Doorways Read online

  CRACK!

  Despite a day of anguish and energy-sapping disappointment, Bermuda's fist hurtled with pinpoint accuracy onto the bridge of Hugo's nose. As blood burst out, covering the symmetrical face in a crimson mask, Hugo fell backwards, cursing and yelling. His eyes dripped with tears as blood dripped over the white tiles.

  Bermuda didn't hear the insults or threats that were thrown his way in a French tornado of abuse.

  He ignored all of the commotion, BTCO office workers and jobsworths gathering round to witness the one bit of excitement they would see all day.

  He ignored all of the announcements in the lift and the foot traffic that ran through London Bridge Station as he made his way to Euston.

  The train journey from London back to Bushey, in the calm, quiet evening of Hertfordshire didn't register with him.

  On autopilot, he cracked open a can of Doombar as he entered his flat, struggling to recall any moment of his journey home.

  Undressing, he ignored the agonising pain of the crushed ribs, ruptured skin, and a mild concussion cocktail his body had been treated to.

  His mind removed the horrible sense of foreboding, of the black eyes that belonged to the biggest threat the world didn't know about.

  He ignored his impending doom.

  The end of the world.

  Bermuda fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EVERY STEP LEFT A FOOTPRINT in the ash.

  Flaming embers rained down from the grey clouds ahead, basking the world in an intermittent glow. The buildings beyond the horizon line roared with flames, the orange flicking upwards like eager fingers. There was no sky, just a thick, grey smoke that merged into the cloud.

  Each step crunched on the dead world.

  The scorched grass crumpled under Bermuda's footsteps, crackling like hay as he moved. He could remember this street, not by name, but by memory. A happier time, when he and Angela stood either side of Chloe, a hand grasped each as they swung her into the air. Her giggles filled the world with joy.

  The buildings that lined the street crumpled to the ground, bricks clattering against each other as dust exploded upwards.

  Somewhere in the distance, Bermuda could hear the screech of an Other, something large and world-ending.

  Each step took him closer to oblivion.

  As he walked, the nearest lamppost flickered before evaporating into ash, gently filtering off on the hard winds that scattered the flaming embers around with a chaotic beauty.

  There she was.

  Angela.

  His ex-wife stood metres away, her back to him. Her hair danced in the wind, the strands flicking away the flames.

  Bermuda opened his mouth to speak, yet his words failed him.

  Another step closer to her.

  He reached out.

  Just as his fingers grazed her shoulder, it began to crumble, ash filtering down to the ground in slow motion as his wife faded from him.

  'Goodbye,' he finally managed to mutter.

  Slumping his head forward and trying to hold back tears, he turned, only to see Brett. He smiled, relieved to have found his best friend during the end of the world. A glimmer of hope.

  As he walked through the violent wind towards his friend, the street came crashing down, more buildings tumbling under the weight of extinction.

  More dust and smoke filled the sky.

  The world was ready for death.

  Brett turned to face him, but before he could say anything, the wind blew him to ash.

  Scattered across the dead street, Bermuda watched the essence of his best friend disappear. Lost forever.

  'Daddy'.

  Bermuda stopped dead. The voice, the one thing that could stop his beating heart, danced through the wild air, blocking out the devastation that had set itself upon his world. He swallowed deeply, composing himself before he turned.

  Chloe.

  His eyes filled with tears, the drops descending down his cheeks towards a mouth that cracked a smile. She was so beautiful. Her bright blue eyes stared at the father who had removed himself from her life. They welled with tears, the death and destruction around her only multiplying her beauty.

  She began to run towards him.

  Behind her, every building exploded, brick and stone raining down around them as he raced towards her. The street seemed to stretch, placing more metres between him and the most precious thing in his life.

  If the world was to end, he would meet it with his arms around his daughter.

  Fire fell from the sky, surrounding him and his daughter as they raced towards each other. Suddenly, the street was lined with people he knew.

  Sophie.

  Argyle.

  Ottoway.

  All of them crumpled to the ground, an ashy cloud all that remained.

  Bermuda dropped to his knees as Chloe launched herself towards him. She stopped in mid-air.

  Her eyes wide with terror.

  Tiny black hands extended from the shadows, wrapping themselves around her.

  Bermuda begged, scrambling to his knees.

  The world exploded around them.

  The shadows tightened their grip.

  Chloe looked at her father, his outstretched hand just too far away.

  'Help me!'

  And with that, the hands pulled in different directions, ripping his daughter into several pieces.

  He screamed as the world burnt to the ground.

  Bermuda woke up, his whole body covered in sweat. After catching his breath, he pushed himself up from his bed and headed to the bathroom. The water coolly splashed against his face, washing away the few hours of distressing sleep. Bermuda stood upright, staring at the dishevelled reflection in the mirror. The bags under the eyes, the ever-growing stubble. It was a face that screamed for a good night's sleep.

  Slowly he raised his arms up, the agony of shattered ribs and a slashed torso reminding him of just what he had been through. Never in a million years had taking off a T-shirt been so painful. As he grasped the scruff of the collar, he slid the shirt over his head, the material stuck to his skin through sweat. With a painful grunt, he finally removed it, dropping it to the floor with a slight slap.

