Doorways

by Robert Enright

  'Good luck,' he quietly said to himself, hoping beyond hope that Bermuda would be good on his word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WHEN BERMUDA STEPPED out onto the street, he took a deep breath. The air always felt fresher having been in the HQ, as if he were slowly being suffocated below. He looked around at the tourists all lining up to visit the Shard, peering up and wondering if Ottoway was on the viewing platform, casting a watchful eye over the Capitol.

  The fresh air soon turned to cancerous smoke as Bermuda lit a cigarette, slowly strolling across the bright white concrete that led to London Bridge Station. Decked out in his suit and his hair slicked back, he could have passed for a London office worker, rushing through the rat race to be at his desk on time.

  But he wasn't.

  He was an agent of the BTCO.

  He was humanity’s best hope of survival.

  Part of him wanted the world to turn and thank him, pat him on the back and thank him for his sacrifice. The thought of being believed was one Bermuda had experienced every single day of his life.

  But now he didn't want to be believed.

  He wanted the world to continue its naivety, to continue with its life without knowing it could come crashing to an end in the next few hours.

  If the world was going to end tomorrow, would you want know?

  Bermuda distracted himself, pulling his phone from his suit jacket and flicking it open. He clicked the keypad a number of times before sending Sophie the following text.

  'Didn't get fired. Shock. :) x'

  He could feel his face blushing; the idea of actually having someone to text was strange. Not only that, this person seemed to believe him.

  Even stranger, she seemed to like him.

  As he took the final puff and checked there were no litter police in the vicinity, his phone rumbled and he was powerless to stop the smile etching itself across his face.

  'Nice one. Who do you work for? Ghostbusters? X'

  Bermuda chuckled, losing signal as he ventured across the concourse of London Bridge towards the trains. As he boarded, he recalled the sense of purpose he felt in that chamber, facing the power of the BTCO and finally realising what was expected of him.

  The world didn't know it, but they were relying on him now. Everyone he cared about.

  If he wanted to see Sophie again.

  The idea of holding his Chloe one more time?

  He had to find Barnaby and stop him.

  He rode the train to Peckham Rye, following the same path before that led to Bellenden Road, the place where he was first introduced to this case. Walking past the cosy coffee shops and unique shops where London's trendiest flocked, he made his way to the alley where Jess went missing.

  He wanted to race through, up the stairs of Garland House, and wrap his arms around Sophie again. But what would be the point if the world was to end? Hands on hips, he stood in the shadows of the alleyway, the spring breeze whipping through, clattering off the walls like a pinball.

  The symbol was still there, burnt into the wall, for his eyes only. A few crisp packets slithered across the concrete and Bermuda watched for a few moments. There was nothing here.

  Nothing to tell him where Barnaby could be or where he would open his next doorway. He lit a cigarette, allowing the nicotine to infiltrate his body as he pondered.

  He had already headed back to the station before he took his next puff.

  The queue to the Cutty Sark was not as long as he had expected, especially as the police had shut the giant ship down for a few moments. Overlooking the Thames, Bermuda took his time, even experiencing a little tourism as he read the informative plaques that adorned the displays.

  The vessel itself was a colossal demonstration of the human imagination and hard graft. Large, thick beams ran through the centre of the ship, keeping the upper deck supported. Bermuda slowly walked up the stairs, chuckling to himself at the cordon around the hole in the deck. A couple of labourers measured up the breakage, not knowing it was he who had caused it.

  Somehow, explaining to them that he had been launched like a lawn dart through it didn't seem like the best idea. He slowly made his way back down to the corner where Josh Cooper went missing, seeing the area for the first time in the daylight. Without the terrifying threat of the giant Other snapping at his heels, he took his time to survey the entire area.

  Nothing of any use.

  Just the twelve-sided burn in the wood, the key that unlocked the path to the Otherside.

  Bermuda could only imagine their experience, being forced through a portal to a world that only he could survive in. A world he ran from as soon as he could.

