The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  He had not seen Alex in months. There had been no word of what he had been doing or even where he had been. His movement were top secret and Jack could only imagine what deeds of espionage he was involved with.

  As he stepped further into the bath of amber candlelight, everyone saw what he was carrying - six bottles of champagne.

  “Where the fuck did you get that?” Emma blurted out.

  “Westminster,” Alex winked at her.

  Emma stood up and clapped. Another man joined her and then a woman. Soon the entire dining area was on their feet and applauding their leader. Even Jack was joining in. Alex waved their praise down with a gesture of humility and opened the bottles before pouring each and every one of them a glass. When it came to Jack’s turn, Alex smiled at him and for the first time in a long while Jack remembered the friendship they once shared. Once everyone’s glasses had been filled, Alex raised his own above his head.

  “To absent friends,” he said solemnly as the room echoed him.

  The champagne stung the back of Jack’s throat and although it was faintly disgusting, it was enjoyable to taste alcohol again. It felt like a flash of normality - a Saturday night drink or a soothing bedtime whisky.

  Alex took a chair at the top of the table as everyone leapt from their seats, plates in hand, to queue for their Christmas dinner. Jack’s stomach grumbled with lust for what lay beneath the containers. It didn’t matter what it was, any food was sufficient so long as it did not lack in quantity. He queued behind Emma, who was glaring enviously at the first few who were already sat at the table devouring their brown and green meals.

  “It’s chicken,” she said, “I think it’s chicken.”

  Jack smiled faintly and turned behind him. A man he had never seen before was standing there. Jack offered his hand.

  “I’m Jack,” he said.

  “Graham,” he replied, grimly.

  “Are you new? I’ve not seen you around here before,” Jack asked casually.

  “Been undercover since April last year. Had to leave Manchester before the CRU shot me dead, so I’m back here until I can get a new identity established,” he said.

  Jack was caught off guard. He’d been expecting to hear that the man had just joined or had to transfer from another safehouse. It gave him a little jolt of reality that he was not expecting on Christmas day. In absence of anything further to say, Jack turned towards Emma instead. They were a few feet further ahead in the queue and by now they were able to confirm that it was indeed chicken. There was a rise of nausea in his stomach when Jack realised that their dinner could indeed be one of the chickens roaming around in the yard above them, but hunger quickly suppressed his guilt.

  “Oh my god, it feels like forever since I ate this much food,” Emma grinned across the table at Jack.

  He returned a smile as he dug into chicken, vegetables and gravy. Scoffing mouthful after mouthful, he scarcely had the time to appreciate the flavour. He briefly compared it to his mother’s and then to his last Christmas and it was at that point that he put down his fork. Maybe the champagne had gone straight to his head, maybe he just felt a twinkling of nostalgia: either way the void between he and Eliza was more apparent than ever. Every day he thought of it - it was not strange to wonder how she was or what she was up to, but on Christmas day the questions were somehow more poignant. What was she doing? Where was she? Was she happy, was she sad?

  “Are you alright?” Emma asked, halting her fork mid-air.

  “Yeah,” Jack said noncommittally.

  “It’s a shit time of year to be a terrorist,” Emma smiled, outstretching her hand, “Remember we all know how you feel. None of us really want to be here. We all have lives beyond The Resistance, the key is remembering that is what we’re fighting for.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier to live with,” he said, glumly.

  “No, but you’re food is getting cold and right now, forgetting all the things we’ve seen is what we need to be concentrating on. That gravy is so delicious, it’ll make you forget you were even born.”

  Jack discarded his sadness, at least on the surface, and dug into his food once more. He was ravenous. Ravenous and tipsy. At the end of the meal, everyone was slumped in their seats, burping and swirling the precious remains of their champagne.

  Beside him, Kyle was dozing in a food coma. Emma, however, was determined to fight any signs of fatigue.

