Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) Read online

  For now, Laing had to make do with a driver’s seat as comfortable as a mattress stuffed with bricks, and having to sit for half of his lunch break with the door open to let the stubborn and rank air escape the car, allowing any passers-by of Exeter Street a glimpse into his lunchbox. Every day this consisted of the same contents: a flat peanut butter sandwich, a somehow-melted chocolate biscuit and a packet of DIY Ready Salted crisps (the ones that came with salt in a blue wrapper and required you to shake salt onto the crisps yourself, then to realise that the salt was laying at the bottom of the bag having only tickled a few of the crushed crisp particles.)

  Today held no promise of being any different than the other ten that Laing had spent with the Wildermoor Criminal Investigation Department so far. In essence, he was a tarted-up tea boy and data-inputter. Sure, Chief Detective Inspector Darke was a great mentor, but he had a reputation of putting all of the new pups through every menial task imaginable before they were let loose and able to shadow one of the other more experienced officers on the day job. Laing knew that was where the real action was.

  For days so far he had sat and listened in awe at them all coming back into the stuffy office on Percy Street, regaling tales of their travels. They were far from beat-bobbies; this was CID and they were the big boys called in to provide the muscle and the brains after the blues had laid the groundwork. It promised to live up to all of Laing’s expectations, but he knew that patience was a virtue he must embrace if he was to succeed and join the elite. For now he just needed to remember who took milk and two sugars.

  Laing unpeeled his sandwich from its film wrapping and gobbled it down. Breakfast was also not a luxury he afforded himself since his love of sleep and 6-am starts did not see eye-to-eye. Lunch would serve as his first and most hearty of meals. Once his hunger was satisfied Laing sat back in his driver’s seat, his knees just brushing the sides of the steering wheel in an attempt to get comfortable. He glanced at his watch. It was 12:07pm. His lunch had successfully lasted four minutes. Now he had forty-nine minutes to himself to satisfy his need for sleep.

  The rising mid-day warmth meant that Laing’s eyes already sat heavy and catching forty winks would not be a problem. He pulled his door shut and manually locked it from within. As ropey and rusty as it was, he cherished this car. It had been his father’s and held many fond memories. He couldn’t stand to see his Dad sell it for a mere few hundred quid, so had given him the last of his savings the previous summer and bought it from him

  Laing let his head fall back against the headrest and sleep soon came. He dozed on every lunch break believing it prepared him for the final push at the end of the day and would prepare him for the moment that DI Darke decided to throw him in at the deep end, which would only happen if an officer was unwittingly taken out of action and Laing found himself at the front-end of a drugs raid or bank-hostage situation.

  Visions of grandeur danced before his eyes and within seconds he was asleep.

  Chapter Six

  Colin sat on the edge of his bed staring at the chunky gold-trimmed clock on his wall. The time was 11:10am and he still sat shrouded in darkness. He could not bring himself to open the curtains and welcome in another day, knowing what the day would likely bring him. Since his visits to Dr. Thacker had been increased to twice-weekly he had seen The Reaper every day without fail, sometimes even several times an hour.

  *****

  The first time the huge shadowy figure had visited him was when he was just seven years old. By then he had volunteered himself as a prisoner in his bedroom away from his parents. This was because he had born witness to some form of abuse from his father to his mother, ranging from verbal berating to holding a kitchen knife to her throat. On other occasions, he had suffered his father’s wrath himself, as the welts and bruises across his back and legs proved. Careful not incriminate himself, his father had never struck him in the face.

  The only way Colin had seen to avoid this was to stay away from his parents altogether and only report to the lower floor of the house to pick up his meals or to leave through the back yard on his way to school. In the end, he didn’t leave the house for weeks and his schooling was terminated at the age of nine.

