Before the crushing devastation of his failed marriage wrapped its fingers around his throat, he shook the image from his mind and lit a cigarette. The filthy habit had become a necessity, the rigours of his training with Denham and the discovery of how in danger the world was had left him pining for any sort of crutch. Selfishly he drew in the nicotine, knowing his habit could one day deny his daughter her real father.
As he stood in the darkness, surrounded by the mighty trees and the echoing remnants of the drunken party, searching for a monster that no one could see, he wondered just how fit he was to be a father.
Maybe Chloe would be better off without him.
Despite doing his best, that was not an idea he could ever support. Angela may have moved on, their love dying as she watched his mental state fall apart like collapsing building.
But not Chloe.
Just as it had been when he’d stood in front of their old marital home, as the rain hammered down. When their eyes locked for that final time.
He would protect his daughter.
Franklyn Jones would be her hero without her knowing.
Passing a few more trees, Franklyn stubbed out his cigarette and then scanned his torch around, seeing nothing but a few trunks before the endless darkness took over. Trying his best to retrace his steps, the very real possibility of losing himself in the thick woods was starting to take shape. He knew he should have stayed in his bed, shifting through the rushed drawings that Denham had scribed with his mighty hands, trying his best to get his head around the changes that were happening to his body.
But here he was, slowly trudging through the woods, bathing a few metres in light before passing by and allowing his journey to be swallowed by the black of the night. With a deep sigh, Franklyn came to a stop, fanning the torch in a semi-circle like a light house and shaking his head.
He was lost.
Patting down the pockets of his trousers, he felt the breeze dance across his bare forearms, the coolness of the evening allowing him to comfortably wear just a polo shirt. Another cigarette was making its way to his lips when he heard the crack of a twig to his left. He stopped dead still, then slowly raised the torch, peering through the darkness of the trees and forcing his eyes to find something.
A figure moved.
Franklyn took a step back, but then, much to his surprise, raced forward.
‘Hey!’ he yelled, his voice bouncing off the trunks and ricocheting through the woods. He held the torch ahead, dipping between the trees that he raced past as fast as he could. After a minute or so, the recent effects of smoking began to creep into his stamina, his lungs battling the tar as he quickly ran out of breath. Stopping for a moment, he hunched over to gather himself, selfishly cramming as much as air as he could into his lungs. After a moment of recollection, he stood up, and shone the torch forward.
The mighty warrior stood before him.
Franklyn let out a small, shocked cry as he stumbled back, the light shimmering off the breast plate that adorned its broad chest. As the moment of shock subsided, clarity rested a comforting hand on Franklyn and caused him to turn back. The warrior stood proudly, arms behind its back, chin held high with pride.
It was the warrior from the BTCO.
Argyle.
In the clearing of the trees, Franklyn stepped forward, the moonlight only adding to the majesty of the creature. Argyle looked human, standing just under seven-foot-tall, and built like a pro-wrestler. His skin was dark, along with the black hair that he kept shorn almost to the scalp and the thin goatee that framed his mouth. His eyes stared into Franklyn’s, an attention-grabbing grey but lacking a pupil.
His arms looked sculpted out of clay, the muscles perfectly formed, and only slightly spoilt by a few scars, obviously worn with as much pride as Denham wore his eye patch. Strapped around his right wrist was a golden plate, the moonlight surfing across it. Just behind his head, Franklyn could see the hint of a handle and immediately thought back to that moment underneath the Shard, when he witnessed Argyle’s swordsmanship. If the same blade now lay across his spine, Franklyn would feel a lot safer. Argyle held Bermuda in his gaze, his lack of movement undoubtedly down to a rigid life spent as the warrior he clearly was. As the silence dared to stray into the awkward territory, Franklyn cleared his throat.
‘Hey, big Guy.’ He smiled as he took a step forward. ‘I’m Franklyn.’
‘Franklyn Jones.’ Argyle added. He then raised a gloved fist to his chest in salute. ‘I’m Argyle.’
‘You work for the BTCO right?’ Franklyn took another step forward, shedding his apprehension like a snake wriggling free from its skin. The armoured creature nodded.
