Sentinel (8 page)

“Where’s Agnes?” the voice raged. “I want Agnes.”

Despairing, Richard closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the door. Every now and again his father would forget that his wife was dead, and every time Richard had to explain it to him. The confused expression that clouded his father’s features was always heartbreaking.

“She’s not here, Dad,” Richard said. “Now come and eat, please.”

“Never!”

Richard opened his eyes as a hand touched his arm. Lucy was beside him.

“No luck?” she asked. She was, if anything, the complete opposite of her husband. Her blonde hair shone in salon-styled tresses and her cheeks always possessed a rosy just-pinched glow. She was, even to this day, the most beautiful woman Richard had ever met. He used to wonder (and still did occasionally) why she’d ever shown any interest in him – why she’d even noticed him, let alone spoken to him that day at the charity event.

“He hasn’t been like this for weeks,” Richard said, pushing his glasses up again. “I don’t understand what set him off.”

“Could’ve been anything. The doctor said he could turn at any moment, with no real reason That’s the way it goes.”

“I hate this,” Richard said, his face scrunching up. “I hate that my own father doesn’t recognise us half the time.”

Lucy kissed him. “Don’t let it get to you,” she said softly. “It’ll pass, you know it will. And then we’ll have the fun of tidying up!”

Richard tried to smile, but he found it hard to look at her. He was a failure.

“Maybe it’s time to give St. Mary’s a ring.”

Richard pulled away from her. “What?”

“It’s been six months, Rich. We’ve tried our best, we really have. But... I just don’t think it’s working.”

“I don’t believe it. He’s sick, and you want to stick him in one of those homes?”

“Can’t you see what this is doing to you?”

He didn’t respond.

“Well I can, and I can’t just sit by and watch anymore.”

The muscle in her jaw flickered the way it did when she was holding back, trying not to be as forthright as she could be. He was too angry to find it endearing. She reached out for his hand and he moved out of the way, his throat reddening.

“What are you saying?” he demanded quietly.

“I think it’s time we thought seriously about moving your father into St. Mary’s Hospice,” Lucy relented. She sounded as crestfallen as he felt.

It was at this moment that the doorbell chimed downstairs.

Richard paid it no attention.

“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” he said, searching her face for some sign that she was joking, or at the very least that she could be convinced otherwise. “I thought we agreed to look after him.”

“We did, and we’ve tried our best. But things have changed,” Lucy said. “This is changing us.”

“We knew it was going to be hard...”

The doorbell rang again, this time accompanied by knocking.

“I’m going to answer that... we’ll talk about this later,” Lucy said. She disappeared down the stairs.

Richard took a breath. He was trembling all over. How could she expect him to abandon his own father like that? It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t know how he felt. It seemed like she wanted him to choose between the two of them – his wife and his father. He couldn’t do it, and he shouldn’t have to.

Through his troubled thoughts, Richard realised that the noises that had been coming from his father’s bedroom had stopped. Gently, he tapped at the door.

“Dad? Are you okay in there?”

“Richard.”

Lucy appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked flustered.

“We have a visitor.” She sidled up to him, giving him a meaningful look as another figure bobbed onto the landing.

It was a short, overweight man who looked about sixty, but was most likely still only in his early fifties. His dated brown suit was tailored for a man two sizes smaller, giving the newcomer a bloated appearance. He clutched an official-looking leather bag and wiped the raindrops from his hairless head with a starched white handkerchief.

“Dr Snelling,” Richard uttered in surprise. It had completely slipped his mind that the doctor was stopping by for his father’s monthly check-up. Another thing he could add to the list of things he’d forgotten.

“Hello Richard,” the little man said toothily. “Dear me, this doesn’t look good.” He gave the couple a look that managed to be as mournful as it was cheerful, his eyes crinkling behind little round glasses.

“Er, yes,” Richard said shortly. “You’ve caught us at a bit of an awkward moment.”

“So I see,” the doctor said brightly, totally unfazed by the tense atmosphere. “Has he been in there for long?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

Richard felt Lucy put her hand comfortingly into his and was glad she was there.

“He’s been fine for so long now, I don’t understand what could’ve set him off.”

“Hard to tell,” Dr Snelling said. He puffed his cheeks out thoughtfully. “Perhaps he’ll respond to me – I’ve known him for almost as long as you have, dear boy!”

“Might as well give it a try,” Richard said. He and Lucy moved out of the way as the little man wobbled up to the door. Richard gave his wife an uncomfortable sideways look – this wasn’t good. She squeezed his hand and Richard felt guilty for his outburst. All this really was wearing him down. Max and Anita Hallow’s funeral that morning had drained the last vestiges of his energy, and now his father was having one of his turns. Sometimes Richard just wanted to lie down and sleep. He could probably sleep for a hundred years without waking up.

Dr Snelling drummed lightly at the door with the back of his hand. “Patrick,” he called evenly. “It’s Raymond Snelling, will you let me in?”

Richard watched the door with little hope. A few moments passed with no response. “Maybe you could come back another day whe–” he began, but just then there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and the bedroom door creaked open.

“Ah,” Dr Snelling cooed happily, as if he’d been expecting this to happen any second. Patience really was a virtue! “How kind of you, Patrick.” He stepped inside. Richard and Lucy hurried after him.

The room was in utter tumult. In other circumstances it would have been a pleasant place to live, but not today. Drawers had been flung free from the dresser, a mirror on the wall was skewed at an impertinent angle, and clothes had been strewn everywhere so that the floor was almost completely obscured. Sat amidst the bedlam was Patrick Walden, hunched over on the bed. He was a woeful figure, his thinning grey hair revealing a liver-spotted scalp, and the skin hung slack about his throat.

