Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (15 page)

Stamford stood at the small, waist-height table underneath the cabinet that he had unlocked earlier; his frame was now slightly hunched as he fought to keep his head up.  His head was still spinning from the force of Truman’s attack and the shock was slowing him down.

‘Hold him!’ The doctor barked at his assistant.  Truman felt the man’s hands tighten their grip on him pressing down harder onto his shoulders, making Truman wince and groan as the fingers dug into his collar bone. 

Stamford appeared above Truman again brandishing the syringe. This time, however, there was no stopping it.  No wise crack remark or loaded fist could break Truman out of the vice-grip he was being held in.  Truman’s left arm was forcibly twisted around, baring his forearm to the air.  The sting that followed told Truman the needle had found its home in one of his veins.

The warmth spread through him in seconds, causing his muscles to sag and relent, followed by the slowing of his breathing and heart rate.  The room stopped spinning and every object around him became an incoherent shape, blobs of colour until the darkness started to creep in.

‘Goodbye, Mr Lockwood,’ he heard Stamford say. ‘Goodbye, Mr. Darke,’ the voice was becoming distant.

’Goodbye…’ The voice called him by a different name, one he could not make out, as the darkness and silence took their unshakeable hold.

*****

The body lay motionless on the couch.  Stamford’s own, leaning against the small side table behind him for support.  Breathing deeply, he was finally starting to regroup his thoughts, not once moving his eyes from Truman’s limp body.  The man’s eyes were closed and he looked anything but peaceful.  His right harm hung towards the floor, his mouth open but his body was as taut as it had been when he was feebly trying to fend off Jeremiah Grayson.

Grayson and Stamford had worked closely for the last year. The huge man was considered the Council’s smoking gun; with a seemingly immovable frame that towered close to seven-feet tall and weighed almost three hundred pounds. Some members of the council had voiced their distaste at their newest acquisition, believing he was nothing more than hired muscle.  In this situation though, he proved to be exactly what Stamford had needed.

‘Clear up this mess,’ Stamford addressed Grayson breathlessly.  ‘We need to move out.’

Grayson nodded with a grunt and carefully shifted Truman’s body from the room.  Stamford never ceased to be amazed by the giant’s agility and attention to detail in his work.  Whenever he was called to conceal evidence of the orders he was forced to follow, he ensured that the task was completed swiftly and with no fresh damage to the subject.  In short, he handled Truman like a baby, cradling his legs with one hand whilst supporting his head and shoulders with the other.  The dead weight was not an issue for Grayson, another reason why he was so invaluable to the Council’s cause; feats of inhuman strength were often called upon.

Stamford stopped Grayson as he got to the door to provide him with another order. 

‘In the boot of the car,’ he said and was once again met with a satisfied grunt and nod of the head.  Once the big man had carried his quarrel from the room, Stamford surveyed the office.  It had been a fine creation and the performance had been pulled off without a hitch.  Well, maybe one small one, he thought, as he brought his hand up to gently massage his jaw. A little bruising and stiffness for a few days was nothing when suffered for the right cause.

The doctor quickly swept around the wall behind his desk and removed the frames that held his medical qualifications – images copied from an online search engine, blown up to A4 size and framed. They provided the ultimate prop that had fooled the stupid police officer.  Although Truman had not been just a police officer; Stamford knew that as did the entire Council. How he could not wait to return to Blacktor Hall with his latest prize; The One who had eluded them for so long.

Gloria, the plain, dowdy woman who had posed as the surgery’s receptionist to greet Truman, returned to Stamford’s side as he packed all of the frames back into the cardboard box under his desk.  She had removed her hair from a bun so that it cascaded down to her shoulders, changing her appearance dramatically and took ten years off her.  She was, of course, only twenty-eight years old but had been one of Stamford’s lovers since the day she had turned eighteen.  She had been the most loyal, asked the fewest questions and had never minded aiding her man in what he referred to as ‘housekeeping’ for the council; essentially all of the hard work that the higher powers could not –
would
not – dirty their hands with.  Gloria stood close to him, right hand on her hip, making her left hip curve out from her body.  Stamford looked at her realising he wanted her there and then.  Adrenaline always brought about a power trip in him that could only ever be satisfied and manifested physically with Gloria. 
Not now, not here.  There is too much to do.

The office remained perfectly as they found it.  The annexe they had rented remained still and silent, as it would have been when used as a residency years before.  It once belonged to the family-run undertakers next door, which had been forced to fold the previous summer.

‘What now?’ Gloria asked sweetly gazing into Stamford’s cold eyes with her own.

‘We make it look like we were never here.’

Her lips quivered as he spoke to her and held her stare.  She reached in as his face moved closer and caught her lips in a deep embrace.  Heavy footsteps stopped at the door signalling that Grayson had performed his last task promptly.

The trio left the office and hurried through what had been the reception area.  Gloria climbed into the back of the waiting black Mercedes while Grayson held the door for her.

Stamford was the last to leave, closing the door behind him but not bothering to lock it. They hadn’t bothered acquiring the keys to the building; they had never needed to.  He paused briefly as he started down the short, grass-lined path towards the car, and then turned to walk back towards the door.  He removed a small multi-tool device from his pocket, selected a small crosshead screwdriver and used it to remove the four screws from the plaque hanging below the doorbell. 
No evidence, no trace
– that’s the only rule they had set him.  He had always prided himself in his immaculate work ethic.

