Sentinel (9 page)

He hurtled backwards, right through the open bedroom door, hitting the wall in the landing.

“Dear me, Walden. So you’re taking the hard road.”

The words spiked in Richard’s ears as he lay crumpled on the floor. His head throbbed dully and he gasped for breath, winded. He tried to move, but the pain was too great. A hand gripped his throat as the doctor fell upon him.

“Always the heroes,” Dr Snelling hissed, pushing his face so close to Richard’s that he could see the beads of sweat clinging to his cranium. “You never learn.”

“Wh–what d’you want?” Richard managed to slur.

The doctor squeezed Richard’s throat. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about the Sentinels,” he whispered, his spittle spraying Richard’s cheek.

“I–I don’t know what... you’re talking about,” Richard panted, gagging as the doctor’s fingers bit into his throat.

Dr Snelling reached down and ripped the sleeve of Richard’s shirt with the metal gauntlet. A tattooed raven was on his forearm.

“There,” the stocky man sighed, licking his lips. “The time for playing the fool is over, Walden.”

“I’ve… had that for years,” Richard gurgled. “Reminds me of... that poem. The famous one.”

Without a word, Dr Snelling placed the gauntlet against Richard’s forehead.

“No more jokes,” he snarled. “Let’s see how you laugh when I’m through with you.”

Sparks exploded around the metal device once more. White hot energy seared Richard’s mind. He screamed.

“Lucy!” he howled. “Lucy, get out of here!”

“She can’t hear you, fool,” Dr Snelling spat. “She’s downstairs right now still stirring my tea. Do you think I’d let her hear you?”

The sparks sputtered and died.

“We are everywhere, and we are many,” Dr Snelling growled. “Your confidence in all that is good and true is your ultimate downfall. You would be the wiser man by giving in.”

“It doesn’t matter... what you do to me... or my family, in the end... we will always win,” Richard wheezed.

“It pleases me to hear you so ready to die,” the doctor taunted. “I will delight in aiding you in that quest. Now talk!”

The sparks fizzed and Richard’s eyes rolled back in his head. Through the blazing light, he felt something cold stirring, pressing against his skull. Where the doctor’s hand pushed against his head, a wriggling invader scraped hungrily against his scalp.

Richard screamed again, battling against it, desperate to move his arms, his legs, anything that might push the doctor away. But he was paralysed. The coldness crept over him and he could no longer feel his body. Apart from his head, where the squirming, wriggling thing cracked through his skull and burrowed into his brain, invading his thoughts.

“That’s it,” the doctor hissed, drool escaping the corner of his mouth. A ravenous grin separated his lips. “Let me in, it’ll all be over soon.”

Richard fought, but there was no contest. The worm-like thing gnawed its way through the contents of his skull, ripping aside chunks of his mind. It was so strong, and the darkness that gushed over him felt suddenly inviting.

“There.” Dr Snelling gave a satisfied sniff, though Richard was beyond the understanding of words. His eyes flickered, his face gaunt.

Through a haze of stars, images surfaced and the worm in his brain had stopped burrowing. The images shimmered with such speed that Richard’s failing mind barely had a second to consider them, though they were startlingly familiar: a raven screeched before leaping from a branch; a cloaked, masked figure advanced toward him; his father handed him a velvet box, from which he drew a silver pendant; Lucy stood before him in a white veil; a dim room brimmed with people, adorned in silver, deep in conversation; an old-fashioned bus was parked at a kerb; a teenage boy with curly hair; and finally, lingering with significance, a rambling manor house loomed over a small village in the countryside.

Everything went black.

*

Dr Snelling fell away from his slumped victim, gasping.

“So that’s where she’s been hiding,” he whispered. He gave an unpleasant sniggering laugh and slipped the gauntlet from his hand, casting Richard a cursory glance.

The man’s eyes had been burned bone white, his face a sickening shade of grey. He showed no signs of life save the slight rise and fall of his chest.

“I promised you death,” Dr Snelling told the fallen man, “but I rather feel this is a greater reward for your services to the Dark Prophets.” He pottered into Patrick Walden’s bedroom, whistling a jaunty tune as he packed the metal contraption into his bag. With the case in hand, he stepped over Richard’s body.

“Take care, old chap,” the doctor said. He descended the staircase, reaching the front door. But as he moved for the door handle–

“Dr Snelling!”

He stopped, hearing Lucy’s voice behind him. A sinister smile split his lips as he saw her hurrying down the hallway.

“Dr Snelling,” she said again, “you’re leaving already? Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?”

“Oh, I’m all done, my dear,” the doctor said cheerily, giving her the toothiest of grins.

“That was quick.” Lucy cast a fleeting glance up the staircase.

“Oh yes,” Dr Snelling said. “Everything is quite in order, I’m very pleased.”

“Is Richard still up there with Patrick?” Lucy asked.

“He is,” the doctor nodded. “Why don’t you take him the cup of tea you were making for me? I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. I really must be off now, there are many other patients to attend to.”

“Of course.”

Lucy hurried to open the door for him.

“All the best,” he said, winking at her from the doorstep.

“Goodbye doctor.”

The tubby man lingered on the doorstep for a few minutes, his forehead scrunched up expectantly. Then came what he had been waiting for – a scream from the Walden’s landing.

Beaming, the doctor turned and hopped down the garden path, whistling as he plodded down the street and was lost from sight.

*

All was dark. Nicholas lay on his back in bed watching the shadows playing across the ceiling. Twenty minutes ago he’d heard the floorboards in the landing creak as Tabatha made her way to bed, followed closely by the click of the bedroom door shutting. It had taken all of his willpower to remain in bed for this long – he knew that if Tabatha caught him wandering about the house at night there would be no end to her questioning.

