Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (14 page)

‘Could I get you a coffee, Mr Lockwood, before we begin?’

Truman was lost in thought, scanning the room with an inspector’s eye. Impressed with the number of frames and recognition plaques that lined the wall behind the desk, he could see that the man was certainly well-qualified.

‘No, no, thank you,’ stammered Truman when the doctor glanced over his shoulder to prompt him.  ‘If you don’t mind, I would just like to get down to business.  Why is it that I am here?’

Dr. Stamford, with his coffee mug in hand, walked over to the chair on the near-side of his desk and stirred his drink through.  He seemed mildly amused by the question. 

‘You’re asking
me
why
you’re
here?  That statement alone gives me the impression that you are a lost man, Mr. Lockwood, but - correct me if I’m wrong - it was you who booked your appointment, was it not?  Please, take a seat,’ he motioned towards the comfy couch opposite the slightly more modest office chair in which he positioned himself.

‘Indeed I did,’ Truman was embarrassed by his clumsy statement, ‘but only in response to an anonymous, not to mention mysterious, invitation to come here.’  Truman sat on the edge of the couch and leaned closer towards Stamford, resting his elbows on his knees.  ‘Correct me if
I’m
wrong but I can only imagine that came from you, Doctor.’

Stamford pondered the comment before answering carefully. 

‘You are, of course, correct, Mr. Lockwood.’

‘Please, call me Ash,’ Truman wanted to make the experience a little less formal and to make himself more comfortable.

‘OK…Ash, you know this can be a funny business.  You see just about every kind of person walk through those doors, recognise their problems in an instant and never get to know the
real
them. If I passed half my patients on the street, I would not know them from Adam or Eve. I spend the whole time examining the inner workings of their mind and I never get the chance to take in what the person is really all about.”  Stamford took the chance to lean in towards Truman and spoke in a whisper.

‘I have to say that I’m not sure I follow.  What does this have to do with me or the note you sent me?’

The doctor sat back in his chair, sighing as he reclined.  ‘In most of my cases, it takes me a long time, many sessions, to scratch the surface with my patients, before I discover the real reason why they have come to see me.’

‘I’m sure the fees they pay for the privilege softens the blow.’ It was Truman’s turn to try and break the ice with humour. Stamford was not so amused. 

‘But with you, Mr Lockwood, I had you figured out before you even came here, before you even knew about this place.’ Stamford smiled, displaying pleasure as he spoke. ‘Hell, I would even wager that I know more about you than you do.’

Truman stared into the eyes of the doctor as he spoke.  The warm demeanour that he sensed the moment he first saw Stamford began to wane as he wondered whether the doctor had all his own screws tightened.

‘I doubt that very much.’

Stamford’s stare was strangely hypnotic and Truman found himself feeling as though he had floated away from his body.  He did not enjoy the sensation that he was not in control of the situation he volunteered himself into. 

‘We have never met and I have only been in these parts for a matter of days.  There’s no way you could know even the simplest things about me. I’m sorry to disappoint you, doctor.’

‘Again you are correct – about some things, at least.  Yes, you have only been in these parts for days and no, we have not met whilst you have been here.  But that does not mean I do not know you, and that we have not met before…’ Stamford spoke with conviction, the tone of his voice becoming grave, ‘…Mr. Darke.’

Truman’s breath caught in his chest as once again he was caught in Stamford’s stare.  His eyes had grown cold; his face appeared more ashen and had lost the glow that once made him appear so alive.  Without blinking or shifting his gaze from Truman’s own horrified face, Stamford muttered breathlessly.

‘Have you ever considered regression, Mr. Darke?’

Truman was right, this man was not all there and the situation was not all it seemed.  When he entered the seemingly serene office, he had clung to the hope that he could use this time to relieve some tension, even release some of the guilt, which he carried since he fled the town.  He felt as though he was frozen to his seat with an invisible force pressing him down. He could feel the weight on his shoulders as he watched Dr. Stamford rise from his chair and glide effortlessly towards a locked cabinet on the wall next to his desk.  He keyed in a simple three-digit number and removed a black leather pouch.

The syringe he held was small, but the needle attached to it almost doubled its length.  It couldn’t have held more than one millilitre of clear fluid, Truman estimated.  The substance had already been drawn back before it was placed into the pouch.  Stamford had planned for this – whatever
this
was – before Truman’s arrival.  Maybe even before Truman had even picked up the phone to make the appointment that morning. It had not occurred to him it was odd that he had been able to get a slot to meet with the doctor so quickly. 

He had been trapped – tricked – for the second time in as many weeks.  Only this time he had brought it on himself.

‘What the hell-‘, whispered Truman, as he watched Stamford raise the syringe to the light.  Appearing satisfied, he turned back to face Truman, holding the syringe in a way that Truman held his own cigarettes – which he was now yearning once again;
just one drag, just to calm my nerves and stop my hands and knees shaking
.

‘You seem tense all of a sudden, Mr. Darke,’ Stamford declared showing no concern.  ‘I told you I am here to help you, only if you will let me.’

‘What sort of help is
this
?’ Truman signalled to the syringe Stamford held.  ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Who are any of us?’ The doctor questioned.  ‘You are not who you said you were when you entered my office, you are not even the person you think you are and I may not be the person you think I am.  It’s a puzzle, wouldn’t you say?’

Truman had no idea what Stamford was talking about.  Everything about this meeting was becoming more confusing and surreal with each second, and now he was questioning his own sanity more than ever.  He knew he had to leave the office, leave the building and get as far away from this man as he could.  Truman had spent an entire career dealing with citizens who were unhinged but this was the first time he felt scared to the point he himself had felt threatened. He lacked the backup and support of the Wildermoor Police force but decided to use the best bluff he had to bide him some time.

