Sentinel by Joshua Winning Page A

“Right then,” he murmured, setting off.
    When he came to the open doorway he stopped. From here he could see into the bedroom, and despite the distance between them, Sam could tell how ill Richard was. The younger man was laid out on his back in bed, a white duvet emblazoned with sunflowers draped over him. His skin was a sickly grey, his cheeks sunken and skeletal. Fine beads of sweat clung to his forehead and deathly groans entered and escaped his throat. His glasses sat watching him from the bedside cabinet.
    “Dear, dear,” Sam clucked, entering the room furtively. “Richard, old boy, what have they done to you?”
    The closer Sam got, the more ill Richard was revealed to be. When he reached the head of the bed, the old man found that his legs would no longer hold him and he sank into the chair at the bedside.
    “It was the doctor.”
    Sam glanced up as a curt voice jabbed from the doorway.
    There, lingering in the half-shadows by the doorframe was Patrick Walden. Despite being of a similar age to him, Patrick’s mind had quietly fled years ago. Remorsefully, Sam remembered when Richard’s father had been the sharpest of their circle. Patrick’s strategies had always been the best, and he was the first anybody came to in a crisis. Now he could barely remember his own name. Time was unspeakably cruel.
    “Doctor?” Sam asked, finding that his voice came out as if he were addressing a child. He knew that the old, healthy Patrick would have hated him for that, but there was no helping it.
    The other man didn’t seem to notice. Patrick sucked in his bottom lip and looked like he was about to spit on the carpet. “Filthy doctor tried to hurt me,” he said plainly. “My son, him there in the bed–” he pointed to make sure Sam knew who he was referring to, “–tried to save me. He ain’t in good shape now, oh no. Foolish lad. Foolish but brave.”
    “A doctor did this to Richard?” Sam asked, unsure if Patrick’s ramblings contained any truth.
    “Probably a devil,” Patrick snarled. “Can’t trust no-one these days, them’s all devils.”
    Sam inclined a humouring nod; the other man had sense enough to realise that at least. His gaze strayed from Patrick to his son laid out on the bed. A doctor abusing his own patients? The very suggestion troubled him to the core. He tried to figure out what possible course of events could have landed Richard, as poorly as he now looked, in this bed. What did this mean?
    “Dad, come on now,” came Lucy’s hushed, weary voice. “Leave Mr Wilkins alone for a bit, will you? He’ll talk to you later.”
    “Filthy doctor.” Patrick scowled and disappeared down the landing.
    “He said something about a doctor?” Sam ventured.
    Lucy sagged against the doorframe. She nodded. “He’s known our family for years, even before we got married. We trusted him. But now look at us.” She raised a hand to her mouth.
    Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I knew evil was insidious, but this…?” He was transfixed by Richard’s emaciated face. Blinking, he averted his gaze. “Has anybody been to see him, to help him?”
    “You’re the only person I called,” Lucy said. “The only person I could think of to call. How can I trust anybody after what happened? I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
    “You were wise not to call anyone,” Sam said in a hushed tone, as if he were worried he might disturb his friend’s slumber. Bitterly Sam realised such worries were redundant. Richard looked all but on the brink of death.
    “How about a cup of tea?” he suggested.
    Lucy nodded and the old man eased himself from the chair. As he left the room, he cast a sorrowful glance back at the figure in the bed. “Goodbye, old boy,” he murmured. Then he closed the door.
    In the kitchen, Sam watched Lucy put the kettle on. It steamed up the window, obscuring his view of the back garden.
    “Dark times are approaching, there’s no doubt,” he breathed.
    “It’s