Doorways

by Robert Enright

  DOORWAYS

  ROBERT ENRIGHT

  For Ford Dainty and John Baker,

  Gone but never forgotten.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE FLASHING BLUE LIGHTS erupted from the top of the police car, illuminating the front of the magnificent Cartwright Manor. The huge stone structure stood with an overbearing grandeur, the large, solid pillars of the front door cast in intermittent blasts of blue. The smooth stone reached three floors high, the wall segregated by the door-sized windows in perfect symmetry.

  The drive to Eversley had been fairly straightforward; the dreaded M25 that linked him from Hertfordshire to Hampshire was quieter in the middle of the night, instead of the usual standstill of regularity. The streets of Eversley were quiet, quaint little streets lined with small houses, all hidden behind their front gardens. A few country pubs that would have undoubtedly been full of locals earlier in the evening. On the outskirts of the town, Cartwright Manor sat in the centre of twenty acres of land. As he passed through the grand iron gate and slowly cruised up the gravel path that cut through the vast, neatly trimmed lawn, Franklyn 'Bermuda' Jones whistled with admiration.

  Gazing his green eyes over the immaculate grounds, he slowly rolled his black Honda Civic to a stop, the engine cutting out with a gentle purr. The two police officers stood fifty feet away, their arms folded across their stab-proof vests as the car door swung open, the chill of the wind slapping Bermuda across his stubble-covered face and throwing his light brown hair into disarray. With the moon hidden by thick spring clouds, the only lights apart from those emanating from the downstairs of the house were those of the police car.

  Bermuda added his own, cupping his hand around his Zippo lighter as the flame flickered, touching the end of his cigarette and casting smoke into the air.

  He flicked it, the metal lid clapping shut.

  'Chilly night, huh?' Bermuda's London accent filtered through the smoke.

  As always, Argyle had met him at their destination. Partnered for over three years, Bermuda had become accustomed to Argyle's ability to beat him to the scene of the 'crime'. Although Bermuda stood at six foot tall, his partner towered over him by another eight inches. His muscular arms hung from his shoulders, exposed by the sleeveless armoured plate he wore over his colossal torso. His armoured legs stood firmly together and Bermuda was always impressed with the authority that Argyle's stance commanded. He, on the other hand, in his jeans, shirt, and long black jacket, looked comprehensively human.

  Argyle's grey, pupilless eyes, which sat deep in his dark face, betrayed his humanity. Not that it would be a problem. Especially as only Bermuda could see him. As Bermuda leant against his car, he cast his eyes around the acres of land as it flickered with sprays of blue.

  'I do not surrender any thoughts or feelings towards elements.' Argyle's response was firm, his voice carrying a low bass. Bermuda nodded, taking another puff on his cigarette. He looked up at Argyle.

  'I bet it's a hoarder.'

  'We should assess the situation before reaching conclusions.'

  'Yeah, yeah. I know. And we will.' Bermuda took another drag, smoke being snatched from the end of his cigarette by the whipping wind. 'But I bet you ten pounds it's a hoarder.'

  “I have never understood your kind's obsession with this monetary gain.” Argyle shook his head as he spoke, his words emphasising his disappointment. Bermuda looked towards the officers, their impatience obvious. A smile crept across his handsome face.

  'Let's go see what the fuzz thinks.' He pushed himself off from the car and took a final hit of nicotine before carelessly flicking the butt of the cigarette into the darkness. He slapped Argyle on the back, his hand a few inches from the long, razor-sharp blade of the sword that hung from his back. Argyle was a fine swordsman and had saved Bermuda's life on a number of occasions with it. Argyle's other weapon, the 'Retriever', was fastened securely around his powerful forearm.

  As they walked towards the impatient officers, Bermuda's own weapon hung from the latch on his belt, hidden by his long coat. His footsteps echoed as the gravel crunched beneath his feet. Argyle walked silently beside him.

