Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  ‘Bullshit.’ Bermuda’s words cut through the air with precision.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’ve spent my whole life pushing the people I care most about away from me for reasons that are out of my control. I spent so long hating myself and fucking everything up. It took me a long time to realise that some things just can’t be controlled. Sometimes, shit really does happen.’

  McAllister stared at the table, sullen.

  Bermuda stood up, slipping his arms into his jacket. ‘What I’m trying to say, Sam, is don’t do what I did. I spent six years pushing my daughter away. I’m doing my best to fix that now.’

  Bermuda walked around the table and squatted down slightly, his eyes meeting hers and projecting warmth into the pain.

  ‘Don’t let the things you can’t control destroy the things you can.’ He smiled warmly and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Your husband is out there, wishing you were too.’

  Slowly, and with an ache skiing down his spine, Bermuda stood and turned, heading towards the door and the bitter world awaiting him. After a few steps, McAllister’s voice followed him.

  ‘Thank you, Jones.’

  He turned back to her grateful face.

  ‘You’re not so bad after all.’

  Bermuda flashed her a gentle smile. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

  They nodded, a friendship forged and cemented. Bermuda headed to the door, knowing full well that a killer of two worlds was most likely ready to strike again. He pushed through the doors to the whipping cold of the Glasgow night, a freezing rain dancing on the cusp of the wind. He pulled his hat down lower over his ears and his collar up, cocooning as much of his face as possible. Through squinted eyes he looked up.

  And saw a hooded figure in the alleyway ahead.

  It stood, monstrously tall and broad, with a hood casting a shadow that cut its white mask in half. The streetlight cast a shine across the two buildings, with the edge splitting the creature into part light and part darkness.

  It didn’t move.

  ‘HEY!’ Bermuda yelled, dashing across the road and barely missing a cab hurtling through the downpour, a cocktail of car horns and expletives filling the air. Bermuda held up a hand in apology before continuing. He looked again.

  The alleyway was empty.

  The rain clattered the pavement where the figure had stood, and Bermuda could feel the eyes on him still. The Otherside was nearby, and it was slowly stalking him.

  Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he dipped his head and headed back towards his hotel, knowing that the Otherside was watching every single step.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Argyle stood on top of the Premier Inn, casting his eye out over the city of Scotland. In the building beneath him, his partner had retired to his quarters, sleeping a tortured sleep that would undoubtedly shake him to his core. He worried for Bermuda, a man who had so much pain trapped in his body but the heart of a warrior.

  A man who would surely die protecting the world.

  As noble a death as that would be, and one that Argyle would accept with glee, it was his job to ensure it wouldn’t happen. He had sworn an oath, not just to the BTCO but to Ottoway himself, that he would protect Bermuda. They both knew that he would the moment he had crossed the divide and joined Earth when he had looked Ottoway in the eyes and their silent agreement was made.

  He would stand between Bermuda and the Otherside.

  Even if it meant death.

  The wind circled him, spinning raindrops into his shiny armour. He didn’t move; he stood, stoic and proud, as his eyes scowled at the city below. Somewhere in the darkness, a creature that he had more in common with was killing innocent women and destroying the lives of countless others.

  Somewhere in the darkness, death was waiting.

  But something didn’t sit correctly within. Argyle was one of the greatest warriors the Otherside had ever produced, despite the lifetime of abuse and hatred from his own kind. Despite being beaten and despised, he had become a soldier of extreme capability, and the sword which clung to his spine had ended many a battle.

  But this Kevin Parker, they knew he wasn’t human.

  He was an Other.

  Yet Argyle could not sense him. Ever since he had crossed to the human world, Argyle could sense when another creature of his world was nearby, a voice whispering in his ear to notify him of their presence. Usually, a firm stare from his grey eyes was enough to let them know the consequences if they were to leave the shadows.

  His mighty blade had delivered them to those who dared.

