His arm was locked in place, the sling tight enough to keep his shattered wrist and collarbone in place. Blood stained his white T-shirt, wrapped around a body that rattled with every step, the ribs celebrating their independence from the rest of his skeleton.
They would heal.
He always healed.
They passed a few faceless men in suits, people Bermuda had never spoken to nor wanted to, as they rounded a corner, marching passed a few cells which housed illegal Others ready to be transferred back to their world. The procedures and paperwork were not something Bermuda concerned himself with, letting those with more sense sit behind the desks.
They turned another corner and a few women in white coats stopped and stared, analysing the injuries that Bermuda wore on his body like medals. The entire organisation knew who he was, the famous Bermuda Jones.
The one who could walk in both worlds.
While he knew their admiration would make his flirting easier, the searing pain that encased his body demanded more attention than a potential romance. Also, her face jumped back into his mind, reminding him of a different pain that exploded in his chest.
Sophie Summers.
The most beautiful woman to have ever crossed Bermuda’s path, she was so close to falling for him as he had for her. Maybe she had. However, she came face to face with the most dangerous force the Otherside had ever created and was a Bermuda’s-width away from being lost to their world. Brought together by her friend’s disappearance six months ago, she had deemed Bermuda’s life too dangerous.
Another wonderful plus of having the ‘Knack’.
He had checked up on her from time to time, his ‘detective’ skills going no further than the occasional search on Google or quick online stalk of her Facebook profile. Her career was going from strength to strength, her dazzling looks propelling her modelling career to a high street fashion brand. Every time he saw her dark eyes, the playful tilt on the edge of her smile, his heart broke slightly.
This world would never allow it.
Neither would the Otherside.
Walking two worlds had never been lonelier. A large scraping of metal shook Bermuda from his self-pity. The huge iron doors to the Archive slowly opened, the light from within spilling out like an overstuffed wardrobe. As Vincent stood awaiting his entrance, Bermuda admired the intricate markings across the iron, the patterns all meaning something in a language he would never comprehend. Sometimes he marvelled at how his life had turned out.
A lot of the time he cursed it. But being able to see his daughter again was starting to change that.
It was giving him a reason.
The Archive was the link to the Otherside, a vast library that documented the rich tapestry of the truce. Every agreement, every significant event was locked away in there somewhere; the rows of leather-bound books overwhelmed Bermuda. Within each one were thousands of pages with words written in criss-cross patterns that not even the cleverest codebreaker could decipher.
The Otherside was a mystery.
Even after the hundreds of years, our world had only scratched the surface of theirs, an untapped potential that maintained the truce. The advances and changes that humanity could gain from this world outweighed the danger of letting their kind across – at least in the eyes of the higher-ups, the patronising suits who sat safely behind their desks while Bermuda took a nosedive off the Hammersmith flyover.
‘This way.’
Vincent’s voice was rich, full of calm as he led the way through the rows of desks, a select few occupied by those with Level One clearance. Bermuda was pretty sure he was Level Not in a Million Years clearance; however, with Vincent by his side, the sneering glances dissipated quickly.
As Bermuda’s footsteps echoed off the high, arched walls, he wondered where within the books was Barnaby. Just thinking of the name drew a shiver down his spine as if the creature himself had run a finger down it. Barnaby had come within moments of ending the world, his desire and drive to vanquish humanity as terrifying as the jet-black eyes that had adorned his scarred face.
Bermuda had stopped him. Just.
The ramifications of that night were still ongoing: the rebuild of the destroyed face of Big Ben, the yearning for Sophie, who had walked away from him that night. And of course the death of Hugo LaPone, which was still being laid at his door. Despite it all, the heartbreak and the heavy conscience, Bermuda had saved the world.
‘Wait here,’ Vincent stated, gliding beyond the final row of books and between a maze of metal filing cabinets. As he disappeared into the glow of the room ahead, Bermuda couldn’t help take a few steps forward to the end of the walkway. The large humming of computers echoed off the walls, the bright lights over several screens that surrounded four pods, each one with wires scattered everywhere like a bowl of spaghetti. Within the pods were four, pale blue Neithers, reclined back on their chairs. Their smooth, naked bodies gave off the same gleam as the marble on which Bermuda stood. The wires linking each Neither to a machine, a hard-line directly into the Otherside. Their ability was not to link to the Otherside, but to the Others themselves, their connection allowing the BTCO to monitor all activity, with their constant surveillance working out the likely percentage of Other involvement.
It’s how the BTCO assigned their cases.
They were, without a doubt, the heartbeat of the entire organisation.
Bermuda watched in awe as one of the Oracles started the shake, the lights on the screen flickered, lines dashing across as if a coded message was arriving. Before Bermuda could even understand the situation, the robed arm of Vincent guided his gaze away.
‘Leave them. They may seem docile, but I discourage unfamiliar presence in this chamber.’
‘You don’t have to tell me twice,’ Bermuda retorted, slightly unnerved at how little he knew of the world he was entrusted to investigate.
Vincent led him back through the labyrinth of cabinets, each one housing years of history. As they emerged back into the open area, Vincent slapped a manila folder down on the nearby desk. Bermuda looked at it before looking back to the gangly Neither with a curious eye.
‘Your case.’
‘Well I gathered it wasn’t a pay rise.’ Bermuda rattled some Tic Tacs free with his good arm, the clattering mints drawing a few scowls from the quiet obsessed.
‘A young lady has been found dead in Glasgow. No signs of forced entry except a bedroom door that was nearly launched off its hinges, and her body, which was thrust onto the bed.’
‘You sure this is a case for me?’ Bermuda asked, the bruising on his face a clearer colour than hours earlier.
‘She was found with her heart removed. No evidence of weaponry or surgical tools.’ Vincent’s pupilless eyes rested on him. ‘It was taken cleanly with the murderer’s bare hands.’
Bermuda whistled, reaching for the folder with his unstrapped arm and flicking it open. A measly couple of pages comprised the details of the case. He raised an eyebrow, heavy with stitches.
‘Not much to go on, is there?’ he said, not looking up. ‘How do we know it’s for us?’
‘Three found significant probability that a human could not have carried out such an act.’
Bermuda shuffled uncomfortably at the Oracles being referred to by number.
Vincent cleared his throat. ‘And you have been asked for, by name.’
Bermuda turned back to his superior, confusion wrestling with agony for control of his face. ‘I have zero connection to Glasgow.’
‘An old BTCO officer, Tobias Hendry. He was formerly in charge of the old gateway which was situated on the outskirts of Glasgow. Since its decommission he acts as an informant, if you will. He’s human.’
‘He’s Scottish.’
‘With our other agent away, he has requested your presence.’ Vincent clasped his hands together, the sleeves of his robe hanging low like a wizard. ‘You may not know this, Bermuda, but your reputation precedes you.’
‘Woopie-fuckin
-do,’ Bermuda muttered. The idea of a winter in Glasgow wasn’t exactly appealing. He turned the page over, examining the photo of a young lady lying in her underwear, her curved body splattered in blood.
Someone had taken her heart.
Why?
He winced, shuffling uncomfortably as a searing reminder of his car crash shot through his ribs. He tried to readjust, the sling strapping his wrist and collarbone in place acting like a straitjacket – a memory he was all too happy not to revisit.
‘I am sure you will be healed by tomorrow,’ Vincent suggested, his voice quiet and warm.
‘What do you mean?’ Bermuda quickly spun, concerned.
Vincent stared at him until he released a deep sigh, aware that the secret was strictly between them.
‘It’s getting worse.’
‘Worse?’ Vincent questioned. If he’d had eyebrows, Bermuda was sure one would have been risen.
