'The one outside the station?' Bermuda asked. She nodded.
'When I reported it to the police they said they would look into it, but she is my best friend. I told them about the alleyway we sometimes cut through. It's just across the road there.' She motioned to the window with a flick of her head.
'I've been down there already.'
'What was all the commotion? I heard a lot of screaming.'
'Oh, nothing,' Bermuda replied dismissively, flashing a careful glance in Argyle's direction. 'Please continue.'
'That was it, really. They checked the CCTV and said they saw her go through, so she was off the bus.' Sophie began to well up again, the tissue returning to battle the army of tears escaping from her eyes. 'She was so close to home.'
As Sophie buried her face into the tissues once more, Bermuda slowly pushed himself off his chair and carefully made his way towards her. Perching on the edge of the coffee table, he reached out and took her hand. Their eyes locked, hers shimmering through the wetness with an unwilling beauty.
'I will find her,' Bermuda promised. She wiped her eyes.
'You don't look like a policeman.'
'I'm not.' He patted the top of her hand and stood up, throwing a glance at Argyle. He nodded for them to leave and the large warrior slowly began his journey to the door.
'What do you mean? You showed me your badge,' Sophie remarked, a tinge of paranoia creeping through her words.
'I'm something else.'
Bermuda stepped towards the door, his pathway blocked by the frightened resident as she leapt to her feet. He looked down at her, her delicate face lined with black streaks and her eyes decorated with confusion. Her voice reduced to a whisper, the strain of the day sapping her energy with every passing moment.
'I don't understand.'
'I work for a specialist agency. That's all you need to know.' He reached for his wallet, pulling it from the pocket of his jeans. 'I think something has happened to your friend that cannot be explained right now.'
'Like what? Oh god, do you think it's bad?' The tears returned, arching from the corner of her eyes and diving towards the soft carpet.
'I don't know. But I will find out.'
He gently reached out and rubbed her shoulder, offering her a warm smile. She looked down at his wrist, noticing the black etchings that emblazoned his skin. With his other hand, he removed a small card from his wallet, handing it to her.
'You call me if you need anything, okay?'
She nodded, looking at the card with an arched eyebrow.
'Bermuda? I thought your name was Franklyn.'
'It is. It's a dumb nickname that seems to have stuck.' He nodded a goodbye and made his way to the door, pulling it open with a turn of the handle. Unbeknownst to Sophie, Argyle ventured over the threshold first and Bermuda began to follow.
'Why do they call you that?' she called out. He stopped, turning to take in her beauty one last time.
'People go missing. And when they do, they call me.' They shared one last glance; he could see a blanket of reassurance start to gently wrap itself over her shoulders. She mustered a smile, the first genuine one since he had arrived. The beauty of her face sent a small flutter through Bermuda, reminding him that the world had denied him actual beauty and replaced it with a curse of darkness.
'Call me if you need to talk.'
'I will.' She looked down at the tightly grasped card and then back to him, her eyes reaching out with a desperate plea. 'Please find my friend?'
With a silent promise, Bermuda closed the door behind him, setting off with his partner to do just that.
'Two pints of Doombar, please.'
The barman nodded, flipping the pint glass in his hand before gripping the mighty pump, the thick ale calmly dribbling out into the glass. Bermuda grasped the ten-pound note in his hand, the coarseness rubbing against his skin. The day had been a long one; the case was clear, yet he had no leads apart from a bizarre twelve-sided shape in his notepad. The young woman was missing, deleted from the world without a trace.
He needed a beer.
The Royal Oak sat across Watford Heath, a small green surrounded by semi-detached houses, and was fairly busy. With many of the locals popping in for a pre-drink before commencing a heavier night in the town, the place was alive with conversation and laughter, all accompanied with quiet backing music. Bermuda had been regularly attending the pub since he moved to the area, appreciating the aesthetics of the building—hard wooden floors with smartly arranged tables and a low ceiling with large wooden beams running from wall to wall. The staff always had a smile, and the selection of drinks was always appealing.
