The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  “Fucking bastards,” Jack was seething, “How can they print this?”

  “They’ll print either whatever they are told to, or whatever is farthest from the truth,” Anne sighed and Jack could almost see the hope leave her body.

  “I can’t believe they could blame this on Euan and Lucy. What are their families going to think now - they’ll believe that they died murderers too scared to face the consequences of what they had done.”

  “They can believe whatever they fuck they like, I really don’t give a damn,” Anne said bitterly.

  “But Lucy was your friend,” Jack said delicately, “You don’t mean that. You wouldn’t be here if you did.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t give a damn what their families think because they are going to believe whatever the media or the police tell them. Whatever they believe is going to be a lie unless we fight for the truth. The only way I’m going to give a fuck about what their families think is when they know the real reason Euan and Lucy are lying on a slab in a morgue,” Anne’s anger was ferocious.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” Hamid’s accent wafted across the room like perfume, “But here you will have safety and warm beds.”

  “Thank you,” Anne’s smile returned for politeness only, “Who else is here?”

  “Come,” he beckoned, “I will show you.”

  They followed him up a narrow staircase, across the landing and into a large room stacked with five beds in various shapes and sizes. By the far wall was a bunk bed whilst three single beds were jammed into various other parts of the room, including right by the window, whose curtains were drawn shut. It was extremely dark in the room, only being lit by a single lamp in the far corner of the room. Two figures emerged from the eiderdown and sat up on the edge of their mattresses to see who had just entered.

  “We have two new guests,” Hamid introduced them, “Anne and Jack will be joining us for a while.”

  The figures waved separately.

  “I’m Duncan,” the one hanging out of the bunkbed declared.

  “Hi I’m Ashley,” the other one said, rising to her feet and crossing the stretch of ground between them to shake Jack and Anne’s hands.

  “Are you hungry?” Hamid said gingerly, sensing Anne’s continued tension.

  “Yeah, we haven’t eaten all day,” Jack said.

  Venturing back downstairs, Jack noted how muted Anne was. As Hamid rounded up some slices of bread and put some soup on the hob to reheat, Jack and Anne sat around the dining room table feeling distinctly out of place. Whilst Anne was openly angry by what they had read in the newspaper, Jack was quietly simmering with rage. Anne may be fine with letting her friend’s family believe that Lucy was a murderer, but he was not. Euan’s parents didn’t deserve to think that of their son, to carry the guilt that they had somehow failed their child. This was not their fault. It was not even Euan’s fault. It was the misfortune of chance, but Jack was not fully convinced of that himself. Was it chance that he had seen something in Euan that night that which led him to believe the teenager may be sympathetic to The Resistance? Was it chance that Jack planted the Resistance pamphlet in the boy’s jean pocket? Was it chance that Euan was not able to run away from the CRU and had he been able to, would he have believed what the newspapers said of the incident?

  Chapter Ten

  The world was a cloudier, murkier place now. There was no absolute truth. The Public blamed The Resistance, The Resistance blamed the government and Jack was somewhere in the middle, surveying the battle from his guilty throne: uncertain of his own mind.

  Hamid presented them each with a bowl of steaming hot bean soup and a slice of bread each. He joined them at the table to watch them eat, and they both felt obliged to dig in at once. The soup was not terrible, but the bread was slightly stale. Still, it was not to be scorned for it was food after all.

  “So, house rules, yes?” Hamid eventually spoke once he was satisfied they were eating without prompt, “Firstly, keep the curtain shut in the bedroom at all times. Secondly, if you are leaving, you must stick to Curfew times. If you are summoned for a mission during Curfew, you need to let me know before you leave. Thirdly, you will need to help out with the food and cleaning whilst you are here.”

  Jack nodded and sought Anne’s approval. She also nodded.

  When they were finished, Hamid cleared their plates and bowls away to rinse them in the sink.

  “Just this once!” he chuckled away to himself, “Because you have driven a long way.”