  “Right, come on - in lieu of the real thing, what’s the worst cracker jokes you’ve ever had,” she addressed the entire room.

  “What do you call a man with a pole through his legs?” a man shouted, pausing for an appropriate pause, “Rodney.”

  Everyone groaned.

  “What’s Good King Wenceslas’s favourite pizza?” another yelled, “One that’s deep and crisp and even!”

  “Fucksake, that was awful!” Kyle cried with laughter, “But man I could do with a pizza right now!”

  “Kyle!” Emma gasped, “You’ve just eaten, you fat bastard!”

  “Ha!” Jack laughed, “You should have seen him back in the day! I didn’t know where he put it, constantly scoffing away he was!”

  “Oi!” Kyle grinned, “I was proud of my metabolism! No chance it’s going to last me until thirty though!”

  “By god though, deep fried pizza would hit the spot,” Jack sighed, “I haven’t had one in years.”

  “And a good portion of greasy chips!” Lance called down the table. Jack had not even realised he was even there until now. The tension between them was all but a distant memory, but on such an anniversary date, Jack could not help but remember the events of the past five months.

  The day he arrived. The day Alex returned and Emma’s brother was killed. The day he lashed out and the day he accepted the horrible man he had become. It had been a turbulent few months. There were no home comforts. No pictures of his family to look at, not even one of Eliza. All he had was his wallet - a collection of banks cards and grubby coins. That was all he had left of his life as Jack Blackwood.

  He fell into a sullen silence as hilarity rang out around him. Laughter was hoisted like a pirate flag. Comradery gripped the post-digestion slum of the evening. Before long Christmas hit singles were being sung by the merriest whilst others danced and recited the off key renditions. Jack watched as if part of an audience - remote and disengaged from it all.

  As he watched Emma compare her high kicks with Lance in an attempt to show him the Can-Can, Jack faded into reflection. He wanted to know what Eliza had been given for Christmas. He wanted to know what she’d eaten and if she’d missed him. He wanted to know who was making her smile instead of him. Like a stalker, Jack wanted to know everything about her - he wanted to know what she was wearing, what jokes made her smile and what made her really sad.

  Jack glanced at Alex and saw that he too was deep in reverie. Were they both dwelling on the same questions? Stripped of his leadership, his prowess and his skill, did Alex simply wish for a family meal at home? But then something gripped his insides: Jack had forgotten something he ought not to have. Eleven years. How could he have forgotten? More than a year had slipped by since the big party to commemorate the tenth anniversary of his death. Jack was disgusted with himself. How could he have been so selfish as to wonder how Eliza was coping without him, rather than the real pain she was experiencing? Both her father and brother had vanished from her life, not just her boyfriend.

  Realising his mistake, Jack took up residence in the chair next to Alex, who glanced at him furtively before returning his gaze to the tragically untalented singers before them all.

  “How are you?” Jack asked, fixing his gaze ahead.

  “Alright,” Alex responded and Jack noted his lack of reciprocal concern.

  “You can still talk to me,” plundered through regardless, “Even after all that’s happened.”

  “Thank you,” Alex said, not even turning to look at Jack.

  It was disheartening to witness his old friend treat hi
m as if he were a stranger. After all that had happened, Jack had hoped that Alex had at least warmed to him during the previous weeks. It seemed that that his hope was ill placed.

  “How is Eliza?” Jack’s nerves wreaked havoc in his body. He did not welcome Alex’s response.

  “Don’t you dare speak of her again,” Alex said.

  “Please, I just want to know if she’s okay,” Jack asked, his eyeline slipping from the theatrical rendition of All I Want For Christmas to his best friend’s rigid and uncaring eyes.

  “She’s alive, that’s all you need to know,” he recited.

  “Alive? I deserve more than that!”

  “After what you did, you barely deserve that,” Alex spat, leaning forward so that only Jack could hear his spiteful words.