‘I’m duty bound to the BTCO. Sworn to protect, this side, and the other.’
‘Two worlds.’ Franklyn offered.
‘One peace.’
Silence sat between the two of them, the difference in both their lives and their genetic makeup as vast as an ocean. Yet in the darkness, stood five feet from each other, a mutual respect swung back and forth like a pendulum. Franklyn extended his hand.
‘Nice to meet you, Argyle.’
Argyle cast an eye over the extended hand and ignored it. With a blank look spreading across his face, he turned to the darkness, taking a few steps towards the shadows. The mighty blade, with which Franklyn saw him handle with the grace of a swan, swung from the strap across his broad back.
‘This way.’
Bemused, Franklyn ventured into the darkness, unafraid of any potential human skinners he’d been so terrified of previously. With Argyle next to him, suddenly both worlds didn’t seem so scary. As he followed in silence, he returned to the reaction Denham had had when he saw Argyle, the sheer anger, and detest in his voice.
Why did Denham despise this soldier so much?
Who was Argyle really?
Lost in his thoughts, it took a gloved hand of Argyle pressed against his chest to stop him falling down the same ridge for the second time in one day. Flashing his new companion an appreciative grin, Franklyn glared down the hill into the dark, the feint whiteness of the bones gleaming back. The grounds were smeared with death, the images, and flashes of half mauled corpses began to take shape in the darkness, looming into view like a cheap horror film. With a gentle sigh, Franklyn stepped over the ridge, guiding himself down the slope via the aid of the thin trees that speckled the incline. At the bottom, he clicked on his torch and once again, the remnants of death burst clearly into the night. Despite the increasing urge to throw up, he held it together, the terror of this creature was offset by the sound of Argyle easily traversing the steep incline and walking behind him.
‘What do you see?’ Argyle asked, his eyes shooting in all directions, covering every possible attack.
‘At the risk of going all Sixth Sense on you, I see dead people.’ The blank expression told Franklyn that the reference didn’t land. ‘Never mind.’
Franklyn’s torch fell upon a pile of half-eaten bodies, their limbs ripped from the torso and the blood long since dripped dry. With a hand covering his mouth and nose, he took a few steps forward, refusing to look away, and willing himself to find anything that could help. The body nearest to them lay messily across the others, the skin of the torso peeled fresh like a satsuma and several teeth marks decorated the inside organs. The face was scraped almost clean, like a well sanded door frame. Both arms were missing.
‘I bet that hurt.’
Again, Argyle didn’t respond. Rolling his eyes, Franklyn took a closer look, squatting down next to the body and batting away the plethora of flies bouncing around the rotting carcass. The face, a slab of raw, pink meat, was missing a few sizable chunks, the jaw bone completely missing from what looked like a ferocious tug. Franklyn could only hope that the poor victim was dead before any of this could happen. Just as he was about to push himself up he stopped, his eyes flicking to the punctures behind the ear. Not teeth marks.
These looked surgical.
A hearing aid
perhaps?
Before he could piece anything together, the thudding sound of the earth shaking echoed through the feeding pit and Denham launched through the darkness and into the clearing. With the night sky slowly beginning to give way to the rising sun, Denham’s anger burst forth like an avalanche. Without even a word, the BTCO trainer slid both hands to the base of his spine, removing both curved swords, and instantly swinging them at Argyle’s throat.
Franklyn called for him to stop, but without flinching Argyle arched his back, the blade missing his throat by centimetres before his hand spun the blade from his spine and drew it in front of him. Denham swung both blades in quick succession, with Argyle masterfully deflecting both strikes, before stepping to the side and deflecting the next hit. Denham, lost in his rage, lunged forward, but Argyle blocked the intended blow with the metal band that clasped to his wrist.
‘Yield,’ Argyle demanded, which led to Denham launching a leaf shaking roar into the woods before planting his boot firmly into Argyle chest. Knocked off balance, Argyle spun on one knee, ducking one blade before leaping and spinning over the next. In an instant, Argyle returned the favour, booting Denham in the base of the spine and sending him tumbling forward.
