Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  Compared to the regimented and regal Argyle, who stood purposefully next to him, he looked like someone had dragged him through a bush backwards.

  In a few moments he would be there, and they would let him sleep in one of the agents’ chambers. His eyelids suddenly gave in to gravity and closed.

  He saw those piercing black eyes again.

  With a shudder he awoke, the burning pain from his skull sending him stumbling forward. He rested his hand on the metal doors as he hunched over, trying his best to stay conscious.

  'Are you all right?' Argyle's concerned voice ricocheted around the container, vibrating wildly through the pain that had consumed Bermuda's skull.

  Just stay conscious, he told himself.

  The bell dinged as they reached their destination, thirty feet below the Shard.

  The doors slowly opened.

  An unconscious Bermuda slumped into the corridor.

  CHAPTER TEN

  'HELP ME!'

  Bermuda shot up in a panic, his face damp and laced with sweat. The dream had been the same.

  The same voice.

  The same cry for help.

  The same feeling of failure.

  He took a few moments, his heart beating like a pneumatic drill in his ribcage. His eyes, blurry with tears, blinked rapidly as he scanned the room. The walls were too white, the lights above beating down on him with an overbearing brightness. The buzz of them was too strong. The walls began to spin.

  Here we go, he told himself.

  Hunching over the side of the single bed, he puked onto the floor. The burning sensation added to the tears as he retched, a repulsive concoction of bile, alcohol, and ready meals. The diet of a singleton.

  'You missed the bin.'

  Bermuda took slow, deep breaths as he sat back, wiping the edges of his mouth with the thin white duvet. He slowly opened his eyes, letting them return to normal. On the opposite side of the room, sat comfortably on a fold-out plastic chair, was Vincent.

  The most senior Neither working for the BTCO and the personal Neither of the BTCO Director, Lord Felix Ottoway III.

  With a calm smile, Vincent was the polar opposite to Argyle. His skin was a deathly pale, which he attributed to having been alive for more than six hundred years. His hair, although now wafer thin, was a jet-black colour, matching the irises of his eyes. His small frame was wrapped in its usual black robe, his delicate hands clasped together, which sat in his lap.

  'Sorry about that. My aim is a little off,' Bermuda said dryly, his throat gasping for water. Instinctively, Vincent rose from his chair, his movement so light that Bermuda often wondered if he floated through the air. He handed him a cup of water, which Bermuda gratefully gulped down. Vincent glided to the side table, picking up a clipboard and glancing over the paper.

  'You still have the same dreams?' he asked, not looking up from the sheet.

  'Dream,' Bermuda corrected. 'And yes.'

  'Hmmm.' Vincent mused over the sheets before returning the clipboard. 'You human's like to place a lot on the meaning of these such events. Perhaps a psychological assessment could sniff out the cause?’

  'Don't know if you recall, but the last time I had a shrink speak to me, they locked me in a padded room.' Bermuda sat up, shaking away the cobwebs and the lurching memories of his past.

  'Quite. Your wounds will heal.'

  Bermuda grunted, turning slowly and draping his legs over the white sheets of the bed. A patch of blood smeared them, creating a ghastly Rorschach test on the mattress. He shook as he tried to lift himself.

  'Perhaps you should rest some more?' Vincent said, concerned, walking back to his chair.

  'I need a cigarette.' Bermuda's legs trembled with each step, his sense of direction slowly returning as he stumbled towards his belongings.

  'This is a no-smoking facility'.

  Click.

  Smoke filled the air.

  Vincent sighed.

  'I take it Felix is pissed?' Bermuda asked, his words pushing a thin, dark cloud into the room.

  'Lord Ottoway is less than impressed, if that's what you mean.'

  Bermuda shrugged.

  'What do you recall?'

  'I remember...the ship. I remember something big.' Bermuda frowned, his skull ready to rip through his skin at any moment. 'I remember almost shitting myself.'

  'Do you recall blasting two large holes in a London landmark?

  'Not really. I was too busy being beaten unconscious.' Bermuda stubbed the cigarette out on the side table, drawing a tut from his guest.