  “You play this hero so well,” Jack retorted, “But what would your followers do if they discovered how vile you were deep down? I love your sister, I don’t fucking care what you think of it.”

  “You used and abused her and if you care for your life you would do well to shut the fuck up right now before I shoot you,” Alex glared at Jack as if Death whipped the very life from his eyes.

  “Happy fucking Christmas Alex,” Jack spat, tearing himself from his chair and marching from the dining room, into the dormitory and slamming his body onto the comforting mattress.

  If there was anywhere he could call home now, it was this moth eaten quilt, this pathetic pillow and this sight of the broken springed mattress in the bunk above. It was Christmas Day and all he could remember of the meal was a bitter taste in his mouth that had little to do with the food.

  The next morning Jack woke early in the frosty dormitory. Glaring around in the half light of the last remaining lit candle, he could see that everyone was still in bed. Several rotund duvets wriggled sleepily in their bunk beds. Jack didn’t recall when they all had come to bed as he passed out on his pillow quickly after leaving the dining area. Following his conversation with Alex, he just wanted to close his eyes and forget everything. It worked, to an extent. Though he was sure he had dreamt, he remembered not a single image of what story his subconscious mind had conjured up during the night.

  Boxing Day. A day steeped in the tradition of feasting on left overs and all the chocolates received as gifts the previous day. Jack was saddened by how many years had passed since he last observed it. The taste of chocolate was a ghost on his tongue and the idea of leftovers was laughable.

  Sliding out of bed, Jack winced when his feet touched the cold concrete floor. Every morning the chill snatched, sending shivers shooting up his calves. He longed for slippers and a fluffy rug underfoot.

  Wandering through to the dining area, his feet warmed to the hard ground. A candle was alight, presumably from the night before. A warm amber glow illuminated the Christmas dinner debris. Dirty plates, abandoned cutlery and sticky residue from spilled champagne clung to the table. It stunk of roasted vegetables and gravy - in a strange cocktail of comfort and revulsion. Jack slumped into a chair and rubbed his hands together for warmth.

  “Good morning,” a voice muttered behind him.

  “Jesus,” Jack was startled to see one of the guards slouching in a chair behind him, “I thought I was alone.”

  “Right you are,” the guard said, “It’s only just gone five in the morning.”

  “You been up all night, Colin?” Jack asked, hoping he’d remembered his name correctly.

  “Took over at one,” he said, “Been quiet all night. What are you doing up at this time?”

  “Went to bed early last night,” Jack said, “Didn’t even realise the time until you just told me it now.”

  “It was fair rough last night - partying until at least three. I’m surprised you could sleep at all. Emma was up singing and Polly was dancing away. Darren started reciting Burns poems in a desperately poor Scottish accent as well.”

  “Sounds like I missed out,” Jack commented.

  “Aye, I think it was well earnt. The stuff we’ve been through, well I can’t put it better than Alex, can I?” Colin smiled, “Great man he is. Great man.”

  Jack shifted in his chair awkwardly. After last night’s conversation with Alex, Jack was once again reminded of exactly how manipulative and controlling Alex could be. All he had wanted to know was that Eliza was safe. Did he not deserve even that?

  Instinctively he began clearing up the tables and piling the dishes into the kitchen. Soon after, Colin leant a hand in the clean up efforts.

  “Do you have family?” Jack asked, stacking plates by the kitchen sink.

  “Yep. A wife and two boys, Peter and Simon,” Colin beamed, extracting a photograph from his back pocket. “Course they’d tear me apart if they ever saw me again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pam, that’s the wife, she wasn’t much keen on me refusing to take part in this community scheme. I reckoned what it was the second the leaflets came round but she said if I didn’t participate then the neighbours would have something to say… and I guess she was right cos they called the CRU on me.”

  “Bloody hell, what happened?”

  “Came in at three in the morning, dragged me from my bed and the last I saw of Pam and my boys were of them watching me being chucked into the back of the CRU van. Neighbours were all staring at the show of course. From what Kyle has told me, my family are shunned by the community now. Sick bastards.”