  They thanked him and retired to the living room, where they found Ashley sitting in the armchair, reading a book. She barely looked up at them when they entered and fell back on the sofa, the stomachs tight against their diaphragm.

  “What do we do now?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know,” Anne said, “Wait and see if we hear from Kyle, I suppose. Hamid will have informed someone in the know that we have arrived.”

  “So we just sit here and cosy up by the fire?”

  “Pretty much, yes,” Anne said distantly.

  “But what about Lucy? What about James? We just forget about them?”

  Anne turned her head around so fast her hair whipped his face, “I don’t know, I don’t give the fucking orders around here.”

  “You’re new, then?” Ashley raised her eyebrows above her book.

  Jack suppressed a few minor insults.

  “This isn’t about individual hate. It’s about achieving something more meaningful than quick retribution,” Anne sighed.

  “I know that, but something happened to those people that should never have happened - in a way it was sort of our fault. We need to rectify that.”

  “Ah yes, the accent. You’ve come from Fort William, haven’t you?” she eyed up Anne, “Oh, and of course. You’ll be that woman they are looking for.”

  Ashley rose from her armchair and cosied up by Anne.

  “Bet you’re pleased to be on the wanted list,” she grinned, “I’ve not managed that yet.”

  Jack was grateful that he was not alone in finding this a very odd thing to say. Anne’s retort was lightning fast.

  “Grow up,” she glared at Ashley as if she were a snake primed to strike.

  Ashley’s features contorted themselves into a display of both offense and surprise, “What did you say?”

  “My best friend was just murdered by some CRU bastard and you’re praising the fact that I’m on the fucking wanted list? Piss off.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend, I was just making conversation,” Ashley said, grabbing her book and retreating back upstairs.

  As soon as she had left, Jack rounded on Anne, “She didn’t know what we’ve been through.”

  “No? So you think being on the wanted list in connection with my best friend’s murder is something to be proud of? Right now all my friends and family will be thinking I was responsible. When they think of Lucy, they will only think of how I killed her.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t care about what other people thought?”

  Anne looked away sharply.

  “Listen, Anne,” Jack spoke slowly, “What we went through was horrible. But it wasn’t our fault. We are here to help people see the truth, right? Ashley was just being friendly. We don’t know what she has been through to get here either. We’re all… outlaws. Step outside and tell the world what we’ve done and we will all be condemned. Forget what she said. You’re better than getting angry at random women.”

  A smile broke on her face, “You’ve only known me a day, you’ve no idea how angry I can get at random women.”

  “Probably quite a bit,” he reflected her smile, “But it’s not worth your time. It’s been a horrible, horrible day. Go upstairs and catch some sleep. We’ll try to contact Kyle in the morning.”

  “Alright,” Anne let out a yawn, “You win.”

  Alone in the living room, Jack took a deep breath and reached for the remote. A neat little clock on the wall told J
ack that it was only half nine. Another hour and a half until ShutDown. After all these months away from creature comforts, it was nice to be able to turn on television and to just switch off.

  However, the channel that sprung to life on screen was showing torrential rain pouring down upon blue and white police tape, beyond which lay a rustic old barn that Jack instantly recognised as the Ben Nevis Inn.

  “A day on from the atrocious terrorist attack, the small community of Fort William is in a state of shock,” the newsreader narrated over pre-recorded scenes of CRU officers milling around the crime scene as well as panoramas of the town centre, which was rammed with people protesting against The Resistance on the streets. “No one can quite believe that three locals could ever have been involved with The Resistance, let alone be responsible for the deaths of fifteen innocent civilians.”

  Jack was rapt with attention. The pre-recorded video faded into a live feed from just in front of the blue police tape. The Ben Nevis Inn resided ominously in the background. No longer was it the venue for merriment, fine beers and friendly conversation. Going forward, it would almost certainly be remembered as the location where fifteen lives were tragically killed.