  Where were the bodies?

  Thanking the staff who spent their time on the ship, Bermuda exited, making his way back down Greenwich High Street and to the station, the DLR train making its pre-programmed stop just as he reached the platform.

  He boarded the driverless train and made his way back towards the centre of London.

  AFTER A FEW CHANGES, Bermuda walked out of the Underground Station of Regent's Park. Following the concrete path that cut through the beautiful surroundings, he eventually found the spot where Alfie Evans went missing. He approached the tree trunk, this time prepared for a sudden appearance of Barnaby.

  Those piercing black eyes.

  He didn't show.

  Bermuda slowly checked the surrounding area, but there would be no clues.

  He knew that.

  The symbol was indented in the wood, as fresh as it was on his previous visit. It called to him. Begging him to touch it. With a disappointed sigh, Bermuda headed back towards the station, puffing on a cigarette and hoping beyond hope for some inspiration.

  It didn't arrive in the Westfield's toilet in Shepherd’s Bush.

  Standing with his hands on his hips, he stared at the cubicle wall, cursing the same symbol he had seen everywhere else.

  The Gate-Maker.

  Resigned to defeat, Bermuda slowly exited the gents’, making his way back out into the shopping centre. Thousands of people wandered the centre, all with their own shopping agendas and lack of patience. Humanity at its finest, unaware of the impending extinction it faced.

  There were no leads.

  Nothing to tell Bermuda where to go.

  Dejected, he walked to the bannister that surrounded the second floor, draping his arms over it and dropping his head. He was tired. His torso screamed in agony, the broken ribs rattling against his organs.

  'I assume you will be staying.'

  Bermuda smiled at the sound of Argyle's voice.

  'They haven't got rid of me just yet, Big Guy.'

  'I am pleased. For what it is worth, I believe you are the best chance we have of finding Barnaby.'

  'Yeah?' Bermuda pushed himself back up, overshadowed by the imposing frame of his partner. 'Why's that?'

  'Because it is what you do. You find people.'

  Bermuda scoffed.

  'I know not of the reasoning for it, but that is why they call you Bermuda, is it not?'

  He was right. Bermuda knew he was. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, undoing the fine work of earlier.

  'I'm out of ideas, man. I've been to every location we have for just one smidgen of a clue.'

  'There is nothing. I know, I also have rechecked.'

  'We have a day—a day and a half, tops.' Bermuda shook his head in disbelief. 'We got nothing.'

  'I revisited Others’ Town. No signs there, although word is a few Others have joined Barnaby's quest. A few fanatics.'

  'Wonderful.' Bermuda sighed.

  'Apparently they see it as a wise move to join him before he eviscerates this world.'

  'Not a bad idea.'

  Bermuda slowly turned, his feet leading him towards the exit. He could get the train back to Bushey, crack a Doombar and message Sophie. See if she wanted to spend the end of the world with him.

  They could hold each other as the world evaporated.

&nbs
p; 'Bermuda.'

  He stopped, turning to face his partner with a look of pure dejection.

  'Yeah?'

  'This is my world, too. It's worth fighting for.'

  'I know.' Bermuda offered a hopeful smile before turning back towards the exit. 'I know.'

  Argyle watched his partner leave through the masses of consumers, assured that he wouldn't give up. Bermuda was a lot of things, but he wasn't a quitter. He was stubborn and refused to be beaten.

  He needed Bermuda to realise this.

  He needed Bermuda to be Bermuda.

  For the next hour or so, Argyle stood and watched as humanity circled around him, trading their obsession for money for their obsession with clothes.

  Humanity was none the wiser.

  SOPHIE HAD FINISHED her coffee before returning to Bermuda's bedroom. She found a spare towel and took a shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over her body. She chuckled as she thought about him.

  The man had been certified as insane. He was covered neck to waist in tattoos, many of them the scribblings of a madman. He spoke of other worlds and disappearing people. Of monsters in the shadows and of warriors fighting against them.