Dr Snelling toddled over to him, almost tripping on a discarded pair of trousers. He chuckled. “My, my Patrick, what have you been up to?” He set his bag down on the bedside table.

“Can I get you a cup of tea, doctor?” Lucy asked from the doorway. “Might warm you up a bit.”

“That would be lovely, thank you. Milk, no sugar.” Dr Snelling offered her a bucktoothed smile. “Give us a chance to catch up, won’t it Patrick?”

Lucy pulled Richard along with her and they both traipsed down the stairs into the poky kitchen.

“He couldn’t have come at a worse time,” Richard lamented, slumping against the counter as Lucy filled the kettle. “I dread to think what he’s going to write in those notes of his.”

They fell into silence as Lucy flicked the kettle on.

“It feels like everything is going down the drain,” Richard continued sombrely. “Anita and Max; Dad more unstable than he’s ever been...”

Lucy bit her lip. “Do you think we should talk to Dr Snelling about St Mary’s?” she asked softly.

“Maybe,” Richard relented with a sigh. “Maybe you’re right.”

The admission left him deflated.

There was a yelp from upstairs.

“Did you hear that?” Richard started.

“Hear what?” Lucy asked, taking a coffee mug down from a shelf.

“I hope Dad hasn’t started up his fuss again,” Richard groaned. “I’ll go and check on them.”

As Richard mounted the stairs, another yelp sounded, followed by miserable sobbing. Richard’s heart jumped in his chest; it sounded like his father. He’d never heard him make that sound before, even on his worst days. Richard took the stairs two at a time and rushed to his father’s bedroom door. He froze.

Patrick Walden was still perched on the bed, his shoulders slumped, but his head was tilted backwards at an unsightly angle, forced there by Dr Snelling’s podgy hand. Tears trickled down the sides of the old man’s face and his breathing came in short, pained pants.

Dr Snelling’s comical, chubby face was twisted into an alarming scowl; lips drawn back so that he appeared quite mad.

“What’s going on?” Richard demanded.

Dr Snelling’s head whipped around. His eyes no longer contained their usual spark of joviality – they were beady and pig-like, almost popping out of his head.

“Good of you to join us,” Dr Snelling burred, his voice an octave lower than usual and betraying no surprise at the interruption.

Richard took a step into the room.

“I wouldn’t,” the doctor cautioned. He applied more pressure to Patrick’s forehead, making the old man whimper even louder. Richard paused, looking at the fleshy hand pressed to his father’s head. Some sort of metal device was strapped to the doctor’s hand.

“What are you doing?” Richard pleaded.

“Dealing with this snivelling waste of human life,” Dr Snelling sneered. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“What?! What do you want?”

The doctor gave an amused snort. He bared his teeth. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

Richard’s knuckles turned white as they clenched into fists. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening – the family doctor, who he and his parents had turned to for nigh on two decades, attacking his father and grinning insanely as if it was all massively amusing.

“Let him go and we’ll talk,” Richard breathed.

“Do I look that stupid?” the doctor spat. He forced the old man’s head back further, making a gurgling yell stream from his throat. Sparks danced across the fat man’s hand.

“Stop it!” Richard shouted. “Do you really think he can tell you anything?”

“I don’t expect him to tell me a thing,” Dr Snelling said calmly, though his body was shaking. “His brain’s like Swiss cheese.
You’re
the one who is going to talk.”

Richard’s mind raced. What could the doctor possibly want to know? Looking at the crazed man, he realised there was only one thing he was interested in, and that was the one thing Richard couldn’t tell him. His father had taught him better than that.

“What do you want me to talk about?” he asked.

The doctor snarled. “Tut, tut, Walden. Playing the fool may have worked before, but not with me. Not now.”

Richard searched the room for anything that he could use against the doctor. Adrenaline fizzed through him. His father had always warned him that one day something like this could happen. Would happen. But Richard had never believed it. He’d always thought that bad things happened to other people – not him, not his family. He wished he’d taken his father more seriously.

He spotted a lamp lying by his foot. He looked at the doctor, weighing up whether or not he could grab the lamp and cross the room quickly enough to strike him. Before Richard had the chance to move, though, there was a strangled bellow, and Patrick lashed out, as if something inside of him had snapped.

Dr Snelling, caught unaware by the assault, was flung back off the bed. He landed on the floor with a thud. Patrick fell on top of him with a shrill screech, flailing his arms madly at the doctor, scratching at his face with arthritic fingers.

Richard charged over just as the doctor, recovering from the shock buried his fist in Patrick’s face. The old man fell back, cracking his head against the bedside cabinet and slumping unconsciously against it.

Richard raised the lamp, which he must have taken up as he hurried over. He prepared to bring it down on the doctor’s head.

“STOP!”

Richard halted mid-motion.

The doctor stared up from the floor with manic eyes. His right hand – equipped with the metal device – was pointed at Richard’s chest.

“That would be very ill-advised,” the doctor huffed.

The device in his hand glinted and Richard saw it clearly for the first time. Five metal rings – each embedded with a small orange stone – were attached to each of the doctor’s fingers and thumb. The rings were linked by a number of jointed metal stalks that converged over the back of his hand. It was a strange silver gauntlet.

Richard couldn’t determine what sort of power – if any – such a device might possess; he’d certainly never heard of anything like it. Still paused in mid-motion, his anger overpowered him and, filled with fury, he brought the lamp swinging down.

In the split second it took Richard to do so, Dr Snelling’s arm bucked and white light erupted blindingly from his fingers. It blasted Richard in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer.