‘Well this is all nonsense.’
To Franklyn’s shock, Ottoway pushed the folder off the table, the pages spraying out like a spilt tin of paint. He turned back, the senior smiling, his eye gleaming behind his monocle.
‘But … isn’t that why I’m here?’
‘What? Because the world thinks you’re crazy and decided to lock you away?’ Ottoway chuckled heartily. ‘No, my dear boy. You are here because of how you got out.’
His heart sank as he dropped his head into his arms, sprawling across the table and expecting to be sent back to the nuthouse, or worse, prison. With the idea of seeing his daughter again giving him a sudden cause for fight, he straightened up.
‘Look, I had nothing to do with that. I just—’
‘Just what, Mr Jones?’ Ottoway interrupted with calm authority. ‘You are going to sit there and tell me that this morning you were not incarcerated in Maudsley Hospital, diagnosed as mentally unstable? Are you also going to tell me that you didn’t push past a doctor and guards before disappearing into the wall only for us to retrieve you merely hours ago from a small village in Morocco? Now I’m no pilot but I know it takes a little more than ten minutes from London to Marrakech. It’s hardly popping to the shops is it?’
Franklyn slumped in his chair.
‘No, sir.’
‘Quite. See, Mr Jones, there are so many things about all this that don’t add up. Your records tell me you see monsters, then out of nowhere, you effectively teleport from one continent to another. Yet, here you are, sat in front of me. My staff found you in seconds and we brought you in.’
Despite the man’s soft, caring tone, Franklyn knew when he was being dressed down. He stared at the table as he feebly mumbled his response.
‘It’s not good, is it?’
Ottoway slammed his hand on the table with glee, the sound bouncing off the walls like an errant pinball.
‘My boy, it’s fantastic.’
Raising a bemused eyebrow, Franklyn looked up, confusion spread across his unkempt face.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You passed across to the Otherside and returned. Unharmed.’ Ottoway shook his head in disbelief. ‘Truly remarkable.’
‘Wait … the where?’
‘The Otherside.’
‘What the hell is the Otherside?’ Franklyn asked, refusing to rule out anything after his ‘escape’ earlier that day.
‘My boy, there is so much you do not know.’ Ottoway cleared his throat. ‘Before we start, can I get you anything? This may take a while.’
‘I’d like a coffee. And a fag.’
‘This is a non-smoking building.’
‘Well, I’m not a non-smoking person.’ Franklyn barked back, his nicotine craving taking the wheel.
Ottoway held up his hands as a gesture of acceptance and slowly lifted himself from the chair. His suit, clearly expensive, snuggly fit his pudgy body, the years of expensive tastes and good food apparent. His hand wrapped around the handle of his cane as he slowly hobbled towards the door, his Italian leather shoes, polished to an impeccable sheen, clicked across the tiles.
The door hissed, and he was gone.
Franklyn Jones sat uncomfortably, nervously fidgeting until his buttocks ached against the cruel steel that welcomed them. His fingers drummed against the metal without rhythm and he anxiously searched the room. Unlike the police interrogation rooms he saw on TV, there was no fake mirror, with rows of smarmy detectives listening to every word.
No CCTV.
No recording.
‘What the hell is this place?’ he muttered, crossing his arms across his chest and slouching in his seat. The door hissed again and Ottoway returned, his cane leading him back to the table as the strange creature, Vincent floated tentatively by his side. Vincent watched with care as Ottoway lowered himself down, offering his strange companion a thankful nod. Vincent turned to Franklyn, his eyes boring a hole through him and he placed a piping hot mug of coffee in front of him, along with an ashtray, lighter, and a packet of cigarettes.
‘This a non-smoking facility.’ Vincent stated coldly.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Franklyn put a cigarette to his mouth, lit the end, and let the sweet smoke filter through to his lungs.
Tutting like a librarian, Vincent turned and slid back towards the door, Franklyn unable to tell if there were legs beneath his robe.
The door slammed shut.
