Doorways

by Robert Enright

  'A better swordsman.'

  'Unlikely.' Bermuda patted his friend on the arm as he trudged towards London Bridge Station. He was eager to get back to Bushey, to lie in his own bed and go over the case.

  He needed a coffee.

  As he scanned the station for the inevitable coffee stand, he switched his phone on. After a few screens of swirling colours, his phone kicked into life. A few messages from Brett, followed by a couple of emails pertaining to bills and memberships he had long since ignored. Then something caught his eye:

  You have 1 New Voicemail.

  Stubbing his cigarette out on the wall and dropping it into a manmade flowerbed, Bermuda lifted the phone to his ear, ignoring the aching pain that shot from his chest and brightness of the sun that hammered his vision.

  The message brought a smile to his face.

  'Errr...hi. Bermuda...Mr Jones...It's Sophie. Sophie Summers. We met the other day and you gave me your card. I...ummm...I just wanted to know if you had any news about Jess. The police have been round but they have nothing. I guess if they don't...ignore me...I'm just worried.'

  Bermuda nodded; a small concern at how much he wanted to see her was instantly batted from his mind.

  'Anyway...if you hear anything or have any information, please call me back on this number. Thank you.'

  A slight ruffle and the message ended. Argyle noticed the grin.

  'Was it a message of happiness?' he asked, drawing a shake of the head from his human friend.

  'I have to go.'

  'Go? We have this information to look into.' Argyle held up the files that Vincent had provided. Bermuda straightened his T-shirt and parted his hair in the ghostly reflection of the train station window.

  'I will meet you back here.'

  'Where are you going?'

  Bermuda grinned sheepishly.

  'I just got a lead.'

  THE TRAIN FROM LONDON Bridge to Peckham Rye took less than fifteen minutes, and before he knew it Bermuda was strolling through the multicultural streets that surrounded the station. Even before midday, the streets were an explosion of music and languages, all fighting for supremacy as potential customers sauntered through. With less excitement around, he found the streets nearer to Sophie's block of flats quieter, the hipster scene busy with their jobs before their inevitable takeover once the pubs were open.

  He was nervous and it angered him.

  Bermuda knew he was a handsome man. His chiselled, stubble-covered face was topped with a thick, light brown hair and piercing green eyes. He trained regularly—usually with Argyle—and maintained a muscular, toned physique that drew even more attention due to the vast amount of ink scrawled across his muscles.

  The tattoos were always a talking point, gallons of ink infused with his body, scrawlings of incantations and bizarre symbols, all of which seemed to have a defensive effect against the creatures from the shadows that constantly tried to remove him from his own world.

  How would he explain them to Sophie?

  'One step at a time!' he told himself. It had been a while since he felt the touch of a woman. Even longer since he had cared for one. The last thing he needed now was a distraction. As he approached the cafe where he had agreed to meet Sophie after he called her back, he wondered if telling her he couldn't start a relationship due to a paranormal thief would go down well.

  The bell dinged above the door as he entered, a barrage of grease, overcooked bacon, and lukewarm coffee assaulted his sense of smell.

  He smiled.

  The dingy eatery was lively, a large number of construction workers boisterously tucked into their fry ups, high-vis jackets slung over chairs, and the discussions about last night’s football turning the air blue. Inexplicably, a fruit machine stood in the corner, an unwashed, elderly gentleman pushing coppers through for another shot at the measly jackpot.

  Behind the counter, a large man with a stained T-shirt and greasy hair hurled orders to the women working by the cookers, his accent thick with an eastern European twang, his gestures anything but friendly.

  His eyes landed on Sophie.

  Sat in the corner wearing a faux leather jacket and a white blouse, she looked a picture of controlled beauty. Her striking brown eyes were gently topped off with eye shadow, her lips a shimmering scarlet. Her delicate hands wrapped themselves around a steaming cup of coffee. She saw Bermuda, their eyes met, and the smile that spread across her perfect face caused his heart to jump. He approached the table and her expression changed from relief to horror.