‘You stay away from me, Stamford.  I can have my guys here before you know it.’

Stamford scoffed.

‘Your
guys
?!  You mean the band of miscreants that run this godforsaken town, who you devoted your life to bringing up as your own?  The very same that turned on you at the first whiff of your guilt?’

Truman stared at Stamford for a few seconds longer, his brow creasing into a deep frown as his eyes fell towards the floor. 

‘Don’t think I don’t know what happened to you back there, Truman,’ he said, using his Christian name for the first time. ‘Didn’t you wonder how there were so many of your men surrounding Dexler’s place so soon after you arrived?’

Truman started shaking his head, not wanting to hear it. What made it worse was that this man – as deranged as he was – still made sense.  Yes, the same questions had crossed his mind on his journey across Wildermoor that night, but he refused to believe it could be true. 

‘I thought that they had gotten a lead on Dexler, linking him to Lorraine’s murder, or had followed mine.  We had a trace on him for weeks.’

Stamford couldn’t tell whether the broken man was talking to himself or whether he was trying to convince himself he had not sealed his own fate back at the house in Exeter Street.  In truth, Truman was no closer to answering that question either.

‘There was no lead!  No trace,’ mocked Stamford, ‘You were the only one chasing that guy.  And since we are on the subject, did you not think to question how –
why
? – you were called here today?!  My God, man, you are pathetic!  You’re blind and we all see you for what you really are.’ The words carried barbs that cut deep into Truman’s flesh.

‘Some divine purpose, perhaps?’ Stamford teased, reading Truman’s thoughts once more.  ‘A higher power that was sending you a sign?  Again, you’re right about one thing, there is a higher power, a ruler and creator of all, but believe me when I tell you that he is not smiling on you,’ Stamford snarled, drool escaping the corners of his mouth as he spat his words at Truman.

Truman needed to call on the last ounce of inner-strength he had, to leave this place as he had left behind his old life.  He could escape Wildermoor completely.  The whole place was turning on him, pointing crooked and condemning fingers at him.  He rose to his feet, without looking Stamford in the eye. 

‘I’m leaving,’ he declared as he made for the door.

‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’ The doctor’s initial poise, sophistication and warmth returned to his voice, and the man that had just berated him returned to its shell. ‘There is a small matter of my fee,’ Stamford said with a smile.  The mask of the madman had dropped in a second and Stamford appeared once more the ever-caring health worker.

The blood started to course through Truman’s body once more, his heart pumping like a piston regenerating every organ and fibre it could.  Truman slowly straightened and turned back to face Stamford.  The pleasant and expectant smirk written on the man’s face made his blood boil. 

The next few moments passed by in a flash. The space between the two men seemed to evaporate and Truman was on the doctor before he had a chance to realise or mount any defence.  The single strike of Truman’s fist caught Stamford squarely across the jaw and floored him instantly.  The blow had not knocked him unconscious but left his body motionless on the floor. After a couple of tense moments – in which Truman feared he had killed the man – Stamford started to stir.  Truman wanted to strike him again and rain down his fists not giving him a chance to look up.  He wanted to stomp him into the ground until he was one with the concrete below. 

He brought his fist down across Stamford’s cheek.
This is for me.
 

Another struck the back of his head as the doctor tried in vain to protect himself. 
This is for Lorraine
. 

Truman raised his arm for one final blow. 
This is for Evelyn
–

Wait. 

Who’s Evelyn
? 

And why did Truman have the sudden urge to avenge her, to make this man pay for whatever hurt he had caused her?  Truman now began to believe that he was slowly losing the few marbles he had left.  He looked down at the crumpled, groaning frame of the doctor; the man who had introduced himself as someone who could help less than ten minutes earlier. 
What have I done?
  The blood from the cut that had opened across Stamford’s scalp now coated Truman’s clenched, bruising fist.

He remained looking down at Stamford, both of them struggling to catch their breath.  The doctor was face down on the floor in front of his desk but was starting to force his frame up. Truman took slow backwards steps towards the door.

As he grabbed the handle and pulled the door wide open, a flash of white appeared in front of his eyes and a searing pain travelled through his head.  One blow was enough to knock Truman to the floor. It all happened too fast for Truman to see the man behind the fist that hit him.  All he saw was a mass of black – the man was huge, must have been dressed in a dark robe from neck to toe with a mass of black hair, or maybe a hood, covering his head.  He lay motionless on the floor, temporarily dazed by the fall. The heavy kick that connected with his ribcage brought him rushing back to consciousness, the air escaping his lungs again before he had a chance to draw any back

in.  He heard a crunch, followed by a shock of pain as one of his ribs broke. His head was spinning and he could not focus.  Even his hearing was disorientated and he heard a wall of confused noise and illegible ramblings somewhere behind him. 
That must be Stamford
, who had finally come to struggling with his speech due to the swelling that had already set in under his cheek.  His jaw had also been bruised but it did not seem to tame his ravings.

‘Get him,’ Truman could hear him groan at the massive assailant now in the room, as he struggled with his words. ‘…Couch.’

The man’s strength was unparalleled.  Truman was suddenly floating up from the floor and within seconds was on his back on the sofa.  Lying on the couch Truman started to wonder whether Stamford actually had any other patients.

But Stamford’s client base was not Truman’s main concern.  All he could think about was the pain in his head, the broken rib and the confusion at how he had ended up in there in the first place. He was struggling to breathe, due to both the pain and the pressure that was being applied to his shoulders and throat by the boulder-like mitts that held him down. He could not move.  His eyes finally began to focus once more, as they darted from left to right trying to get his bearings.