For a moment, the only noise was the burning of the cigarette and the ticking of the clock. The paperwork was still spread across the floor like lily pads on a pond surface.
Ottoway removed his monocle, his brown eyes staring with intent as he scrubbed the glass lens with a cloth before popping it back under a thick, grey eyebrow.
He turned to Franklyn and smiled.
‘Shall we begin?’
By the time Ottoway had finished, so had the packet of cigarettes. The ashtray, overflowing like a neglected garden, leaked cigarette butts, and ash across the metal surface. The white walls seemed closer, like the world had closed in upon him and Franklyn Jones wondered just how damn crazy it all was.
Ottoway had explained that for centuries, the world had known of another, one that enveloped our own, known to humanity as ‘the Otherside.’ This world had begun to breach our own, their feral creatures crossing the divide but not within the view of humanity itself.
Only a few.
Those who possessed ‘The Knack’.
Ottoway had explained it as a genetic defect, an anomaly within our DNA that allowed a small percentage to view the creatures that kept to the shadows. By his explanation, Franklyn had been right all along. The monsters he saw as a child, the creatures that stalked him ever since.
They were real.
While these creatures could be seen by such humans, their genetic makeup made them impossible to touch. They could live in our world but they couldn’t interact with it.
Upon this discovery, humanity realised that the threat level was low and that in exchange for their research, they would allow these creatures to exist if they stuck to the shadows.
As long as they hid in plain sight.
Eventually, many years ago, humans who came forward with this ability to see the Otherside eventually formed a small organisation to monitor this other world and the creatures that passed through the gateways. These people could see the truth.
They saw behind the curtain.
Thus, the Behind the Curtain Organisation was born.
The BTCO.
As Franklyn sat in disbelief, Ottoway spoke of the advances of this other world, how more creatures passed through with varying levels of intellect and manners. The creatures would soon be labelled the rather derogatory name of ‘Others’. The feral, dangerous ones were soon hunted down by cooperative creatures, who joined with the BTCO and formed a truce between the worlds.
Their knowledge and resources led to breakthroughs in human medicine, with Ottoway even crediting them with the cure for the plague, in exchange, they were allowed asylum. The stories of their world were ones of horror and pain, which from his own hazy memory of his morning venture to their world, Franklyn could corroborate.
Soon, the Otherside began to develop, too, their hatred for our world based upon our neglect and disrespect of their kind. Eventually, the technology to create a ‘latch stone’ was born, a trinket which allowed an Other to interact with our world.
Soon people went missing.
Many of them died.
The BTCO took a sterner approach, even enlisting the cooperative Others to join them full-time and hunt down these creatures.
The truce was breaking.
Sometime in the future, Ottoway feared a full-on invasion.
As the threat level increased, the BTCO shut down many of its registered gateways. The UK had once housed fourteen secret portals between the worlds, all of them well marshalled from both sides, with every immigrant accounted for.
Now they were down to one.
&
nbsp; It was downstairs, a few floors below where they sat.
Franklyn found himself shaking as Ottoway drew his explanation to a close, the revelation that not only was he correct, but that the entire world was in danger, shook him like a baby’s rattle. As Ottoway finished, he sat patiently, the shell-shocked reaction of Franklyn was obviously nothing new to him. As the final cigarette burnt to its conclusion, Franklyn leant forward, and stubbed it.
‘So, let me get this straight. You guys monitor the other world?’ he asked, smoke accompanying his words.
‘The Otherside. Yes.’
‘Where there are creatures called Others?’
‘Correct.’
‘Except for the ones that work with you. Like Vincent.’ He nodded to the closed door. ‘You call them—’
‘We call them ‘Neithers’. Ottoway interjected.
‘Christ, this is confusing.’ Franklyn ran his hands through his hair, tucking the rogue strands behind his ears. ‘And they can’t touch humans?’
‘Only the creatures who possess a ‘latch stone’, which links them to our world.’ Ottoway explained softly. ‘All of our registered Neithers have this issued to them.’