The young barman placed the two pints in front of him at the bar and then returned a few coins as Bermuda paid him. Taking a sip from his own drink, Bermuda carried them both from the bar, back out the door to the benched area that ran alongside the quaint building. Sitting on the second bench was his best friend, Brett Archer, lighting a cigarette and gratefully accepting the beverage.
'Cheers, mate,' Brett said, taking a large swig of the dark brown ale. Bermuda nodded, taking the seat opposite on the wooden bench, and held his glass up.
'Cheers.'
They both sipped, taking in the rich flavours before setting them down on the table between them, the coarse wood having seen better days. Bermuda slipped a cigarette between his lips, lighting it with a flick of his lighter. Opposite him, Brett tied his long brown hair into a messy ponytail and smiling through his thick, dark beard.
'So, what's happening, BJ?' he asked, taking another swig.
'Don't call me BJ, man. I'd rather not be named after a blow job.'
'Fair enough.' Brett chuckled. 'So, why the beer? Shit day?'
'Long day. New case, and to be honest with you, mate, I haven't got a clue what is going on,' Bermuda responded, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration.
'You never do. But you always figure it out, right?'
Despite his friend’s positivity, Bermuda could only muster a small shrug before tipping half of his pint down his throat. They had been doing this for years, ever since they met at Derby University sixteen years ago, fresh-faced and with the world at their feet. Bermuda's studies were increasingly interrupted by his curse. It was near impossible to concentrate in a lecture when he could see that dark slithering beast wrapping itself around the lectern.
It was more difficult to make friends when people thought you were crazy. Everyone except Brett, who not only believed him but did his level best to understand.
An accomplished guitar player with a rasping singing voice, Brett was the lead vocalist in the thrash metal band Frozen Death Call, and after some moderate success in the early 2000s, he was struggling to hold onto past glories. With a solid following in Europe, he spent most of his time performing in non-glamorous towns in Hungary or Slovakia.
Bermuda envied him, however, seeing his genuine joy and love for what he did for a living. The freedom and enjoyment he got out of life.
He loved Brett, yet hated him at the same time.
With the glass almost emptied in front of him, Brett broke the silence and brought Bermuda back to the table.
'So wait, did you see Argyle today?'
Bermuda nodded.
'Awesome. How is he?' Brett asked enthusiastically.
'Same as ever. Pretty sure he was created without a sense of humour.' Bermuda finished his pint. 'Although he did lift a police car to buy me some time on the crime scene, which was pretty cool.'
'Hold on, he lifted a car? Like, off the ground?'
'Yep,' Bermuda confirmed.
'That man is a fucking legend,' Brett exclaimed before finishing the last of his pint. He pushed himself off the bench and disappeared through the low doorway into the pub. Before Bermuda could even light his next cigarette he had returned, two full pints in his grasp. The foam toppled over the rim and down his fingers as he placed them down, plonking himself opposite and stealing a cigarette from his friend.
>
'So, how's the band?' Bermuda asked, trying to take his mind off of the alleyway. The twelve-sided shape that made no sense.
The constant feeling of something dark, reaching out from somewhere darker.
'Not too bad, thanks.' The words accompanied a large cloud of smoke. 'Got a few gigs in Helsinki at the end of the month. You should come along. Might do you good.'
Bermuda stared at his fresh pint, his fingers dancing through the foam ring the pint glass had imprinted on wooden surface. He frayed the ring into sharp edges, recreating the bizarre symbol he had seen in the alleyway.
None of the words got through to him.
'You okay?' Brett asked, concerned as he stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray on the table, the glass graveyard for the recently smoked.
'Sorry man. Am a bit distracted.'
'The case?'
'Yeah. Some girl has gone missing and...I dunno...just doesn't seem to add up right now.' Bermuda looked at the symbol, the foam dribbling and blurring the crude shape that he had sloppily recreated from memory.