  “You were arrested for not turning up for… a community event?”

  “Yep,” Colin laughed at the obscurity, “Fucking madness, but mandatory madness - course they don’t tell you that in the small print. Community events to bring the community closer together. Keep an eye on them more like.”

  “Why would the neighbours report you for not turning up though?” Jack asked.

  “Laziness. As the bastard Cameron Snowden says, it’s the curse of the modern world,” Colin said gravely, “Funny thing is he ain’t far wrong.”

  “How did you escape then?”

  “The Resistance ambushed the CRU van on the way to prison. Told everyone inside they could join or be relocated. I decided to join.”

  “Did you not think The Resistance were terrorists though?” Jack asked, filing the sink with lukewarm water.

  “Aye, I did, but I was being carted away to prison at the time. It sort of puts things in perspective. They took me back to a safehouse and well… here I am.”

  “What was it like, seeing the world in such a different light?” Jack asked, appreciating his lack of experience in the matter.

  Colin paused mid-plate drying, as if he was an android with no program to follow. It served to fill Jack with nothing but dread. Despite all that he knew and all the training Kyle had put him through, he still knew little of the real world. His innocence and naivety were further instilled when his peers returned from important missions - some cried, some refused to speak about it, but for many they were now too accustomed to it for it to matter much to them anymore. Consequently, Jack’s attempts at living through their experiences failed every time.

  “Harrowing,” Colin eventually said, “Simply harrowing.”

  He put the plate down on the counter and dried his hands with the tea towel. It was such a banal act to perform during such a poignant conversation. Jack struggled to gauge where the conversation might head to next. He both did and did not want to hear more. In what way was it harrowing, and was it harrowing every time he left the comforting walls of the headquarters? Did it ever numb, and if not, did he ever wish it would?

  However, where that conversation might meander to was never realised for the next moment Kyle stepped casually into the kitchen, fully dressed and wide awake.

  “Are you ready?” he addressed Jack directly, ignoring Colin’s presence.

  “For what?” Jack drained his soaking hands over the sink.

  “For the next step.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jack pursued Kyle through the bunker as he raced from one room to the
next, pillaging them for everything they would need for their journey. Having agreed to accompany Kyle, Jack was still in the dark about where they were going and what they would do when they arrived.

  “Put this on,” Kyle threw a collection of clothes at Jack.

  “What? Why?” Jack said, picking apart a jacket from a pairs of jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt.

  “Because I’m telling you to, that’s why,” Kyle said, his voice masterful.

  However, Jack was not keen on taking orders from a friend, much less because he was keeping all knowledge of what they were doing a secret. He folded his arms defiantly.

  “Tell me what’s going on first of all,” Jack demanded but was instantly scolded by Kyle’s scathing tongue.

  “You dare to question me? It’s behaviour like this that will get you killed,” he snapped, “Put on the fucking clothes or your only chance for leaving this place is lost.”

  “This isn’t fair!” Jack said, “The others know more about where they go beforehand, why can’t I?”

  “Oh how wrong you are, Jack,” Kyle said, “If we tell them anything about their mission it’s because they have proven themselves - proven that they can cope with what’s out there, proven that they are willing to follow our orders no matter what. It’s not a fucking game. This is exactly what I was afraid of. You’re not ready.”

  “I am! I’m more than ready, I just need to understand.”

  “You will, in time. Be patient, learn from me. Comprehend that you’re out of your depth as soon as you leave the boundaries of this farm. You might be able to run fast without breaking a sweat, but you know nothing of what you may be running from. You won’t lose your Rations or get fired this time - one mistake and it could cost your life. Get changed and meet me upstairs in five minutes. Not a second later.”

  Kyle stormed out of the room, leaving Jack alone in the dark. He had no choice. Though he resented taking orders, he had to in order to be taken seriously.