Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  ‘She was found with her heart removed. No evidence of weaponry or surgical tools.’ Vincent’s pupilless eyes rested on him. ‘It was taken cleanly with the murderer’s bare hands.’

  Bermuda whistled, reaching for the folder with his unstrapped arm and flicking it open. A measly couple of pages comprised the details of the case. He raised an eyebrow, heavy with stitches.

  ‘Not much to go on, is there?’ he said, not looking up. ‘How do we know it’s for us?’

  ‘Three found significant probability that a human could not have carried out such an act.’

  Bermuda shuffled uncomfortably at the Oracles being referred to by number.

  Vincent cleared his throat. ‘And you have been asked for, by name.’

  Bermuda turned back to his superior, confusion wrestling with agony for control of his face. ‘I have zero connection to Glasgow.’

  ‘An old BTCO officer, Tobias Hendry. He was formerly in charge of the old gateway which was situated on the outskirts of Glasgow. Since its decommission he acts as an informant, if you will. He’s human.’

  ‘He’s Scottish.’

  ‘With our other agent away, he has requested your presence.’ Vincent clasped his hands together, the sleeves of his robe hanging low like a wizard. ‘You may not know this, Bermuda, but your reputation precedes you.’

  ‘Woopie-fuckin-do,’ Bermuda muttered. The idea of a winter in Glasgow wasn’t exactly appealing. He turned the page over, examining the photo of a young lady lying in her underwear, her curved body splattered in blood.

  Someone had taken her heart.

  Why?

  He winced, shuffling uncomfortably as a searing reminder of his car crash shot through his ribs. He tried to readjust, the sling strapping his wrist and collarbone in place acting like a straitjacket – a memory he was all too happy not to revisit.

  ‘I am sure you will be healed by tomorrow,’ Vincent suggested, his voice quiet and warm.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bermuda quickly spun, concerned.

  Vincent stared at him until he released a deep sigh, aware that the secret was strictly between them.

  ‘It’s getting worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ Vincent questioned. If he’d had eyebrows, Bermuda was sure one would have been risen.

  As the only human to have crossed to the Otherside and returned, Bermuda knew he was unique. He was admired, envied, and feared in equal measure. While the BTCO proudly proclaimed him as ‘the balance’ between two worlds, the Otherside held him in less regard. Having been responsible for the deaths of some of them, Bermuda knew he was a marked man.

  He also knew that no one knew of the side effects.

  Ever since he had returned, he could feel a call from the Otherside, a delicate whisper dancing on the wind that whipped by. Whenever he came into contact with something from that world, he could feel its pull, trying its best to reclaim what they felt was rightfully theirs. Although he hadn’t been blessed with the strength or speed of Argyle, he had noticed that his body had begun rebuilding itself at an unearthly rate.

  He healed like an Other.

  While his face resembled a dropped pizza and his body had been crumpled like an empty Coke can, he knew it would be fine within a matter of days. Bones began to fall in to place quickly. Scars faded fast.

  Bermuda was keen to keep it secret, not wanting the BTCO to look too far into it. It hurt him to keep it from Argyle. Although his partner was the only being in the two worlds he could trust, he didn’t want people to see him as even more peculiar. Vincent knew – his wise eyes had cottoned on pretty fast – but it remained between the two of them.

  A silent promise.

  ‘Yes, worse,’ Bermuda stated firmly, returning to the conversation. ‘I’m healing faster than Argyle.’

  ‘Not quite, but this is incredible. Remarkable.’

  ‘Do you know what the usual recovery time of a broken collarbone is? About six weeks, eight at the most.’ Bermuda’s words were steeped in disappointment. ‘I can already feel it fusing, and it’s been a day.’

  ‘That’s because you’re one of us now.’

  The deep voice boomed through the archive, leaping from the walls and exploding around them. Bermuda spun on his heel. The clomping footsteps and voice had emanated from the giant, hulking figure of Denham. His face, world weary and framed by an eyepatch, wore a wry smile, the caramel-coloured skin creasing at the corners of his mouth. Semi-retired from field duty, Denham was in charge of new recruits, his no-nonsense approach scaring the fear out of the newly ‘Knack’-aware before they entered the ‘real’ world.