As the only human to have crossed to the Otherside and returned, Bermuda knew he was unique. He was admired, envied, and feared in equal measure. While the BTCO proudly proclaimed him as ‘the balance’ between two worlds, the Otherside held him in less regard. Having been responsible for the deaths of some of them, Bermuda knew he was a marked man.
He also knew that no one knew of the side effects.
Ever since he had returned, he could feel a call from the Otherside, a delicate whisper dancing on the wind that whipped by. Whenever he came into contact with something from that world, he could feel its pull, trying its best to reclaim what they felt was rightfully theirs. Although he hadn’t been blessed with the strength or speed of Argyle, he had noticed that his body had begun rebuilding itself at an unearthly rate.
He healed like an Other.
While his face resembled a dropped pizza and his body had been crumpled like an empty Coke can, he knew it would be fine within a matter of days. Bones began to fall in to place quickly. Scars faded fast.
Bermuda was keen to keep it secret, not wanting the BTCO to look too far into it. It hurt him to keep it from Argyle. Although his partner was the only being in the two worlds he could trust, he didn’t want people to see him as even more peculiar. Vincent knew – his wise eyes had cottoned on pretty fast – but it remained between the two of them.
A silent promise.
‘Yes, worse,’ Bermuda stated firmly, returning to the conversation. ‘I’m healing faster than Argyle.’
‘Not quite, but this is incredible. Remarkable.’
‘Do you know what the usual recovery time of a broken collarbone is? About six weeks, eight at the most.’ Bermuda’s words were steeped in disappointment. ‘I can already feel it fusing, and it’s been a day.’
‘That’s because you’re one of us now.’
The deep voice boomed through the archive, leaping from the walls and exploding around them. Bermuda spun on his heel. The clomping footsteps and voice had emanated from the giant, hulking figure of Denham. His face, world weary and framed by an eyepatch, wore a wry smile, the caramel-coloured skin creasing at the corners of his mouth. Semi-retired from field duty, Denham was in charge of new recruits, his no-nonsense approach scaring the fear out of the newly ‘Knack’-aware before they entered the ‘real’ world.
Standing as tall as Argyle but with a severe bulk that would stand out in professional wrestling, the mighty Neither carried a black bag in his hand, swinging from his fingers like a yo-yo. Bermuda shot a glance back to Vincent, who remained motionless.
‘How does he know?’ Bermuda exclaimed, his pitch rising, and a few other inhabitants of the Archive slowly made their way to the door, not wanting to intrude.
Denham slammed the bag down next to the manila folder and exhaled. ‘What, that you are like us now? Vinnie told me.’ He motioned towards his superior with his thumb. ‘It’s good, we have more in common now.’
‘I am not like you,’ Bermuda retorted, his anger slowly boiling.
‘I’m afraid you are,’ Vincent calmly interjected, his words a comforting buffer between the two beings before him. ‘Denham has promised the utmost discretion.’
Bermuda looked back and forth between the two Neithers, both of them as commanding as they were different – a shining example of how bizarre the Otherside was, how little made sense, and how dangerous it could be. Denham’s reputation as a soldier was unquestionable, as was his loyalty and ferocity. Bermuda sighed, relenting.
‘It ain’t so bad,’ Denham offered. ‘You could still be pissing in your pants like Thorpe.’
‘How is he getting on?’ Bermuda asked.
Bobby Thorpe was the latest recruit that Denham was breaking in. The poor man was going through a torturous introduction to BTCO life that Bermuda knew only too well.
‘Well let’s just say he’s gone through more pairs of underpants than Mick Jagger!’
Bermuda burst out laughing, his ribs chattering like teeth in the cold. Hearing Denham reference pop culture was surreal. But then standing in an underground vault talking to two creatures from another world about a secret murderer in Scotland made surreal seem like a false concept.
Denham reached out one of his mighty hands, the fingers clasping the zip of the bag. It opened with a mighty yawn and he reached in, pulling out a thick, bunched-up roll of grey material.
