Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  ‘What on earth are you smoking?’ Vincent coughed, his long-fingered hand balled in a fist.

  ‘This?’ Bermuda waved his e-cig lazily. ‘It’s my electric cigarette.’

  ‘Electric? You humans will smoke anything.’

  Before an amused Bermuda could respond, Ottoway cut back in. His wrinkled face was calm, betrayed by the sternness of his voice.

  ‘We appreciate you apprehending the feral Other last night. However, there is a chain of command that has provided the backbone of this organisation for years – long before either one of us was even a twinkle in our father’s eye.’

  Bermuda rolled his eyes, angered by the reminder of his deadbeat father.

  ‘Let us not forget our manners. In other words—’

  ‘In other words, watch your mouth,’ Black cut in, his eyes burning a hole through Bermuda, who was slowly easing himself into his jeans. ‘I am growing tired of your complete disregard to your duty.’

  Wincing through the pain barrier as he slowly buttoned his jeans, Bermuda turned to the antagonistic senior.

  ‘Please enlighten me.’ He took a drag on his e-cig, an impressive cloud of smoke carrying his words. ‘Did I not just stop that thing? Where is Argyle? He can vouch for—’

  ‘Argyle is resting,’ Vincent cut in, his words curt and to the point.

  ‘Well anyways, this world should be thanking me. Not sending in Chuckles over here to yell at me while my head is ringing.’

  ‘The world isn’t ready for the truth.’ Black spoke, not looking at Bermuda nor acknowledging the insult. ‘This world lives in a blissful naivety that we maintain through our diligent work and our honour of the truce. The Otherside has been responsible for some of the greatest scientific breakthroughs mankind has laid claim to. With their help, Vincent is close to synthesising a cancer suppression.’

  Ottoway shifted uncomfortably as Black continued.

  ‘The world needs us to keep the gate open and I WILL NOT allow your incessant disregard to threaten the progression of humanity.’

  Bermuda sighed as he took a seat on the edge of the bed again, his own shirt resting in his hands. Pain slowly slithered around his body like a serpent.

  ‘I was doing my damn job,’ Bermuda muttered, slowly peeling off the bloodstained white T-shirt, revealing his toned, ink-covered body. Perfectly scribed words scrawled across his abs, the only blemish the three large scars that ran along his chest, a memento from a behemoth Other who introduced him to the roof of the Cutty Sark six months prior.

  Black continued, his rage drawing forth a large vein on his forehead and heavier twang to his Scottish accent. ‘Your job is to be covert. Not destroy half the city. There is video footage of cars flying through buses already on the Internet.’ Black shook his head. ‘For Christ’s sake, you destroyed half of the Apollo!’

  ‘Technically, I didn’t. The giant killing machine … that destroyed the building.’

  ‘The Cutty Sark? Do you remember blowing two holes in that ship?’

  ‘Again, that was more a “they hit me through the ship” kind of thing.’ Bermuda pulled his Tic Tacs out of his jeans pocket, popping a couple into his mouth. His mind shot back to that horrifying night on the famous ship, the giant monster that slammed him through the roof, scarring his chest and almost devouring him. At that moment, he remembered just how grateful he was to have Argyle, the one person who realised just what saving the world really took.

  ‘You blew out one side of Big Ben!’ Black, heavily animated, had begun to pace.

  Vincent approached Bermuda with a sling, carefully helping him into position to reset his collar bone.

  ‘While saving the world,’ Bermuda retorted, looking at the two senior figures before him. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’

  ‘At what cost?’ Black’s words hit Bermuda like a sucker punch.

  The cost had been huge, and Bermuda cursed himself for the daily blame game he played with himself. Hugo LaPone, as handsome as he was irritating, was the envious agent who had lost his life that night. When the Otherside’s worst terrorist, Barnaby, was merely minutes away from ending the world, Hugo had met his demise. Not a day went by that Bermuda didn’t blame himself, trying to absolve his guilt in pint after pint of Doom Bar.

  Black’s compassion was as empty as those pint glasses. ‘Then there was the Hamley’s incident.’

  ‘Hamley’s?’ Ottoway questioned, a thick grey eyebrow raised at the mention of the famous toy store.

  ‘An Other threw him through the front window of the store after he drunkenly challenged it to a fistfight.’ Black sneered, and both senior figures and the ancient Other turned and looked at Bermuda, a cloud of cherry fumes surrounding him.

  ‘Okay, that one was my bad.’

  Ottoway shook his head, turning on his heel and slowly walking through the door, disappointment following him like a tail. Bermuda cursed himself, surprised at how genuine his anger was to have let down the one person who believed in him.

  Black stepped back into his eye line, his eyes glaring behind his glasses. ‘You are nothing more than a liability. Ottoway, he believes you are important. That is why he assigned you Argyle and why he has destroyed his own reputation to keep you in the field.’

  Bermuda looked up, his eyebrows raised with surprise.

  ‘You claimed you could be the balance, Bermuda. Yet you can’t even keep yourself in line.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Vincent spoke up, gliding from the corner of the room, his long, grey fingers interlocked in front of him, the black gown he always wore giving him the grandeur of a wizard.