  One night he had been woken up by the sounds of screaming and slamming that he had become used to. He had wondered in what position his father had his mother pinned this time. He had seen it all and nothing surprised him anymore. Emotion had become a distant memory for Colin as he had trained himself to be soulless. Emotion led to caring and when you care about someone or something it could hurt. Ignorance and avoidance had been the only answer. On the night in question, the screaming had not seemed as if it would cease so Colin had pulled his head to his chest and clamped his eyes shut as hard as he could.

  That had been when the smell came. And then the searing heat. It had all happened at once and so seamlessly that he had failed to acknowledge it as real. The room had filled with an odour that stuck in the back of his throat tickling his tonsils, making him want to gag. The smell of burning flesh had met with suffocating warmth that had appeared to be radiating around Colin’s bed.

  Colin had fought to close his eyes and make the smell and heat disappear but it had only grown stronger until he felt as though he was choking, gagging, unable to breathe. Colin had thrown back the covers but could see no flames or burning bodies. His room was as it always had been.

  But as he had shifted his body over to lie on his left side, his comfortable side, he had seen Him. Or It. The figure had towered almost to the ceiling and stood what seemed at the time to be ten feet wide. It had arms; it vaguely resembled human. But it was shrouded in black from head-to-toe, a heavy hood pulled up over its head and a void so dark at the front that he could not make out a face. The putrid smell of burning flesh had returned slowly until it overcame Colin to the point he had lurched to the opposite side of his bed, thrown his head down and promptly brought up what little he had eaten.

  As he had turned back trembling, towards the figure - his throat now burning - two shrivelled, red shapes had appeared at the ends of the arms of the cloak. Hands. The skin had appeared red raw, blistered and cracked with heat. They had been bleeding but the figure had moved the fingers as freely as Colin could his own, clenching and unclenching his fists in a display of perfect dexterity.

  The moment It had lifted its head enough for Colin to make out two red orbs within the void of its hood, he had once again felt as though he was surrounded by flames. The figure had not moved but hung in the corner of the room. Colin’s internal flight response had kicked in, moving his legs underneath him whilst his mind was still locked as one with the shadowy figure. When he had finally come to, he had been surrounded by total darkness once more. A wall of fabric had surrounded him, swaying as he turned his body left and right. There hung coats and shirts. One garment had seemed to hang the height of the room; his towelling dressing gown that his mother had forced upon him two Christmases ago. He was inside his wardrobe.

  When Colin had finally summoned the courage and the involuntary trembling of his hands had slowed enough to push open the wardrobe door, his room was empty. He turned full circle to ensure he took in every corner of the room until he had been satisfied that the shadow was no longer there. He then sank down onto the floor and crossed his legs, gently rocking back and forth, regulating his breathing once more. Then the tears came, turning quickly into sobs. No-one had come to check he was okay. That had been the last time the Colin Dexler cried.

  *****

  Colin glanced once more at the clock on the wall, mocking him with its sarcastic ticks, drawing out each second as his next appointment with Dr. Thacker drew nearer. His hands began to tremble involuntarily, but he fought each with the other trying to hold them down and bury his palms in his lap. It was no use. The spasms were now spreading up his arms to his shoulders. His breath became shallow and coloured spots started to dance before his eyes.

  Then he felt the room grow warmer. As his breathing
lightened even more he could feel the first of the beads of sweat coat his neck. Then that smell. Overcooked meat slowly becoming stronger, the crackling sound of fat burning built in the distance.

  His body bolted upright and ran for his bedroom door. Once Colin was through and into the darkness and cool of the small landing he slammed the door behind him. He rushed down the steep staircase that brought him to the long entrance hallway. He paused by the small telephone table halfway down and the handset started to chirrup as it rang. He cautiously lifted the phone but said nothing. After a pause, a tinny voice on the other end of the line greeted him,

  ‘Mr Dexler? Hello?’ Colin tried to speak but his throat was as dry as the desert and he could only muster a whisper.

  ‘Hello?’ The voice searched for Colin once more.

  Colin tried again to force a sound but all he could muster was a dry wheezing.

  ‘Is anyone there? Are you okay?’ the voice asked, sounding mildly concerned but also irritated. The voice on the other end wheezed also and rasped as it spoke.

