The Absent Man: A Bermuda Jones Case File (The Bermuda Jones Case Files Book 2)

by Robert Enright

  They walked quietly for a few minutes, the slight gradient of the land growing steeper as they returned to the tomb where Bermuda had been earlier in the day. In the dark, the old brick looked on the verge of collapse, the door was a dark tunnel that led to oblivion.

  The rain was relentless.

  Bermuda sniffed, the stench of wet, rotten leaves filling his nose as he gazed around the entire grounds. Dead trees loomed over the entire graveyard like long, skinless arms with twisted fingers. Beyond, on the road that surrounded the Necropolis, he could make out two police cars. McAllister would have assigned them to keep watch, but with as easy as it was for Bermuda to enter the grounds, he didn’t think their murderous friend would have any problem getting by either. He turned back to Argyle, who was also staring at the police cars.

  ‘Do you think the officer I struck has recovered?’ Argyle asked, his worry evident.

  ‘I’m sure he will be okay. Hopefully he is pissing blood for a week or two, but he should be fine.’

  ‘I have brought shame to you and the BTCO.’ He spoke softly, his words wet with regret.

  ‘I think you need to give yourself a break, Big Guy,’ Bermuda offered softly. ‘There are worse things you could have done than strike a policeman. I mean, you didn’t reveal yourself, did you? The man probably just thought he was going into labour.’

  ‘I did not reveal myself. To willingly expose an unseeing human to our world is a crime punishable by imprisonment.’

  ‘Exactly. You didn’t do that.’

  ‘To expose this world to the uninitiated is a crime that is second only to that of a killing a human,’ Argyle stated, his eyes staring dead ahead. ‘To kill a human is punishable by death.’

  ‘Less of the death, Big Guy.’ Bermuda patted his friend on his armour-clad shoulder. ‘There’s already plenty of that going around.’

  Bermuda slowly stepped through the icy wind and approached the wall of the tomb, resting his hand across the wet stone, begging a touch of the Otherside to stroke his palm. The blood of Katie and Nicole had long since washed away. Leaving only a memory.

  A third would likely arrive tonight.

  Bermuda sighed, patting his coat until he located his e-cigarette, and brandished it under the bright moonlight. The blue bulb winked as he inhaled, and a burst of cherry-flavoured smoke instantly hitched itself to the wind.

  ‘I’m going to see if Tobias is around.’ Bermuda shrugged as Argyle kept whipping his head from side to side. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I am just alert.’

  ‘Well stop it, will you? Usually you are so calm I struggle to believe you have a pulse. But the last few days, you seem on edge.’

  Bermuda offered him a smile that struggled against the downpour before calmly walking around the corner of the tomb towards the door. Argyle stood tall, deciding not to tell his partner of the hooded figures from the shadow. The cloaked figures from the alleyways.

  The danger that was slowly stalking them.

  The cloaked figures had retreated for the evening, Argyle was sure of it. He could sense the presence of Others, could feel when they were near. He had never questioned the ability and could recall the hideous voice of his commander telling him it was a gift that made him what he was.

  A killer.

  Argyle shook the dark memory from his mind and reassured himself that they were not following tonight. The only death that followed them tonight was from the surrounding graves.

  There were no Others near.

  It was the final thought that ran through Argyle’s head before a heavy stone clattered the back of his skull, a sharp pain shot to the back of his eyes, and everything went dark.

  Kevin Parker had ventured through the backstreets, keeping his pace steady and his blood-soaked arm hidden. Eventually he approached the Necropolis, the wonderful, vast collection of death. The place where he would find her.

  Where they would return her to him.

  Steering clear of the police cars, he clambered over a fence and dropped down into the wet grass, the mud splattering up the leg of his grey suit. His brown leather shoes slipped slightly in the mud but he forced himself to balance. He walked through the dark, weaving in and out of the stone monuments that bore the names of the deceased.

  Many a knee had been taken before them, all in the name of pointless grief.

