by S. G Mark
Kyle, who had been taking a phone call in the living room, returned to the kitchen and snapped his fingers.
“Right, are we all ready to head out in the next ten minutes or so?” he said.
“Where are we going?” Jack turned around, pissed off that only he seemed to be in the dark about the evening’s activities.
“The Horse and Hare,” he said, “To hand out some Rations to the needy.”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous, out in the open like that?” Jack asked.
“The pub’s owner is one of ours,” he began, “Besides, we don’t openly advertise it. If you need extra Rations, you’ll hear about us - but if not, we are just another group of friends drowning our sorrows at the bar.”
Five minutes later they were all standing by the front door. In a scene reminiscent of the night Kyle ordered them out into the forest back in September, he was once again splitting them up into pairs and scheduling their departure times.
“Jack and Darren, if you go first and head directly to the pub, we’ll follow you via Bridge Street and we’ll be about fifteen minutes after you. If you sit at the bar, we’ll grab a corner table,” Kyle revelled in playing orchestra conductor. “Now, let's divvy out these.”
He presented a pile of Rations - the same pile that the other man had been cutting out earlier.
“Take a bunch each and stash them in your wallet,” he said as everyone reached to grab them.
A few minutes later, Kyle was opening the door to allow Jack and his newfound companion to venture out. Darren, whose hair was continually flopping over his eyebrows, was not the most talkative. As they walked along the road, Darren steering for everyone seemed to know exactly what was going on and where to go save Jack himself, they kept a strong silence. Every few yards, Jack rifled his brain for something to say, even if it was as hopelessly trivial as “Nice day.”
It was a very strange feeling to be wandering the streets again. Only three days had passed since he had left Headquarters. Never before in his entire life, not even at university, had he ever learned so much in such a short space of time. Three days and he had seen three people shot before him; three days and he had been on the run from the CRU; three days and he had travelled most of the length of the country; three days and he had lied to security officers and even stared blankly at an old school friend as he slipped him a false ID. He felt older than he had done on Christmas Day, but he felt equally foolish. Being batted about the country by all these strangers and for what reason? Disillusioned didn’t even cover how he felt - it was not even as well defined as that.
Darren took a sudden left, leaving Jack to walk ahead in the wrong direction for a few seconds. As he caught up, his anger rose up and launched itself from the tip of his tongue.
“Right, I know I’m barely worthy to speak to you, but do you think you could fucking tell me where we’re going so I don’t look like a pratt?”
Darren turned round sheepishly, “Fine,” he said, “We’re going to The Horse and Hare. I thought Kyle had already said.”
“Fucksake, I know that but I don’t know the way. Why does everyone in this fucking organisation have to be so fucking secretive.”
Darren ignored him. Jack became exasperated.
“You could talk to me you know,” he sighed, “I mean if the CRU were going to jump out at us and open fire round the next corner, our last moments alive would be politely ignoring each other’s existence…”
“What do you want to talk about?” Darren responded instantly.
“I don’t know, anything. Where are you from?” he asked.
“Barnsley,” he mumbled, “It’s a bit of a shithole.”
“Did you leave any family behind?”
“Nope,” he said miserably, “CRU saw to that. Well, actually my delightful aunty did.”
“What do you mean?”
“She never liked my mum,” Darren explained, suddenly no longer verbally challenged, “So she told the CRU that mum had stolen some Rations on the Black Market - of course she hadn’t, but that didn’t stop the CRU arresting her and my brother.”
“Fuck, how did you get away?”
“I was at work - that’s pretty much the only reason I wasn’t also arrested.”
“Fuck, have you heard from them since?”
Darren shook his head, “A few weeks later I overheard someone in the pub talking about the same thing happening to his colleague… he told me about a meeting I could go to for advice - it turned out to be The Resistance. Three weeks later I was packing my things and going into hiding.”
“So how long have you been part of this?”
“Not long. Since October,” he said, “It’s good to feel like I’m making a difference though.”
Jack could not help but be envious of Darren and his floppy little fringe. He’d been in the organisation less time and had gained more respect than Jack had since August. Darren was given responsibility, Darren was told the plan.