  'You were attacked by a Gorgoma. An ancient, feral breed of behemoth. How it got into the Cutty Sark, we do not know. They are prohibited from this world for the safety of your people.'

  'Well then how the hell did it get where I was sent?' Bermuda's voice raising a little in anger. 'And how the fuck did it get its hands—or whatever it has—on a latch stone?'

  'Our investigation is ongoing on that matter.'

  Investigation.

  The symbol.

  The man with the top hat.

  Those piercing black eyes.

  'He brought it,' Bermuda exclaimed loudly, bounding back towards the desk that housed his belongings. He instantly began flicking through his notebook. Vincent slowly approached.

  'Who?'

  'The man.' Bermuda flicked through the pages eagerly, the grogginess diminishing with every page turn.

  'What man?'

  'There was a man—well, an Other. His eyes. The way he stared...'

  Bermuda trailed off, much to Vincent's frustration. For a few moments, the only noise was the swish of paper and the low hum of the halogen bulb. Bermuda finally turned to the Neither, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

  'Have you ever seen this symbol before?'

  Vincent reached out his long, spindly fingers as Bermuda handed him the notebook. Sketched on the paper was a crude drawing, a twelve-sided shape that was obviously scribbled in a hurry. Having been involved in the peace talks between Earth and the Otherside, Vincent was a fount of knowledge. Educated in the complete history of the truce, he was a walking archive. Bermuda had lost count of how many times Vincent had pointed him in the right direction.

  'Hmmm,' Vincent mused, his fingers rubbing his sharp, bony chin. 'Where did you find this?'

  'I found that symbol on the wall where that Lambert girl went missing. I found the same symbol in the boat, right before Captain Fingers found me.'

  Studying the paper, Vincent flashed a concerned glance towards Bermuda.

  'Follow me.'

  They exited the room, making their way into the brightly lit corridor, a long, endless tunnel that was lined with large, concrete doors. A few of them to the left housed more agent chambers. Down the far side were the Neither quarters, a place for Argyle and the other 'defected' to find solace amongst the two worlds that had turned their backs on them. Beyond those rooms was the combat arena, where agents and new recruits were trained. Vincent took a sharp right, heading down an identical corridor, the doors bolted tightly shut, encapsulating the recently banished that would soon be deported back to the Otherside for further imprisonment. The truce between the two worlds hinged on the law that captured Others were sent back to their own world for trial, and usually a fatal punishment. Bermuda knew that Argyle despised the banishment, knowing that he was effectively sentencing those they had apprehended to death.

  As the corridor broke into a T-junction, Vincent stopped at a set of grand doors, the metal slabs decorated in an intricate carved pattern. Reaching out his delicate fingers, he spoke quietly.

  'Wait here.'

  The door opened slowly, the brightness of the room violently trying to escape through the crack in the door as he used all his strength to open it.

  The Archive.

  The effective heartbeat of the BTCO, access to the room was strictly prohibited without Level One clearance, an honour bestowed upon only a few. Bermuda was not on the list. Before entering the room, Vinc
ent slowly turned his head, his movements slow and jolty, like someone had removed a few frames from his full turn.

  'This may take a while.’

  Vincent offered a smile, his teeth grey and broken. Bermuda nodded, watching as he ghosted through the opening and the doors closed with a loud thud. He exhaled, rattling the box of Tic Tacs in his pocket before popping a few into his mouth. Just as he was about the leave, a thick French accent broke the silence.

  'Monsieur Jones.'

  Bermuda cursed under his breath and turned to face Hugo LaPone. With his slick, black hair combed back over a head that housed sharp cheekbones and a perfect jaw, Bermuda wanted to punch him for being so strikingly handsome.

  That, and for his obnoxious attitude.

  'Hey,' Bermuda half-heartedly offered.

  'What brings you here?' Hugo placed his hands on his hips, his biceps bulging through his black turtleneck jumper. 'Oh wait, could it be that you decided to be reckless once again?'

  'Reckless? Awesome? Depends on how you look at it.'

  'What good is us agents being discreet when people like you do not give a shit?'

