‘Think of it as a get well soon gift.’
Bermuda scoffed at the remark, slowly unravelling the grey material with one hand. As it fell to the floor, Denham unfolded and flapped open a brand-new coat, the thick, dark grey material crisp and pressed.
Bermuda let out a whistle of admiration. ‘Now that’s a nice-looking coat.’ He beamed at Denham. ‘Didn’t know you were secret haberdasher.’
‘Sword, needle … it’s all the same.’
Bermuda chuckled at the boast, knowing full well that Denham was one of the most fearsome soldiers that belonged to the Over Watch, a sort of army of knights that policed the Otherside. Argyle was also a former soldier that much Bermuda knew; however, he never spoke of what Bermuda could tell were harrowing experiences.
‘Well thanks. Speaking of swords when can I have mine back?’ Bermuda asked, his frustration apparent.
‘You do not possess a sword,’ Vincent responded curtly. ‘You were entrusted with a tomahawk of great value and rarity and Mr Black feels that until you prove yourself responsible—’
‘Whatever,’ Bermuda cut him off, shaking his head at the suspension of his weapon privileges. Besides, he still had Argyle, and, as he admired it, a new coat.
‘It is for your protection,’ Vincent informed, pointing to the inside of the jacket with a long, bony finger. ‘The inside is lined with Argiln, the very same material that we build our armour from.’
‘Hmmm,’ Bermuda murmured, remembering the material shattering when he was slammed through a wall by Barnaby all those months ago.
‘It’s re-enforced,’ Vincent reassured him. ‘Denham has done an exemplary job in fitting it between the lining of the jacket, ensuring that your actual body will have no physical contact with it.’
‘So that way, you won’t keep turning into one of us.’
Bermuda flashed Denham a stern glance, his anger outweighing his fear. He relaxed upon seeing his colleague’s pearly white smile. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘Maybe it will do what Argyle seems incapable of and keep you safe.’ Denham spoke, refolding the grey blanket over his rippling forearm.
‘Argyle has saved my life more times than I can count. Show some damn respect.’
Denham’s one, pupilless grey eye glared at Bermuda, his hatred for Argyle a mystery that seemed to be held by the entirety of the Otherside.
Vincent, once again, cut through the tension with a measure of calm. ‘Thank you, Denham. That will be all.’
With a cocky salute, Denham turned and headed back towards the mighty iron doors of the Archive, his booming voice bouncing off the walls like a ping-pong ball. ‘Let me know if there are any problems with the coat.’
Bermuda and Vincent stood in silence, listening to the regimented stride of Denham echoing off the marble floor of the Archive. With a mighty clang of metal, the large doors slammed behind him, leaving Bermuda stood by the desk, his hands clutching the protective coat in question.
‘It’s not black!’ he muttered, quietly enough that no one could hear the ridiculous complaint. The BTCO had just offered even more protection, yet he couldn’t see beyond the gesture.
They were sending him to Glasgow.
A wild goose chase over a bizarre murder.
With a shake of his Tic Tac box, Bermuda made his way to the door, the manila folder and a new Otherside-infused jacket under his arm and a scowl on his face that would scare Satan himself.
‘Where are you going, Jones?’ Vincent called after him, his voice dancing carefully between a whisper and a murmur. ‘You are needed there as soon as possible.’
Without looking back, Bermuda responded, his voice almost as broken as his body. ‘I need to make a call’
The iron door slammed behind him, locking away the heartbeat of the BTCO once again.
CHAPTER SIX
Bermuda’s forehead pressed against the large, clear windows that lined the Virgin Train, the Midlands whipping by his window at breakneck speed. The train, a Pendalino, was designed to take corners at an angle, the entire carriage feeling like it was sliding off the tracks.
Every time it made Bermuda feel a little sick.
He exhaled loudly, a few gentlemen scowling in his direction across the aisle. Sat around a dingy plastic table, their fingers clicked over laptop keyboards while they spouted nonsense about ‘blue-sky thinking’ and ‘deep-diving analysis’. Bermuda looked at their suits, the ties clasped around their necks. Turn them the other way around and they became nooses.