  He believed her best friend had been taken by a sinister man in a top hat, harvested for her life source and stolen to another world.

  Yet lying in bed with him, with his strong arms wrapped around her, she had never felt safer.

  As she washed the water through her delicate hair, she could feel her reservations about having a boyfriend being washed away. The thought of spending more time with Bermuda made her excited, the prospect of kissing him again—even making love to him—drew a large smile across her face.

  She dried off and redressed, taking the time to make Bermuda's bed properly and then organise the dishes around his sink a little neater. She wasn't quite ready to do his washing just yet.

  As she was on the train back to Euston, her heart fluttered as she received a text from him, a message of positivity that he wasn't to lose his job. She fired one back, a nerdy joke about his job before losing herself in her headphones.

  Her music filtered out the crowds at Euston Station and at London Bridge, and before she knew it she was walking through Peckham High Street, weaving in and out of the busy foot traffic and overflowing bins.

  Her errands consisted of paying a cheque in at the bank and doing a quick food shop, and as she meandered around the supermarket she could feel herself feeling better.

  As if, even though he sounded completely crazy, Bermuda had returned a measure of calm to her. For the first time since Jess had gone missing, she felt like she would see her again.

  She would go home, catch up on any correspondence, and demand her agent book her some more jobs.

  Life could be good again.

  As she paid for her shopping, an uneasy feeling that a set of eyes had latched onto her caused her to scan the shop.

  There was no one there.

  No one was watching her.

  Not that she could see.

  She made her way home, responding to emails and having a lengthy call with her agent about the prospect of returning to work soon. Things were starting to feel like normal.

  Why did she have such faith in Bermuda?

  She knew why. It was because, despite every single warning sign that she should stay away from him, there was one quality that shone through.

  He was genuine.

  He cared, and she had seen the battle scars that dominated his body that proved it.

  As she filed a few emails away, she quickly sat up from the sofa, her eyes peering into every corner of the room. Knowing full well that hearing stories of another world was exacerbating her paranoia, she couldn't help but feel there was something watching her.

  She turned on the lamp, revealing nothing but a large curtain in the corner of the room.

  She didn't see him. How could she?

  As her evening progressed, she watched the news and then did her thirty-minute ab workout. After cleaning up, she made herself a light dinner before once again snuggling on the sofa, selecting the next episode of her favourite show and praising the world for on-demand TV.

  He watched her the entire time.

  Her every move was noted, the graceful way in which she lifted herself from the sofa. The smoothness of her skin, such a rich and healthy colour. The contours of her well-toned muscles.

  Yes, she would be perfect.

  The running water clattered the dishes in the sink and Sophie hummed, testing the temperature of the water as she gazed out of the window.

  London was lit up, a beautiful explosion of different shades of lightbulb. Twinkling bursts of yellow in the distance.

  Smiling at the beauty, she slowly pulled the curtain across, blocking the outside world from her kitchen. Picking up the sponge, she slowly began to scrub the pan.

  Tap. Tap.

  She stepped back. Her kitchen was on the third floor, a good twenty feet from the ground. But it sounded like someone had drummed their fingers on the window.

  She waited for a moment, leaning slightly closer to the window with every breath.

  Silence.

  'Come on. Don't be silly now,' she said out loud, scorning herself for allowing her paranoia to exploit her fear. She continued to scrub, the sauce from her delicious dinner now proving to be quite the adversary.

  Tap. Tap.

  She shrieked in fear. The sponge and dish clattered to the bottom of the sink and she stepped back, water dripping from her hands to the patterned tiles below. Sophie stared at the window with fear, nervously running a wet hand through her dark, silky hair.

  She fondled into the pocket of her jeans for her phone, the device slipping due to the soap and crashing on the floor.

  'Fuck,' she muttered, grabbing a tea towel and drying both her digits and the phone. Crouched down below the sink, she dialled the number.