  'Oh my god. What the hell happened to your face?'

  Her concern was genuine, leaping from her words as she scanned the stitches above his eye that sat amongst the darkening bruising.

  'Oh, this.' Bermuda looked across to the proprietor, motioning for a coffee. He turned back to the gorgeous woman before him. 'Sailing accident.'

  'Sailing?' she responded sceptically.

  'Well, near enough.' A coffee was placed in front of him and Bermuda hoisted it to his lips, allowing the caffeine full control of his veins. 'So? You called?'

  She retreated into herself a little, her shoulders sagging, and Bermuda could see the terrified girl he had met when her friend went missing.

  'It's been a few days and the police have nothing. They say they are still looking, but I haven't seen an officer since. I don't know. I guess I'm...'

  'Scared?' Bermuda offered, nodding her his acceptance of her circumstance. She smiled gratefully.

  'She is my best friend. She really is the only person I know here in London.' Tears began to form, a few cracks in her voice. 'I'm just so worried that something bad has happened.'

  She broke. Tears began to cascade down her chiselled cheekbones, shimmering under the halogen lights above. Bermuda offered a napkin. After a few moments of self-contained sniffling, Bermuda calmly spoke.

  'Can I be honest with you, Sophie?'

  She nodded.

  'I can't tell you that nothing has happened to Jess, because I don't know that. But I am onto something. Tell me, did Jess ever see things?'

  'What do you mean?' Sophie asked, dabbing at her eyes with the napkin.

  'Like, did she ever suffer from what you might have thought were hallucinations?'

  'She thought the guy in the flat opposite us was spying on her. He is a bit of a creep, though.'

  Bermuda smiled politely, trying to hide frustration.

  'I see. She never mentioned that she saw...how can I say this...monsters?'

  Sophie stared at him, unimpressed. 'Monsters?'

  'Please hear me out.'

  'Seriously? You know how upset and worried I am, and you ask me if she sees fucking monsters?'

  In a small explosion of anger, Sophie pushed her chair back, the wood screeching across the greasy tiles, drawing a few looks from the grizzly builders. Bermuda calmly leant forward.

  'I was not trying to offend you, Sophie.'

  'Miss Summers!'

  Bermuda's heart sank. She wanted nothing to do with him. The pain in his chest wasn't from the three gashes that ripped across it.

  'Miss Summers. I believe your friend was taken, and I have a lead on what may have caused it. I just wanted to eliminate something from my enquiry.'

  'What? That monsters did it?' She shook her head, her hands planted on her hips. 'This is a waste of time. What do you even do, anyway? You are not even police.'

  Bermuda looked at the last mouthful of coffee that sloshed the bottom of the mug in his hand.

  'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' He finished it with a swig. 'And you wouldn't stay if you did.'

  With an apologetic smile, he dropped a tenner on the table for the two beverages and then rose from his seat. He sent a nod in Sophie's direction, her face a mural of confusion and sorrow. She watched as the peculiar man left the pub, stopping outside briefly to light a cigarette. She knew nothing about him.

  Only that he spoke of monsters and theories of a possible horrible demise for her best frie
nd. He seemed eager to help, but almost a little too cautious in how he spoke to her.

  He was attractive; she could tell he had muscular arms, and had seen the edges of extensive tattoos.

  The man was a complete mystery.

  And right then and there, as she watched him disappear into a cloud of cigarette smoke, she knew she hadn't felt safer than when she was with him.

  WHEN BERMUDA RETURNED to Argyle at London Bridge Station, he said nothing. The look of defeat told Argyle not to press, that his partner wasn't happy nor in the mood to explain why. With their joint disdain for Others’ Town leading to procrastination, Argyle had suggested checking out Regent's Park, where a ten-year-old Alfie Evans mysteriously went missing eight days ago whilst playing hide-and-seek with his friend.

  Bermuda had merely shrugged his shoulders at the suggestion, preoccupied with cursing himself for upsetting Sophie.