  Standing as tall as Argyle but with a severe bulk that would stand out in professional wrestling, the mighty Neither carried a black bag in his hand, swinging from his fingers like a yo-yo. Bermuda shot a glance back to Vincent, who remained motionless.

  ‘How does he know?’ Bermuda exclaimed, his pitch rising, and a few other inhabitants of the Archive slowly made their way to the door, not wanting to intrude.

  Denham slammed the bag down next to the manila folder and exhaled. ‘What, that you are like us now? Vinnie told me.’ He motioned towards his superior with his thumb. ‘It’s good, we have more in common now.’

  ‘I am not like you,’ Bermuda retorted, his anger slowly boiling.

  ‘I’m afraid you are,’ Vincent calmly interjected, his words a comforting buffer between the two beings before him. ‘Denham has promised the utmost discretion.’

  Bermuda looked back and forth between the two Neithers, both of them as commanding as they were different – a shining example of how bizarre the Otherside was, how little made sense, and how dangerous it could be. Denham’s reputation as a soldier was unquestionable, as was his loyalty and ferocity. Bermuda sighed, relenting.

  ‘It ain’t so bad,’ Denham offered. ‘You could still be pissing in your pants like Thorpe.’

  ‘How is he getting on?’ Bermuda asked.

  Bobby Thorpe was the latest recruit that Denham was breaking in. The poor man was going through a torturous introduction to BTCO life that Bermuda knew only too well.

  ‘Well let’s just say he’s gone through more pairs of underpants than Mick Jagger!’

  Bermuda burst out laughing, his ribs chattering like teeth in the cold. Hearing Denham reference pop culture was surreal. But then standing in an underground vault talking to two creatures from another world about a secret murderer in Scotland made surreal seem like a false concept.

  Denham reached out one of his mighty hands, the fingers clasping the zip of the bag. It opened with a mighty yawn and he reached in, pulling out a thick, bunched-up roll of grey material.

  ‘For you.’ He smirked in Bermuda’s confused direction.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Vincent stepped forward. ‘I asked Denham to create some clothing for you. Obviously, due to his seniority, he had a right to know the reason why.’

  A large slap echoed through the Archive and sent pain racing through Bermuda’s body as Denham’s hand clattered against his back.

  ‘You’re welcome, buddy.’ Denham’s words were softer than his back pat. ‘Hopefully the next time you come up against an Exceptional, this will keep you safe.’

  ‘A what now?’

  ‘An Exceptional,’ Denham replied, confusion dripping from his words.

  Bermuda arched a stitched eyebrow.

  ‘You didn’t tell him?’

  Bermuda turned slowly, his shattered body creaking like a rusty door.

  Vincent sighed.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Bermuda demanded, his one good hand fumbling in his pocket for his e-cig.

  ‘It is not something to tell.’ Vincent began gliding towards the darkened corner of the Archive, beyond the Oracles and the links between worlds that Bermuda would never comprehend. The Neither looked back, his eyes almost sparkling with excitement. ‘It is something to show.’

  Bermuda shuffled after him with slow, painful steps, his dislocated shoulder demanding attent
ion. A cloud of berry-flavoured vapour drifted into the air. ‘Show me what?’

  Denham eagerly marched past Bermuda, bursting through the cloud of synthetic smoke like a game show contestant. His war-worn face uplifted in a wry smile as he arched his large skull back, his one good eye twinkling like a lone star. ‘Your legacy.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The shadows crept over the stone walls like paint dripping down the old, crumbled brick work. The hill was set on the outskirts of the town, a world unfamiliar to him. These people were not the ones he had encountered before; the last time he was free to walk the earth.

  Stone slats rose from the surrounding grounds like jagged teeth. On them, the names of the deceased, a needless tribute to a worthless life. They were all worthless, each one of them nothing more than a maggot, slowly eating its way through the corpse they called life.