  Bermuda clenched his fists, turning on his heels and coming nose to nose with the stubbled smirk of his fellow agent. He could smell the expensive coffee lingering on Hugo's breath.

  'It's called being a damn good agent. Maybe if you got out there and actually did something once in a while...'

  'The two Others we have in the cells are thanks to me and Marco,' Hugo retorted. Marco, his Neither, stood a few feet behind. Small and thin and his movements almost reptilian, he was fundamentally different to Argyle. His skin a darker brown than Argyle’s, but with eyes just as grey, he was incredibly agile and an effective interceptor when needed. Hugo continued.

  'However, we didn't leave large, hole-shaped traces when we were done.'

  Bermuda held back from responding. Hugo had a history of jealousy that had led to confrontations before. Although he had 'the Knack', the same as all the other agents, he envied the strength of Bermuda's curse.

  The ability to walk in and interact with both worlds.

  The curse that ruined Bermuda's life.

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  'I'll tell you what, Hugo: I'm going to go speak with Ottoway now. Would you like me to ask him if he can give you a gold star?'

  Hugo reached out with a muscular arm and forcefully shoved Bermuda in the shoulder, sending him back a few steps. Gritting his teeth and willing himself not to react, he regained his balance. He felt the stinging pain from his chest wounds rising up through his body, manifesting in an explosive rage.

  'I wouldn't do that.'

  'Why's that?' Hugo asked, confident in his training.

  Before Bermuda could react, the large bolt of the Archive door unclasped, echoing down the long corridors. It slowly opened and Vincent leant through the gap, a frown across a face that had seen centuries pass.

  'Jones, please enter. And whatever petty squabbles you two have, bury them.'

  Hugo sneered, his eyes flicking between Bermuda and the senior Neither. With a grunt, he stormed past Bermuda, purposely bumping his shoulder and trying to knock him off balance. Bermuda stood firm, absorbing the impact without reacting. Marco slithered by, following his partner like a slippery shadow.

  'Come with me.'

  Slightly seething, Bermuda stepped over the threshold into one of the most secluded rooms in the entire building.

  The vast chamber, lined with hundreds of bookshelves, was a chronological history of the entire Otherside. Ever since the existence of another world was discovered, the BTCO had documented everything—every case, every incident, every conversation. The entire passage of unity between the two worlds lined the walls, all wrapped in large leather covers. Although he had entered the Archive once before, the sheer volume of it was breathtaking.

  'This way.'

  Vincent glided gracefully across the marble floor; his footsteps, if he took them, made no sound as they travelled. They passed rows of benches, used for the more senior analysts as desks, all of them empty. Beyond them, a small maze of filing cabinets, each one containing individual case files. Bermuda often wondered if his disciplinary files were somewhere inside, and how much space they would inevitably take up.

  He fumbled for his Tic Tacs, the rattle of the mints echoing in the silence, drawing a scowl from Vincent. They stepped beyond the cabinets and Bermuda slowed down, his gaze taken to the extraordinary sight before him.

  In four separate reclining chairs lay the Oracles. Completely nude and pale blue, they were the four most precious Neithers belonging to the BTCO. Each one was attached to a series of wires, linking them to the large computer screens that surrounded them. They never spoke, nor did they hardly move.

  They informed.

  Their ability to be linked to the Otherside, not by their birth but by the Others themselves, allowed them to pinpoint goings on within our world that humans could not comprehend. They were the ones to notice the peculiar nature of Jessica Lambert's disappearance, and every case could be traced back to them. When a pattern or an occurrence is relayed into the system, it is passed on to a Neither, who will then relay to the agent.

  Whenever Argyle showed up Bermuda's door with a new case, he knew it would have found its way from here.

  The very heartbeat of the BTCO.

  'Over here.'

  Vincent broke Bermuda's stare, having walked beyond the sight he saw every day to a large book laid open on a wooden alter. Each sheet was A3, the paper thick, as if written on pigskin. The writing that criss-crossed the page was indecipherable to the human eye, and Bermuda nodded at the page before looking blankly at Vincent.

