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.
Stamford stood at the small, waist-height table underneath the cabinet that he had unlocked earlier; his frame was now sli
ghtly 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-‘
Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) Page 12