'Where did she go missing?' Brett asked, interested and slyly slipping another cigarette from Bermuda's box.
'Right by her house. I spoke with her flatmate. She was really scared.'
'Hot?' Brett asked, boyishly pumping out smoke rings.
'She was, actually. Not that it's important, but she was gorgeous. Why? What has that got to do with anything?'
Brett chuckled and took a long sip of his Doombar. 'Because it's about time you got yourself some action.'
Bermuda laughed, shaking his head at his inappropriate yet slightly accurate friend.
'It was hardly the time or the place. Plus, she would need to have some severe problems to see anything in a guy like me.'
'Hey now. You're not the worst-looking guy in the world. I mean, you're no Brett Archer...'
'Thank fuck for that.'
The two friends laughed, clinking their glasses together and letting the tension of the day slip away from them. A few more mouthfuls and Bermuda was back at the bar, handing over more money in the relieving race for inebriation. He returned merrily, the effects of the alcohol starting to lighten his mood, and he dropped into his seat, forgetting about the dark truth of the world he hated yet protected valiantly.
'Speaking of severe problems, guess who called me?' Brett asked, gratefully lifting his glass.
Bermuda shrugged.
'Angela.'
Bermuda suddenly felt his mood change. A sadness infiltrated his mind, taking control of him and shaking a cold flutter down his spine. He felt his heart jolt, a hard twinge of pain at the mention of his ex-wife.
Angela Bennett had been the love of his life. The moment he had looked into her dark green eyes he had lost himself. Her dark hair, cut into a short bob with a tinge of purple dye, framed a beautiful face that left him breathless. They were young, only twenty-two years old, yet she was the first person to ever make him forget about the Otherside. The only person to make him think completely about this world and the possibilities it held.
They married at the age of twenty-four, a quiet service at a wonderful country estate that provided the backdrop for the majority of his most precious memories.
Chloe arrived four years later.
Bermuda slowly lifted his hand, dabbing a small tear away from his eye. His friend looked at him with a heartfelt sympathy, knowing the struggle he had inflicted upon himself. Finally Bermuda spoke, his voice fractured with small echoes of heartbreak.
'What did she say?'
Brett waited, watching as his best friend reached for a cigarette with a shaking hand, the pain of the conversation turning the simple task difficult.
'She asked how you were. The usual.' He nervously looked at his friend, contemplating his words. 'She wants to meet you.'
Bermuda shook his head, pushing the smoke out before stubbing it out on the glass tray. Another one lit, he shook his head again.
'She said it's important.'
'No. I can't see her. I won't see her. It's not safe.'
'It's about Chloe.'
Bermuda looked him straight in the eyes, a fury burning from his own. Brett hated these conversations, knowing that mentioning her name was almost forbidden. Bermuda took a few moments of composure before lifting his glass and finishing the rest of his drink.
'Please call her and tell her I'll see her tomorrow. Tell her to come alone and not to mention it to anyone.'
Bermuda reached out and patted his best friend on the shoulder before pushing himself to his feet. Brett looked up at him with a concerned gaze, knowing the burden he had placed upon himself.
'You going to be okay, BJ?'
Bermuda steadied himself, slightly angered that three pints had begun to make the edges of his world fuzzy, replaced with a drunken incomprehension that usually visited a few more pints down the line.
'No. But when am I ever?'
Downtrodden, Bermuda turned and exited the benched forecourt of the Royal Oak, wandering aimlessly towards the large green that led towards the main road.
Brett sat back in his chair, his fist clenching in frustration for the suffering he had just brought to his best friend, cursing the fact he could do nothing to help him. He finished his beer, watching Bermuda disappear into the shadows that he constantly spoke of as being alive.
CHAPTER SIX
Bermuda felt the warmth of the sun as it fell on him, soaking up the rays like a blooming plant. Euston Station was one of the heartbeats of London, the hustle and bustle of everyday life marching past him with impatient steps. Young men and women danced through crowds of people, eager to get to work on time. Businessmen nonchalantly meandered through streams of tourists, tutting at the obstacle caused by those with a genuine interest in their surroundings. Students woozily went by, dragging their feet as if they were attached to a hangover, clinging on for dear life.