‘Denham. Stop it.’ Franklyn called from the side lines, watching in a mixture of horror and awe at the two warriors battling to what he deduced could well be the death.
Leaping forward, Denham exploded with a number of swings of his blade with enough skill to carve a paper chain. But as he retreated, Argyle weaved between each deathly stroke like a champion boxer, before deflecting one blade with his bracelet and the next with his actual blade, before he spun behind Denham, and viciously kicked out the back of his knees.
The retired soldier fell to a kneeling position with a roar of anguish, before hastily reaching for his blades. Argyle swept them away with a boot before spinning his own blade in his hand and lunging forward.
Franklyn and Denham both braced themselves.
The blade stopped as the tip touched Denham’s leather like skin.
‘Yield.’
Denham stared into the eyes of his victor, before drawing up a load of phlegm and spitting it at his boots. Argyle’s stare was relentless, the blade as still as a statue. Franklyn watched in sheer amazement as the moonlight bounced off the steel. Franklyn took a step forward.
‘It’s really flattering, you guys fighting over me and all—’
‘Shut up.’ Denham commanded, stopping Franklyn in his place. With hatred burning from his eyes, he returned Argyle’s stare. ‘What the hell are you even doing here?’
The blade hung in the air still, the tip of it pushing against Denham’s thick skin. Franklyn felt a shiver run up his spine.
‘Hey, big guy, you wanna lower that sword?’
‘Not until he yields.’ Argyle spoke to Franklyn, but his eyes locked on Denham. Franklyn assuredly looked to his trainer.
‘Fuck you.’ Denham spat.
‘Oh, for Christ sake.’ Franklyn threw his arms up. ‘Just fucking yield.’
Before Denham could respond, a shuffling echoed from the darkness, closely followed by the tumbling of bones. As they clattered together, both Argyle and Denham snapped from their death stare to monitor the intrusion. Franklyn’s torch soon revealed a terrified rabbit, which scampered off into the unknown night.
Suddenly something jogged in his head.
The hearing aids. Something about them being useless.
The box being knocked to the ground.
Heads turning.
Franklyn could almost feel his brain tugging to light switch.
‘Fuck …’ His eyes flickered round at the corpses, the light racing over all of them until he found the corpse from earlier. The small, withered frame was only lightly decorated with flesh. The holes that punctured the side of the skull gave him all the confirmation he needed before he finished his cry of realisation ‘… me!’
‘What is it?’ Argyle asked, the blade still dangerously close to ending Denham’s life. The hulking trainer was on his knees, the fury rising off of him like steam from a kettle. Franklyn turned and quickly sighed.
‘Drop that sword, man.’
Argyle stepped back, expertly swinging the blade through the night sky, slicing the musky air in twain before resting it on his spine. Denham’s single eye registered him warily.
‘Denham, I know what happened. We gotta get to Ken.’ Franklyn turned and began jogging towards the edge of the feeding zone, throwing an irritated look over his shoulder. ‘Now, goddamn it!’
Franklyn burst through into the darkness, the beam of his torch swinging wild strikes of light against the trees. Argyle stepped forward, offering a hand to his defeated foe who instantly slapped it away. Denham rose to his feet, slightly shorter but almost twice the bulk of Argyle who stood respectfully to attention.
‘You need to follow him.’ Argyle protested.
‘Don’t you dare give me orders.’ Denham jabbed a meaty finger into Argyle’s breast plate. ‘I don’t know why the hell you’re out here and I don’t give a damn.’
‘I was ordered to protect—’
‘Shut up.’ Denham pulled rank. ‘Stay the fuck away from me and Bermuda.’
‘Bermuda?’ Argyle raised an eyebrow on his otherwise stoic face.
‘You just stay away from him.’ Denham turned to the direction that Franklyn’s light was slowly vanishing from. With a sneer, he shot one last look over his shoulder. ‘By the way, I would never yield to a murderous mistake like you.’
