The Absent Man Read online

  He looked every bit the soldier.

  Ferguson glared towards Bermuda, who was staring at him. Before he could confront the annoying Londoner, he suddenly felt himself hunching forward, his body uncontrollably folding onto itself.

  ‘Help me!’ he bellowed, his voice struggling over the orchestra of the rain. ‘Someone!’

  Slowly, he found himself staring at his knees, his entire body hunched forward as much as possible. He swung his arms aimlessly, each swing whipping through the freezing air and colliding only with raindrops. Bermuda took a few steps towards the gate, stepping to the side to avoid the wild fists.

  Bermuda chuckled. He had watched as Argyle had approached, and with one swift movement grabbed the back of Ferguson’s stab-proof vest. With effortless force, he had pushed Ferguson forward, arching his back and bunching him into a ball towards the wet pavement. His swings and cries for help were in vain.

  Argyle slowly lowered his captive to the ground until his knees were firmly planted on the cold concrete, his head resting against them.

  ‘Keep him quiet, mate,’ Bermuda instructed as he pushed open the front door to the building and ducked under the yellow and black tape.

  Argyle obliged, reaching down with his other mighty hand and clasping it tightly over Ferguson’s mouth. A passer-by stopped for a second on the street, observing the bizarre policeman hunched over in the rain.

  He couldn’t see the hulking warrior who held him in place.

  He hadn’t seen the BTCO agent who had snuck through the front door, either.

  Once inside, Bermuda took his wet hat off, his hair slicked against his forehead. Drops from the drizzle snaked down his face before suicide diving towards the ground. The modest flat was homely, a ‘woman’s touch’ clearly evident. On the delicate dining table sat two cups, one full of coffee, the other, lipstick heavy, was almost empty. The cafetiѐre was clogged with slowly solidifying coffee, and the thought made Bermuda gag.

  There were worse things in this flat than stale coffee.

  He looked at the sofa, the cushions askew, their random scattering out of place in the neatness of the home. They had both been in here, their night winding down to what she must have believed would be a happy ending. They had established a trust, no matter how fresh, and that was duly betrayed.

  A fatal consequence.

  Slowly shaking his head, he looked around the room, the TV straight and well-polished. The photos that lined the unit, and the fireplace were also straight, all of them showing a pretty woman with a smile across her face.

  Nicole Miller was a recently divorced schoolteacher. That was all he had to go on. She was a few years younger than Bermuda, and she had no history of trouble. No potential enemies. A scumbag ex-husband, but no one who would want to hurt her.

  To kill her.

  He sighed, the feeling in his numb fingers slowly returning as he pulled his e-cig from his pocket. A sudden clatter, like someone spilling dry rice on a metal floor, caused him to startle, the rain raising its ferocity as it lashed the streets outside. He thought of Argyle and how long he could hold that officer down before a passer-by intervened or his fellow officers noticed his silence.

  He needed to hurry.

  With careful steps, not wanting to contaminate the scene, Bermuda edged through the front room, a small flash of blue and then fruit-flavoured smoke as he drew on his e-cig. Through the door to the hallway, he noticed the kitchen, the streetlight outside illuminating the modest appliances. The silver fridge glistened, the random, colourful scribblings of toddlers displayed proudly.

  To the left of the kitchen was the bathroom. To the right was a hole where the bedroom door had been. The wooden frame was fractured, shards of wood sprinkled the floor like a bed of hay, and the hinges where wrenched beyond repair. Through the darkened doorway, he could see a remnant of the door, broken and shattered from a collision that was too strong to be human. He could imagine her fear.

  She was found on the bed in her underwear, undoubtedly waiting for him to enter. She must have been terrified.

  Bermuda took a deep breath and walked into the room, staring ahead at the broken door panels that were scattered across a dressing table, a few more roughly resting against the wardrobe.

  He slowly turned to look at the bed.

  Nicole was no longer there, the coroner respectfully having moved the young lady to be cleaned up. Her family would still need to identify her body, but there was no confusion as to the cause of death.

  The blood that still adorned the walls and doused the bedsheets confirmed what Bermuda had been told.

  Nicole Miller’s heart was ripped from her chest.

  There was no weapon. No signs of cuts or restraints. Just a handprint on her throat and a hole in her body. A hand had ripped through flesh, bone, and muscle to wrench her life from its cage.

  Something had brutally killed her.

  Bermuda took a moment, the gentle rattling of rain against the window echoing loudly as he imagined the scene, the beastly Other leering over the scantily clad woman before ending her life.

  Before committing the biggest crime an Other could.

  Killing a human.

  Punishable by deportation, and then, ultimately death.

  Slowly, Bermuda’s fingers began to curl, squeezing into a fist as his rage began to bubble. He thought of her family, the pictures of proud parents stood beside her that mounted the fireplace. A father, just like he was, would now be mourning his daughter, having to plan a funeral he could never have comprehended. With a silent nod of the head, Bermuda promised Nicole’s family he would find her killer.

  Her family.

  Suddenly, his head snapped back to the front room, and he dashed through the hallway. As he did, he could hear the crackle of a police radio through the rain-covered window. They wouldn’t receive a response, which meant another officer would be sent. He listened carefully.

  ‘ETA three minutes.’

  With the final grains of sand in his hourglass losing their battle with gravity, Bermuda took out his e-cig and flashed the light over the mantelpiece that adorned the fireplace. Everything was meticulously straight.

  Except one photo.

  It was of Nicole, her face a picture of happiness as her parents framed her, their pride leaping from the photo. She wore a dark gown and a square hat, the family celebrating her graduation. The start of a long and happy life.

  A life snatched away.

  The frame had been placed back on the ledge, almost straight. But as the light from outside shone through, Bermuda looked carefully down the line of the shelf. It was off. It had been placed back without care. Carefully reaching into his pocket, Bermuda pulled out a small leather pouch, another toy from the BTCO. Unlike with his tomahawk, Bermuda was at least entrusted with some tools of the trade.

  He unclipped the pouch and pulled out a thin white sheet with a pair of tweezers. It looked like a sheet of paper made of smoke, the material so thin you could see straight through. Durable but extremely malleable, the element known as ‘mundra’ was sourced from the Otherside and combined with flour, which Bermuda found incredibly strange.

  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 glistened 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 kn
ew 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.