Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  Slowly, he draped the mundra over the frame before pressing it against the frame firmly with the flat side of the utensil. The material would clasp on, then when removed, would reveal any relevant markings.

  A fingerprint.

  Bermuda counted back from thirty, his eyes darting round the room as he heard the faint wailing of a siren shrieking in the wet Glasgow night.

  Time to go.

  He carefully loosened the edges before pulling the mundra off the frame. With his other hand he fished a clear plastic bag from the pouch and stuffed the sheet in. Whatever was on the frame, he would know as soon as he located the BTCO office in Glasgow.

  The siren grew louder, its screams arching through the rain. Bermuda slipped back through the door; Argyle was still crouched down, his hands firmly planted on Officer Ferguson, who had long since given up the fight. He lay still, completely drenched, as a few civilians took a few steps back.

  Bermuda flashed his BTCO badge.

  ‘Argyle.’ He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Let’s go, now.’

  Bermuda walked briskly through the gate. The onlookers’ confusion was buying him a few seconds before questions would be asked. Argyle released Ferguson, who slowly began to wriggle. He slowly pushed himself to his knees, his beard littered with gravel.

  One of the passers-by offered him a hand up.

  A police car screeched around the corner.

  Bermuda and Argyle had disappeared into the wet of the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They had been watching from the moment he had arrived.

  From the moment he had stepped through the doors of Glasgow Central Train Station, they had followed. Clinging to the shadows, they had moved in unison, two to the street of occupation, two to the street ahead, and two to the street behind. They had slithered between buildings, cloaked in darkness.

  He was as they had been told.

  Partnered with a creature of incredible power, they were wise to stay to the edges. To only follow. Now, as the one they called Bermuda emerged from the house, Argyle released the human he had pinned to the wet ground.

  They ran.

  Stood in the shadows, the soldier slowly raised a gloved hand, pulling down the hood that adorned its skull.

  Its mask was sheer white.

  No grooves, no markings. Nothing that would identify as a facial feature. Just a smooth crescent of white that curved to the neck. Below hung its cloak, draped over powerful, armour-clad shoulders. The rest of its imposing frame merged with the darkness, camouflaged to the night and undetectable to the human eye.

  As Bermuda and Argyle raced towards the horizon, the soldier peered across the street, beyond the crowds of vile humans being lashed by the downpour of an unforgiving storm. Beyond the powerful, fuel-consuming cars that destroyed the planet.

  An alley cut a line between two houses, the light from the street lamp trying its best to invade the opening. In the shadows, another white face emerged, another watcher.

  One of the Legion.

  Knowing more would be lining the streets, they would continue to monitor, watch, as they slowly learnt what he could do. Their leader had informed them that the target could walk in both worlds, that he possessed power far greater than he knew.

  His partner would die for him, their loyalty born of their mutual rejection of the worlds they inhabited. He was a threat, a mistake of their world that this one crudely called ‘the Otherside’. Those humans, the ones who could see them, would soon fear them again.

  They were the Legion.

  They were one of many.

  As their targets vanished from sight, the two soldiers took a few steps back, enveloped by the shadows. Their watch was over, and together they would report back to Mandrake, their general.

  He was the one who had found them.

  The one who had made them the Legion.

  They had all shared the same journey. All of them had been created in the dark fields of the Otherside, some of them lucky to survive the frozen times. As the elements, wild inhabitants, and time passed through their settlement, they had whittled the group down to the remaining few. Once they had outgrown their creators, they killed them, feasting on them for sustenance.

  More humanoid than the wild creatures that stalked their world, the eight of them pilgrimaged to the historic land of Healund, where civilisation had been formed by the more controlled of their species. All eight of them were over seven-foot tall, their shoulders broad and their eyes a pure black. Their skin, thick and grey, wrapped around skeletons that had arms slightly too long and protruded sharp, jagged bones from their shoulders.

  Six fingers hung from meaty hands, all of them tipped with razor-esque talons.

