Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1)

by Tetreault-Blay, Chris

  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.

  Someone had just read his mind.

  *****

  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 ha
d 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.

  ‘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.