  'Shall I explain?' His voice was calm.

  'Please do.'

  Vincent smiled warmly before turning to face the pages before him.

  'When peace was sort between our two worlds, your elders agreed to designated doorways between the two realms. These would be manned on both sides of the divide, by humans here on Earth and by Others on the Otherside. All who crossed the threshold would need certification. Permission, if you will.

  'To ensure that the peace would last, all artifacts pertaining to cross-world travel were deemed illegal and stored away by the Elders. Locked away in a vault somewhere within the higher reaches of the Otherside.'

  'So basically, no border-hopping?' Bermuda suggested, popping a Tic Tac into his mouth.

  'To put it crudely, yes. As you well know, the travel is one way—from my world to yours. Beyond yourself, no human has survived a trip through the gateway. We here at the BTCO act as a deterrent to those who do not abide by the truce, to those who see this world as merely an extension of their own.'

  'So what you’re saying is...' Bermuda let his question hang, raising his eyebrows at the ghostly entity before him.

  'The symbol you have found is that of an Arko Feld.' Bermuda's vacant expression urged Vincent to continue. 'A Gate-Maker.'

  'A Gate-Maker?' Bermuda pulled out his notepad and scribbled onto a free page.

  'Yes. Whoever is creating these doorways is doing so of his own volition.'

  'I know who it is,' Bermuda said, the pencil flicking around the page with wild scratches.

  'You do?' Vincent responded, closing the book with a loud thud that echoed through the vicinity. Bermuda etched a few more lines before turning his crude sketch to his audience.

  'This guy.'

  The rushed lines formed a jagged face, one with no discernible features apart from the large, black eyes that sat in the middle. Atop the uneven head, Bermuda had sketched a top hat. Vincent stared at it intently, Bermuda wondering if he would be able to hear the cogs in his brain turning.

  'Who is this?' Vincent asked.

  'He was there. At the Cutty Sark. He was watching.'

  Vincent smirked dismissively.

  'They always watch you, Bermuda. Remember, you are the one that genetically broke the rules.'

  'I'm
telling you, this guy here, he knows what is going on.'

  Vincent took a deep breath, calmly gazing his eyes over the page one last time. Bermuda shuffled on the spot, eager to get going. He respected Vincent for his catalogue of knowledge and constant flow of answers, but something wasn't sitting right.

  As if something was being held back.

  Eventually Vincent turned, a warm smile across his ancient face. He handed Bermuda the notebook, his long, bony fingers retracting quickly.

  'Well you better find him, then.'

  Bermuda nodded, turning towards the door as Vincent gazed an eye over the Oracles, their company screens flashing with numerous patterns and images.

  'I will consult the Oracles, see if they can provide any more information. In the meantime, Ottoway has asked that you see him before you leave.'

  Bermuda stopped in his tracks; a summoning from the head of the organisation wasn't a usual occurrence, nor one to take lightly.

  'Where is he?' Bermuda asked, his hands fidgeting in his pockets.

  Vincent smiled warmly.

  'Where he usually is.'

  Bermuda took a deep breath and walked back across the archive as Vincent glided towards the prone Oracles, hoping for answers.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sun had burst through the clouds, shrouding the city of London in a wondrous glow. The streets were awash with people, all zigzagging impatiently between themselves, each one scuttling to a destination of relevant importance. The roads were gridlocked, buses, black cabs, and cars all honking their horns and jostling for a few extra inches as the traffic lights did their best to filter it.

  The buildings shot up to the sky like a row of jagged teeth, all of them filled with employees, unrealistic targets, and minimal profit margins. The hustle and bustle of everyday life. The human condition, evolved to the modern society in which we live.

  The rat race of life.

  Lord Felix Ottoway III looked over it all and smiled.

  At eighty-one years old, he had watched the world rebuild itself into the technological labyrinth it was today, and he couldn't have felt prouder. To be part of a species that could not only create such wonders but be driven to further develop. A species that could construct the capability to walk on the moon. One thing that he knew, having been part of the BTCO for over sixty years and the UK Director for over thirty.