  Argyle reconnected with Bermuda the moment he stepped through the gates of Regent's Park; the tranquillity of the place was overpowering. The sun was beaming down, almost dishonestly due to the cold whip that surfed the breeze. Ducks aimlessly paddled along the river that divided the park, a few joggers marched past with impressive stamina.

  Bermuda lit a cigarette.

  This was it. Another missing person, and due to the strangeness and lack of police evidence, the Oracles had concluded it matched significant traits of the others recently stolen. Bermuda sighed, his mind still repeating his exchange with Sophie, the look of pain and frustration at the first baby steps he took of introducing her to his world.

  How could he have been so naïve?

  People don't believe in monsters or ghosts. People don't believe the words of a crazy person.

  'This way.'

  Argyle's booming voice shook Bermuda back to reality, the image of Sophie's sadness melting into the greenness of his surroundings. He followed his partner who walked with authority, careful not to collide with the passers-by. Groups of young work colleagues scattered the park, sharing laughs and gossip over open Tupperware boxes and unbuttoned shirts.

  The normal life of a London worker.

  Bermuda had tried, yet found he could never envy the working life of a normal person. The nine-to-five life of logging in and grinding out. People gladly repeat their days in jobs they don't like for organisations they don't care about for money that they spend on houses they don't own. Yet he was considered crazy?

  They followed the footpath, the sun slowly blocked out as they turned onto a path that cut through the trees. Lined by large, thick tree trunks and draping, leaf-covered vines, Bermuda could feel the presence of the Otherside. He turned, looking back over his shoulder to witness an Other lying dead, its head resting against the base of the tree. What disturbed him most of all was the Other that was clambering down the trunk, its razor-sharp teeth bared and ready to sink into the skull of its fellow species.

  He shook it off and turned to continue walking, only to collide with the stationary Argyle.

  'Jesus!' Bermuda exclaimed as he stumbled back. Argyle didn't even budge.

  'Apologies.' Argyle scanned his eyes from the photo to the trees ahead of them. 'I believe this is the spot.'

  He handed Bermuda the photo, who accepted it after popping two Tic Tacs into his mouth. He glanced at the photo and then at the trees ahead of him. They looked similar, and as he peered more he could see further beyond the trees. A broken log lay shamelessly to the left of the tree, a few feet away from the edge of the mud. Beyond that, the river flowed by with a peaceful calm.

  Yes, it looked similar. Bermuda was adamant he would find the symbol should he venture closer. That was the spot that Alfie Evans was last seen, his head pressed against his arms, counting loudly as his friends raced for hiding places.

  He looked at the area ahead of him, then back to the photo.

  It was the exact spot. He had to investigate.

  He looked up again.

  The black eyes stared back at him.

  The photo fell from his hand, carried down the concrete path by the passing wind.

  Bermuda stared ahead, through the dangling vines of the surrounding willow trees. There, goading him in broad daylight, was the man in the top hat. The hat itself sat angled to one side, the white, broken hair shifted messily in the window. The marble-esque skin shimmered, although from the distance Bermuda couldn't make out the marking that ran down the side of its face.

  Jagged teeth formed a cruel smile.

  The black eyes burnt through him.

  He was right. They were connected.

  This Other was responsible.

  He was the gatekeeper.

  Bermuda's footsteps echoed in his mind, each step blocking out the clichéd sound of dogs barking and people enjoying each other's company. He slowly walked, his eyes not breaking the fierce look that rested upon him.

  The wind fluttered through, a few vines jostled in front of the figure, the black eyes burning through leaf, even the atmosphere, to plunge themselves into Bermuda.

  A hundred feet away now.

  The air felt cold and heavy.

  Bermuda could feel his eyes watering, his peripheral lost to an ever-growing tear. He hadn't blinked, his refusal to break the exchange an act of defiance against what he could already feel was evil.

  Three scars became visible, crudely etched down the side of the face that bore the look of an entity with a purpose.

  Bermuda knew the look all too well. It was the same one that had greeted him in the mirror after a night of heavy drinking.

  Disgust.

  Fifty feet now.