‘But the wild ones, they shouldn’t have it?’
‘No. It is illegal. While an Other with a latch stone won’t be seen by a human, they can still interact with them, allowing them to attack, or even worse.’ Ottoway shook his head. ‘Revealing the truth to a human is the second worst crime an Other or Neither can do.’
‘What’s the first?’
‘Killing a human.’
The silence followed the obvious answer and Franklyn suddenly felt his back muscles aching. The time had vanished during the wonderful tale that Ottoway had told, but the unforgiving, coarse metal of the seat had dug into his spine.
‘So you guys stop them?’ Franklyn eventually asked.
‘We try to. We live by a strict creed here at the BTCO.’ Ottoway spoke with pride. ‘Two Worlds. One Peace.’
The mug that once contained the piping hot coffee was now empty, smears of coffee stains surrounding the inside. Franklyn yearned for something stronger. The two men sat, with Ottoway clearly keen for him to ask more questions.
Franklyn obliged.
‘So, am I going back to the nut house?’ he asked. ‘Because if I relay to people what you’ve done to me, the white van will be parking up within seconds.’
‘You are a free man.’ Ottoway declared proudly. ‘Your gift should not lead you to be incarcerated.’
‘My curse.’
‘Your gift. So as of now, your medical records have been expunged courtesy of the BTCO.’
Franklyn leant back in his chair, his eyes squinting with caution.
‘What’s the catch?’
‘We want you to enrol with us, become an agent here at the BTCO and help maintain the truce. We will offer you all the support we can, will endeavour to provide you with a generous remuneration and above all, give your life a sense of purpose.’
‘I already have a purpose, mate. Her name’s Chloe.’
Ottoway sighed, gently sitting back, and facing Franklyn with an understanding look.
‘Your life has lead you to a path where your family locked you away. I’m sorry, but that’s the lay of the land.’ Ottoway leant forward, his eyes twinkling with excitement. ‘But I can offer you a different path. One where you can pull back the reigns and take control of it again. Rebuild that life but also stand for something. You can help breach the gap between these two worlds. You can help save them.’
Franklyn sat in quiet contemplation when suddenly, the door hissed loudly, and once again, Vincent ghosted across the threshold. Ottoway greeted his companion with a pleasant grin before turning back to the confused newcomer.
‘Or you can leave. The choice is yours.’
Without a word, Franklyn pushed himself up from the table and marched to the open door, not even acknowledging the bemused Neither who stood by the old man. He rushed into the corridor, surprised to find a young woman, pretty, and smartly dressed, ushering him to an elevator. Accepting the invite instantly, Franklyn leapt into the elevator and hit ‘G’. To his surprise, the elevator shot upwards, revealing to him that he’d been underground in this secret facility.
The BTCO.
Franklyn ached for the sunlight as the elevator shot towards freedom.
Back in the white room, Vincent extended his bamboo-like fingers, helping his dear friend to his feet.
‘I don’t understand.’ Vincent’s words verged on curt. ‘You were adamant you wanted him recruited.’
‘Oh, he’ll be back.’ Ottoway chuckled. ‘He just doesn’t know it yet.’
With a gentle pat on the shoulder, Ottoway moved past his Neither and headed towards the doorway, awaiting the return of Franklyn Jones and the beginning of what should be an interesting partnership.
CHAPTER THREE
It didn’t take long for Franklyn Jones to realise he was in trouble. Once that elevator had hit the top floor, he was shocked to find himself opposite the gift shop of the Shard, the magnificent building that shot out of London’s skyline like a giant, middle finger. The beautiful building, ninety-five floors of twinkling glass, was one of London’s biggest attractions, with thousands of tourists taking in the wonderful viewing platform on the seventy-second floor, allowing them a view of the nation’s capital city from over eight hundred feet.
Franklyn had wanted to take Chloe up there for a while, but by the time the platform had opened for the public, his freedom had been closed off.
