how the hell could he have post, especially at this hour?

He picked up the envelope and rang a finger along the seal tearing it open.  The effort made his fingers hurt, as did all of his joints.  So many sleepless nights and forgotten amounts of booze must be reducing his immune system.  He was also succumbing to a cold.

As he took out the slip of paper – the size of a compliment slip you’d usually expect to find included with a free pen - from under the seal, his heart paused for the time it took him to take in the elaborate scripture written on the page.

*****

I know who you really are.  Let me help you.  Time is running out
.

The envelope was not addressed to him, or anyone in particular, and the plea written on the blank slip of paper was vague in its intentions.  Stapled to it was a business card – simple black text on an ivory background, the symbol of triangle playing-card spade in the top right-hand corner, the only insignia.  It may have been intended for one of the other residents of the hostel but he didn’t believe in coincidences.

Something inside him stirred.  He had been trained and had trained others to be suspicious of everything until they were able to prove there was no threat or malice intended. 
Guilty until proven innocent
.  But he had the overwhelming feeling of hope, something he had not felt for many weeks, perhaps even months.  He inspected the back of the slip and the card for any more evidence.

The address was printed in miniscule text in the bottom left-hand corner of the card. He was drawn to the name in bold above. He could not place where he had come across it before but the name seemed familiar.  An old comrade on the force?  A drinking buddy from his training days?  He drew a blank.  How about the less favourable of his past acquaintances? A defence councillor, a crooked judge or slippery criminal he had helped entrap in order to get the sorry son-of-a-bitch behind bars?

The name of the practice manager, Dr. Mason Stamford did not mean anything to him.  No, it was the symbol on the card that was calling him.

*****

Truman found the psychiatrist’s surgery easier than he expected.  He had not been to this side of Wildermoor since he was a teenager. In those days he and his small band of mates would cycle from the centre of the barren moor, through the forest across to the remains of Harper Falls, a place that one would never think could once have had inhabitants.  The tracks that had been roads were now so hidden beneath fallen leaves and years of mud-slides and the trees so overgrown that the only remaining evidence of the village were lumps of hard stone.  The forest had claimed Harper Falls and had choked its life away with relentless bracken tentacles.

The forest opened on the other side to a recent development, known as Shepherd’s Beach, named not for its proximity to the sea (the nearest shore line was at least eighty miles to the north and a hundred to the west) but for the retreat it had offered those who had once worked the harsh, unproductive fields across the face of Wildermoor.

Truman eventually found a small building.  The only indication that he was at the right place was a small gold-plated plaque displayed next to the front door, underneath the door-bell.

The door was open and inside Truman was met by a friendly receptionist; a rarity in normal NHS doctor’s surgery’s these days. The service was a lot more punctual too; he only had to wait a few minutes more than his allotted appointment.

After receiving the mysterious card and note under his door, Truman had sworn he would take no notice of it.  It must be a hoax or scare tactic.  He knew that the police team he had raised were instructed to find him or were waiting for him to wander back into the town as though nothing had happened.

Two more double-measures had calmed his nerves that night and had sent him back to sleep.  It was then that he saw her face yet again. Only this time Lorraine seemed to be trying to tell him something, her voice so faint that he could not make out a sound.  Her eyes and hands pleaded and he cried in his dream.  He wanted to help but felt he was failing her, just as he had in the last hours of her life.

Behind the shimmering image of the woman he once loved, more and more shapes began to appear, some shrouded in light and some as black as night.  The light from the others – the desperate, pleading souls – began to fade in the presence of the shadows, as though their very existence was being sucked into a vortex.

Truman could have taken this as some sign from a divine authority but it just confirmed to him more that he needed help.  Maybe he needed something to help him sleep, or maybe he should give up the drink.  Whatever it was, something was not right with him.  Maybe the anonymous note and invitation had been fate’s way of telling him to get his head sorted out.

The man who appeared from within the office surprised Truman.  He was not what he had expected.  Dr. Stamford stood no more than five-foot-five, smart cropped black hair peppered with grey flecks, dressed casually in a Nordic-patterned sweater and dark jeans.  The oddest thing about him was what he wore on his face.  He had expected the thin-framed spectacles – it was a pre-requisite for medical practitioners to wear them these days, it seemed – but there was something different; he wore a smile.  Not a creepy, forced, I-must-look-happy-for-my-patients smile, but one that was warm, welcoming, comforting and, above all, content. 

Truman instantly felt at ease with this man, and felt that he had known him for years.  The doctor had yet to speak to him but he already had the urge to open up and tell him everything.  Coming from years of erecting a barrier between himself and society - all in the best interest of his career and himself - teaching himself to be wary and suspicious of everyone he met, Truman found the feeling unsettling.

‘Mr Lockwood?’ Dr. Stamford stood in the doorway, smiling. Truman recognised the alias he had adopted since fleeing Wildermoor.  He stood up, now feeling apprehensive and regretting agreeing to come.  He wasn’t yet ready to have his head split open and his emotions dissected on the slab.

Dr. Stamford offered his hand and Truman shook it, once again putting him at ease.  His legs stopped trembling. 

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Dr Stamford said warmly. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to attend. Please come in,’ he stepped aside and invited Truman into his office.

‘My pleasure, Doc,’ Truman replied through gritted teeth.

As the door closed behind them, Truman immediately felt trapped. The doctor’s office was smaller than expected. The wooden-panelled walls darkened the room but at the same time gave a homely feel to the place.  Despite its less-than-airy nature, the room exuded safety, comfort and seclusion from the outside world.  Just what people need when they spend an hour of their time – and more of their money – delving deep into their psyche.  This was officially the last place that Truman ever expected he would turn.

Mason Stamford made his way over to the sideboard at the far right of his office, where he was busying himself with the caffetiere.