His mind was whirling. He’d always felt so close to his parents, and he’d always felt – quite lovingly – that they were rather boring individuals. His father worked for a small publishing company (quite what he did there Nicholas wasn’t sure), while his mother had supervised a local nursery. They had played their part in the world, and he had loved them despite their plainness. Yet now he had uncovered a secret chapter in their lives that he knew nothing about, and that for his entire life had been concealed behind a secret door.

Deciding it was safe now, Nicholas pushed back his duvet and went to his door.

Down the stairs he could see the spare room that Tabatha was currently occupying. It was quiet. The coast was as clear as it was ever going to be.

He hurried down the stairs on tiptoe. He had perfected the art of roaming the house at night unheard, having done so for years when his parents were still alive. Stalking down the landing, he found that his parents’ door was still slightly open. Not wasting a second, he went inside, bending down to peer under the bed. In the darkness he could make out three distinct shapes – the objects he had left there.

Moments later, the boy returned to his bedroom with the objects in his arms. He pushed his door to and jumped back into bed, shivering in the cold as he spread the horde out in front of him. The silver raven on the cover of
The Sentinel Chronicles
shone in the moonlight. Nicholas flipped to the first page of the book.

To the Sentinel collective, whom we present the most recent journal of events.

Nicholas wondered what the Sentinel collective was. It sounded like some sort of organisation. This book – a journal of sorts detailing the events of every week in October 1983 – certainly seemed to back up that theory. He remembered that the other Sentinel volumes in the hidden room all had years marked on their spines. He wished he could go back and take a few more books, but he didn’t dare risk waking Tabatha. Those cogs weren’t exactly quiet.

He turned to the first entry and read by the light of the moon.

2
J
ANUARY, 1983

Woodpoint Prison is no more. Esus has called an emergency summit. What follows is an account of the events that led to the devastation of the prison and its inhabitants.

Ten pm Woodpoint Prison, North London. After lights out, prisoner #5532, Arnold Humphreys, reported that his cellmate, Timothy Bull (#6723), was behaving strangely. He was ordered to be quiet by the wardens.

Humphreys fell silent for a time. At 10:24 there were reports of a scream. Wardens unlocked cell #19 – the cell occupied by Humphreys and Bull – and found Humphreys crumpled in a corner with his throat torn out. After a brief tussle, Bull condemned the wardens to the same fate.

Using the keys from the dead wardens, Bull unlocked the remainder of the cells and slaughtered the inmates. He then progressed through the prison, killing anybody in his way, and eventually burned the entire complex to the ground. Of the 50 souls interred there, and the 10 guards on duty, only one of them survived – inmate Joseph Turner (#3625).

11.32am Bull was found by Sentinel Andrew Davis, resident of Croft Heights, a neighbourhood half a mile from the prison. Davis suffered a bite to the neck, but managed to knock Bull unconscious. Later, Bull was restrained, questioned and tested by Davis, who discovered that Bull had mutated. Davis believes the mutation was linked to an insect bite on his forearm. Bull displayed the same symptoms as a rabid dog, and was eventually shot dead after escaping his restraints and attempting to strangle Davis.

Nicholas stopped reading, shocked by the grisly story. The
Chronicles
seemed to be some sort of macabre horror anthology. And yet the nameless author’s tone seemed assured enough, as if these were hard facts. Nicholas’s insides leapt when he allowed himself to consider that the story was, in fact, true. If it was true, just what sort of organisation was this? And how were his parents involved?

Suddenly tired, he closed the book and fell back onto his pillow, pulling the duvet up around him. He pondered the ceiling and his thoughts turned to what would happen tomorrow. He thought about the bus journey, and how a stranger would be accompanying him. Richard somebody. He realised with a jolt that he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay in the house where the memories of his parents were most vivid.

He tried to imagine what the next day would hold, but found he couldn’t. What worried him most was his godmother, of whom he knew nothing about. He remembered the strange smile Sam had worn when he had mentioned her in the garden. Sam obviously liked her, and yet had remained tight-lipped, refusing to tell Nicholas anything. Would this woman know anything about his parents? Would she have answers? Nicholas knew that his parents had been going to visit her; that much he had learned from the letter. But why had they never mentioned her to him?

Nicholas rolled over in bed, throwing his leg outside the covers. He felt hot and anxious. He didn’t think sleep would ever come.

Something caught the corner of the boy’s eye and Nicholas’s head spun toward the window. He threw himself out of bed and rushed over. A black shape swooped through the air and was lost in the darkness.

It had looked like a raven.

CHAPTER SIX

Due Departure

T
HE EARLY MORNING HOURS WERE CRISP
and cool. The sky was white and stretched taut like a bed sheet. Sam sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper by the light of a pale dawn. The cuffs of his shirt frayed around his wrists, waiting to be fastened.

He sighed and put the paper down, crunching on a bit of toast. The authorities were still poring over the site of the train wreck. Sam suspected they wouldn’t find anything of note. Whoever had caused the crash had been canny enough to plan it, which meant they would also have been canny enough to take precautions. The one thing the authorities did seem to know was that the car that had been on the track belonged to a young man. Clive Kelly. A waiter from Cambridge. Naturally, blame was being heaped squarely on his shoulders. Or, it would be if the police had any idea where he was.

Clive Kelly. Sam rolled the name around his mouth with the toast. It wasn’t familiar. Certainly not a Sentinel. Which didn’t mean the young man didn’t know about Sentinels.

Sam tossed the remainder of his toast onto the plate. It was cold anyway. He couldn’t seem to extricate the Hallows from his thoughts. The letter from Maxwell. It had been written on the day of the accident, like a hurried after-thought, perhaps even posted as the Hallows made their way to the station. That would explain why Max hadn’t phoned or met with him. It was an act of desperation.