  For a moment he wondered if Rosie Seeley’s family would be grieving, their daughter taken from them for a purpose that was inherently selfish. But necessary.

  His suit clung to his tall frame as he walked, his eyes flashing from grave to grave as he ascended the hill towards the tomb, ready to deliver and make good on his challenge.

  Ready to accept her back.

  ‘But the last few days, you seem on edge.’

  Kevin Parker stopped dead, his hands dropping to his sides. Blood dripped through the hand that clutched the heart like a baseball. He peered through the dark towards the crooked concrete building and saw the two men before him. One of them was clearly human; his body language omitted fear, even as he tried to walk bravely.

  The human disappeared around the corner, presumably into the darkness.

  To return her? Was he the voice in the dark?

  Determined to confront him, Kevin Parker sized up the other figure. Over seven-foot tall with a metal torso that shimmered majestically in the moonlight. A blade was strapped to his back, a clear deterrent, and a man capable of killing him.

  They would not get the chance.

  His fingers clenched slightly. The chance to meet the one who had taken so much from him had arrived. Carefully he reached down, picking up a large stone from a collection a family had lovingly arranged around their departed’s grave.

  With careful, measured steps, he approached the warrior from behind, marvelling at the sheer size of the creature.

  He swung.

  The rock made a sickening crack as it collided with bone and the large warrior crashed to the earth, limp and lifeless. He could have been dead, but there was no time to make sure.

  The rain poured down over both of them, the moonlight causing it to twinkle.

  With a deep breath and determined to have her returned, Kevin Parker entered the tomb.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bermuda never thought stepping into a dark tomb would be so welcoming, but the icy rain ushered him inside quickly. As before, the walls felt thick and close, the space to breathe slowly evaporating by the claustrophobia. Water leaked through the cracks in the old brick, a thin sheen of moss stretched across it like body hair.

  The tomb smelt damp.

  Of death.

  ‘Tobias?’ Bermuda called out, his voice echoing off the wet walls. There was nothing, just the patter of rain and the crumbling of brick somewhere.

  Why here? Bermuda thought, his mind racing back to earlier, when he had run his hand across the wall, hoping to feel something.

  Anything.

  ‘Tobias?’ he called again, scorning himself for repeating himself. The creepy groundsman was clearly no longer there. Bermuda chuckled to himself at the thought of the man sleeping in the tomb; the large stone table that lay in the centre of the room, encompassed by shadow, was hardly a fitting bed. A shudder danced up his spine as he wondered what it could have been used for.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his e-cig, pressing down on the button. A hiss accompanied the blue light that flashed forward, illuminating a small section of the wall. As the flavoured liquid substitute bubbled away, Bermuda slowly edged along the wall, running his hand across the stone.

  ‘Give me something,’ he muttered to himself, his voice reverberating gently back at him. He crouched down as his fingers felt the rough grooves that had been etched into the wall.

  A quick jolt of the Otherside passed through his fingertips.

  He could feel it, pulling at his fingerprints, trying to drag him through the very brick before him. He squatted back, resting on his ankles as he pulled his notepad from hi
s pocket.

  The crude drawing of the ‘Gate-maker’ still occupied a page, as did Sophie Summers’s phone number.

  Two memories that brought nothing but pain.

  Clasping the e-cig in his mouth, he had to push it further down so his teeth could lock on the button, the smoking implement daring to touch the back of his throat. Fighting the urge to gag, Bermuda aimed the blue beam at the wall and began to sketch the markings down.

  After a few strokes of the pen he dropped the notepad and swiped the e-cig from his mouth. A shiver ran through him as his mouth went dry, his stomach slowly knotting itself out of fear. He peered in closer at the marks, unsurprised that he had managed to feel the other world in their grooves.

  They were not markings.

  They were fingernail scratchings.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Bermuda questioned out loud as he guided the light further around the base of the wall, the stone slathered with the horrific scratches of a panicked hand. Someone had been in here.