  But Kevin Parker had walked up directly behind him and left him bloodied and beaten. A mighty hand reached up and rubbed the back of his skull, the wound healed but the skin felt scarred and rigid. In time it would fade, like every other wound. Yet the memory of it wouldn’t. It wasn’t the pain or the surprise that would stay with him.

  It was the fear.

  A feeling as alien to Argyle as he was to this world, he had been brought up through the barracks of his world to face it head-on. To wrestle his fear to the ground and execute it without hesitation.

  Argyle hadn’t even seen him coming.

  Knowing that protocol was for him to return to the BTCO HQ and rest, Argyle kept vigil. His eyes fixated on the city below, the small orange squares of car windows whipping by. Shadows of humans moved between the windows on the surrounding buildings. Creatures that humans wouldn’t even concoct in their nightmares slithered through the shadows.

  Argyle watched.

  Kevin Parker was out there somewhere. Another sundown had come, which meant another woman would die.

  They would find her.

  They would not be able to save her.

  With a solemn shake of the head, Argyle returned his gaze to the city, doing his best to sense Parker. To sense anything that could stop him that would alleviate the fear.

  All he sensed was that he and Bermuda were in serious trouble.

  Bermuda shot up from his dream in a cold sweat. The image of the Otherside ripping his daughter to pieces had become all too familiar. After a few deep breaths he muttered a curse or two before swinging his legs round and pushing himself out of the bed. He tapped his phone, the screen bursting up like a spotlight in the dark room.

  It was quarter past five, which meant he knew that McAllister was probably at a crime scene.

  He sent her a quick message which simply said, ‘where?’ A quick blast under the shower and Bermuda was raring to go, running the toothbrush back and forth across his teeth as he checked the cupboard for what clothes he had left. The ‘system’ in the corner of the room, which consisted of his previously worn clothes, was yet another mess he was keen to avoid.

  A check shirt and jeans, along with his beanie and coat, would suffice, and Bermuda turned as his phone rumbled. Within minutes he was in a taxi, hurtling down the dimly lit wet streets of Glasgow as the rest of the city was still safely in bed.

  As the taxi rumbled on, Bermuda watched the dark streets as they passed. The city was a labyrinth, thin dark streets lined by tall gothic buildings. Each alleyway was crawling with Others, the darkness that enveloped most of the city was alive.

  Kevin Parker was in that darkness, reaching out and taking these women.

  Bermuda had to stop him.

  They turned onto the street and instantly stopped. The flashing blue lights of two police cars signalled the way, and Bermuda paid the man and then stepped out into the cold. The taxi slowly reversed and left him to it. A cordon had been set up, a few early risers trying their best to get a peek of the action. Bermuda could see DC Butler, his wet shirt clinging to the muscular arms that would choke him out in a heartbeat. He stood by the door, his face like thunder as he spoke angrily to a SOCO. McAllister appeared through the doorway, ushering Butler away from the house and talking quietly to him as they headed towards a tented area.

  Partners looked out for each other.

  As if on cue, Bermuda felt an invisible sha
dow cast over him.

  ‘Morning, Argyle.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ Argyle said sternly. ‘Another human has been murdered.’

  ‘Yep. This is what happens when we make no fucking progress,’ Bermuda said, angry at himself.

  He marched towards the cordon, lifting the police tape and entering the crime scene. A police officer moved to stop him but Bermuda flashed him his badge for a second and continued through, shocked at how much easier it was to get this far in with such little resistance. Back in London, he had to jump through more hoops than a basketball just to even see the police tape.

  Argyle gracefully entered the crime scene too, doing his best to avoid an invisible collision. Bermuda ducked into the tent, almost causing his own head-on smash with two SOCOs, one of whom muttered something inaudibly Scottish.

  ‘Jones.’ Butler’s voice was as welcoming as a red-hot poker to the genitals.

  ‘All right, mate.’ Bermuda flashed him a grin before turning to McAllister. ‘What’s the story?’

  Before McAllister could speak, Butler stepped forward, his nose a few inches from Bermuda’s.