  'So what's the situation?' Bermuda asked him, scanning the grounds again. He dipped a hand into his pocket and returned shaking a small box of Tic Tacs.

  'The woman's husband has vanished. Along with their canine companion. Their maid and a home help worker have also vanished within the last few days. Their relatives have stated that this was their last known location.' The two police officers stepped forward, getting themselves prepared as Bermuda approached.

  'How old is the woman?' Bermuda asked, two Tic Tacs rattling in his mouth.

  'Mrs Cartwright is eighty-two years old, a veteran of your people.' Argyle spoke, his voice firm and authoritative.

  'You can just say ‘old,’ Argyle.' Bermuda smirked, hoping to extract a reaction.

  'Would seem strange for such an elderly person to be able to remove that many people.'

  'Well, strange is why we are here, Big Guy.' Bermuda approached the two police officers, both of whom looked at him with caution. The shorter officer, mid-forties, thinning black hair, and a shirt about to burst at the midsection, spoke first.

  'You okay there, fella?' He looked at his partner and smiled. 'Having a nice old chat, were you?'

  'Just getting updated on the situation,' Bermuda retorted, accustomed to the idea that people thought he was crazy. He looked up at Argyle and raised his eyebrows. The policemen followed his gaze, saw nothing, and readied themselves as if Bermuda was about to attack. 'Is she inside?'

  'Hold on now.' The younger officer, tall and muscular, reached out and put his palm into Bermuda's firm chest. 'We got a call about some 'specialist' coming down.'

  Bermuda sighed to himself and whipped his hand to the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the thin, leather wallet and flicked it open.

  'Bermuda Jones, BTCO.' The two men squinted, trying to read the small print. The plastic card, covered by a sheet of clear plastic, bore his face and details pertaining to the organisation. The short officer scoffed and look up at him.

  'BTCO? Never heard of it,' he said, almost mockingly.

  'You wouldn't have.'

  Bermuda stepped through, and once again the young officer stepped in his way. Bermuda smiled at him politely.

  'Sounds like a load of nonsense to me.'

  'Could you please let me through? I have a job to do.' Bermuda held his stare.

  'Well as far as I can see, that woman in there has something to do with the disappearance of three people. She doesn't need a BCOT or whatever it's called intervention. She needs to be taken in for questioning.'

  As if he didn't even hear it, Bermuda
once again smiled politely, the wind snatching up his hair and tugging it in multiple directions.

  'Please let me through, Officer.'

  The young officer glared at Bermuda, who politely waited. The elder officer stood to the side, a voice crackling through on the radio. Instantly his attitude changed and he pulled the other officer out of Bermuda's pathway. As they argued, Bermuda walked slowly towards the large semi-circular steps that lead up to thick wooden doors. They were open, the brightly lit hallway welcoming him through with a warm grasp. Argyle followed, his colossal frame just fitting through. The entrance to the house was as grand as the structure itself, the hallway stretching out towards a broad staircase that split into two directions, wrapping back around the wall underneath the high ceiling, from which an expensive chandelier hung. The walls were lined with large canvases of art, their value not worth guessing. In the far corner stood a suit of armour, the metal shining from good upkeep.

  Bermuda popped another few Tic Tacs into his mouth and then walked through the open door to the right, entering an elegantly decorated living room. An oak table sat near the magnificent bay window, shutting out the world with its drawn curtains. A soft rug welcomed Bermuda as he strolled in, locking his eyes on the elderly woman who sat on the sofa, a roaring fire crackling in front of her. Above the fireplace was a large painting depicting what Bermuda imagined was Lord William Cartwright, the missing husband. Stood in his hunting gear, he emanated wealth and nobility. Argyle walked calmly to the centre of the room, past a small cabinet which housed several expensive-looking liqueurs. He stood powerfully, his short, black beard lining his powerful jaw. Bermuda crunched the remnants of his Tic Tacs and approached the sofa.