Now, he was trying his best to get out of the building.
It only took a few moments for eyes to latch on to him, the public, rushing past the building to reach the neighbouring London Bridge Station casting a judgemental eye over him. He gave them the benefit of the doubt.
An escaped mental patient tended to look exactly like an escaped mental patient.
Shivering in the bitter chill that dusted the air, Franklyn scurried down a side street, looking for anything that could keep him warm. Rounding a corner, he stumbled over two black bags, tied tight, and bundled against the front of a charity shop. The shutter was pulled down, the lights behind were dead to the world. Judging by the darkness, slowly spreading across the buildings like the sun had its own dimmer switch, Franklyn assumed it was shut for the night.
Having no concept of time or day was unnerving, but he ripped into the bags and found a pair of loose fitting chino trousers and a stained, black jumper that hung loosely from his frame. The other bag, thankfully, had a number of pairs of shoes, one of them, a well-worn trainer, fitting his size nine feet.
With the biting elements slightly at bay, Franklyn made his way back to London Bridge Station, searching for a map of the city. He needed to get to Mitcham, to where he, and Angela had shared their two-bedroom house.
Where his Chloe was.
Sticking to the main roads that cut through the labyrinth of London like veins, he eventually made his way to the A23, passing through Herne Hill, and Stratham, before making his way to the outskirts of Surrey. The quaint, suburbs of Mitcham had been their dream; to live, and raise a family in a wholesome town, just far enough from London to not be caught up in its rat race, but not too far away that they were cut off from humanity.
Franklyn had brief recollections of his job as a web designer, squashing himself into unnatural gaps on the packed train that hammered quickly into Charing Cross.
Those memories were blurred, as were many.
Ever since he crossed to the Otherside.
Ever since he’d returned.
After walking for over eight miles, the night sky loomed large behind him as he finally turned onto his old street. The road was lined with expensive cars that matched the houses, all of them basking in their own success, a trait Franklyn had always found detestable in humans.
He could feel his feet bleeding, the makeshift shoes had long since given up on their responsibility of comfort. Each
step caused him to wince as he hobbled past the quaint gardens and well-maintained hedges. Every step was worth it.
Just to see her again.
Franklyn knew that he wasn’t there for Angela. During the breakdown of their marriage, she’d told him openly that she no longer trusted him, filing for a divorce that was finalised while he sat in his cell. She’d found someone else, a man without the extra baggage of seeing monsters.
Ian.
Franklyn had never met the man but had taken an instant dislike. Who wouldn’t? His side of the bed hadn’t even changed temperature before Ian moved into the house, arousing suspicion that their romance blossomed before his marriage had died. Regardless, from the few visits he’d received from Angela pre-divorce, she’d told him how good Ian was with Chloe.
How he was playing the role he never could.
With his hands clenching into a frustrated fist, Franklyn stopped in front of his house. The garden was the same, only the autumn had stripped it of its colour. The brick was still white, the upstairs shrouded in darkness. His eyes were drawn to the front room, where through the gap in the curtain, he could see her.
Chloe.
Instantly, tears streamed from his eyes, his heart refusing to beat while he gazed at her. Dressed in a pink, strawberry covered onesie, she sat contently on the sofa, snuggled into Ian’s side. They looked like a hallmark card.
A shining example of parenthood.
Rested across Ian’s lap was an iPad, undoubtedly the two of them were sharing a story or game together. They were sharing the moment.
All the moments that he would miss.
As he stared, open-mouthed at the image of his daughter’s love etching towards someone else, the front door opened, and Angela’s hissing voice broke him from his heartbreak.
‘Franklyn. What the hell are you doing?’
‘I just want to see her.’ His words stuttered, choking on his sadness. The wind picked up, a few speckles of rain slapping against his unshaven cheek.
‘You look like a mess.’ Angela scolded, her bare arms crossed, and her brow furrowed with anger. ‘The hospital called. They said you escaped.’
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 2