  All of them except her.

  He could still see her face, her hazel eyes twinkling as they danced in the moonlight, its beauty only matched by hers. Her dark, brown skin as smooth as silk, the moonbeams shimmering off it like a sunrise on a lake. He closed his jet-black eyes, taking a long, controlled breath, his memories dancing through his mind in sync with their bodies.

  She was gone.

  There was always that creeping, nagging doubt that he would never see her again. That her beauty had been lost over time, and his search had been for nothing. All that time wasted in the dark.

  The chains that held him to the walls.

  The voice that taunted him.

  He shook it from his memory, allowing the same moon that illuminated his great love to bathe the Necropolis in its glory. Each footstep crunched on the dried leaves, their fight for survival long since abandoned. The sleet slapped against his face, the skin – still the same as it had been back then – ignoring the cold that accompanied it.

  With each step, he felt the raindrops falling from his body, the thick, red drops of blood that fell through his fingers.

  This was what was requested.

  This would bring her back.

  The iconic graveyard that sat just on the outskirts of Glasgow was steeped in tradition. Over five thousand people lay beneath, all of them consigned to the earth upon their expiration, bodies amassing the collection for nearly two hundred years. The hill, surrounded by old, brick walls, was awash with stones and monuments, all of them lovingly chosen by those who were left behind.

  The Necropolis was a place of pain.

  Thirty-seven acres of death.

  As he meandered through the tombstones, his hand tightened its grip. The woman had been accommodating, a friendly soul who was unfortunate enough to be his chosen one for the evening. It was she who’d made the motion to leave, inviting him home with a slightly pathetic desperation.

  Now, as her blood splattered the ground, he held her heart in his hand. His cold fingers had ripped right through her skin, shattering the ribs and breastbone before wrapping around it, the beating reaching a crescendo as he pulled it from her body. It had stopped in unison with the life fading from her eyes.

  He would remember her face.

  He had remembered them all. All these years.

  But this would lead him to her one more time as instructed. With each new face he struggled to place hers. The contours of her shapely cheekbones now rested undefined, the outline of her body was skewed, like the thread of a frayed knot.

  He was losing her.

  His shoes crunched off the dead leaves and clapped against the stone path, the mighty tombs that belonged to people of historical importance looming over him like a tidal wave of concrete. He wasn’t bothered with their names, or the need to celebrate their life with such a creation.

  All he knew was this was where he would deliver the heart. This was where he remembered.

  He took a few more steps towards the door of the small, crumbling shelter, the carved pillars cracked and faded. The rain hammered against the stone, rendering the dull building an even darker shade of depressing.

  It reminded him of a place in time, a memory that was dancing on the outskirts of his mind, somewhere he couldn’t place. He remembered nothing of life before her. All he knew was his name and how he loved her. How he would have run through every door imaginable just to be by her side.

  Now she was gone. Taken from him so long ago.

  With a solemn bow of his head, he lowered himself to one knee, the wet concrete soaking his trouser leg. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers slowly running down the damp wood of the door. The tomb stood still amongst the powerful rain, a symbol of eternal loneliness

  That’s what he had been sentenced to.

  With great care, he placed the static heart on the ground, the rain washing the last of the blood from the organ and sweeping it down the steps. He slowly rose, looking around the cemetery with his dark eyes before running a hand through his dripping hair.

  As requested, he had brought them what they had asked for.

  He would return to the outskirts of this world, hoping that today was they day they would return her to him.

  As they walked past the Oracles, Bermuda watched One begin to jolt, its machine ramping up the beeps as it pumped information from their world to ours. He shook his head in disbelief at how, even if he could describe the finest details, he would be locked up again just for speaking of it. Its eyes, a pale cream with no pupil, stared straight upwards, as if they had rolled back into its skull.

  The other three lay perfectly still.

  The only sound was the beeping of their machines. Did they even know he was watching?

  ‘Hey!’