He looked down at himself. His grey T-shirt clung to his well-toned frame, his heavily tattooed forearms bore the words of incantations wrapped around mystic symbols. He couldn’t explain what they meant, just that Argyle had advised him on what would keep the monsters at bay.
The religious held up crucifixes to keep the devil from the door.
He just had them burnt into his skin.
The chair in front of him shook slightly, the portly gentleman grunting as he slept. Bermuda’s drink, a warm can of Carlsberg sold at an extortionate price on board, shook on the flimsy table that hung from the back of it. He let another sigh, trying his best to relive the words of encouragement Ottoway had given him, trying to recreate the sense of purpose he felt then.
He was the balance. Humanity’s best hope of maintaining the truce and marshalling the merging of the two worlds. He had power beyond any human. He could see the truth, what existed behind the curtain and what the naïve could only comprehend as a fairy tale.
He was, in effect, the most powerful human being on the planet.
The balance.
Now that was a job that came with pressure.
Bermuda took a swig of warm alcohol, coughing a small choke as the warm liquor sloshed the back of his throat. As it swirled down to the pit of his stomach, it rubbed shoulders with the fresh batch of guilt that he’d cooked up before his train had departed.
He closed his eyes and thought back to earlier that afternoon.
Bermuda sat on the uncomfortable plastic chair, gently testing the swivel feature as he waited. The photo booth was cramped, the walls lit up like light boards, the screen ahead repeating an advert of a young girl taking her passport picture incorrectly. The curtain had been pulled to, shutting out the busy world of Euston Station.
He had called Angela as he had left the Shard, the November lunchtime hammering a cold shower over the landmark heavy skyline of London. It had been years since he had said goodbye to her, her eyes heavy with tears as they carted him off to his cell, the world agreeing with her that he was mentally unstable.
Unfit to be a husband.
Too dangerous to be a father.
As the years had passed, she had stayed on the fringes of his life, communicating with his sister Charlotte and ensuring he was updated as Chloe grew up idolising her stepfather. Ian was a good man, a great husband, and a wonderful father figure. He had even been polite the few times Bermuda had called, even humoured him when he spoke of the monsters in the shadow.
An all-round nice guy.
A real son of a bitch!
Despite his seething envy, he couldn’t hate the man, especially after everything he did for his daughter. Bermuda had a suspicion that Ian had encouraged the recent bridge that Angela was building with him, a slow pathway back to having a relationship with his daughter.
She was even adhering to his requests that he meet Chloe in secluded locations, the small photo booth outside the security barriers being the latest meeting place. His Converse trainers rested on his overnight bag, a few shirts and underwear crammed in for an undetermined stay in the freezing North. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the guilt.
Sure enough, two sets of feet appeared on the other side of the curtain, one of them considerably smaller than the other. Before he could move, his heart melted as the blue-eyed, blond-haired face of his daughter poked through the curtain, a gap in her smile where the Tooth Fairy had visited.
‘Hi, Daddy!’ Her voice w
as trimmed with excitement.
‘Hey, Kitten.’
She smiled again, scrambling into the booth, her little feet trampling over his belongings.
‘How you doing?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Yeah? You behaving?’
She nodded, her piercing eyes darting around the booth, the bright lights dazzling her.
‘How’s school?’
‘It’s okay.’ She looked up at him, her eyes rendering him powerless. ‘Mummy said you can’t come to my birthday?’
There it was: the guilt, bubbling up inside his stomach and uppercutting his heart. He tried to maintain his composure, refusing to divert his gaze from hers. The puppy dog eyes made his heart wince again.
‘I have to go away, Kitten.’ He stroked her hair from her eyes, the corners slowly building up with tears. ‘But I’ll tell you what. When I get back, we will go and have the biggest bowl of ice cream EVER!’