  Someone had been trying to get out.

  Right on cue, a flash of lightning illuminated the shadowed tomb for a split second, followed by a roaring clap of thunder that shook the entire graveyard. Bermuda heard something shuffle behind him as the rain picked up its pace.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The voice caused Bermuda to spin on spot. He pushed himself so he was standing and took a cautionary step backwards. The words were cold, inquisitive but laced with menace. The creature before him was not a beast.

  It was a man.

  But not quite.

  Bermuda’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the stone enclosure and he looked at the ‘man’ before him. He instantly saw why the victims had been easily led. The man was strikingly handsome but in a way that reminded Bermuda of the olden days. His suit, damp and clinging to his sturdy frame, was splattered with the unmistakable colour of blood. It looked half a size too big for him.

  The short brown hair was shimmering from the downpour, but was still slicked across his skull in a neat side parting.

  His eyes were piercing and his strong jaw sat rigid, like an alligator ready to snap.

  His hand was covered in blood, his powerful fingers wrapped around a fresh heart that had undoubtedly been ripped out from a young lady who would be discovered soon.

  The Absent Man.

  A cold-blooded killer.

  Bermuda took another step back, trying his best to put the stone table between him and whatever it was posing as a man before him. As he slowly stepped back, he could feel the hate from the stare, the eyes ripping through him like he imagined the man’s hand had to the poor victims.

  Not man.

  Something else.

  As the silence sat as heavy as the damp between them, Bermuda held his hands out, as a sign of piece.

  ‘What did you do to Argyle?’ he asked, concerned that Argyle hadn’t stopped his visitor.

  ‘What’s an Argyle?’ The man’s voice was calm, a slight bass to it. His eyes were unblinking.

  ‘You know. Big guy, armour, sword, constant look of constipation. Argyle.’

  The Absent Man stared at him, unmoved by the humour. Bermuda’s eyes flashed to the doorway, hoping Argyle would race in at any moment. All that entered was the wind carrying the rain.

  ‘He is outside. I am unsure if he is still alive.’

  Bermuda felt his heart jump; the fear of losing Argyle hit him harder than he thought. His mind flashed back to that rainy night in Big Ben six months before when he had seen Argyle plummet to what he thought would be his death.

  He had survived then.

  Please let him survive now.

  The Absent Man snapped him back to reality.

  ‘Where is she?’ His words were laced with venom.

  ‘Who?’ Bermuda asked, looking around with genuine bemusement.

  ‘Where is she?’ he repeated, taking a step closer. ‘You promised.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘In the dark.’ The Absent Man took a step closer, and Bermuda held his hands up again in a worthless display of surrender. ‘You promised me her return.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Bermuda asked, stepping further around the stone structure between them, trying to edge towards the door.

  ‘You know who I am. You kept me in the darkness. You took her from me and you demanded this.’

  He tossed the heart onto the stone between them, blood and rain splattering across the surface like a Jackson Pollock painting. Bermuda felt a small rise of vomit clamber up his throat, but he controlled himself before it reached the surface.

  The blood-soaked heart glistened like a rare jewel.

  ‘Now where is she?’ The words were harder, the patience thinning.

  Bermuda reached into his pocket and pulled out the small leather wallet that house his badge. ‘I am not who you think I am, and I am not the person you spoke to before.’ He flicked it open, revealing his badge. ‘My name is Franklyn Jones and I am an agent for the BTCO. I am trying to help.’

  ‘Help?’ The Absent Man twisted his handsome face into a crooked grin. ‘There is no help. Just her.’

  ‘Who?’

  The Absent Man stared longingly towards the wall, his eyes resting on the thousands of scratch marks.

  The years of pain.

  The lifetime of darkness.

  The memories.

  ‘She was my everything.’ His words slipped through quietly, drenched in sadness. ‘She was my reason for being. My great love.’

  ‘And that’s why you are killing these women? For her?’

  ‘For love.’