  'Mrs Cartwright?' he offered, his tone friendly. The old lady turned, her wrinkled face forcing a welcoming smile. Her eyes were red, the turmoil of the evening apparent. Bermuda calmly removed his jacket and placed it over the back of the chair. He checked his watch, pulling his shirt back to reveal a heavily tattooed forearm.

  'Please. Call me Eleanor.'

  'Eleanor. Nice to meet you. I'm Bermuda Jones from the BTCO.'

  'The what now?' She looked at him, puzzled.

  'The BTCO. We deal with rather exceptional cases, and believe that your husband is one such case.'

  'My poor William. Where has he gone?' Bermuda had no doubts in his mind that she was innocent. Her grief for her husband was genuine. The last three years had shown him plenty of it.

  'That is what we are here to find out.' Bermuda ran his hand through his hair, sweeping it into a side parting. 'When did you realise your husband was missing?'

  'It was, now let me see, a little before lunchtime. I realised that Cordelia, our maid, was missing and it was almost time for lunch. Poor Willy, he went upstairs to the function room to find her and he didn't come back.'

  'And Cordelia, she was in the function room?' Bermuda flashed his eyes to Argyle, who was already staring up at the ceiling. A grandfather clock ticked loudly in the background, battling the crackles of the fire for audio dominance.

  'Yes. It is mine and Willy's diamond anniversary this Saturday and we are having a party. Oh it will be lovely, our families and friends all together. It doesn't happen enough nowadays, sadly.'

  'So the last time you were aware of their presence, it was in the function room?'

  She nodded, sniffling slightly.

  'I have been informed of a home helper missing also?'

  'Laura? She didn't turn up today. I heard Bailey barking in the function room and asked her to tend to him. He stopped barking so I assumed she went home.'

  'Bailey is your dog, right?' Bermuda looked back up at the painting above the fire, the flames illuminating the German shepherd that stood proudly by its master. 'Is he also missing?'

  'He is...' Eleanor's voice cracked and she began sobbing again. Bermuda gave her a moment, beckoning Argyle over.

  'I say we check out this room. Will probably find our little guest there.'

  Argyle nodded in agreement and Bermuda stood up, whipping his coat around and sliding his arms in. Eleanor looked up from the tissue she was dabbing her eyes with.

  'Where are you going?'

  'Mrs Cartwright, could you show me to the function room, please?' He slowly helped her to her feet. She nodded, and with the help of her cane, trundled towards the hallway. The blue lights burst through the windows from outside as she lowered herself into her stair lift. As it hummed to life and she slowly began her ascent, Bermuda walked briskly up the curved steps, following them to the right to the landing. A few white, solid doors aligned the wall, all closed with their contents kept secret. He popped another mint into his mouth as he scanned the artwork on the wall.

  'This way, dear.'

  He followed the little lady as she walked, approaching a double set of the doors at the end of the hall. Bermuda pulled the doors open and stepped over the threshold. Eleanor followed and switched on the lights, pride flowing from her at the tastefully decorated room. The laminate flooring shimmered with polish, the antique tables set neatly around the sides of the room. Blue lights flickered through the large windows.

  'Is Bermuda your real name?' she asked as she ambled in. She turned back, suddenly worried by the look of concern on Bermuda's face.

  Bermuda took in what he saw. It wasn't the fine art or the expensive furniture. Or the mental image of a wealthy family enjoying their time together. What he saw was what he feared he would. A few feet off the ground, on the far wall, was William Cartwright. As if he had been built into the wall and then painted over, he was trapped in the surrounding brick, cocooned in by the Other they were there to remove. Although he wasn't moving, Bermuda knew there was a strong chance that the man was still alive.

  Bermuda sighed, looking around and noticing Cordelia, her face twisted in pain as she faded into the brickwork. Laura and Bailey also joined the collection. It was all too familiar. Whilst Eleanor Cartwright wept for the disappearance of her husband and had concerns about her helpers, they were but a few feet away. However, she couldn't see them. All she saw was a pristine room that was empty without the infectious sound of family and friends.