‘Really?’ The hope clawed at his chest, her love-filled words yanking on his heartstrings like an acoustic guitar.
‘I promise.’ He extended his little finger, which she hooked onto with her own. ‘And I will call you first thing on your birthday and sing you a brand-new birthday song!’
She smiled at him before reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck. He held her close to him, embracing the fruity smell of her blond hair, the fluffy trim of her coat hood tickling his nose.
‘You be good for your mum, okay?’
Chloe nodded and then slowly backed out of the booth, her gloved hand wrapping around her mother’s.
Bermuda stood and followed, stepping out onto the busy concourse and into the disappointed glare of his ex-wife. ‘Hi, Ange.’ He spoke carefully. ‘You look pissed.’
‘Language!’ Angela scorned him, tutting as he mimicked being scared, to his daughter’s amusement.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You really can’t make it?’ Her voice was heavy, tired of having to question him. ‘It’s her birthday, for Christ’s sake!’
‘You think I want to miss it? And if I did, do you really think I’d go to fucking Glasgow?’ He immediately held his hand up in apology.
Angela rolled her eyes.
‘It’s my job.’
‘Well I’m glad that your job is very important.’
‘Hey, that’s not fair!’ he replied, his voice betraying his sternness.
‘Fair?’ she angrily whispered, leaning away from their daughter’s earshot. ‘What’s not fair is you spending the last six months getting her hopes up and then bailing when it’s time for you to act like her dad!’
Before Bermuda could respond, Angela tightened her grip of Chloe’s hands and used her other to wipe the tear that Bermuda’s curse had caused.
It was getting hard to keep the positivity up.
The curse was becoming a curse again.
‘Ange, I’m sorry,’ he meekly offered, his vision blurring at the edges as the tears seeped in. He couldn’t even look at his daughter.
Just as the only two women he loved were about to disappear into the relentless stream of commuters, Angela turned to him. The mother of his most treasured possession. The woman he had vowed to spend his life with.
‘I’m sorry, too.’
With his heart breaking once more, Bermuda watched them vanish in the crowd, whisked away by the continuous rush of London. The shrill call of a whistle cut through the air, drawing his attention to the platform. With a deep sigh and a lifetime of regret, he slowly made his way to his seat, grimacing at the journey ahead.
The train rolled to a stop, jolting slightly and guiding Bermuda to a face-first collision with the window. Muttering under his breath, he slowly eased himself out of his chair, amazed as he reached for his bag with an arm that earlier in the day was supported by a sling.
He was healing.
Rapidly.
Concern etched its way across his face, the idea of merging fully with the Otherside enough to make his stomach flip. He had been to that world once, the swirling smoke that engulfed the land. The blood-red eyes that had stalked him. Since that moment, he had been threatened countless times, the words of another world promising to tear him apart.
One day they would claim him.
Just not yet.
He followed the businessmen off the carriage, stepping onto the freezing cold platform at Glasgow, the glass ceiling hoovering up the moonlight before throwing it onto the concourse below. It was just after eight o’clock in the evening; the world was at home, sitting on sofas eating TV dinners or spending some quality time with the family. The boring, mundane repetition of life.
As Bermuda slowly made his way towards the ticket barriers, he yearned for that existence, to have no other worry other than what Sophie was cooking for dinner. He shook her from his mind, not wanting to re-tread the pain of the ‘one who got away’. Well, more like the ‘one who ran away’. With a deep sigh, he posted his ticket through the machine and reluctantly stepped through.
God, it was cold.
Even in the brightly lit station, with its row of coffee shops and fast food stands all ablaze with activity, Bermuda felt a chill, as if an ice cube had been dropped into the crack of his arse. He arched his neck up, his eyes scanning the large clock that hung from the centre of the glass arched roof.
An Other clung to it, its long fingers stretched across it like wild roots. Its body was slim and shiny, and a small indented pattern ran across it. Its face bore sharp teeth and completely grey eyes. Its head slowly moved back and forth like a typewriter carriage.