  The mirror now told him a lot more.

  His body, chiselled from years of regular exercise and Argyle's survival training, was usually one of his better features. The artistry that adorned it, many hours spent under a flaming-hot needled, usually topped it off just right.

  Now it was a monstrosity.

  Unravelling the bandages that wrapped around his torso, he gritted his teeth at the pain. The right side of his ribs had turned a sickening shade of purple. A deep bruise, the internal bleeding wrapping around the shattered bones that rattled inside him. He pressed two fingers against his ribs, instantly withdrawing them with a gasp of agony.

  He composed himself, remembering the severe height that he had been struck from.

  Barnaby.

  He instantly shook the image of the dark eyes from his mind, refocusing on his chest. The three large gashes that crossed his pecs were starting to heal—worryingly, a little too fast. Bermuda scanned his chest, trying his best to witness the fibres of his skin threading themselves back together. Although he saw nothing, he was sure he was recovering rapidly, terrified that the Otherside may be having more of an effect on him than he would have ever acknowledged.

  How could Vincent have known?

  He held his own gaze in the mirror, his brow fraught with worry. What if he had brought back more than just the ability to interact with the Otherside? He could feel it calling to him; he could feel himself physically being pulled across every time he touched something that belonged there.

  Did he belong to the Otherside?

  He shook his head, catching his reflection once more to inspect the gash across his eyebrow. The bruising was slowly fading, the swelling of his eyelids slowly starting to part.

  He looked like shit.

&nbs
p; Which was ten times better than he felt.

  With a deep sigh, he entered the shower, allowing the warmth of the water splash over him, the water turning orange with blood before it vanished down the plughole. Stood naked and alone with pain emanating from all over his body, Bermuda wished for a different life.

  A better path.

  After a few minutes of quiet pondering he slowly ended his shower, drying himself off with bleak acceptance. He trudged back into his bedroom, changing his underwear and popping on some jeans and a fresh T-shirt before lowering himself cautiously on the edge of a bed he was sure he would never share again.

  Immediately shuffling the image from his mind, he gently slid open his bedside table drawer. Sighing to himself, he removed the envelope that housed the most treasured item he had ever owned.

  His photo of Chloe.

  A drop of water splashed onto her perfect face as Bermuda failed to wipe the tear in time. He missed her so much. All he wanted to be at that moment was an attentive dad, tucking his daughter in after a bad dream.

  He knew a thing or two about them.

  Instead, he was nothing but a myth to his daughter, a rumour of a man who once cared but was now running.

  A life he had thrust upon him had led to a family he chose to abandon.

  The Otherside couldn't know.

  Chloe would always be a secret.

  Wiping the relentless tears from the edges of his eye, Bermuda glanced towards the alarm clock.

  It was 2:30 a.m.

  'For fuck’s sake!' he muttered, stomping to the kitchen and furiously searching for a coffee sachet. After twenty seconds of fumbling, he decided to crack open a can of Doombar and strolled to his living room. The nicely decorated flat was a testament to how much the BTCO appreciated his struggles, but it was all for show. He rarely watched anything on TV, barring football, and his Xbox was only good for gathering dust.

  Amongst a cloud of smoke, he flicked through the channels; apparently the monumental scale of adverts told him he needed the entire Sky Package, yet he found each channel as mundane as the last.

  He had finished his drink and turned the TV off before he had finished his cigarette.

  He checked his phone in a self-deriding hope that Sophie had sent him a message.

  He had a missed call and a voice mail.

  Quickly thumbing through his phone, his excitement faded as the call was from Charlotte Foster.

  His sister.

  Like the rest of his family, Bermuda kept his distance, refusing to allow someone he cared about be taken from him by a world he despised. Unlike everyone else, Charles, as he called her, had stuck by him, believing him and the bizarre worlds that he spoke about. She may have just been humouring him, but he appreciated it. He wished he could spend more time with her, form any sort of relationship with her husband or his nephew.

  But he wouldn't risk his happiness if it would risk their safety.

  The message clicked in.

  'Hey, Frank. It's Charles. Just ringing to see how you were. It's been a while. I know you are probably hunting some spooky stuff, but I just wanted you to know that everyone is fine. George is getting so big now, he is talking and he is really funny.'

  Bermuda choked back a tear; his only memories of his nephew were based on photos.

  'Mark got promoted, which is great, but he works late a lot. George will be starting nursery this year, and then I will go back too. Anyways, I just wanted you to know I saw Angela and Chloe the other day. Chloe is so beautiful. I took a few photos. I know you won't want them but my god, Frank, you did well there. Ange told me she saw you the other day, said things were the same. She misses you.

  I miss you.'

  Bermuda sobbed, punching the wall in frustration as Charles's voice cracked.

  'Give me a call soon, yeah? I love you.'

  The line went dead.

  The phone was hurled across the room in a frustration born from being denied a family.

  Bermuda slid his back down the wall, landing on the floor, and sat in silence.