  ‘We know you’re there, Colin. You can’t hide from me. I’m everywhere.’

  Colin’s breathing once more slowed and almost halted. His hands once more started to tremble from the sound of the voice he had come to fear for many years. As he started to whimper helplessly into the mouthpiece, he summoned the courage and strength to address the caller.

  ‘Just leave me alone! What do you want from me? Just go away!’ He slammed the receiver down and sobbing uncontrollably, ran for the front door. He could not display any weakness.

  Once outside, he hung a right and ran to the narrow alleyway separating his house from his only neighbour. At the end of the passage, a rotten wooden door hung on its hinges that almost dropped to the ground every time Colin attempted to open it. He caught it this time expectantly and roughly threw it against the wall of the neighbouring property as it softly flopped to the damp ground with no more than a wet thump.

  Dexler reached inside under a tower of brittle and broken plastic boxes and pulled out a small rusted toolbox. He clambered with the folding lid, which screeched as it opened, stiff and rusted from years of being left out in the winter cold and summer rains. Colin knew exactly where to find it.

  He pulled out a twelve-inch long wrench, the only item that held a happy memory for him. He looked at the tool and fondled it before stashing it down through his right trouser leg and tightened his worn leather belt to hold it in place. He didn’t bother to replace the toolbox or reposition the shed door to its rightful place. Colin turned and briskly walked back up the passageway and down the length of Exeter Street, not lifting his head to acknowledge any passers-by. Ten minutes was all it would take him to reach Wildermoor Psychiatric Institute.

  Chapter Seven

  The sound of the coffee machine often pleased Dr. Lorraine Thacker, but not today.

  Her 11:00am appointment had not shown up. This would not have bothered her so much if it had not have been Colin Dexler who already took up time on most of her surgery days but had never missed or even been late to a session in the last six months. Of all of her patients, Dexler concerned her the most.

  Lorraine placed her still-too-hot coffee mug on her desk and sat back down, immersing herself once more in Dexler’s case file. Dexler’s social history told of an abusive childhood and a broken home. He sought solace within himself, had no friends or known family. She felt that she had begun to make real progress with him up until a few weeks ago. Colin had almost cracked a smile and showed signs of relaxation. Then that all changed and it was as if the clock had turned back months. He would hardly engage in their sessions and spent most of his time looking at the floor. He feared meeting people’s eyes.

  A light tap at the door roused Lorraine from her notes. A head appeared from around the door as it opened and April, the surgery’s receptionist, greeted her with a quick smile, which promptly fell back down from her face.

  Lorraine spoke first.

  ‘Any joy?’ April shook her head regrettably.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, Doc. We tried calling several times. Eventually he answered but it was quite concerning…’ Her voice trailed off, the last word hanging in the air between them.

  ‘Concerning?’ Lorraine asked showing concern of her own. ‘How do you mean? Did he speak?’

  ‘Yes and no. All I could make out was that he wanted to be left alone, but he sounded panicked.’

  He wasn’t the only one.

  ‘I’d better visit and see that he’s okay-‘ Lorraine said as she got up from her desk, grabbed her bag and headed towards the door.

  April stepped from behind the door and motioned Lorraine to slow down.

  ‘Don’t rush out. I’m sure he is fine. He may even be on his way. He didn’t say that he wasn’t coming in today.’

  ‘Yes, but you also said you couldn’t understand anything he did say,’ Dr Thacker fired back. ‘How do you know that he is okay?’

  ‘I’m just hoping I suppose. For his sake. Listen, you can’t rush out anyway as you still have your twelve o’clock. Duty of care, remember?’ April reminded her, ‘Other people are depending on you too today.’

  Lorraine nodded and reluctantly hung her handbag onto the back of her recliner chair and popped herself back behind her desk. April said she would return with more coffee from the machine and gently closed the door. Now alone once more with her thoughts she started to imagine a host of horrid things that could be happening to, or at the hands of, Colin Dexler. The man clearly wasn’t well and she was not doing her best to rehabilitate him. But for now she remained a prisoner behind her desk.