  “With such a brutal attack by The Resistance, it has certainly left this community feeling extremely vulnerable. As for the rest of the country, the CRU has raised its threat level to Severe, implying that another attack may be imminent. Today they have urged people to stay indoors where necessary and report any suspicious behaviour, even if it is a close friend or relative,” the Newsreader paused, “Speaking with Euan Patterson’s mother earlier, I saw first hand how evasive and secretive her son was.”

  The scene jumped from the live feed to a plump woman standing outside a bleak council house. Her eyes were puffy and red, her hair greasy and ungroomed. A man stood beside her who Jack instantly recognised from the previous night.

  “I cannot believe my son would allow himself to be indoctrinated by the evil that is The Resistance,” she appeared to be reading from a set of notes, “While the pain of losing my son is a difficult burden to bear, I seek solace in knowing that he killed himself before he could do harm to any more innocent lives. I for one will never be able to forgive myself for not recognising the secrets he was hiding. I will carry the burden of all the men and women he murdered. Their lives are on my conscience… and I dare not even seek forgiveness for his crimes.”

  It took Jack a second to realise that his hand had automatically switched the television off with the remote. Anger and rage throttled through his veins. They had made the mother believe she was responsible for the killings they had committed. The lies intertwined around reality, strangling out every last wisp of truth. Killing Euan was not enough, they had to pin their own crimes on the poor, innocent boy before making his mother believe that he had betrayed his family and that she must bear his guilt. I seek solace in knowing that he killed himself…

  He marched through to the kitchen to find Hamid.

  “Can you fucking believe what they are saying on the news?”

  Hamid’s eyes sunk back into his face, “It is horrible, but they have always made us out to be cruel terrorists.”

  “That’s not the point - this Euan Patterson. He was innocent. He wasn’t in The Resistance, he was just some innocent boy they had grabbed to pin the blame on. I saw them shoot him in the head. You should have heard what his mother said about his death!”

  Hamid shook his head with disgust, “I heard it earlier. That poor woman. I hope that one day we can tell her the truth about her child.”

  Jack pulled out a dining chair and crumpled into a sobbing heap on it.

  “I can’t believe what they did!” he roared, “I mean I can, but I can’t.”

  “You are new to this, yes?” Hamid took a chair adjacent to him.

  Jack nodded, “Let’s just say joining wasn’t exactly an easy choice…”

  “It isn’t for anyone,” Hamid said at once, “You think it’s easy for any of us? To abandon our families, fear for their lives every day? If we are caught, then they are damned as well.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier to digest the horror stories. Rather, the stories I can deal with. It’s these visions I can’t shake from my head. I watched three people be shot in the head yesterday. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I just watched and kept quiet so that I could save my own fucking skin.”

  Hamid got up and took a bottle from one of the kitchen cupboards. He placed it down on the table between them. It was a bottle of unopened cheap whisky. Jack didn’t know if he felt like having a drink right now.

  “I have a wife and two daughters,” Hamid said, staring at the bottle, “You probably saw their pictures in the living room.”

  “I did, yes,” he said.

  “When I decided to join The Resistance, I knew how much danger they would be in so I sent them away. For the first time in my life I lied to Farah. I told her that I had been cheating on her so that she would hate me. Well… it worked.... she took the children and left me. Filed for divorce three weeks later.”

  “Oh my god,” Jack could not articulate the pity he felt for this poor man. “That must have been pretty painful for you.”

  “Painful? Yes. But I would rather my family alive and hating me than dead. It’s been eight months since I last saw them, since they walked out the door with all their suitcases,” his trail of thought seemed to follow his gaze out into the hallway.

  “And now you run this safe house?”

  “Yes, it isn’t an easy job. When people stay, they usually are here for a week before they leave again. In that time I must feed them but also keep them hidden. If the neighbours ever saw who comes in and out of my house, I’d be done.”

  “How do you manage to keep this place a secret? Especially with people turning up all the time?”

  “Usually I get word ahead, even if it’s by a few hours. Sometimes it’s tricky getting them in the house, so sometimes I use the backdoor instead. I think the key is to never let your guard down,” he toyed with the bottle of dark brown spirit.

