Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

Thomas Laing slowed his feet and his breathing to a more sensible pace and made the most of the walk from HQ to his car to clear his head.  It had been a day that he would rather, but was unlikely to, forget.  The unwanted voyeur from his lunch break played on his mind all day.  The trail that he had seen dripping from the tool he saw hanging from the man’s hand had disappeared by the time Laing made it out of his car.  The man was nowhere to be seen.  Could it be that he had not fully awoken from his slumber and his mind was simply playing tricks on him?

As he made it to his car and unlocked the driver’s door – no central locking on that bad boy – he was instantly stopped by a strange sensation.  He raised his hand and gently rubbed his temple to relieve the sudden tension there.  Might be the start of a migraine, he thought. He suffered them infrequently but severely and wouldn’t normally drive but knew walking would be just as uncomfortable. 
Best stop off into the nearest supermarket pharmacy on the way home and have an early night
, he decided.

Despite the stop off, he was home within half an hour.  The entrance to Wisbourne Avenue always pleased him.  Its gentle sweeping turns made a change from the one-direction and ninety-degree-turn main road which led from the centre of the village.  The developers, in their vision to create the warm welcoming retreat for its residents, had planted willow trees on each bend.  They seemed to enhance to majesty of these winter months.

Laing proudly parked the Astra on his driveway as he did every night.  It may not be long before he would have to give up the ghost of his father’s trusted automobile.  Throughout the whole journey home, the car had filled with a smell of burning.  He couldn’t decide what it was.  Could be anything from the fan belt to the tyres or even just dust that had settled in the air circulation unit.

His headache had not eased and at 6:20pm the darkening sky and oncoming headlights had not helped.  The usual post-dinner whiskey was probably not on the cards tonight.

Laing was soon inside the warmth of his hallway but tonight he could not bear to turn the lights on.  The street lamp outside shone just enough illumination in through the frosted windows of the front door so that he could make his way to the kitchen.  He poured himself a glass of water, located the box of painkillers from his pocket and knocked two back before retreating to the lounge through the open archway leading from the kitchen.

Instead of his usual routine of switching on the standard lamp he by-passed his recliner and walked towards the drinks cabinet on the opposite side of the room. He had already justified one night cap before he had closed the front door.

‘The Devil’s drink,’ a voice muttered in the darkness.  Laing span round still not able to make out much in the dark.  ‘Make it two,’ the voice continued, ‘we have much to talk about.’

*****

Laing stared into the shadows in disbelief.  He was sure he had not left his house without locking up this morning.  Of course he hadn’t.  He had unlocked the door himself only two minutes earlier. He was a cautious man.  
No, this man must have crept in behind me when I walked in then
. But he had closed the door after only a few seconds of being in the house. No grown man could move that lightly that Laing would not have heard him. He would definitely have heard something.

He strained to look towards his leather recliner chair trying to make out any shape at all but the harder he strained his eyes the darker the room became.  He quickly blinked two or three times to release the tension but the figure still did not materialise.

Suddenly he heard the creak of the leather upholstery as it shifted below its body.  Laing was too confused to even reach over to his left and turn on the small table lamp on top of the drinks cabinet.  Although he could not make out the man who had invaded his home, he knew he had heard that voice before.

‘I told you never to come after me again,’ he mustered with shortening breath, attempting to maintain a sense of calmness.

‘That is beyond my control,’ the voice replied, its voice low, rasping, each word sounding like a struggle but deliberate in its delivery, ‘I have told you before.’

‘You promised me that I was finished with this shit.’ 

With a trembling hand Laing removed the stopper from the crystal decanter and poured a measure of whiskey into his tumbler.  He did not bother to measure since it would not be his last.

‘Your destiny was written for you long ago, you cannot change that.  Not even I have the power to prevent it.  We are so close.’

‘Who is this
we?
  I’m not party to any of this. I didn’t ask for it and I owe you nothing,’ His voice rising but audibly shaking.

‘The
we
is not important now.  What is important are the things that you can achieve here if you only open up and stop resisting what is coming,’ the man said rising from his chair.  Laing could feel him walk towards where he stood and could finally make out the shape of the intruder who was not a stranger.  He stood shorter than Laing at only five-foot-six, and his build did not appear to possess any strength.  Physical ability aside, a sense of awe overcame Laing; the feeling of being in the presence of some higher power.  His arguments and resistance to this man would not get him far; he knew that but could not accept it.

This man - and those who follow him - had invaded his life before.  Years ago, when Laing was a child, they were apparitions that haunted his dreams but they had now become figures who stalked his days. 

‘How did you find me?’ He asked, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

‘We have our means,’ the answer was stern.  ‘Why can’t you just accept it? You and He are now one.  He led us to you and his strength will continue to grow.  But you need to do your bit too now.  We have set the wheels in motion and those who need to be…
helped
… out of our way, must be taken care of.’

‘You mean Truman?’ Laing asked. For the first time since leaving the station his mind was cast back to his employer.  Laing had witnessed a sad occurrence that every ambitious young man dreads seeing; when a mentor - a hero - is reduced to the barest of emotions; rage and despair.  He had never seen a man broken so easily as when he witnessed Truman being informed of the bodies found behind Wildermoor Brook.  Truman knew, as did the rest of the department, the minute that Commissioner Roberts came to the office involuntarily to discuss “recent developments,” that it could only be bad news.