The normal, everyday routine of the human existence.
How he envied them.
With a jealous shake of the head, he lit a cigarette, the smoke delicately wafting upwards towards the blue sky before latching onto the larger cloud that hung above the smoking section. Commuters surrounded him, all nervously eyeing the timetable screen, many contemplating a final smoke before embarking on their journeys.
With eyes that yearned for more sleep, Bermuda looked around the forecourt of the station, the eateries bursting with the London inhabitants, shops almost busting at the seams with people demanding an early morning caffeine fix. He smirked, lifting his Pret-A-Manger cup and sipping the adequate coffee he had bought, surprised that it was still warm. In the shadows cast by the shop itself, he noticed an Other, latched against the wall with its head turned 180 degrees. Its skin, a faded brown, wrapped over its sharp skull, the ice-white eyes glaring at the people walking by.
Bermuda held his stare, burning it through the Other's subconscious till it turned round to face him. He could sense its instant fear, knowing full well the reputation he had among their kind. As if its entire body was made of liquid, it slowly began to slither around the side of the building, away from him and the horror stories that preceded him. Bermuda felt a duty to follow it, question its reasons for being here, but he couldn't muster the energy.
This was the place.
With perfect timing, his mind was brought back to reality when he heard her voice, her words creeping up behind him and slithering over his shoulders.
'Franklyn.'
He felt a shudder, as if a tiny ant raced down his spine. Leaning with his back against the bench table, he refused to turn, feeling the seat shake slightly as Angela Bennett settled onto it. His heart beat faster. He could hear her fumbling in her bag before speaking again.
'Thank you for meeting me.'
'I have told you, it isn't safe for you to be seen with me.'
He heard her sigh, one he had heard for years—a sigh that had become as regular as breathing. He could sense her eyes burrowing through him, revealing a
twinge of sympathy for the Other he had stared at moments before.
'Well, it is good to see you. Well, the back of your head, anyway.'
Bermuda chortled slightly, out of politeness.
'What do you want, Ange?' His words were strained; the pain of talking to the love of his life for the first time in months hung from each one like an unwanted tumour.
'I wanted to see you. Chloe misses you.' She noticed his head twitch with a grimace. 'I miss you.'
'Well it was your decision to leave me, so sadly, you don't get the right to miss me.' Bermuda took a few breaths, refusing to lose his temper and blow their cover.
'I left, Franklyn, because you were losing control. You were so transfixed with this other world that was stalking you. It was terrifying our Chloe. I didn't want to leave.'
'But you did, didn't you?' His words were accompanied with a soft cloud of second-hand smoke, which Angela fanned away with annoyance.
'Because you pushed us away.'
'I was trying to protect you.'
'From what?'
He couldn't answer. They were re-treading ground that had long since perished. He knew it sounded crazy. Not even the woman he had pledged to love and protect could believe him. The government, although since abolished by the BTCO, filed paperwork that certified him as insane. The easiest thing would be for the Otherside to stop hiding, to blow away the smoke and smash the mirrors and reveal itself to the world—the chance for him to tell the world a big fat 'I told you so'.
But he would never want those he cared about to see what he had to. To witness just how dark the real world is.
For that, for the sake of keeping them safe, he refused to answer. Angela, through sharp intakes of breath which told him she had broken, spoke to him.
'Your daughter sits at home, asking me why Daddy doesn't visit anymore. 'Where has Daddy gone?' 'Why does Daddy always seem sad?' What am I supposed to tell her?'
Bermuda shook his head, leaning forward and taking in more toxic smoke.
'Look. I tried to be the doting dad, but I can't be. Okay, I can't be. Not because I don't want to. There is nobody in this or any other world that I love more than you and Chloe, but I can't be that dad. The world won't let me.'
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 14