  ‘The story is you getting the fuck out of here and leaving this to the real police.’ He smirked. ‘Sam’s already told me about your ghosts and goblins. Why don’t you fuck off back to your comics and leave us to work, aye?’

  Bermuda sighed and looked past Butler to McAllister, who offered an apologetic shrug.

  ‘Can you tighten his leash?’ Bermuda asked, instantly feeling the full force of Butler as he shoved him in the chest. Bermuda stumbled back a few feet before quickly regaining his balance.

  ‘DC BUTLER!’ McAllister yelled.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Bermuda warned, his mind racing back to the moment Hugo LaPone had shoved him in the brightly lit corridors of the BTCO HQ in London. A sudden twinge of guilt hooked his heart like an expert fisherman.

  ‘I swear to God, if he utters one more word to me, I’m gonna smash his teeth down his fucking throat,’ Butler said to McAllister, loud enough for Bermuda to register the threat. Never had Bermuda heard truer words spoken. With a grunt, Butler stormed out of the tent and into the mayhem of the crime scene.

  McAllister slowly walked up to Bermuda, who went to call after him.

  ‘Just don’t, Jones,’ McAllister suggested. ‘He is aching for a reason to go all Mike Tyson on you.’

  ‘What, speak with a lisp?’

  McAllister rolled her eyes and approached the small refreshments table. A large, metallic cylinder was surrounded by a few jugs of room temperature milk. She pressed down on the black lid, syphoning the tepid coffee out of the container and into a plastic cup.

  Bermuda shuddered, as the Glaswegian Police Department were hardly going to erect a pop-up Starbucks at every crime scene. McAllister forced the coffee down before transforming into detective mode.

  ‘The woman is a young foreign exchange student named Mika Hayagashi. Only nineteen years old. We are trying our best to contact her parents, who live back in Tokyo.’

  Bermuda nodded, realising he hadn’t noted any of it down and immediately couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘Same as before. Heart ripped clean out. Her left wrist is broken, which indicates a small struggle, but again, the force in which the bone has been snapped indicates…’

  ‘That Parker isn’t human.’

  Both of them stood silent in the tent, the crime scene alive with activity beyond the flapping tarpaulin door.

  After some careful consideration, McAllister spoke. ‘Butler spoke to Strachan about your theories and, well, suffice to say she wasn’t too keen on them.’

  ‘Shocking.’ Bermuda’s tone was heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘I’ve been ordered to abandon all investigation into Parker not being human and dedicate all my time to other leads.’

  ‘Oh come on. You know I’m right.’

  ‘Franklyn, I’m sorry.’ McAllister looked beaten. ‘Maybe I was just so upset about everything that I wanted to believe you, I don’t know. But I can’t go hunting ghosts with you.’

  ‘Really? You’re going to deny the fingerprint, the photo, everything?’

  ‘I’ve been instructed to have you removed from all crime scenes going forward. Strachan says she has spoken to a Mr Black at your organisation and has agreed to your dismissal from the case and your leaving the city.’

  Bermuda stood quietly, the failure of his case almost outweighing the betrayal he felt from McAllister. They had shared some heated moments, but had opened up to each other when no one would listen.

  She had been one person who hadn’t turned her back on him.

  Until now.

  A few more moments of silence passed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she offered meekly.

  Bermuda forced a smile and retrieved his hat from his pocket, slicking his damp hair back against his head and then slipping the wool over his skull.

  ‘All the best, Sam.’ He held out a hand. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  She clasped his hand and squeezed, the two of them nodding before Bermuda turned and threw open the tent door and strode back across the crime scene. A few police officers looked on with intrigue. Paramedics carefully wheeled a table out of the gate towards the ambulance, the blood-drenched blanket failing to keep Mika’s death a secret. SOCOs stood silently in respect as the dead was transferred to the vehicle, Butler one of the few stood in silence with his head dropped.