It was hunting.
Bermuda dropped his overnight bag, its contents a mishmash of unfolded shirts, underwear, and toiletries. He stared at the Other, waiting patiently before its shimmering face turned, their eyes meeting for the first time. Its eyes narrowed as it hunched its shoulders, coiling itself like a spring.
It drew back its lips, razor-sharp teeth zigzagging across one another like the head of a broom.
Bermuda could sense its hatred.
‘He is not of our concern.’
Argyle’s words were calm as he approached Bermuda, his ability to meet him at any location no longer surprising Bermuda.
‘I know.’ Bermuda spoke, his stare maintained. ‘I just want it to know I’m watching.’
The creature continued its stare, its sharp, jagged fingers screeching across the clock face. Saliva dropped from its vicious snarl, the teeth that may very well have ripped flesh from bone.
Bermuda crossed his arms.
The creature snarled.
Sure enough, it broke the stare, its misshapen skull whipping back and forth before it scuttled around the clock and shimmied across the glass roof and away towards the welcoming darkness of the shadow. With a sense of victory, Bermuda picked up his bag and smiled at his partner.
‘See? I win.’
Argyle shook his head as he watched his partner stroll towards the exit. ‘Your sense of victory is very strange.’
Bermuda continued walking, carefully dodging the frustrated commuters who dominated the concourse, all angrily checking their watches and muttering as ‘delayed’ appeared next to more and more trains on the timetable.
‘Well to be honest, mate, I was in a pretty bad car accident, I’m missing my little girl’s birthday to come and catch what we believe to be an Other-worldly murderer, and to top it all off, I’m in fucking Glasgow.’
A few commuters scowled at the bizarre man, cursing their town to himself.
‘So I am looking for victories wherever I can.’
‘You seem displeased to be here,’ Argyle stated as the two of them strode through the large automatic glass doors of the station to be hit by a wall of cold.
Bermuda almost stopped in his tracks, the freezing wind hitting him harder than any creature from another world could. It ripped through his skin, shattered his bones, and froze his marrow.
‘JESUS!’ he exclaimed, frantically pulling his armoured coat
together and latching the buttons. He fitfully rifled though the pockets, slipping his hands into his black gloves before attaching his beanie hat to his head. The tip of it was longer, flopping over to the side like a gnome’s hat.
Bermuda had been called worse.
Shaking violently and struggling to stop his teeth from chattering, he turned to Argyle as a slap of drizzle drifted through on the wind and caught him on the cheek.
Argyle stood unhindered. His armour covered his chest, but his arms were naked, the moisture of the night sky causing them to shimmer in the moonlight. He peered back at his partner, his grey eyes offering nothing but innocence.
‘Are you cold?’ His words were caring.
‘Just a little, Big Guy,’ Bermuda responded, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He bobbed on the spot, his body clutching at every straw for warmth.
‘We should head to the crime scene. You are to liaise with a DC Sam McAllister.’ Argyle looked down the street, the wide roads lined by tall, gothic-looking buildings, the ground floors all turned into the usual high street stores. People sprawled across the street, crossing paths as if the words of the Tome had come alive.
‘Will he even be there?’ Bermuda questioned, raising his arm to hail a cab. One flashed its headlights.
‘We shall see.’
‘That sounds very positive.’ Bermuda knew his sarcasm was lost on Argyle, but he smiled as the cab pulled up to the curb. He opened the door, tossing his bag onto the back seat. As the wind cut through him once more, he slowly turned back to Argyle. ‘Race you there?’
Argyle grunted, standing motionlessly as Bermuda closed the door behind him.
The cab pulled away, heading towards the looming, ice cold city of Glasgow as the hunt for the murderer began.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It wasn’t enough.
That had become clear to him when she hadn’t returned. He had done as asked, delivered another heart, and yet they still hadn’t been appeased. He had walked away, leaving the heart at the door as instructed and making the lonely walk back to the darkness.
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 39