Leave no trace, they had said.  In whatever way he wanted to take care of Truman Darke, had been left that up to him to decide.

Chapter Nineteen

The darkness eventually gave way to a searing light.  At first it appeared as a small speck in the distance that grew as it loomed nearer.  It soon gathered the pace of a runaway train, until the entirety of Truman’s peripheral vision was encased in a sheet of white.  His eyes squinted against the glare, waiting for the moment to pass until he was once again able to open them.  The moment never came but his eyes opened anyway and seemed to adjust to the sudden change in surroundings.

Truman stood in the centre of a huge room coated in the clearest of white.  The walls stretched so far beyond a point that he was unable to comprehend where they met and formed corners. A white universe surrounded him; a place with no true end and of no obvious beginning; no limits yet no horizon. Soon enough, he could make out a shade of gold, growing in size as it drew near.  It appeared to float of its own accord until it was close enough that Truman could make out two sparkling blue spheres –
eyes
under the wave of gold –
hair
and a pale but warm shade of tan pink.  A face; one that Truman felt he knew.  It was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen wearing a gown of pure white.  Her slender hands were the only sign of a worldly body beneath the garment.  She floated effortlessly towards him.

Since waking in this room, Truman was aware that despite being totally naked (which in itself was a cause for concern for he never possessed the confidence for such a state) he was warm.  There existed no breeze and no apparent source of heat, but he was content.  Nor did he feel any pain, despite the constant aches that had possessed him for the last two weeks, not to mention the fresh wounds and broken rib from the beating he had sustained before the darkness arrived.  In fact, old scars, one on his cheek from an over-zealous knife-wielder and an appendectomy just below his stomach, had disappeared.  His skin was smooth and unblemished, his face cleanly-shaven, his head clear and his eyes and mind open wide.

Something had happened to him after the incident in Dr. Stamford’s office and he was beyond trying to make sense of it.

The figure came within a few feet of him and he felt something new for the first time since arriving here.  He could feel his heart pounding hard, as if it wanted to break through the casing of his ribs and jump into the arms of this woman.

He knew her.  There was no mistaking that.  The emotions that were coursing through his body were ones he had felt before but had failed to convey when he had the chance.  He wanted to weep at the sight of this woman.  In life – which he was beginning to believe
this
was not – he had masked these feelings, had wandered or stumbled through the years behind a barrier.  But who was he protecting?  Himself?  How could denying love be good for any man?

The woman stopped walking, floating with only a foot between her and Truman.  The smile gaped on his face and tears welled up in his eyes.  They failed to drop from their ducts. It seemed that no emotion, fears or pains could materialise.  In that room, at least.

He wanted to reach out and take her in his arms. 
Just one last time.

‘Hello Truman,’ the velvety voice spoke.

‘Lorraine…’ It was all Truman could muster before he fell to his knees.

Truman’s worst fear was confirmed with the sight of Lorraine.  He knew now that he was no longer alive.  How could he be?  How could the image of Lorraine be so real this time? He could reach out and touch her, feel her touch
him
, be able to smell her hair and feel her breath. Was this a dream?  Yes, she had visited him before in his state of slumber back in his flea-bitten, rented bedsit but he always knew that it was his mind that had conjured her. Standing in front of him, he knew now that she was as real as she could be.

‘Lorraine, I...’ his voice trailed off for a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts.  ‘I’m so sorry, I should…I didn’t…I should have been there, I should have stopped him, or stopped you from-‘

‘No, Truman,’ she said softly, cutting him short as his voice started to break. She could see he was trembling.  She crouched down elegantly and put her hand on his.  It was warm as he knew it would be.  ‘I was not yours to save.’

‘You were,’ he said on the verge of tears that would not come.  The words felt as if they were choking him.

She smiled and gently shook her head. It was her way of telling him he was wrong but that it was okay.  Still holding his hand she drew him back up to his feet.

‘I was hurt when you said that you couldn’t help me, yes, but not for long.  I knew you, Truman.  You were only doing what was best for me and deep down what was best for you too.’

He shook his head harshly, his way of telling her now that she was wrong.  But her smile somehow made it all seem ok, as if it was all meant to have happened this way.

‘But your purpose was not to save me. You have a much higher purpose than that, and I know that now.  I have seen it.’

‘Seen what?’ He was bemused

‘Your future,’ she informed him, ‘Your purpose. Your destiny.’

‘This is insane.’  Truman could not –
would
not – believe that he of all people had any kind of higher purpose.  His life had been largely lived within a sea of discontentment and misjudgements.  He was not the material for any kind of divinity.

‘Is it?  Does any of this make sense right now?’

She motioned her hands across the expanse of white light around them. He shook his head again.  His mind felt serene as well as being on the verge of breaking down.  So much so that he felt as if he was going – or had already gone – completely mad.  This place was beyond comprehension for any sane mind.  He started to believe that he was beyond saving.

‘There are things you need to see,’ she continued, ‘to prepare you.’

‘For what exactly?’

‘For what you must do and the people you must face.  You need to be prepared.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ he protested.  ‘For all I know I am laying in another drunken stupor born out of another night’s self-pity,’

He immediately regretted spoiling what should have been the perfect reunion with the only woman he had ever loved.

‘Then let me show you,’ she stepped forward and wrapping her arms around his neck, pressed her body tightly against his.  He closed his eyes, soaking in every second of the embrace, wanting this moment to last forever.

The light rushed away and the darkness returned.  This time the dark brought with it new colour and a place he had once known.