  Most striking of all was they had no mouth – just a small, vertical strip that ran from their eyes to chin that could syphon nourishment when the skin was broken.

  Feeding was a rarity then.

  They had survived together for three light passings, one of them nearly being feasted upon by a wild beast which was slain and consumed. They communicated through grunts and signals, eventually establishing a bond.

  They became a family.

  Eventually they hit the walls of Healund, their imposing formation causing a panic amongst its habitants.

  They eventually were brought to Mandrake, who formed what would become the Legion. They were teamed with the greatest warrior their world possessed until his betrayal had seen him banished.

  They would become the most feared rumour within the Otherside.

  A death squad.

  The Legion.

  And as Bermuda and Argyle ran through the freezing, wet Glasgow night, they had no idea that they were being watched.

  As the bright sign of Premier Inn came into view, Bermuda decided to stop jogging. His lungs ached, still paying him back for years of nicotine abuse, his decision to quit off the back of having to run up the steps of Big Ben six months earlier.

  But that was for a true reason.

  He scolded himself, annoyed that he had allowed his mind to flicker back to the beautiful face of Sophie Summers, the woman he was sure could have loved him if his life didn’t involve hidden monsters and problem drinking. The rain had calmed, reducing itself to a light drizzle, and after running over two miles, he found its coldness refreshing.

  Argyle came to a stop beside him, the water shimmering off his magnificent armour. He stood proudly, the run having no effect on him at all. ‘I believe we have placed ourselves a sufficient distance from the scene.’

  Bermuda nodded, still trying to catch his breath, stretching his legs out to avoid the inevitable cramp.

  ‘As an agent, you should train your body to tolerate such abuse.’

  ‘I do.’ Bermuda smirked. ‘You’ve seen me drink.’

  They began walking, Bermuda’s adequate room awaiting.

  ‘Ah, the alcohol.’

  ‘You’re telling me, back in your world, you didn’t have tipple?’

  ‘Tipple?’ Argyle’s voice oozed confusion.

  ‘Yeah, you know, a drink of choice?’ Bermuda puffed his e-cig. ‘I have visions of you slamming steins of mead before laying a bar wench.’

  Argyle stared blankly ahead, allowing the silence to hang between them. Eventually, as the door to the hotel became visible, he spoke.

  ‘My time spent in my world was not filled with laughter. It was darkness, which led to nothing but bloodshed and death.’ He turned and looked at a shocked Bermuda. ‘Here, on this world, I feel at peace.’

  Argyle walked on, his eyes conveying no emotion, but Bermuda respectfully nodded. As powerful as his partner was, he knew there was a softer side to Argyle, a strange sense of humanity trying its best to surface.

  They marched forward, their footsteps slapping wet pavement as the drizzle surrounded them. A few taxis shot up the wide street which was lined by large, gothic-looking buildings that arched over the pavement like the branches of a cliché horror tree. The magnificent buildings gli
stened in the wet moonlight, wrapping around the busy city like an impenetrable wall.

  As Bermuda reached the steps of his hotel, he heard a loud yell. A clearly drunk homeless man on the other side of the road was yelling profanities at a group of teenagers, all of them chuckling as they mocked. Their thick Glaswegian accents were lost on Bermuda, who shook his head and left them to it.

  Somehow, Argyle found peace on this world.

  A few hours later, Bermuda had found his, the last of the thick, cool liquid hitting the back of his throat as he brought his pint glass back to the bar. It rattled slightly, garnering a disgruntled scowl from the bartender who wanted to be anywhere but there.

  Bermuda could relate.

  He had entered his hotel room that night and unpacked his stuff, the anger at McAllister’s absence gnawing at him like a termite. McAllister knew he would be arriving, therefore he should have waited and briefed him of the scene and next steps. Now he was sure that the unfortunate PC who had experienced Argyle’s handiwork would put in a complaint, which somehow would filter back to Montgomery Black back in London.

