The Absent Man

by Robert Enright

  Everyone he knew was just out of reach, all of them reduced to ash and spirited away in the wind. Their final look was of failure as he watched them die.

  An ear-splitting roar echoed in the distance. The giant beast responsible for the destruction of the world was rampaging beyond the smoke. The sky was black.

  The only light was that of the fire that burst through every window on the street. The lampposts that stood like pillars rumbled to ash as he passed them.

  His ex-wife Angela waited for him. A mere few feet from the woman he had sacrificed everything for, he knew she would crumble as he touched her. He felt his arm reach forward, he watched her reduce to ash.

  He knew what was next and willed himself to wake up. Straining to close his eyes, he wrestled his sub-conscious, trying his best to race back to reality and awake in whatever place he had fallen asleep.

  ‘Daddy.’

  Her voice returned him to the apocalyptic street, the world ablaze as the ash danced through the air, twisting with the flaming embers of destruction. He was still there, moments away from watching the Otherside take what was most precious to him.

  With tears streaming from his eyes, he turned to face his daughter. Her nightdress was stained with soot and her face was rife with fear. Her eyes, raw from crying, searched her father for any strains of hope.

  Suddenly the shadows began to circle, thin, crooked fingers reaching out and wrapping themselves around her limbs.

  Bermuda raced towards her, the street stretching as he failed to make up the ground. Each step echoed, drowning out the destruction of the world. All he cared about was his daughter, the need to protect her. As he bounded towards her, she caught his eye one last time, a realisation of the end.

  ‘Help me!’

  He leapt, screaming for her as the hands ripped her body in several directions.

  Bermuda jolted awake, instantly groaning in agony as his body reminded him of his injuries. Above him, a bright light burst through, blinding him slightly as it buzzed from its artificial beam in the ceiling.

  ‘Wakey, wakey.’

  The Scottish twang made him wince further, the voice of a disapproving senior. Pushing himself up slowly, he felt the whiplash tighten around his neck like a dog lead, pulling him back to the bed. With a deep breath he pushed himself upwards, battling the stiffness of his spine and the sling that his arm rested in.

  His ribs clattered freely, the bones shaking like a box of his favourite mints. Broken. Again.

  He was at the BTCO headquarters, a secret underground facility that sat thirty feet below the Shard, one of the premium London tourist spots. The building itself, eighty-nine floors of manmade glass and wonderment, stood just outside London Bridge Station. The sharp, glittering building was glistening in the early winter cold.

  Thirty feet below, Bermuda was slowly adjusting himself, his legs swinging gently over the side of the bed. Every movement sent pain rocketing towards his brain. His eyes slowly began to adjust to the glare of the fluorescent tubes that hung from the ceiling, the fuzzy outlines of the three people in the room gradually beginning to find their shape. One of them stood forward, the definition of his face matching the sarcasm of his voice, and Bermuda knew he would have been happier being greeted by a kick in the bollocks.

  The Scottish voice belonged to Montgomery Black, head of the Committee, the board of senior officers and agents that oversaw the BTCO. Bermuda had lost count of the times he had felt the wrath of the old man and judging by the sneer that clung to his wrinkled, be-spectacled face, another encounter wasn’t far away.

  ‘What does the BTCO stand for?’ Black locked his hands together at the base of his spine, slowly turning away from Bermuda with a straight back and a disregard for pleasantries.

  ‘I’m okay, by the way.’ Bermuda flashed a glance to one of the other figures. ‘Aren’t I?’

  Taking a few steps forward was Vincent, the most senior Neither working for the BTCO. His greyish skin clung tightly to his bones, his eyes a dark black, his nose thin and pointed. Like Argyle, Vincent had defected to our world, dedicating over half a century to building a workable truce between the Earth and the Otherside. Respected on both sides of the divide, Vincent was an archive of knowledge and expertise, working very closely with the other man in the room.

  Lord Felix Ottoway III. The director of the BTCO.

  Rapidly approaching his eighty-second birthday, he watched Bermuda with the kindness in his eyes he always had. He’d spent over sixty years in the agency, the clock ticking as the cancer continued to grip to his lungs, daring him to take his final breath.

  Vincent’s voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘You have suffered a broken collarbone, broken fingers, and a broken wrist. You have a severe bout of whiplash and your ribs have been – how shall I put it? – re-shattered.’

  Bermuda winced as he pressed a finger into his side, only to be greeted by a searing pain.

  ‘Other than that, no lasting damage.’

  Bermuda nodded before turning to Black, who still wouldn’t look at him.

  ‘See? I’m fine. Almost died in the line of duty, but thanks for checking.’

  ‘What does the BTCO stand for?’ Black’s deep voice echoed through the basic room, reverberating off the empty walls.

  On a small, white table to the side, Bermuda’s possessions lay messily, his clothes balled up on the floor below. Blood had dripped from the gash above his eyebrows onto the BTCO-issued white T-shirt. His toned arms hung from the sleeves, covered in the scrawling ink of the tattoos that covered his whole upper body. Incantations to symbols, all of which had been in a hope of warding off the onslaught of the Otherside. As he shifted uncomfortably, the pain bouncing around his body like a pinball machine, he couldn’t help but think they weren’t working.

  ‘Behind The Curtain Organisation,’ Bermuda droned, bored with the question already.

  Black snapped round to face him. ‘Don’t be facetious.’

  ‘You asked.’ Bermuda rolled his eyes. He slowly patted his thighs, realising he wasn’t wearing his jeans, and immediately grateful they had left his boxer shorts on.

  ‘But what does the organisation stand for?’ Black’s voice seemed incapable of compassion.

  Bermuda spotted his electric cigarette lying sloppily amongst his possessions on the side. He sighed. ‘Two worlds. One peace.’

  ‘Exactly. We are here to maintain the harmony that exists between our worlds. A truce that has stood the test of centuries, two worlds working towards a common goal. A peaceful existence.’

  ‘With all due respect, that giant hell-dog tried to rip me to pieces and didn’t seem to give a damn about what it had to do to get to me. So, you can cram that peaceful existence up your arse.’

  ‘Jones!’ Ottoway’s voice snapped like an outraged headmaster’s.

  Black’s eyes narrowed with fury at the disrespectful agent who slowly pushed himself to his feet. Managing a few wobbles, he slowly made his way across the room, the pain riding his spinal cord like a rollercoaster. Lifting his electric cigarette to his mouth, he took a puff, exhaling loudly as the cherry-flavoured smoke clouded around the room.

  ‘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.