  Deciding she needed to act, unable to settle properly until she knew Colin was not lying dead on his kitchen floor, she picked up the phone on her desk and spun the dial around to the one number she knew she could count on.

  ‘Wildermoor Police. Reception, Switchboard or Emergency?’ the voice asked.

  ‘Chief Detective Inspector Darke please.’

  ‘Certainly. Good morning, Lorraine,’ the voice greeted cheerily. ‘I will pass you through.’

  At the initial sound of his gruff, harsh, yet warming voice Lorraine instantly felt better, as she always did when talking to Truman Darke. They had a past, and had been lovers until six months earlier. Her old feelings had never truly died.

  She hoped that perhaps he felt it too. Truman had been the only man who had made her feel secure even since their affair had ended. As a result, this was the first time she had felt comfortable being alone.

  Once the usual niceties were out of the way, Lorraine heard his tone change when she revealed the real reason she had called him. Truman made no attempt to stifle his frustration at her request.

  ‘Truman, I know you don’t like the guy.’

  ‘Not like him?’ Truman roared startling Lorraine. ‘That’s putting it a little lightly. The man has single-handedly stunted my career and is a monster to boot.’

  ‘I know how you feel, Truman and I hate asking you but I really am worried. He has not missed a session in six months. I believe I might be on the verge of a breakthrough with him but there is also a chance he is on the brink of destroying himself.’

  Truman resisted the urge to add good riddance to her last remark knowing it would neither help his cause nor change her mind. In his eyes, Lorraine had developed an unhealthy interest in the Dexler case. He hated that she had been offered the assignment in the first place, let alone that she willingly accepted. He had tried to open her eyes to the danger surrounding this but she would not quit.

  ‘You know I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t need your help,’ she continued, assuming his brief silence was softening the armour he wore when it came to Dexler.

  Truman had been on the brink of being made Commissioner when he was handed the homicide investigation concerning one Colin Dexler. This was a sure-fire hit, he was told. All he had to do was prove that the man had murdered three people in the most brutal manner, and the promotion - not
to mention the entire Wildermoor Police Department - would be his.

  The crime scene itself would have made the most hardened horror film fanatic and those who write of societies’ sinister side question how far their imagination could carry them. Truman had not slept for days, even weeks, after visiting the scene. The smell from the blood-soaked carpet, walls, sofas, stairs and bedsheets, remained with him, especially when he closed his eyes at night.

  The filthy house had been searched thoroughly from top to bottom, the floors taken up, the garden dug up and no sign of the bodies had been found. But the smell of cooked, boiled and burnt flesh lingered in the walls of that house. Everything pointed to Dexler having committed the most atrocious act of torture and murder. They had found him locked in a first-floor bedroom with a bloodied meat cleaver – an obvious murder tool - lying in the far corner away from him. The suspicion was that he had cooked and eaten the bodies, disposing of the bones who-knew-where.

  As far as the powers-that-be were concerned, Truman had no case. It had been thrown out by the judge due to a lack of evidence. Despite Truman’s request for an extension to the case, so that he could delve deeper and put Dexler through intense psychological and psychiatric assessment, the judge had denied him.

  Instead they released Dexler from the safety of his cell and back into the wild, with a flimsy programme of cognitive assessment the only form of justice. Taking nothing away from Lorraine Thacker’s ability, Truman saw this as child-minding a man he believed was a proven killer. The decision to explore the man’s mind was merely the result of his incessant ravings that a phantom was controlling him.

  ‘What do you want me to do? Ask if he needs help with his shopping?’ Truman sniped.

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand this or sympathise in any way but I thought you might recognise the importance of this for me if nothing else.’ Letting this remark linger in the air for a few moments, she then added, ‘You can’t let the past tie you down or cloud your judgment forever, Truman. You are still responsible for the welfare of this community.’