  Black’s face contorted into a snarl. ‘I will tell you when it’s enough.’

  ‘He is my patient, and he needs to rest.’ Vincent flashed a reassuring look at Bermuda. ‘Besides, you need him ready to leave by tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait. Leave?’ Bermuda shot glances at both men as a sinister smile slowly took control of Black’s face.

  ‘Yes. We have a new case for you.’

  Bermuda took a long, hard puff on his e-cig, the liquid bubbling loudly before an avalanche of thick white smoke snaked from his mouth. ‘Fan-fucking-tastic.’

  ‘Aye. Vincent will fill you in. But wrap up warm – Glasgow gets quite chilly this time of year.’ Black said with a wry smile. The reaction was as expected.

  ‘Glasgow? What the fuck?’

  Bermuda spun round, searching Vincent’s face for any signs of help. There were none – just the cold, recognisable stare of something not of this world.

  ‘There has been a report of a murder. A young woman, found on her bed with a hole in her chest. Her heart has been removed and is missing. Once you have rested, I will take you to the Oracles to extract what I can.’

  Bermuda shook his head in anger, a trip to the information hub of the BTCO doing little to appease him. Black, taking a sickening pleasure in Bermuda’s angst, stepped forward.

  Bermuda angrily addressed him. ‘Wait, what happened to the agent covering Scotland? Johnson or Jensen, whatever his name is.’

  ‘He is on vacation,’ Black stated, his words cutting and unsympathetic.

  ‘Wait, since when the hell did we start getting vacation?’

  ‘When you stop destroying London landmarks. Besides, they specifically asked for you,’ Black retorted, enjoying his victory over the troublesome agent. ‘Give my regards to the motherland.’

  ‘Give my regards to your wife.’ Bermuda winked back, staring directly into the eyes of his adversary. Black was a powerful man and Bermuda knew drawing his ire was a mistake. But considering how badly his curse had destroyed key parts of his life, he wasn’t going to let an old man with outdated ideals belittle him for using it to save people. He was starting to accept it, slowly embracing the life he was forced to lead.

  Black chuckled to himself before turning and making his exit.

  Bermuda called out one last time. ‘What time is my flight?’

  Black stopped, turning his head slightly, his
wrinkles doubling as he smiled, his thick Scottish accent escaping through his rotten false teeth. ‘You can get the train.’

  The door slammed, shaking the room and encouraging Bermuda’s headache to worsen. Bermuda flashed a glance towards Vincent before catching a glimpse of his battered and bruised face.

  ‘Terrific.’ He sighed, wondering how life was going to take an even bigger shit in his cereal.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Argyle sat in his designated room within the BTCO headquarters, the blank white walls surrounding him. Above him, a halogen bulb hummed gently, basking his minimal possessions in its manmade glow. His bed was well-made, the white sheet and pillow untouched and evident of a sleepless night.

  To the left, a small white desk was dominated by a metal stand on which his mighty blade rested – the same blade that had killed Barnaby, saving the world on that rain-soaked evening atop Big Ben.

  The same sword that had saved Bermuda’s life countless times.

  He stood, his powerful body motionless as he stared at his armour hanging from its designated hooks on the wall. The lacerations across his dark skin had closed, his alien genetics healing him within hours. The arm which had been wrenched from its socket, now rested comfortably over the other as he crossed them.

  The Retriever lay beside the sword, ready to be launched at a moment’s notice.

  All Argyle could think of was his partner. Was he okay? Their plummet from the bridge had been a momentous one, the car crushing like a Coke can on impact. He had heard him breathing and even heard a trademark quip to the officers that surrounded the car.

  But now he was alone, trapped in a room with superiors that wanted him gone. Mr Black had made his feelings for Bermuda clear and it was only the honourable Ottoway who kept him at arm’s length.

  Soon Ottoway would be gone, his health declining by the day. Then, Bermuda would need more than Argyle’s sword to protect him.

  He shook his head; letting Bermuda be ostracised by Black as a power play was not going to happen. Bermuda had given something to Argyle that no creature, on this side or the other, ever had.

  Friendship.

  Bermuda had not only welcomed Argyle into his life, he saw him as the only positive of the gift he was slowly starting to accept. And despite his constant attempts at humour – which were never funny, Argyle found endearing – Bermuda was the most honourable of all the humans Argyle had met. He had walked two worlds, and no other inhabitant possessed the strength or integrity of Bermuda.

  Even if he didn’t know it himself.

  He slowly opened his grey, pupilless eyes, and they latched onto the shimmering blade before him. With a powerful hand, he snatched it from its resting place, slicing it through the air as he began another bout of training.

  With every cut of the air before him, Argyle hoped that his partner would be okay.

  Bermuda shuffled uncomfortably down the corridor, his footsteps irregular as he struggled to keep up with Vincent, the regal Neither gliding before him. His movements were so smooth, Bermuda questioned whether he had feet under the long, dark gown he wore. The glow of the lights cut through his brain like a razorblade, the effects of colliding with his steering wheel hitting him with a painful reminder.

  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 f
our 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.