by S. G Mark
Wandering back to his bunk bed, he pulled off his clothes and put on the ones that Kyle had handed him. They were loose fitting - but they didn’t drown him. Everyone else around him was still asleep. He looked over and saw Emma lying face down in deep sleep. He wanted to tell her that he was finally leaving the farmhouse, but he did not want to wake her. However, there was no guarantee that she would still be there when he returned.
With a few minutes to spare, he tiptoed over to her bedside and knelt down such that his face was level with hers. She did not stir until he placed his hand gently on her head.
“Jack?” she said sleepily, barely opening her eyes.
“I’m going with Kyle now,” he said, “I don’t know where. I’m not even sure when I’ll be back”
Emma smiled broadly, but apathetically, “Congrats, Jacky - I’m really proud of you.”
Jack returned her grin and he made to stand up - but she caught his arm half way.
“Be careful, Jack,” she said, suddenly wide awake; her eyes returning a deadly stare.
“I will,” he said, squeezing her hand comfortingly before racing up the stairs to join Kyle.
Outside, dusk was still hours away. Overheard the stars rippled with wonder. Closing the farmhouse door behind him, Jack saw movement from behind the car parked in the middle of the yard.
“A minute late,” Kyle said, clearly unamused. “Next time be more punctual.”
“Sorry,” Jack apologised, “I didn’t think you were being literal.”
Opening up the car boot, Kyle paused to scowl at Jack.
“Do as I say from this very second. It’s imperative,” Kyle barked.
“Why are you being like this, Kyle?”
“Because this matters, Jack. What we do means something. It’s life or fucking death. I need you to promise me that you’ll follow my orders from now on,” he said.
Reluctantly Jack nodded, scared of what the agreement may entail. What if he didn’t believe in the orders Kyle was giving - was he supposed to follow them regardless?
“Right, now hop in the boot,” Kyle said.
Casting aside the questions that had immediately sprung to life in his head, Jack followed orders and crawled into the back of the car. Kyle remained outside and he settled himself down.
Resting a hand of the boot door, he addressed Jack smoothly, as if this were routine, “If we are in any danger, I’ll knock three times on the inside of the car. If that happens, you stay where you are until I tell you otherwise. If you hear anything unexpectedly - gunfire, shouting or anything else, wait until the car is stationary before you run.”
From his pocket Kyle took a small foil packet, “If you are caught, take this before they make you say anything.”
He threw the packet at Jack, who caught it. Before he could even ask what it was, Kyle had answered.
“Cyanide,” he winked, shutting the boot closed.
With only his own breath for company, the doubt in Jack’s mind swirled like smoke rising from a smouldering fire. He had no idea where Kyle was taking him and being crammed into the back of a car served only as a reminder of how he had arrived at this godforsaken place.
Examining the foil in his hands, he unfolded the crease and instantly the warm scent enveloped his senses. It was a single square of chocolate: of such delights he hadn’t imagined in months.
The entire car erupted into vibration when Kyle turned the ignition. Jack’s throat clenched with an undefined fear. He had no clue to where he was going and for what purpose. Months of training had not prepared him for this. As the car rolled out of the yard, Jack suppressed a tingle of regret - was he really ready for this? Had Kyle been right to hold him back? Was he essentially being driven to his death? He had no means of defending himself. He’d never been taught to fire a gun - Kyle repeatedly refusing to arm him - nor had he been taught how to fight. With every mile they traversed, Jack was sunk further into feeling deeply unequipped for the role he had been, in retrospect, far too eager to play.
Above all that preyed on his mind, Jack worried that he was not ready to take another life - if that was what Kyle was going to ask of him. For all he knew that was the whole reason for this trip - were they going to kidnap and murder some CRU officer? It sickened Jack. That was not the behaviour of any organisation he wanted to be a part of, but he felt foolish when he remembered what they stood for and who they were fighting against. The Resistance, terrorist title recently revoked, were still willing to take lives for their own gain. It was not a school ground fight nor political war waged in Westminster. He’d heard the stories, he’d been exposed to the bitter threat that the government posed. Lying in the back of the car gave him time to assess and appreciate what he was involving himself in. For months he had been building up to this moment. It had been his goal - to be out there, fighting those that would oppose them. Fighting for freedom and justice, but no matter how much he believed the stories and trusted the people he now called his friends, there was still a fragment of the CRU whispering in his ear.
The Resistance are terrorists, and will stop at nothing to destroy your liberties. They will lie and manipulate to get what they want.
Every training session he had had throughout the past few months flashed before him - every gasp for air, every time he collapsed from exhaustion mid-run; from the very first day to the first time he completed the circuit without stopping. At the time it had all been for something - for the next stage in his quest to become… whatever it was he thought being a member of The Resistance was. The further and further from the farmhouse they drove the more he realised how ignorant he had been. Had he anticipated the dread he now felt, would he ever have chosen the same path? Jack was sceptical.