  Time passed. Several cigarettes evaporated to smoke.

  Eventually, when the final tear had perished on his lap, Bermuda wiped his eyes and pushed himself to his feet.

  Grabbing himself a beer and fed up with procrastination, Bermuda clicked the light of his office, the desk and papers awash with the sudden brightness. The reports that Argyle had received from Vincent lay on his desk; his two PC monitors lay inactive, usually flashing with the latest videos on YouTube or his latest game of Football Manager.

  On the wall was a large, cork pin board which was fairly empty apart from a few receipts and a scattering of business cards. In the corner, the spare pins had been arranged into a smiley face, an ironic notion not lost upon Bermuda.

  He slumped into his chair, arching slightly at the pain that shot through his ribs, the bones rattling around like a box of his Tic Tacs. A few empty boxes lay on the desk, next to the folders from HQ. Swigging from his can and sparking a new cigarette into life, he began to slowly weave his way through the paperwork, begging for semblance of a pattern or story to emerge. All he had so far was:

  Barnaby was real.

  The world was fucked.

  Page after page revealed very little, allowing Bermuda to mutter his views on the police under his breath. He appreciated the losing battle they fought, yet he couldn't help but feel they were on the same side. The constant obstruction and lack of co-operation he was met with had led him to almost despise them.

  Ten people missing, yet all they had provided were names and locations. A few of them had photographs as well, along with the odd witness statement.

  Nothing to make a connection.

  None of the people were related or linked to each other in any way. Bermuda had quickly shut that down, using Facebook and Twitter to find any connections between the people. He found himself distracted when he arrived at Jessica's profile, her links leading to Sophie's.

  Scowling at the potential feelings growing for the concerned friend, he decided to print out a map of London, dissected into nine sheets of A4 paper.

  Carefully he tacked them to the board, lining up the edges perfectly to bring the Capitol to life in his office.

  He stood back for a moment, taking a long, concentrated pull on his cigarette before shifting through the folders once again. Slowly, he tacked a photo of Mark Fenton, a forty-two-year-old bus driver, to a street just outside of Brixton.

  The first of the stolen.

  Systematically, Bermuda pinned the rest to the board, replacing photos with names where needed. All ten of them, where they were taken.

  The whole thing laid out in front of him, the Stolen. Every photo or name tried its best to call to him, to tell him that they themselves had lives. People who cared that they were missing.

  A life that was stolen.

  Bermuda swivelled in his chair, smoked countless cigarettes, and made the well-thought decision to switch from ale to coffee.

  His concentration was broken by a knock at the door: a postman with a package for a neighbour. Bermuda hadn't even realised the sun had come up and the world had begun another rotation of its repetitive cycle.

  He stared at the wall.

  He had discovered nothing.

  THE ENTIRE COMPLEX was a cavern of darkness, a large, spacious arena lined with metal shutters and glass-protected balconies. Potted plants shot out of manmade structures, trying to give the dour décor a sense of nature.

  Barnaby sneered at the feeble attempt.

  This entire building, a living heartbeat of the city, was usually awash with masses of faceless humans, all slithering over each other in a thirst for consumption. Parting with their pathetic currency for belongings and possessions they would never need. Humanity was a stain, a race of people who pride themselves on what they have, as long as others haven't got it.

  Barnaby shuddered at their very existence.

  As he sat on the wooden slats that comprised t
he bench, he looked around, his sharp, bony face taking in all directions. His jet-black eyes steered through the darkened corridors, the emptiness of the grand building a harrowing yet peaceful experience.

  Soon his menu will arrive, a selection of disgust, all of them idly wandering past, their heads in the proverbial clouds and none of them wise to what sat amongst them.

  The change that was coming.

  He was so close now, he could feel it. His tongue sloshed inside his mouth, the muscle running gently over jagged razor teeth.

  This wouldn't be the final one, but he was so close. Soon the convergence would be complete.

  He would walk in both worlds.

  Just like Bermuda.

  A thin smile crept across his scarred face as Barnaby thought of the agent. The pathetic denial of the inevitable. The faint hope he held that he could somehow stop what was coming.

  The fool.

  Slowly he wrapped his long fingers on the wood, the echo only for his ears. A shuffle rose from the shadows, Others hiding in the dark and wanting to stay out of his eye line.

  They feared him.

  Soon, humans will fear him.

  Bermuda did. He saw the fear in the man's eyes when he sent him hurtling through the brick wall. The pathetic realisation that his puny race were just waiting to be vanquished by a supreme being.

  Bermuda had the gall to question him.

  To insult him.

  To stand against him.

  Barnaby chuckled slowly to himself, knowing he would make Bermuda suffer more than the rest of his appalling race. He would witness how easily Barnaby could change the world.

  He would be the first to realise the true consequence of power.

  Slowly, one by one, the large halogen lights exploded into life above him.

  The soft hum of a floor buffer echoed not long after.

  Within hours, this place would be full of people, all of them different. Each one on a different mission, like sheep, merging into one as they followed the signs to their latest bargains.

  They would all walk past with oblivious beauty.

  His next would be among them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN