None of the stolen were linked to the other.
None of the locations special or familiar.
Barnaby was bringing the end of the world at random.
The only thing Bermuda was sure of was he was nearly done. The strength the Other mustered to send him through that wall was unnerving. Eleven people already, and with the two-day grace period almost up, Bermuda was staring at the ceiling, trying to make peace with his failure.
On his chest lay the photo of Chloe. His cherished possession.
She would be asleep by now. Tucked up in her bed, probably surrounded by her dolls and her teddy bears. He wondered if she had a favourite, one that she wouldn't put down or give up, even when newer ones arrived.
Angela and Ian would say goodnight, the adoring parents that he wished he could have been.
She wouldn't know. The world would just end and she would know no different.
No one would.
Except him.
He could almost feel the darkness washing over the world, a tidal wave of destruction that would rip it apart without it realising.
Ring. Ring.
Bermuda startled, sitting up and dropping ash all over his chest. He scraped it off, tutting as he rescued the photo, carefully placing it on the side table.
It was Sophie.
His head dropped. Just his luck, considering what had happened throughout his life, that he would finally meet a girl he was actually crazy about a few hours before the world would be destroyed.
He couldn't bring himself to answer it, letting it ring out until it hit his voice mail. Hopefully she would leave a message; the sound of her voice would be comforting right now.
Easing himself off the sofa, Bermuda clutched his shattered side, the ribs aching as the strains of the battle began to take their toll. He could still barely see out of his eye, the swelling reducing but not vacating. With calm, measured steps, he ventured into the kitchen, retrieving a Doombar and cracking it open.
His office was a mess.
His desk was a battlefield, with beer cans and sheets of paper battling for supremacy. An ashtray overflowed, with dead cigarettes littering the edge of the desk and surrounding carpet. The wall itself was beginning to look like a scene from a detective show, with photos and string connecting them. All of it adding up to absolutely nothing.
Bermuda dropped down onto his desk chair, his momentum knocking a few sheets of paper to the floor.
'For fuck’s sake,' he muttered, ignoring the mess and fishing another cigarette from his pocket. He sparked it into life and then caught a glimpse of himself in the window.
He looked haggard and beaten.
He raised his can.
'To the end of the world.' He toasted to himself, slowly shaking his head as he finished off the ale.
Ring. Ring.
Bermuda's phone vibrated against his thigh again, Sophie obviously eager to speak to him. Maybe he should just answer, invite her over, and accept the apocalypse in the arms of the most beautiful woman he had met.
He slid the phone from his pocket.
It was his sister, Charlotte.
He silently cursed, realising he forgot to return her call from the other night. With a heavy sigh, he clicked accept.
'Wow, I didn't expect you to answer.' Charlotte's voice held genuine surprise.
'Sorry, Charles. I'm kinda busy,' he lied, slowly pushing himself out of his chair and back to the kitchen for another can.
'Off saving the world?'
'Something like that.' He thought he should tell her, the end of existence that he was too simple to stop.
'Well, how are you? It's been a while.'
Bermuda caught another glimpse of his reflection, the battered mess that compiled his face gleaming off the window.
'I'm okay. Had a rough week or so with work. Got attacked by a wild beast on the Cutty Sark.'
'THAT WAS YOU?' Charlotte exclaimed, then chuckled. 'I saw it on the news. They bumped up the terror threat because of you.'
'To be fair, that's not the worst thing I have ever done.'
It was nice to hear his sister laugh. Along with Brett, she was the only other person not to give up on him. He cracked open a can and slowly walked to his living room, the stale odour of smoke in the air.
'How's George?' he asked, wishing for a day when he could meet his nephew.
'He's good. Big. Keeps telling me he wants pizza.' They chuckled. 'Even when he is in the bath. He wants pizza.'
'Such a strange child.'
'Yeah. Mum came by the other day.'
'Yeah?' Bermuda couldn't hide his disappointment.
'She is doing well. She's sixty days clean now, Frankie. She is really trying.'
Bermuda gritted his teeth, swallowing any words that would ruin the call. All he remembered was her drinking—incoherent babbling about a father who was a waste of space and angry tears of how the world let her down.
The yelling and shouting.
The beatings.
'There are no such thing as monsters,' she used to scream as a terrified Bermuda hid from her.
'She asked about you.'
'I'm glad she is well.'
Charlotte knew that was the end of that conversation and she hesitated. Bermuda could sense the dread.
'Angela called me.'
He swung a fist at the wall, his head dropping in sadness.
'She said she saw you last week.'
'Yeah, she did.'
'She was worried.'
Bermuda remained silent.
'For God’s sake, Frankie, do you ever want to see your daughter again?'
'Of course I do,' Bermuda snapped. 'All I have done, every year I have stayed away, I did for their safety. Do you think it doesn't kill me, knowing someone else is raising my baby girl? Getting to tuck her in at night. Drive her to ballet. It kills me every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep.'
'Then change it. Be a part of her life,' Charlotte pleaded, her voice cracking with sadness.