Argyle stood motionless in the moonlight, allowing his armour to deflect the insult. Denham shuffled through into the darkness, his massive frame cracking through the pitiful branches of the surrounding trees as he followed Franklyn into the darkness. Left with nothing but the moon stained bones and the rotting corpses, Argyle slowly made his own way into the darkness, as the sun slowly threatened to start a new day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Franklyn clicked off the torch at the first sign of the sun cutting through the trees, the birth of a new day basking the surrounding woods in an orange glow. Somewhere, he could hear the cries of the geese as they battled for the shreds of bread left by the early rising kids. Beyond the trees, towards the entertainment complex was a massive lake. Franklyn had seen the brochures of the families renting out paddling boats and hated them for their mockery.
He didn’t even know if his Chloe could swim.
As his pace slowed, and the recent addiction to nicotine began snatching at his breath, Franklyn reached out a hand and pressed it against the bark of the nearest tree. An ethereal fog ghosted around his ankles. Taking sharp, quick breaths to try to recompose, he cursed himself for his new-found habit, the need to push on growing like the mighty tree before him.
Loud, twig crunching footsteps bellowed behind him and he spun round, his face red, and craving oxygen. Denham smirked.
‘Man, you’re pathetic.’ He offered, in his usual, helpful manner.
‘Coming from the guy who was on his knees not too long ago.’ Franklyn uttered through broken gasps for air. Suddenly, Denham’s outstretched hand slapped against his spine, rocking his vertebrae like a sledgehammer. He shot forward, colliding with the tree, and dropping woozily onto one knee.
‘Sorry, I thought you needed some help there.’ Denham offered, clearly offended by Franklyn’s smart mouth and with the sincerity of a sneaky politician. Franklyn raised a hand to his cheek, the skin slightly raw from the collision with the bark, before he slowly pushed himself up and continued his journey. As his breath returned to normal, he decided to pick up the pace again, pushing on through the trees towards the tarmac path, stopping on the threshold to let a dad and his two kids whizz past on their bikes.
He muttered a silent curse of jealousy before continuing. Eventually, the chalets came into view, each one set back from the path to provide their own little world for its inhabitants. Families, stag dos, or a naughty weekend away, each property held its own sto
ry.
Franklyn slowed once again, his lungs gasping for life. Ignoring them completely, he lit a cigarette, feeling the poisonous smoke burn through his body as he walked across the gravel strewn car park. He turned and slowly made his way down the path towards Ken’s shack.
Denham thundered behind him, not saying a word about the earlier confrontation with Argyle. As they trudged down the pathway, Franklyn remembered the incredible way that Argyle had used his blade, swinging it like an extension of his own arm. Franklyn had been in awe of Denham for weeks, the sheer size, and prowess of the former soldier, but even he’d been powerless against Argyle.
Why was Argyle even there?
Before he could ask himself the question, Denham’s fingers landed on his shoulder and squeezed, locking him in place. Franklyn went to remonstrate in a lame attempt to continue their angry silence, but he stopped when he followed Denham’s one line of sight.
The door to Ken’s chalet had been ripped from the hinges.
Taking a nervous puff with shaking fingers, Franklyn slowly approached the wooden steps that lead to the front door.
Blood splattered across the porch.
‘I’m here with you.’ Denham offered, his words doing little to quench the fear that sat in his stomach like a heavy meal. With a nervous swallow, Franklyn took a few steps forward, lifting one foot onto the first step, the wood creaking beneath his weight. The flower pots Ken so proudly tended to now lay shattered across the wood, the soil spraying out like a pool of blood.
Franklyn then saw the pool of blood.
Reaching towards the front door like watery, red fingers, the blood was a richer, deeper colour than he’d expected. Due to a lifetime of comic books and horror films, he was certain that blood was bright red. Stretching out across the front room of the modest chalet towards the freedom of the woods, the shadow loomed across it, turning the blood almost jet black.
Franklyn could see the dead body of Ken Rowe.
Ascending the stairs and stopping at the doorway, he held a hand to his mouth in shock at the mutilated man before him. Ken’s eyes were thrown open, the remnants of the sheer terror he experienced tattooed to them. His mouth was sloppily open, his tongue rolled back to his throat. Evidence of blood that he’d coughed up was spattered across his chin and neck.
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 8