Keeping his breathing steady, Jack tried to stem the rising nausea. Never before had he appreciated how real the fight was. During the past few months it seemed to have become a legend retold until it lost its excitement and meaning. Now more than ever Jack realised what he had been missing in all this time - fear. His stomach gurgled nervously. He was petrified of what was going to happen to him. They must have already driven miles and to which direction Jack had no clue. This was the secrecy in action - cloak and dagger, just as Emma had described it. Of course Jack had heard hand-me-down stories of the complications of moving in between safehouses, but experiencing it for himself was quite different.
After what must’ve been close to an hour, the car gently came to a halt. Panic gripped Jack initially as he tentatively listened out for the dreaded knocks Kyle had warned him about. When none came, Jack was unsure whether or not to be relieved. In the minute it took Kyle to exit the car and open the boot, Jack imagined horrific scenes involving gunfire, blood spattering the windows and waiting anxiously for the CRU to open the boot up and beat him to death.
“Time to get up,” Kyle grinned as a man to his side stepped into view.
“Where are we?” Jack asked, shading his eyes from the fiercely bright clouds behind Kyle.
He raised himself out of the boot of the car - pins and needles shooting down his legs - and dropped his feet to the crisp ground beneath. Beyond the trees that surrounded their immediate area were great rolling mountains, capped with snow.
“Middle o’fuck all, pal,” the man sniggered.
“This is Stuart,” Kyle introduced the stranger.
Jack outstretched his hands, “Hi, I’m Jack.”
“Crackin’ lad, he’ll look affa charmin’ on his new passport photo, eh?” Stuart cracked up at his own joke.
Meanwhile Jack returned an expression of utmost confusion, “We’re leaving the country?”
“Don’t be silly,” Kyle laughed, “ID - we need to get you fitted out with a new one. Our Stuart here is an expert.”
“Come on then,” Stuart beckoned them, “Don’t be daft and hang about in the cold out here.”
Stuart disappeared round the side of the car. Hopping out of the boot completely, Jack turned to see a quaint little cottage a few yar
ds away. Scanning the area, he saw that they were not near a main road. A little dirt track snaked off into the depths of the trees. Stuart was already crossing his neat little garden path, flanked by a strange assortment of gnomes, miniature windmills and brightly coloured pot plants, each having their only little crown of fresh snow.
“You alright, you look a bit ill?” Kyle asked.
“Car sick,” Jack dismissed his friend’s concern, not wanting to admit the internal battle he had been having since they left the farm.
It was dark inside the cottage, in every aspect. Dark stained wood; dark carpets; tiny windows which let in little brightness and dark, dusty lampshades that smothered all light that emanating from them with a dull dark hue. All the furnishings were antiques. Chaise longue by the window, old fashioned clocks lining the mantelpiece; bronze trinkets littered the coffee table, under which lay several editions of a magazine Jack had never heard of. Three uniquely styled chintz sofas encircled an inviting little fire.
“Can I get either of you a drink?” Stuart asked, imitating holding a mug.
Jack immediately looked to Kyle for approval, though he was not quite sure why.
“Two teas, please,” Kyle spoke for the pair of them.
“Right you are,” Stuart vanished through a door and a moment later Jack heard the kettle steaming.
Standing awkwardly in the middle of the stranger’s living room, Jack felt most uncomfortable. This was the last place he expected to be. He actively avoided Kyle and set about investigating the little ornaments lined up on a bookcase towards the back of the room. They were fascinating artefacts of the man’s taste in decor. Amongst the miniature Eiffel Tower, touristy Big Ben and Leaning Tower of Pisa, there were rows of scaled houses accompanied by tiny gardens and miniscule gates. Behind them the book collection caught his attention for it was a wild array of genres; from trashy romances to historical fiction.
Having spent so much time incarcerated in that bunker, it was an alien feeling to be somewhere new. The air seemed fresher. The world, despite its brooding black skies, seemed brighter.
Kyle was hovering by the window, gently picking away at a dead flower petal. After all that the two friends had experienced - from the estrangement to the resentful rage that followed the apparent burglary, this was the first time that Jack felt too uncomfortable to speak to Kyle. There was a boundary now - a hierarchy that Jack felt deeply uneasy about. He knew that he’d been prancing naively around in the shadows whilst the others played an integral part of The Resistance; until now he just had not anticipated how remote from the organisation he was. From his cosy shadow, he had no understanding of the structure or complexities of the group. Maybe it was Kyle’s fault for shielding him from the horrors the others experienced; maybe it was just something he needed to experience himself to even acknowledge its existence. They were not in the playground anymore. They were venturing into the real world, and there was no time for whimsical fantasies that it was all going to be alright in the end.
“Tea,” Stuart advanced into the living room and settled a tray of teapots on the coffee table. “No sugar I’m afraid, the last lot nicked the remains of the batch.”
Jack extracted his nose from the bookshelf and sat in the sofa beside Stuart. He was an older man, but no more than sixty. He had a trim beard and a shiny bald spot that crowned his head.
“Nice collection of books you have there,” Jack commented, reaching for something vaguely interesting to say.
“Aye, apologies for the romance ones - my wife’s guilty pleasure,” Stuart poured milk into his tea.
Kyle was still standing aimlessly by the window. Jack threw him a cursory glance, wondering why he would not relax.