‘For you.’ He smirked in Bermuda’s confused direction.
‘What’s that?’
Vincent stepped forward. ‘I asked Denham to create some clothing for you. Obviously, due to his seniority, he had a right to know the reason why.’
A large slap echoed through the Archive and sent pain racing through Bermuda’s body as Denham’s hand clattered against his back.
‘You’re welcome, buddy.’ Denham’s words were softer than his back pat. ‘Hopefully the next time you come up against an Exceptional, this will keep you safe.’
‘A what now?’
‘An Exceptional,’ Denham replied, confusion dripping from his words.
Bermuda arched a stitched eyebrow.
‘You didn’t tell him?’
Bermuda turned slowly, his shattered body creaking like a rusty door.
Vincent sighed.
‘Tell me what?’ Bermuda demanded, his one good hand fumbling in his pocket for his e-cig.
‘It is not something to tell.’ Vincent began gliding towards the darkened corner of the Archive, beyond the Oracles and the links between worlds that Bermuda would never comprehend. The Neither looked back, his eyes almost sparkling with excitement. ‘It is something to show.’
Bermuda shuffled after him with slow, painful steps, his dislocated shoulder demanding attention. A cloud of berry-flavoured vapour drifted into the air. ‘Show me what?’
Denham eagerly marched past Bermuda, bursting through the cloud of synthetic smoke like a game show contestant. His war-worn face uplifted in a wry smile as he arched his large skull back, his one good eye twinkling like a lone star. ‘Your legacy.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The shadows crept over the stone walls like paint dripping down the old, crumbled brick work. The hill was set on the outskirts of the town, a world unfamiliar to him. These people were not the ones he had encountered before; the last time he was free to walk the earth.
Stone slats rose from the surrounding grounds like jagged teeth. On them, the names of the deceased, a needless tribute to a worthless life. They were all worthless, each one of them nothing more than a maggot, slowly eating its way through the corpse they called life.
All of them except her.
He could still see her face, her hazel eyes twinkling as they danced in the moonlight, its beauty only matched by hers. Her dark, brown skin as smooth as silk, the moonbeams shimmering off it like a sunrise on a lake. He closed his jet-black eyes, taking a long, controlled breath, his memories dancing through his mind in sync with their bodies.
She was gone.
There was always that creeping, nagging doubt that he would never see her again. That her beauty had been lost
over time, and his search had been for nothing. All that time wasted in the dark.
The chains that held him to the walls.
The voice that taunted him.
He shook it from his memory, allowing the same moon that illuminated his great love to bathe the Necropolis in its glory. Each footstep crunched on the dried leaves, their fight for survival long since abandoned. The sleet slapped against his face, the skin – still the same as it had been back then – ignoring the cold that accompanied it.
With each step, he felt the raindrops falling from his body, the thick, red drops of blood that fell through his fingers.
This was what was requested.
This would bring her back.
The iconic graveyard that sat just on the outskirts of Glasgow was steeped in tradition. Over five thousand people lay beneath, all of them consigned to the earth upon their expiration, bodies amassing the collection for nearly two hundred years. The hill, surrounded by old, brick walls, was awash with stones and monuments, all of them lovingly chosen by those who were left behind.
The Necropolis was a place of pain.
Thirty-seven acres of death.
As he meandered through the tombstones, his hand tightened its grip. The woman had been accommodating, a friendly soul who was unfortunate enough to be his chosen one for the evening. It was she who’d made the motion to leave, inviting him home with a slightly pathetic desperation.
Now, as her blood splattered the ground, he held her heart in his hand. His cold fingers had ripped right through her skin, shattering the ribs and breastbone before wrapping around it, the beating reaching a crescendo as he pulled it from her body. It had stopped in unison with the life fading from her eyes.
He would remember her face.
The Absent Man Page 4
