‘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.
Now, as he sat across the bar and watched the young women chatting enthusiastically as one of them showed off a pathetic new piece of jewellery, he knew they needed more.
They would require another.
He looked down at his fingers, the wrinkled knuckles stretched as he clasped his glass. The burning scotch that filled it would have little effect.
The barmaid had called it ‘classy’ when he had ordered it, more out of habit than desire. It was for appearances. The world saw him as one of their own and he would not pull back the veil just yet. There was no need.
There was no her.
He lifted the glass and relieved it of its contents, the liquid burning the back of his throat and disintegrating before it reached his stomach. The thumping noise from the speaker above was foolishly labelled music, a disgrace to the wonders he had heard when she was in his arms.
Where were the trumpets? The strings?
The sense of class?
He shuddered, looking at the scantily clad women that adorned the high seats, all of them leaning over cocktails with their bodies on show. Like a low-rent meat market. Be
yond them, leering men looked on, all of them nothing more than cheap aftershave and misplaced machismo. Nothing like how men used to be.
How he used to be.
As he gently gestured for a refill to the waitress, a dark feeling crept into his mind, like a leak slowly filling up a bucket. What did he used to be? He had always been him. That nagging doubt, this vague recollection of dust and stone flickered and disappeared as quickly as a lightning bolt.
He was Kevin Parker.
A man who was doing what he could to bring back the one he loved. The one they had lied to. His concentration was broken when a napkin, shortly followed by a scotch, was placed in front of him by the waitress, her smile as fake as her tan.
‘Thank you,’ he uttered politely, a gentleman’s smile her tip. He reached for his wallet.
‘No need.’ She spoke through chewing gum. ‘It’s already been paid for.’
She directed his gaze to a smiling woman sat by the bar who looked over with interest. She was pretty, petite but not in a worrying way. Her auburn hair was pulled neatly into a bob, her large, blue eyes were framed with a gentle purple shadow. She wore a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a rose-patterned top.
He smiled, gently easing himself up off the chair and falling into the role of the grateful stranger. All he would have to do is be polite, compliment her a few times, and pretend to care what she said.
It was almost too easy.
He noticed her straightening her top and shuffling anxiously on her stool. He had to ignore the sharp prod of guilt that accompanied each step.
She didn’t deserve this.
But then again, neither had the one they took from him.
The young lady turned slightly, noticing his hesitation. ‘I don’t bite,’ she offered playfully, her smile revealing cute dimples.
‘Of course not.’ Kevin stumbled, looking towards the exit.
‘It was just a drink. You don’t have to stay.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ He offered her a weak smile before looking to the door again.
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Is there another woman?’
‘Why do you ask?’ His voice instantly hardened, and his back stiffened as well.
‘You keep looking at the door as if someone is going to burst in and catch you.’
His shoulders relaxed, and he chuckled, taking a sip of the drink she had bought him. She frowned, her delicately plucked eyebrows pulling her face inward.
‘There is no one.’ He took another sip. ‘Not anymore.’
‘Then have a seat …’ she gestured to him.
‘Kevin.’
‘Katie.’ She extended a small, open hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Kevin.’
‘Nice to meet you too, Miss …’ he raised his eyebrows, his smooth, chiselled face more welcoming.
‘Oh, Steingold. Miss Steingold. But like I said, Katie.’
‘Katie it is.’
She chuckled, looking slightly baffled by the strange behaviour of the handsome stranger. He was well-groomed and seemed to be in good shape. His suit, while custom made, seemed slightly too big for him.
‘You seem different,’ she stated abruptly.
‘Different?’ he questioned, finishing his drink and motioning for another. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘I mean different to all the other men in here. You actually seem like the type of person who can hold a conversation. Who is actually out for a drink, as opposed to a walking hard-on who is looking to get coked up and hope to avoid an STD.’ Her accent became stronger the more she ranted, the Glaswegian girl escaping slightly.
‘I don’t see the point in the drugs they take or the behaviour they embody. There is a decorum lacking in today’s society and I refuse to condone or partake.’
She giggled slightly, sipping her gin until the straw roared against the bottom of her glass. The barman placed a fresh drink before them both. Kevin handed over a note, waving away the notion of being handed back change.
‘That’s a very generous tip,’ Katie exclaimed. ‘I wish you’d came into my shop.’
‘You will have to tell me where it is, so I can experience your hospitality.’
‘Hehe. You do talk funny, you know that?’
‘I merely speak properly.’ His words were smooth, his voice soft.
She took a sip of her drink before flicking her hair back, hoping he picked up on the body language. He remained stoic, and the difficulty she had reading him was becoming slightly arousing. She composed herself, sipping her drink before peering into his unflinching gaze.
‘You must have stolen a heart or two in your time, huh?’ She leaned slightly towards him as he grinned a perfect set of teeth.
‘You have no idea.’