  That was a phone call he was looking forward to as much as a prostate exam.

  Bermuda motioned to the barman for another Doom Bar, tapping his empty glass and wearily trying to recount the number preceding it. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t drinking for joy or sadness. He was drinking out of boredom.

  As the screens above the bar replayed a hard-looking tackle on a pre-taped rugby game, Bermuda woozily peered around the establishment. The bar was dimly lit, a few bright beams across the far walls illuminated booths, all filled with chirpy groups of friends – a few of the lads knocking back shots to the cheers, another bunch of girls, all white teeth and fake tans, were posing for the perfect selfie.

  A few old Scotsmen sat on opposite sides of the bar, propping up the walls like pillars built into the pub itself, and would occupy their seats until the day they died. They were more than just locals; they were inhabitants. Life outside on the freezing streets of Glasgow held nothing for them anymore.

  As he wondered about the families they had lost, his mind flashed to Chloe, his beautiful daughter and the relationship he was still clinging to. In the six months since he’d welcomed her slowly back into his life, he had begun to accept his gift. His ability to help save two worlds meant he could keep hers safe and keep the horrors of the Otherside at bay. He had embraced his position, even impressing Argyle with his few attempts at exercise and his refusal to smoke.

  But missing her birthday because a goddamn Other couldn’t unhook a bra properly sent his newfound positivity straight into a brick wall.

  The barman sat Bermuda’s drink in front of him, the thick froth sliding down the glass like a white snake. He handed the barman a note, waving away the change and quickly sipping the ale in a hope to remove the onset of depression and replace it with the numbness of a sweet inebriation.

  He may have been in freezing Scotland. He may have had no clue what the hell had happened to that poor girl. He may have been missing his daughter’s birthday.

  But goddamn it, Bermuda was going to have a drink!

  ‘Mine’s a G’n’T.’

  The soft voice was laced with a thick Glaswegian accent and Bermuda groggily turned to his left. The woman smiled; her brown hair was messy and her eyes, a deep green, were vacant. She swayed next to him, her athletic body wrapped in a tight red dress. She definitely looked after herself, but her body seemed more practical than perfection.

  Bermuda was looking at her legs when a finger, adorned by a peach nail, beckoned him up.

  ‘Hey. No looking till you buy me a drink.’

  She was smashed. But hey, so was he. Bermuda ordered her a gin and tonic, with the bartender making it clear he wasn’t going to serve them beyond that drink. The lady retorted with a middle finger and then chuckled to herself, her concentration spinning as much as the room was. She rested her hand on Bermuda’s shoulder, steadying herself before knocking back the clear drink in one. The ice rattled as she slammed it back in the bar.

  ‘So, you gonna take me back to yours or what?’

  The question took Bermuda by surprise and he spluttered his drink, the dark brown ale splattering over his lap. He laughed as he turned to her, the sternness of her face telling him it wasn’t a joke. He took another sip.

  ‘I don’t even know your name,’ he offered. He took another sip.

  ‘Does that matter?’

  Bermuda looked straight ahead, weighing up the situation in his head. Every sensible part of his brain was being slowly silenced as well as the eradication of his self-respect. He shrugged and downed the rest of his pint. ‘Let’s go.’

  They stumbled through the door of his hotel room, with the lady staggering forward, laughing wildly as he fumbled with the door. A few of his clothes were draped across the well-made, adequate bed of the Premier Inn. She managed to make it to the dresser, beckoning Bermuda to her as he tried to wrestle control of the alcohol. She unbuckled his belt, and before he could move, she had him in her hand, guiding him to the bed where their clothes messily came off. With considerable effort, their lips locked, their naked bodies writhed over each other, and soon she was sat atop him. As they bounced on the bed with zero rhythm, Bermuda took stock of her body. Her slim figure showed a few scars, especially across the tops of her arms and legs.