“Oh, is your wife here?” Jack asked.
“About six feet under in the next village, god rest her soul,” Stuart said, “Mind, she’d be fair offering you a large slice of her finest carrot cake if she were alive today.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack instinctively said.
“Auch shush, she died more than a decade ago - at least she didn’t get to see this nonsense,” Stuart chuckled, sitting back in the sofa and inhaling a large gulp of tea.
Silhouetted by the window, Kyle turned to them both.
“We’ll need to be quick, Stuart,” he said grimly.
Jack did not like his tone. A quiver of worry ran through him.
“Right you are,” Stuart said, rising to his feet and disappearing into the kitchen again.
Tensely, Jack looked at Kyle again. He felt like a child being bustled between divorced parents. He had no say or understanding on where he was going or why.
“Go with him,” Kyle ordered.
Dismissing any internal urge to protest, Jack took his cup of tea and followed Stuart into the kitchen. A cat meowed in the corner, scratching its ear as it lay in a cosy basket by the oven. However, Stuart was nowhere to be seen.
“Hello?” Jack called out, walking over a creaking floorboard.
The cat jumped into alertness.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
There was no door through which Stuart could have gone. A tiny frosted window played potential escape route but there was no way that Stuart would have fitted anything but his head through it.
“Stuart?” Jack called again and he could hear Kyle snorting with laughter in the background.
He jumped back through, “What are you laughing about?”
“Are you hungry?”
“What?”
“Have a nose around in the cupboards if you are,” Kyle grinned.
Unsure as to what to be disconcerted by more - Kyle’s sudden mood change or his cryptic clues - Jack returned to the kitchen and began opening up the cupboards above the sink. They were filled with tins of baked beans and chopped tomatoes, a pile of potatoes and a collection of flours. What was Kyle expecting him to do - whip up a meal for them all? He moved on to the next cupboard and saw a stash of tempting biscuits - chocolate covered digestives. He salivated on the spot. It had been years. Temptation to steal one was overwhelming, but Jack had a shred of decency left - he could hardly take something so precious from someone so kind. He closed the cupboard to shield the proverbial apple from his eye.
The next cupboard proved to store more of the same and the next few doors revealed nothing but pots and pans and other miscellaneous cooking equipment. He’d searched every single one bar the set under the sink. Hence it was with little optimism that he knelt down and opened them.
Though not remotely skilled in plumbing, he expected there to be at least a set of pipes running down from the sink into the foundations of the house. However, that was the least of his surprise when he saw a fragile little rope ladder descend from where he expected there to be a box of cleaning products.
“Aye, come in lad,” Stuart’s voice echoed from beyond his vision.
Placing his cup on the floor, it was a tight squeeze to even get into the cupboard space, let alone climb down the cramped vortex. With one hand on the frayed rope and another on his mug of splashing tea, he swung in every direction until at least his foot scraped the bottom of a floor and he stepped on to solid ground again.
Stuart was grinning madly at him, “Sorry, we do that to all the new recruits!” he chuckled.
Feeling a slight wave of relief that he was at least being treated like all the others, Jack stepped aside to admire the underground space. It was less well built that HQ, and it certainly did not remotely match its size. The earthy walls stretched to no more than a few feet in either direction. At the far end of the room there sat a computer desk, sprinkled with paperwork. To the left of that a white screen was erected - akin to a photographer’s studio. Opposite that there was a very weird grey box that on closer examination Jack realised was a printer.
“What is this place?”
“My little den,” Stuart said proudly, “It’s where you lot come to get a shiny new ID card.”
Amazement filled his eyes. It was a perfect hiding place.
“Do they ever come, the CRU?”
“Not yet, but we can’t be too careful,” Stuart said, inviting him over to sit in the chair by the white screen. “Now then, what name do you fancy?”
“Name?” Jack awkwardly sat down in the chair, feeling far too much in the spotlight.
“To add to the ID - who do you fancy being?”
“Oh, right,” Jack was struck by the efforts that The Resistance went to. He racked his brains for an appropriate name, but inspiration failed to strike.
“Can’t think? What about a Henry, Charlie… Joel maybe?”
“Charlie…” Jack said distractedly to himself.
“You like the name?”
“It’s just… someone I used to know,” he reflected on what she might think of what he was involved in. Charlie had not approved of his life then, she wasn’t likely to now.
“Right-ho,” Stuart said, taking out a camera from the top drawer in the desk, “Now just stand there and look seriously at the camera.”
Jack looked over and saw that Stuart was pointing to the white backdrop. It all made sense. It was for passport photographs. Jack stood in front of it as Stuart took a few shots and uploaded them to the computer. Once the machine had finished starting up, Stuart loaded the most fascinating software Jack had ever seen.
“Build your own ID,” Stuart smiled, “Courtesy of some of the more criminal software engineers we’ve managed to recruit. We make ‘em up on here and print them on that thing.”
“What if someone finds the computer?”
“Won’t have no-one’s details on it. After every one I print, I scramble the file and delete it from the hard drive. Once a week I reformat as well just to be sure,” he said, “Now, let’s just pick a randomly assigned surname…”