  Ring. Ring.

  She nervously looked around, too scared to stand back up. It all seemed so silly. Surely he would just laugh at her.

  Ring. Ring.

  She wrestled back control of her breathing, scolding herself for being reduced to cowering on the floor and acting the damsel in distress.

  'Hello. You’re through to Bermuda Jones. I can't come to phone right now, so leave a message and there is a slim chance I may listen.'

  She waited for the beep, slowly pushing herself back onto her feet.

  'Hey. It's Soph. Sorry—I just got a little panicked is all. I guess when you hear all those stories and whatnot, you think anything and everything is after you.' She giggled sheepishly. 'Anyways, I just heard a rattle against my window and went into some blind panic. I'm okay. Honest.'

  She pulled back the curtain that covered the kitchen window.

  That was when he launched through.

  Smashing the glass with minimal fuss, his long, thin, grey fingers clutched around her throat, stifling her screams as her phone crashed to the floor. Her eyes widened with fear as he smiled, showing rows of sharp, jagged teeth.

  He towered over her, his broad shoulders filling out the tatty suit, his jet-black eyes staring through her, knowing he now had the perfect bait.

  She tried to scream, yet Sophie found herself unconscious in seconds, falling limp in the arms of her captor.

  Barnaby.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SITTING BEHIND THE wheel of his Porsche, Hugo gently squeezed the bridge of his nose. The bones sloshed, still broken and shattered, and he yelled angrily, his eyes watering with pain.

  'Fuck you, Bermuda!' he muttered to himself, concerned that his good looks were forever tainted. He dabbed the tears from his eyes, the faint purple bruising around them only adding to his anger.

  How could they not remove him from duty?

  The man was a walking liability. He lacked respect for the Otherside, for 'the Knack', and for the BTCO. He struck a fellow agent, yet they didn't punish him? He still gets to be the saviour.

 
'Your time will come,' Marco said, his voice inflected with a slight lisp, only adding to his reptilian presence.

  'My time is now. It has been since the day we were partnered.' Hugo sneered, his battered face contorting painfully. 'It is that rat, Bermuda, who stands in our way.'

  They sat in silence, Hugo taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The streets were narrow, lined by quaint shops, independent businesses that also acted as staples of the local community. Used to living in his penthouse in South London, surrounded by chain restaurants, he shuddered at how some lived.

  It made him question Bermuda even more.

  Why would he live in Bushey?

  The High Street had very little beyond a couple of pubs and a few newsagents. A large church, surrounded by immaculate grounds, was lodged right in the middle.

  'Do you believe this will work?' Marco asked, trying to return Hugo's focus to the car.

  'I don't know. He said he needed to find this Barnaby character in the next day or so, otherwise we are finished.'

  'And you plan to hijack it?'

  'I plan to take what is mine. I should be the one they hinge the organisation on. I should be the one who saves the world. Not him. He is nothing but an arrogant alcoholic arsehole. No, this should be mine. And I am going to take what belongs to me.'

  Hugo looked up at the building further down the road. The stolen file that sat in his lap indicated that inside should be Bermuda.

  After his speech to the Committee, Hugo ascertained that Bermuda was close. So any movement would be followed, and then Hugo would sweep in.

  Hugo would catch this Barnaby.

  Then Bermuda would be gone.

  'So what do we do?' Marco asked, his scaly body slightly twisted in the seat, like a coiled snake ready to strike.

  Hugo caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the shattered remains of his nose, wrapped in plasters that divided the thick, heavy bruises around his eyes. The damage done by his nemesis.

  His hatred for Bermuda was growing by the second.

  'We wait.'

  A CLOUD OF WHITE SMOKE gently wafted towards the ceiling of Bermuda's flat, hitting the whiteness before exploding to nothing. Lying on the sofa, Bermuda lifted the cigarette to his mouth again, drawing in the toxic fumes before pushing them out again.