'I can't. As long as I exist in that world, I cannot exist in this one.'
Bermuda rubbed his eyes with his fingers, begging himself not to cry. If the world only had a few more hours left, he didn't want to spend it haunted by the family he had to leave.
The life he never got to have.
'That girl needs her father.'
'She needs me to stay away from her.'
'You're missing the point!' Charlotte angrily growled. 'God, you can be such an arsehole at times!'
Bermuda lifted his head. A look of realisation spread across his swollen, battle-hardened face.
'What did you just say?'
'I said you can be an arsehole at times.'
'I know that. No, before?'
Bermuda slowly turned, looking towards his office.
'I said you are missing the point.'
'I gotta go.'
Bermuda hung up and dropped the phone, his eyes fixated on his office. Ignoring the pain that roared from his broken body, he shuffled quickly through the door and into the office. He frantically searched for a marker pen, sending random sheets and a number of beer cans hurtling to the ground.
Snatching a black marker pen he stormed the notice board, slamming it against the large map of London, and began to draw. With each line, his shoulders slumped.
He stared open-mouthed as he drew the final line.
He dropped the marker pen and stepped back, his eyes wide and pushing a tear down a face that was open-mouthed. He slowly shook his head.
He was so focused on the twelve sides.
He ignored the points of connection.
Twelve points.
In front of him, the map now showed him everything he needed to know. Following the crude sketch of the Gate-Maker symbol, he had systematically connected all of the eleven locations where Barnaby had stolen his selected.
It was never the people.
Running his hands through his hair in disbelief, he slowly
approached the board, pushing through the agony as he bent down to collect the marker.
He connected the final two lines.
The final convergence.
Big Ben.
That was where Barnaby would do it. The final place.
'Gotcha,' Bermuda allowed himself, tapping the landmark with his finger before heading to his bedroom. With great care he eased off his T-shirt, swapping it for a fresh one. Jeans and shoes followed, along with the long black jacket.
He pushed his hair to the side and then collected his badge and car keys from the unit. Carefully, he opened the locked box on his dresser, the resting place of his trusty tomahawk.
Phone?
Remembering, he quickly raced to the front room, retrieving it from the un-hoovered carpet. He noticed he had a voicemail. As he marched to the door he played it, lifting it to his ear.
'Hey. It's Soph. Sorry, I just got a little panicked is all. I guess when you hear all those stories and whatnot, you think anything and everything is after you.'
He chuckled, closing the front door behind him and locking it.
'Anyways, I just heard a rattle against my window and went into some blind panic. I'm okay. Honest.'
Suddenly, the shattering of glass could be heard, causing Bermuda to stop, his eyes widening with fear. Sophie screamed before being instantly silenced, the slow crunch of boot on glass.
Bermuda's face scrunched into a determined snarl.
He could hear the phone being lifted, someone holding it as his message came to a terrifying close.
The voice of Barnaby.
'Keep up, Bermuda.'
Bermuda raced to his car.
'Keep up.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The black Honda Civic roared down the dual carriageway, weaving in amongst the traffic. Behind the wheel, Bermuda flicked through his phone, keeping one eye on the road ahead. The spring evening had taken a turn for the worst, a shower of rain falling down and covering his windscreen in wet freckles.
Bermuda lifted the phone to his ear, shifting gear with the other hand before gripping the wheel again, the car bursting around the car in front.
'Come on. Come on.'
His mind was racing.
Barnaby had Sophie. The one thing he had strived to do ever since he had joined the BTCO was to keep those he cared about safe. For three years, he hadn't seen his daughter.
Now, within a week of meeting him, Sophie was about to be stolen, pushed through to the Otherside, and bound for an eternity of emptiness.
Well done, Bermuda.
Finally, the call connected.
'Hello and welcome to Denderman Co. Please state your four-digit code to proceed.'
Bermuda rolled his eyes.
'This is Agent Jones. I have located Barnaby.'
'Please state your four-digit code to proceed.' The voice was friendly and female.
'For fuck’s sake, lady. I don't have the code. Just tell Ottoway that I know where Barnaby is. I'm heading to Big Ben and I need you to send Argyle.'
'I'm sorry. Please stated your—‘
'Just tell Argyle to meet me at Big Ben. Get him to do whatever it is he does to get there.' He hung up the phone, throwing it into the passenger seat. 'For fuck’s sake.'
Bermuda pushed his foot down, the engine of his car straining as it whipped through the wet night, heading as fast as it could towards London.
Hugo was half asleep in his car when Marco nudged him, directing his gaze towards the building. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Hugo peered out, watching as Bermuda shuffled as fast as he could towards his car, the phone pressed against his ear.
A sense of urgency hung in the air.
He dropped into the driver’s seat, the lights bursting and revealing the rain. The engine erupted, and within seconds, Bermuda spun a turn in the road and shot off.
'Here we go.' Hugo smirked, his Porsche waking from its slumber at the turn of a key, and within moments he was following Bermuda, eager to see where they were heading.
Rain had started to fall over London, the drops crashing against the side of the grand clock tower that thrusted up towards the grey clouds. The clock face was an explosion of light and time; the iconic face of the Big Ben clock was fast approaching midnight.
Around the tower, the immaculate grounds were separated from the public by large cast-iron gates. Over ten feet tall and immovable, the thick black gate kept the public a safe distance from the pristine and hallowed grounds that surrounded the magnificent structure.
A stone’s throw away was the House of Parliament, a building usually swarming with smart-suited politicians, each one with a false smile and a hidden agenda. A cage for the snakes of the country.
The striking architecture that engulfed the city was lit up, stunningly painting the skyline with their majesty. The rain splashed against it, covering the glorious buildings with a shimmer.
Barnaby gazed out through the magnificent face of the clock, stood behind the symbol of time that rang true throughout this world. His black eyes gazed over the city before him, his revulsion of the human race resurfacing as he spied a few of them walking through the pristine area.
Soon they would bow to him.
Soon they would be erased.
A new order would soon reign true, all under his watchful eye. The disease known as humanity would be vaccinated, the world passed to those who truly deserve it.
With a flash of his jagged teeth he smiled, his gaze from the hundred-and-fifty-six-year-old building transfixed below.
Behind him, Sophie lay motionless on the ground. Her unconsciousness had lasted since her abduction; she would feel no pain as she was passed through.
She would become his.
The only pain would be for Bermuda when he witnessed her being stripped from this world.
Over three hundred feet below, a couple of pathetic Others were waiting, the preparation for Bermuda's arrival almost complete. The useless creatures had strapped all but one of his stolen to the wall. Ten of them hung from their wrists, unmoving and unaware.
Empty vessels.
In the middle, Barnaby had selected the one that had caused Bermuda to play. The one that meant something to his beloved Sophie.
Jessica Lambert.
She would be paraded before him and then slaughtered.
It was just a matter of waiting.
Time was slowly becoming a commodity that Bermuda was running out of.
Bermuda eventually brought his car to screeching stop on the side of the street, the inevitable parking ticket not worth worrying about. Launching himself out of it and into the rain, he quickly shuffled down Westminster Bridge, the large tower of Big Ben cutting through the night sky.
The Thames crashed below him, the rain and wind picking up and causing waves to lap against the embankment, the chill of London whipping through on the wind.
Bermuda continued on, his eyes scanning the area, looking for any clue that he was correct. That Barnaby was there. As he got closer, he tried to peer beyond the thick metal fence that surrounded the magnificent clock tower, but darkness scuppered him.
After a few minutes, he arrived at the grounds, his ribs aching as he tried his best to peer through.
The darkness gave way to a blurred view, a few lights illuminating small sections of neatly cut grass and thick stone wall.
Nothing of any substance.
'We need a closer look.'
Bermuda had never been more grateful to hear Argyle's voice. He turned, nodding his appreciation.
'If I am right, then this is it,' Bermuda said wearily. 'We have to stop him, no matter what.'
'My duty is to protect you and the people of this world. You have my sword and my word.'
Bermuda patted him on the arm before looking for a way through the fence. A group of girls walked past, giggling as he smiled at them, pretending he was nothing more than an eager tourist. Once they rounded the corner towards the House of Parliament, Bermuda moved t
owards the gate.
Padlocked.
With a forceful shove, Bermuda leant into the gate but it barely budged,
Maybe he was wrong?
He gazed up at the bright yellow face of Big Ben, the bright light covering the rain in a vast glow, revealing it to the world. There was no way of knowing for sure.
The screech of twisted metal broke the silence, cutting through his ears like nails down a chalkboard. Turning in confusion, Bermuda shook his head in disbelief.
'Let's go,' Argyle firmly said, stepping through the twisted bars, which he had bent to the side. The sheer strength of his partner was baffling to Bermuda at times. Thick iron bars, twisted and pushed like they were made of putty.
'How strong are you?' Bermuda asked, lightening the situation as they walked onto the wet grass that surrounded Big Ben, taking measured steps through the darkness towards the giant wooden doors that led inside.
As they walked a few feet, Argyle stopped, protectively putting an arm across Bermuda, his head tilted, listening for clues in the downpour.
'What is it?' Bermuda asked, a hand instinctively reaching towards his tomahawk.
Suddenly, a blur leapt from the darkness, its small clawed feet pushing against Argyle before launching back into the shadow.
Off balance, Argyle stumbled back. Bermuda turned but was instantly knocked off his feet, a slithery spine colliding with his broken ribs and sending him crashing across the grass.
Argyle flicked back onto his feet with extreme agility, his legs bent and ready for action as the dark blur raced around the shadows that framed them.
'Are you okay?’ he called, scanning the edges of the darkness as Bermuda slowly pushed himself to his knees.
'I've been better.' He pushed himself to his feet. 'What was that?'
Before Argyle could respond, he launched, hauling Bermuda to the ground as the slithery shadow leapt forward again, missing them by a matter of inches. The rain pelted down on them as they hit the ground, mud smearing up Bermuda's jacket.
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 30