  Bermuda kept his head up and his eyes focused as he passed, only for Butler to step out behind him, his thick Scottish voice travelling through the rain.

  ‘Good riddance to ya.’

  Bermuda stopped. He muttered to himself not to turn around and instantly ignored his own advice. Butler, sensing the impending confrontation, cracked his neck slightly and rolled his shoulders. Bermuda stepped up to him, but then to his shock, extended a hand.

  ‘All the best,’ Bermuda offered.

  Butler sneered and slapped it away. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat. ‘Why don’t you piss off back to London and go back to chasing your tail?’

  Bermuda smirked. ‘I could do that. However, due to the complete incompetence of Glasgow’s finest, I’m actually going to stay and stop a serial killer.’

  Butler’s eyes widened with rage.

  ‘Feel free to stay the fuck out of my way.’

  Butler swung, but instinct overtook Bermuda with surprise. He ducked and instantly raised his knee into Butler’s solid stomach. The detective arched over, the air leaving his body, and Bermuda stepped back, watching as Butler fell to his knee.

  Two police officers raced forward, each grabbing him by the arm and dragging him through the crowd of onlookers towards the tape.

  McAllister rushed out of the tent and stopped by her partner, helping him to his feet only to be shoved away. Butler was tough, but even he could have his pride hurt. McAllister sent a sad glance towards Bermuda, who shrugged as the two officer threw him under the tape. He hit the hard concrete and rolled slightly, his body covered in dirt and rainwater. A civilian offered him a hand up, muttering something about police brutality that Bermuda ignored.

  He straightened his coat by its lapels and stormed up the road, determined more than ever to catch Parker.

  ‘You handled yourself well and applied your training,’ Argyle complimented, walking powerfully beside him. ‘I am impressed.’

  ‘Thanks, Big Guy,’ Bermuda responded, ignoring the pain of his scratched hand. ‘He had it coming.’

  ‘Because he is a cunt?’

  Bermuda stopped dead and tried not to laugh. A sadness swept through him which he wouldn’t know due to his absence, but it must have been the feeling a parent gets when their child swears. The word seemed so harmless and innocent coming out of Argyle’s mouth. It struck Bermuda dumb how something so large, powerful, and deadly could be the personification of innocence.

  ‘Don’t use that word, Argyle. Trust me.’

  Argyle nodded, never questioni
ng a direct order.

  They continued their march towards the BTCO office, with Bermuda affording himself a wry smile. McAllister may have abandoned their case, but beside him, he knew Argyle would be there until the bitter end.

  Whenever that might come.

  Kevin Parker sat on the stone floor, his legs crossed. Some rain had infiltrated the brickwork of the tomb, and a faint sound of water splashing against concrete could be heard in the darkness. On the stone wall before him, he could see a smudge of dried blood, undoubtedly from where that human had collided with the wall two nights ago.

  The one they called Bermuda.

  The one he wanted to kill.

  As the shadows of the tomb encompassed him, he reached his hand outwards, his fingers gently caressing the scratched markings on the stone.

  The very markings he had made when held here, locked in this stone prison. The only solace he had was that one day he would see her again. That he would hold her, let her know that he loved her.

  They would return her to him.

  As fury filled up inside him, he heard the slow, purposeful footsteps behind him as his handler entered the cage. Parker knew the rules; he was never allowed to turn. To lay eyes on his captor would result in her death.

  He remembered when they had brought him two of her fingers, the blood still fresh from where the bone had been severed.

  Parker closed his black eyes and held his breath. A hand gently landed upon his shoulder.

  ‘You have done well, my child.’ The voice was seasoned and well spoken as each word sent a chill down Parker’s spine.

  He slowly turned his face, resting his cheek on the hand like a loyal guard dog. ‘Can I have her now? Have I done enough?’

  The hope in his words bordered on pathetic, and he refused to turn to face the voice in the dark. It clearly didn’t belong to Bermuda, whose interference might now impact her return. He had made a sworn promise that the moment he saw Bermuda again, he would tear him apart.