Truman’s reaction had been just what the Commissioner had expected and feared would be from his commanding officer. He had come to the meeting prepared.  Truman was not only kept off the ensuing murder investigation due to his acquaintance with one of the victims, Lorraine Thacker, but he was suspended from his position for its duration, cited as “unfit to carry out his duties.”  Truman could not meet the stares of any of his colleagues, many of them his students, as he was escorted from the station.

‘Haven’t we done enough to him already?  He’s no longer a problem.’

‘Truman Darke is not who he seems,’ the voice stated.  ‘It is time to ensure that he does not become more than a simple hindrance.’  Laing felt the man’s cold hand reach towards his and hand him an unsealed envelope.

‘You will attend a meeting with Commisioner Roberts tomorrow at 8am.  You will call him in two hours’ time, saying that you have in your possession evidence to show that Truman is going after Dexler himself. This is the letter, the proof.  You will urge him to send officers to check it out.  The night patrol will be dispatched in force to Dexler’s house. They will find Dexler dead and Truman on the scene, at which time he will be arrested and taken into custody.’  Laing wanted to cover his ears like a child singing to himself as he did so, as he listened to the sickening plans – the orders – he was being given.

‘Tomorrow morning, you will give him the letter.  Truman will stand trial for the murder of Colin Dexler, with no motive, except that of blind rage, hate and the influence of alcohol. Truman will be locked up.  He will longer be of our concern.’ The man leaned in closer towards Laing and put a bony hand on his shoulder.  ‘You know what this will mean for us.’

The figure brushed past Laing and lingered in the doorway leading back out into the entrance hall. When it turned back towards him, Laing could only trace the outline of the shadowy shape as it drew its shoulders back and tilted its head higher. 

‘You are destined for great things,
Thomas
,’ said the man, emphasising the name as if it were only an alleged moniker.

Laing glanced down at the envelope that he held in his hand and glanced back up at the shadowy figure.  He could make out more of the contours of its bony face, skin drawn and hanging limp.  The years had not been kind to this soul, Laing observed.  The one disturbing feature was the absence of his eyes. Instead there were two pits that seemed to grow darker than any of the corners of his unlit living room.  They were sucking all life and light into themselves to be lost forever.

‘Yes, Father,’ he said, his head bowed, the shame of what he was to do bearing down on his shoulders.  He knew how Atlas felt carrying the world on his back.  The hopes and future of this new society, this new religion,
this new world – this
Hell
- that Father Archibald was planning, that he had told Laing he had been planning for centuries, rested on him.

He looked down at the envelope one more time before looking back towards the doorway to find the figure had gone.  Laing could make out the ascending staircase on the far wall through the open door.  The figure had vanished without a trace like it had all those years ago. 

Laing hurriedly switched on the lamp to his left on top of the drinks cabinet then looked back at the hallway to make sure that he was once again alone.

The envelope was addressed to him and he recognised the scripture in which it had been written.  He took the sheet of paper from within and held it beneath the light beside him.

Thomas,

Things have turned against me and I fear that they will turn this force into a circus.  I need to know whom I can trust.

Meet me at 33 Exeter Street tonight at 9pm. 

I need justice.  And I need your help.

Regards,

DI Truman Darke.

Simple
, Laing thought as he stared once more at the letter.  That’s how it was meant to be.  So why now did he feel a cold stabbing in the pit of his stomach? Wildermoor was supposed to be his new start but now his past and future were playing out side-by-side in his mind.

He poured himself another double measure and swallowed it in one, grimacing as the warmth coursed down his throat, welcoming the distraction for even the briefest of moments and hoping the fuzziness would set in soon.

He finally collapsed into the waiting leather recliner, whose arms welcomed him and enveloped him in a warm embrace.  He felt safe at last.  His headache was returning, his vision starting to blur and colourful spots danced before his eyes.  He squinted towards the red glowing digits of the clock display on his VCR. 

There were two hours before he had to make the call.  He poured himself another drink.

*****

Laing’s hands would not stop shaking and he fumbled with the telephone handset as he rested it back on the receiver.  His stomach was turning like never before; he felt physically sick.  He put it down to too much whiskey. 
I have done the right thing.  This is my destiny, after all…
  He needed had to suck it up and be a man.  His twenty-two years would not have been wasted.  He would be a god in ten more.  That was the plan. 
Nobody else has a life plan like that
, he thought as he slowly stood, raising his head.  Suddenly he felt an overwhelming power running through his body, like his blood carried some kind of opiate that made him invincible.

He looked at the curtains adorning the front bay window and watched the shadows as they danced.  Something was moving outside. There was too much movement for it to be a cat or a dog and nominated walker that night. 
Nothing ever happens here anymore but you are going to change all of that.

A fresh rush of adrenaline coursed through him awakening his mind. 
Finally after all these years..
.  He knew – he could feel it in his bones – that the plan was already underway, that the droves of officers were descending on 33 Exeter Street, Truman Darke trapped inside waiting to meet his fate. He may even be face down on the bloodstained carpet by now, being shackled and dragged away.

The shadows continued to rush past the window, no apparent coherence to the dance they performed for him.  He needed to take a closer look.

Laing walked over to the window and threw back the heavy blackout fabric, his eyes struggling to absorb the scene before him.

Shadows were moving, slithering across the ground from all corners, alleyways, drain covers throughout the estate in front of him.  The rest of the world seemed silent, asleep and oblivious to it all.  Laing stared and marvelled at it.  He watched the dark shapes rise from the ground forming thin slivers of ash standing at various heights.  The shadows then shifted, morphed and grew in all directions, spawning other parts that resembled gnarly limbs, heavy hands, menacingly long fingers before standing proud with their bulbous, dark heads held high.