  He ran a finger over them, her hand instantly shooting down and guiding him back to her body. She pushed down harder on him, a rage almost taking over her as she panted, her eyes closed, and teeth gritted. Bermuda reached up and held her shoulder, his quizzical fingers again finding the scars, this time that criss-crossed her bicep. She angrily slapped his chest.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  In a moment she was off him, trying to roll to the side, but her momentum soon sent her naked and sprawling to the floor.

  Bermuda chuckled, fumbling for a lamp and quickly casting a small glow over her crumpled, naked body. ‘Need a hand?’

  She reached up and slapped his face, her eyes watering with sheer venom. He shook it off, perplexed by the fury that resided in her. She marched around the room, collecting her discarded clothes and purse and slipping herself back into her underwear.

  ‘Look, let’s just calm down. Here, have some water.’

  Bermuda hand-poured some water into a glass and offered it, his voice calm as he tried to recover the situation. It had been a while since he had had sex, and this wasn’t exactly the ‘big finish’ he had in mind.

  The woman grabbed the glass and threw the water at him. Then the glass itself. It cannoned off his elbow, causing him to swear in pain.

  ‘Fuck you, you prick.’

  Her vicious words followed her like a trail of smoke as she slammed the door behind her. Bermuda stood, holding his fast-bruising elbow, naked and despondent. The moment had gone, and he woozily collapsed on the bed, wondering when he had become so terrible at sex.

  He was asleep within seconds.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The morning sun cut through the curtains, an unwelcome wave of brightness that caused Bermuda to stir. He moaned loudly, his hangover colliding off the sides of his skull like a cruel game of Pong. He slowly pushed himself to a seated position, the world swirling around and slowly coming into focus. The cheap, minimalistic furniture of the Premier Inn slid back into its correct position. The on-brand purple curtains stopped swaying and provided an inadequate shield to the outside world.

  He felt like shit.

  Bermuda took a deep breath, the memories of the night before returning to him in pieces, a jigsaw that had been placed in a blender. A few pieces fit. He recalled the freezing cold and breaking into a crime scene. There was definitely alcohol, the temptation of vomiting, and the brain-piercing headache was testament to that.

  The woman.

  Bermuda lifted the sheets, greeted by his naked body. The woman who he could vaguely remember, but whose name escaped him. Did he even ask for it? Did she want h
im to know? He fell back on his pillow, trying his level best to remember her face. An image of her naked body writhing on top of him appeared then vanished, an echo of a memory.

  She had fallen. He had laughed.

  With a deep sigh, he chalked it up as just another unsuccessful night, a never-ending cycle of sexual failure. He also scolded himself for thinking of Sophie as if his drunken escapade amounted to an act of betrayal. What they had had was tender. They had shared one night where it was more than sexual attraction.

  It had been real.

  Slowly, he hauled himself out of bed, his legs feebly shaking as he held himself up via the wall. The room was a mess, his clothes strewn over the floor, his case turned upside down. A glass, slightly cracked, lay on the floor.

  Had she thrown it at him?

  His feet slapped against the fake tiles of the bathroom floor and he turned the taps. Splashing water against his stubbled face, he slowly raised his eyes, which were bloodshot and heavy with sleep, to the mirror. He looked a mess. His hair, usually pushed to the side, had burst like a firework over his skull.

  His body, chiselled and muscular, was covered in ink, all the random scrawlings, incantations, and symbols that, through the years, had kept him safe from the world that framed his own. Three brutal scars burnt through them all, a painful reminder of how close they had come to claiming him.

  Bermuda stepped into the shower cubicle, the jet shower shooting out a hot stream of water that collided with his body, the warmth enveloping his body and washing away the sins of the night before. He stood for an eternity, allowing the drops to slap against him, the freshness wiping away the self-hatred and the drink-induced idiocy.

  Maybe Argyle was right. Maybe he should quit?

  As he scrubbed the soap across his chest, Bermuda’s mind fell back to a time before, when he was living the life he had always wanted.