  She didn't have 'the Knack'.

  Bermuda was born with it, the ability to see the Otherside and what was truly around us. A parallel world, whose inhabitants predominantly look human, but survive on a very different set of needs. Many of them are harmless, drifting seamlessly into the shadows and corners of our world. They live peacefully, out of the sight of the regular inhabitants of our planet. But as with all species, there are a few who require more than peace to survive.

  That is why the BTCO, the Behind The Curtain Organisation, were formed. Every agent has 'the Knack' and every agent has a 'Neither', an Other who has defected to our side. As the world idly goes by, the BTCO are monitoring Other activity, ensuring that the unknown coexistence is maintained. The world behind the curtain.

  And now, in a stately home in northeast Hampshire, Bermuda stood seeing what the rest of the world couldn't. His fist clenched, angry not just at the actions of the intruder, but because of what his life was. This curse of vision, inflicted from birth, which had ruined every aspect of his life and would halt any signs of improvement. The burden it placed on him, to risk his life case by case due to an ability he had never asked for.

  As he pulled his lips into a thin, agitated line, Eleanor broke the silence.

  'What is wrong?' Her voice, interspersed with sniffles.

  Argyle entered the room, standing beside and looming over the oblivious resident. He scanned the room, seeing the handiwork of one of his fellow Others.

  'It is a hoarder,' Argyle stated, his voice tinged with disappointment.

  'Told you,' Bermuda replied, his hand shuffling inside his pocket.

  'Told who, dear?' Eleanor turned to Bermuda, her vision not obscured by Argyle.

  'Never mind.'

  'What is that you have there?'

  'This?' Bermuda removed his hand fr
om his jacket pocket and revealed a metal spinning top. The small object, glistening in the light, had intricate carvings down all four sides—words inscribed with such precise detail it required magnification to be read. 'This will draw our little friend out.'

  'What friend?' Eleanor said in frustration, feeling as if she was only part of half a conversation. Bermuda ignored her and walked slowly into the centre of the room, peering round at the pained expressions of the captives. As he did, Eleanor slammed her cane against the floor, the thud echoing around the large room. 'MR JONES!'

  He turned, her wrinkled face fraught with anger. He looked to Argyle, who took a few steps towards the clearly agitated Eleanor.

  'Ma'am, you may want to leave the room for this.'

  'I am not going anywhere. Who are you talking to? And what is that in your hand?' She took a few steps towards Bermuda.

  'Argyle, hold her.' Bermuda didn't turn as he spoke.

  With a mighty hand, Argyle reached out and clutched the old lady by the shoulder. She stopped dead in her tracks, unable to move, despite her best efforts.

  'I can't move!' she yelled in frustration. 'What is going on?'

  Bermuda leant down, placing the point of the spinning top against the laminate flooring. His fingers grasped the small, engraved handle of the spinning top and he balanced it, ready to spin. He glanced back at her.

  'Argyle, make sure she is fine.'

  'What is Argyle? What is going on?’ she angrily bellowed, her arms struggling in what she could only see as thin air. Argyle, with his hand still firmly clasped to her, took a few steps to shield her from the door. 'What the hell are you doing?

  Bermuda smiled at her.

  'You might want to cover your ears.'

  Before she could respond, Bermuda twisted the top and released his grip. The metal frantically twisted on the floor, drilling against the wood. Instantly, every window in the room shattered with a large crash, shards of glass spraying across the room like a sandstorm. The wind whistled in and the doors flew open, rocking their hinges to breaking point. The lights flickered, shrouding the stolen bodies within the wall in stop-start darkness. Eleanor watched in horror, her instinct to run hindered by her inability to move. Argyle stood ready, his other hand, the wrist clad in thick metal, clenched.