His whispered response was lost on her as their lips pressed together. The thumping music slowly vanished and he could feel her heart racing.
Her heart.
With an excitement in her eyes, she left her chair, leading him by the hand towards the door. As they slithered through the dance floor, evading the drunken and the desperate, he gazed upon her one more time.
She would be dead by sunrise.
Hopefully this would be the last one.
‘McAllister has already left for the evening.’
The thick Scottish accent belonged to PC Billy Ferguson, a large, heavyset Scotsman with a thick ginger beard. He looked like he had leapt straight off a box of porridge. Bermuda sighed, the freezing wind jabbing at him with frozen fingers. The door to the flat was closed, police tape criss-crossed from the frame like a morbid gift. Ferguson had been sat in his car, heaters blazing as he watched the premises.
‘I need to see the crime scene.’
‘You press?’
‘No.’ Bermuda scoffed. ‘Even I’m not that much of a dick.’
‘You ain’t from round here, lad. You from London?’
‘For my sins.’ Bermuda clenched his fists, willing his hands back to life. The cold clung onto them, claiming them as its own.
‘What’s it like being a big southern softy in this weather?’ Ferguson smirked, his toothless grin a testament to a few scrapes. Bermuda got the impression he was not the sort of police officer who sought peaceful resolution.
‘It has its perks.’ Bermuda smirked. ‘Education, good looks, decent pay. What’s it like being Scottish?’
Ferguson’s brow furrowed, his thick ginger eyebrows almost covering his beady eyes. His police-issue raincoat was zipped up to the neck, the collar consumed by his mighty beard.
‘You wanna watch that mouth of yours.’ He shook his head, stepping past Bermuda and onto the two steps that led to the front door. ‘But you are not getting in this flat without a warrant or McAllister present.’
‘But I’m the specialist they were sending.’
‘You could be Angelina Fucking Jolie, I still can’t let you in.’ He broadened his shoulders, his imposing frame almost filling the doorway. ‘Now run along, before I lose my temper.’
Bermuda muttered under his breath, and a fresh army of raindrops clattered against him as the Glasgow night took a turn for the worse. Ferguson crossed his arms, the thick forearms resting on the slight paunch of his stomach. The rain covered everything in a beautiful shimmer.
The bitter cold almost froze it solid.
After a few moments of glaring, Bermuda slowly turned on the heel of his Converse and headed back down the small path, passing the metal gate and running a hand through his drenched hair. His entire body shook, the slight remnants of his injuries struggling to be heard over the numbing temperature. He almost chuckled – the thought of hurtling off of Hammersmith flyover made him remember how goddamn absurd his life was.
‘We need to get into the residence.’
Argyle’s words were calm yet firm, the voice of a soldier. Bermuda nodded, slapping two Tic Tacs into his mouth and hoping they didn’t freeze. The water bounced off of Argyles chest plate, the droplets exploding like f
ireworks on impact.
‘Well, Bonnie McHaggis over there won’t let us in.’ Bermuda patted Argyle’s exposed arm, the cold bouncing off his skin. ‘Let’s go before my testicles are lost forever.’
Bermuda took a few steps before turning back. Argyle stood staring at the burly police officer, whose glare was locked onto Bermuda like a missile.
‘But we need to get into that residence.’
‘Well next time, Argyle, make sure the person we need is actually here,’ Bermuda replied, frustration wriggling free through his words. ‘Or move that deep-fat-fried dick-head out of the way.’
‘I cannot harm humans. You know my job is to protect you, not instigate violence.’
Bermuda smiled. Even in the freezing cold downpour of a Glasgow night, Argyle never wavered.
‘I know, Big Guy. Let’s head back.’
Bermuda turned again, scolding the notion of a soulless Premier Inn bedroom, the same linen and layout in every room. The same plastic meals and tepid showers.
It had a bar though. Although he was pretty sure it wouldn’t have Doom Bar.
‘Did he threaten you?’
Argyle’s question was laced with innocence.
‘Who? PC Scotsman?’ Bermuda pointed sloppily with his thumb towards the law-abiding blockade. ‘No.’
‘Oh that’s a shame.’ Argyle turned, his face expressionless. ‘If he had, I would be forced to act.’
Bermuda frowned in confusion for merely a second before realisation kicked in, taking the form of a sly grin across his handsome face. ‘Argyle. You fiend.’
‘Did he?’ Ever the soldier, he turned his attention back to PC Ferguson, who rubbed his leather-clad hands together for warmth.
‘Yes he did,’ Bermuda lied. ‘He threatened me constantly.’
Argyle nodded, his powerful footsteps silent as he crunched through the puddles, the heavy downpour adding to his majesty. The rain clattered against his mighty frame, the streetlights making them glisten. The metal band that housed the Retriever dripped freezing droplets. His massive sword swung from his back, the blade slippery and bright.
The Absent Man Page 6