  Bermuda ignored the obvious response and took another step nearer. The wind from the doorway shot past him, beckoning him to safety.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Bermuda asked, trying to keep the momentum up. Begging for Argyle to enter.

  ‘It is Caleb. No, Kevin.’ The Absent Man shook his head, wrestling with a dark memory. ‘Kevin Parker.’

  A pin could drop as the two of them stared at each other. The heart of another deceased between them.

  ‘Who told you to steal the hearts?’ Bermuda asked.

  Kevin’s eyes flickered from side to side, resting on the heart and then on the scratching of the wall. A panic filtered through, his movements more frantic.

  ‘Kevin!’ Bermuda’s voice rose. ‘Who told you to steal the hearts?’

  ‘They held me in the dark.’ He spoke, as if to himself.

  Bermuda took a few careful steps towards Kevin. Towards the entrance.

  ‘Why here? Why do you bring the hearts here?’

  ‘You lied to me,’ Kevin whispered, the darkness of his pupils slowly filtering into his sclera, blending together with a smoky beauty. Bermuda could see him changing.

  ‘Who did they take from you?’ Bermuda’s question was stern and he reached out towards Kevin, hoping beyond hope to restrain him. To stop him from hurting another person.

  He was wrong.

  ‘You lied to me!’ Kevin roared, the final word distorting into a vicious roar beyond humanity. In a sudden burst of speed, Kevin shot towards Bermuda and swung his bloodied hand. The back of his powerful wrist caught Bermuda across the jaw and sent him over the stone altar.

  The SOCOs would be pleased he cleared the entire table, missing the heart and the blood splatter.

  His jaw and, after colliding with the wall, spine weren’t so grateful.

  Kevin grunted before turning and setting off through the door, racing at a freakish pace back down the hill, the rain crashing around him. Bermuda pulled himself to his feet, doing his best to block the fear and sense of self-preservation from his mind, and gave chase.

  He burst out of the tomb and into the howling wind of the night, noticing the crumpled body of Argyle to the side of the building. The wound on the back of his skull was healing and Bermuda could feel him stirring. His eyes narrowed, trying to peer through the curtain of rain enveloping the grounds before him, the tr
eacherous slope back towards civilisation.

  A flash of lightning drew his gaze towards the gate just as Kevin Parker was reaching the metal barrier.

  ‘Find me,’ Bermuda said hopefully, leaving his partner and heading down the hill, weaving between the tombstones and racing across the fields of death beneath him.

  For the first time in six months, Bermuda was glad he had quit smoking, his eyes fixated on Kevin Parker, who raced through the streetlights of the street ahead. Bermuda pushed through the gates and gave chase, his breaths getting deeper as his clothes got heavier.

  His jaw ached and his spine roared in agony as he slowed, the feeling of failure fitting him like a bespoke suit as he watched Kevin Parker disappear around the corner.

  Suddenly, the sound of bike tyres thrashing through the rain had him stepping into the road, causing the cyclist to almost crash as he squeezed the brakes.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ The courier’s voice was thick with Scottish fury.

  Bermuda pointlessly flashed his badge. ‘Sir, I need to commandeer this bicycle.’

  ‘You can go fuck yoursel—’

  Bermuda’s punch landed right on the side of the man’s jaw, rocking him gently on his feet before he fell into a spandex-covered pile on the floor.

  He checked his knuckles – two of them had split on impact and a trickle of blood rushed through his fingers, like the blood of Kevin Parker’s victims.

  At the end of the street, the police assigned to the literal ‘graveyard shift’ flared up their sirens at the assault they had just witnessed.

  Bermuda sighed. ‘Ah shit.’

  He hoisted the bike from the ground and swung a leg over, trying his level best to remember the last time he had ever cycled and hoped that the well-worn saying was true. His feet pedalled, and he flew up the street, taking the corner too fast and almost colliding with a parked car.

  Halfway down the long road which led towards the city centre, Bermuda could make out the figure of Kevin Parker. The speed of the man matched his strength.