  “So what’s this for then?” Jack asked, curiously wondering if he was going to be offered a drop.

  “I have never touched a drop of alcohol in my life,” Hamid begun, “But when Farah left, I ran out and bought this and I took it back and I was about to pour my first glass when I stopped and thought what it was I was doing. Drinking? Me? I wasn’t being honest with myself. I sat for three solid hours staring at the bottle and remembering all the good times I’d had with Farah, our wedding and the births of Iqra and Zara… and then I remembered all the horrors I’d lived through… the day my brother was taken by the CRU. The day I saw a woman gunned down in the street by an officer who merely saw her running for a bus, but mistook it for something more sinister. As I sat and remembered those moments, I realised that drinking to forget them was shameful. It was an insult to them to forget. My brother, my wife and two beautiful daughters… they are the reasons I am fighting. So everytime I feel like giving up, I stare at this bottle to remind me that I am stronger than I think I am.”

  Jack simply sat in a quiet awe for this man.

  “Anyway, that is my sad story,” Hamid said, scooping up the bottle and stacking it back in the cupboard.

  “When I left HQ yesterday morning, I thought I knew what I was getting into,” Jack said. “I was so naive… I thought I could just waltz into a conversation about The Resistance, convince a few people and start a revolution. God, I feel like such a damn fool. I knew what we were up against, but at the same time it felt like it wasn’t quite real? Like everything I had been told was just lies or legend.”

  “Enjoy that feeling while it lasts. Innocence is a dream to all those who serve us long enough,” Hamid smiled weakly.

  “I hate them for what they have done to that poor boy, and especially to what they have done to his family. He was eighteen years old and they shot him the head. It was so... callous,” Jack relived t
he boy’s final moments in his head, “What do you do with such reckless hate?”

  “You fight back,” Hamid said, simply.

  Jack relished the thought: to fight against the establishment; for Eliza’s freedom; in the name of Scar and Simon; Mary and even his obnoxious ex-colleague Tony. An end to Curfew; an end to Martial Law; an end to the mindless killings. But there was just one thing that bit back against his hunger for revenge.

  “Do you ever wonder if you hate them enough?” he said vacantly, not really fishing for an answer.

  “I’m not sure that’s the question you want to be asking yourself, is it?” Hamid said.

  “Why not?”

  “Hate, it’s so powerful - reckless as you say,” he said, “I despise what they do, it sickens me how they make people suffer. But they are people too, I guess it’s easy to forget that. If we allow ourselves to hate beyond justice, we end up like them.”

  “Or the DD?” Jack asked, trying to place their position in the skirmish.

  “They aren’t even worth your thoughts, son,” he said.

  “But we poach their members,” he said, “We destroy just like they do.”

  Hamid struck a finger towards Jack, “Don’t compare us to those monsters again. Now, time for bed.”

  Hamid got up and pushed his chair back in against the table.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend -”

  “You can stay up if you like,” he said, “Just don’t go out. Curfew doesn’t start for another hour, but you never know when the neighbours may be watching. And no, you did not. I only ask that you recall the difference between glory and honour next time you mention the DD.”

  And with that, Hamid disappeared from the kitchen. A moment later, Jack heard his soft footsteps ascend the stairs and a door creak slowly closed. He was alone and that was a dangerous thing.

  Did he hate the state enough? The question swirled around in his head. He had been playing this game for just over three months now, and with one day out in the real world again, was he really even involved in the great fight? He’d lost much, but how much of that was the result of the government’s sinister regime? The doubts trickled into his skull like snow melting from the trees; arching boughs plastered with frozen ice, dripping erratically. Doubt within his doubts formed, festering and he couldn’t help but wonder if he was searching for excuses not to fight? Had Kyle impregnated his mind with false realities and fabricated stories? He thought back to the night he had attempted to run away and the argument he had had with Emma. Recalling how desperate he was to escape, fragments of Emma’s speech flitted around his mind as he tried to claw back the passion he once felt for joining. Was it merely another means of running from his problems? He had believed he was finally facing them.