  Twigs crunched under his feet as he slid between the trees, the river growing larger as he neared its edge.

  The Other had not moved. Nor had it blinked.

  Bermuda took a few more careful steps, when suddenly a large hand grasped his shoulder, spinning him around.

  He yelled in anger.

  'Where are you going?' Argyle's words were laced in concern.

  Bermuda's heart raced wildly, slamming against his rib cage in a flurry of panic. He turned back quickly.

  'Argyle, he's right...'

  His voice trailed off.

  The Other had gone.

  No top hat. No jet-black stare.

  Just the cool wind sliding across the river, small ripples bursting out as far as they could.

  'What did you see?'

  Bermuda didn't answer, walking forward slowly towards the base of the tree that the Other had stood beside. The tree trunk that Alfie Evans used to begin his countdown.

  The twelve-sided symbol displayed proudly in the bark.

  Bermuda sighed deeply, patting his pockets until a cigarette leapt into his mouth. He exhaled the smoke, willing his adrenaline to leave and his heart rate to drop.

  'What did you see?' Argyle repeated, his bulging forearms crossed against his chest.

  Bermuda searched for words, but all that left his mouth was second-hand smoke. After a few more drags, he sent the butt to a watery grave before marching back towards his partner.

  'We need to go to Others’ Town. Now.' He looked back, still shaken by the presence he had seen. 'This place is giving me the fucking creeps.'

  Within a few moments, Bermuda was back on the path, marching to the exit. Argyle hurried behind him, neither of them realising they were followed every step by a set of jet-black eyes that sat above a crooked smile of razor teeth, and in front of a mind that wished nothing but decimation for what it saw.

  The man in the top hat.

  The time was soon approaching.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE BUS INDICATED AND joined the main road, Aldgate East Train Station disappearing into the distance. London, even during the middle of the day, was a myriad of traffic, a number of buses, cabs, and angered civilians battling it out for road supremacy. Cyclists dodged in and out of traffic, daring drivers to take their lives.

  All Bermuda saw were the two eyes.

  The blackness o
f them.

  The hatred he had felt.

  As the bus slowly meandered towards the Docklands, he tried to refocus. He was about to enter Others’ Town, the only place he was less welcome than his ex-wife's house. To the normal human, the Tobacco Docks were just a London landmark—a vast, historical structure that had since taken importance as a place on London's storied tapestry. It was more than just a measly storage facility, and in recent times had been the location of a few raves and film nights. Annual conventions were held inside its dusty brick walls—a tattoo convention that Bermuda owed for the inscription that ran across his right shoulder blade.

  As he stepped off the bus and rounded the corner, he saw the large iron pillars with the words Tobacco Dock punched out. The entrance arched ahead, encasing the surrounding concrete in shadows, which moved erratically. A long queue of Others lined the wall, each one as unique as a fingerprint.

  This was their town. Their marketplace.

  Bermuda clicked his lighter, ignoring the hundreds of eyes which landed on him, the entire queue now focused in their fear. Through the smoke that he stepped through, he knew he looked like a demon to them.

  He enjoyed it.

  'We need a plan'.

  Argyle stepped ahead, blocking Bermuda from his tried-and-tested 'hit now, ask later' technique.

  'I have a plan,' Bermuda said, smoke surrounding his raised voice. 'I'm going to go in there. I'm going to ask who the fuck is stealing my people and where I can find him.'

  'That is not why we are here.'

  'It isn't?' Bermuda stomped his cigarette into a gravelly grave.

  'We are here to locate Jared. He will be able to create our lock and maybe shed some light.' A few hisses and murmurs emanated from the crowd, all eyes, whatever the colour, focusing in with extra venom. Bermuda scowled back at them, surveying the bizarreness of his life before sighing.

  'Fine. Let's go.'

  Argyle nodded and the two of them entered the Tobacco Dock, their ID badges enough to not only garner them access but to also spread fear among the attendants. The entire structure, recently refurbished with glass fencing around the corridors, may have seemed abandoned to the human eye. Bermuda. However, saw something completely different.