  Denham’s voice echoed through the archive, stirring Bermuda back into the bizarre reality of his life. The mighty Neither beckoned him over, which he obliged quickly. Looking back over his shoulder, Bermuda noted that the Oracles hadn’t even flinched. He exhaled, and a slight creep danced up his spine.

  ‘Don’t stare at the Oracles,’ Denham ordered as Bermuda joined him. His hands clutched the grey gift tightly. ‘It’s rude.’

  ‘Do they even know I’m there?’

  ‘They know everything.’ Denham’s words were final, his mighty arms folded across his powerful chest, the black ‘BTCO’ T-shirt stretched to near breaking point. With his one good eye, he returned his gaze to Vincent, who slowly lowered a large book onto the secluded desk between them.

  Bermuda glanced at the two senior Neithers, his eyebrows raised. ‘Is it story time?’

  ‘This, Jones, is your legacy.’ Vincent spoke, ignoring the quip. ‘After what happened six months ago, we have taken extra steps to ensure that the fate of the world doesn’t rest upon just your shoulders. Do you know how?’

  Bermuda looked up at Vincent, meeting his grey eyes and slowly nodding. ‘By reading?’

  Denham sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with frustrated fingers. Vincent projected a warm smile, his patience higher than that of his fellow Neither.

  ‘By making sure we are prepared. We knew of Barnaby and were following up reports of his escape. While you were adamant of the incoming danger, we were unprepared. An Other as dangerous as he should not have been left in your capable hands. You were, as much as Mr Black hates to admit it, very much right on that one.’

  ‘Well if Monty wants to thank me for being so inspirational, he knows where to find me.’

  ‘Quite,’ Vincent continued, slowly opening the mighty book. Again, as with all the documentation from the Otherside, the letters were indecipherable, dancing across the pages in a criss-cross pattern. ‘This is the Tome, a new record that I alone have access to. A new brand of Other has been agreed, a way to monitor those who pose a serious threat to our world. We are no longer going to use a grading system, merely the new term.’

  ‘Exceptionals,’ Bermuda interjected, his lips tightening as he scrutinised the idea. ‘I like it.’

  ‘So far, we have only two on record, one of whom has been vanquished by yourself and Argyle.’

 
‘Even I have to admit Argyle did the worlds a favour killing that piece of shit,’ Denham added, his face betraying the praise for Argyle, a hatred that had Bermuda never understood.

  ‘With this Tome, we can help create a better balance between the worlds, keeping them safe and secure.’ Vincent nodded at Bermuda warmly. ‘Two worlds, one peace.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bermuda waved off the BTCO creed, taking a large puff on his e-cig. The fruity plume of smoke surrounded the three of them as his eyes lit up. ‘Who else is in the book?’

  ‘You will only be informed of Exceptionals should it pertain to your case.’

  ‘So, whatever’s happening in Glasgow doesn’t involve an Exceptional?’

  ‘Not as far as we have been informed.’

  ‘Then who is it?’ Bermuda asked cheekily. ‘Is it you? Is it Denham?’

  ‘You will be informed of Exceptionals—’ Vincent began to repeat.

  Bermuda cut him off. ‘Is it me?’

  ‘Enough,’ Denham interrupted, the frustration rife across his wrinkled face, the frown arching over his eyepatch. ‘No one knows but Vincent, so leave it be.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Bermuda held his hand up, his other resting in the sling that was becoming less necessary by the minute. He scowled at the changes his body was going through, the effect of the Otherside.

  He had always felt different.

  Now he didn’t even feel human.

  It was bad enough that Vincent had figured out that he was developing an Other’s ability to heal, but now Denham knew, he began to feel even more like a freak.

  As if he could read Bermuda’s mind, Vincent slowly closed the thick, leather cover of the Tome, locking away Bermuda’s legacy for the day. His words were slathered in warmth. ‘Denham has a gift for you.’

  Bermuda raised his stitched eyebrow in surprise, turning to the hulking recruiter, a fiendish grin across his face. With an arm thicker than Bermuda’s torso, he reached for the dark, grey blanket that clung tightly to its contents that he had removed from the bag earlier.