They were now right outside The Horse and Hare. Darren opened the door for Jack. Inside a warm fire crackled, but the pub was deceptively empty. Behind the bar, which stretched the entire length of the building, stood a lone figure; a man dressed in a smart unbuttoned waistcoat, staring blankly across the room. Sprinkled around the room were clusters of vacant tables and chairs. An old worn out carpet, patterned with fleur-de-lis and giant spirals, told the tale of a once-thriving business, now overcast by the septic infection that was economic disaster. A couple of old crows sipped gin and tonics by the window; silver white hair shining in the dull daylight; a ghost of a smile tracing their wrinkly cheeks. A solitary man sat at the bar, head buried in a newspaper, shaking his head occasionally as he sipped his pint of lager.
Jack and Darren took two stools at the bar. The barman’s eyes widened and he slid down the bar with envious ease to take their order, leaning casually against the beer pumps as if it were a delightful summer’s day.
“A whisky,” Jack said without contemplating the price.
“Same,” Darren said, delving into his pocket, “I’ll get these.”
“Are you sure?”
Darren took out a twenty pound note and laid it on the bar, “Absolutely.”
As the barman tended to their drinks, Jack looked around. There was not so much as a buzz of conversation, but more a hum of silence. He didn’t feel comfortable at not being seen in this place. It was hard to be inconspicuous when there were only five other people in the room.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the barman said, sliding the drinks across to them as if they were in a Western.
Jack had forgotten how much his accent stood out in England, “Yeah, just visiting some friends down here for Hogmanay.”
“Hogmanay!” he said in an exaggerated Scottish accent, “Do you really sing Auld Lang Syne and dance the ceilidhs at the bells?”
“Aye,” Jack smiled sycophantically, “That’s almost exactly right.”
The man sensed his hostility and retreated to the other end of the bar.
Jack and Darren picked up their whiskies and clinked them together.
“To not dying,” Darren said, not a trace of humour on in his eyes.
The whisky was warming as it stung the back of his throat and trickled down into his stomach. Two glasses inside a week - Jack was feeling pretty privileged, although the first one had preceded a horrific night in which death was certainly present.
“The place isn’t exactly buzzing is it?” Jack muttered.
“Nope,” Darren said, and his tone was uneasy, “If it doesn’t pick up in the next hour or so, we should leave.”
“Do you think they’re on to us?”
Darren stared at Jack for a few moments, “How long did you say you’d been a member?”
“August,” Jack said.
“Aye, but how long have you been in the field?”
“About three days now,” Jack said.
Darren leant in close, “Well that makes a bit mor
e sense now… I figured you were a little naive when you were chatting away in the kitchen.”
Jack cast aside the offence he took and stole another swig of his whisky.
“It’s always like this isn’t it? Just waiting around, doing little things?” he said, disguising his lips with the glass.
“Pretty much, but what do you expect? All out revolution, burning money in the streets and taking Westminster by storm?”
Jack remained silent. He didn’t know what he expected, he hadn’t had much chance to build up to expectations. However, there was a spark in Alex’s speech on his first night at Headquarters that was more impassioned than the reality he was experiencing right now.
“I guess I just hoped for a bit more than this,” he sighed resolutely.
Darren swirled the whisky around in its glass. Jack focussed on the brown tar and was instantly brought back to September Twenty-Eighth; sitting at the bar at Banshee Labyrinth as the ground beneath his feet shook. It was the night that changed his life. Had Alex not been in the thick of the disaster zone, he would never have tracked down The Resistance. Two whole lives changed because one of them was late for a drink.
A draught wrapped itself around their ankles; the door behind them had just opened and a couple ventured in. The female, long straggly greasy hair, was gaunt and clearly malnourished. She nearly collapsed as she reached the bar. Her partner, only slightly healthier looking, rescued her with an elbow; a trick all-too rehearsed. Jack watched them with intrigue as they settled down with their drinks at a table in the centre of the room. The woman had her back to him, but he had a perfect view of her partner, who was scanning the room sharply with his eyes. They were sipping cheap spirits and mixers. For a couple who needed a hot meal more than they did alcohol, Jack found it strange that they would choose to spend what little money they appeared to have on sitting in a pub. Amusement came at a price worth paying, no matter how little spare change you had.
Twenty minutes later, on schedule, the others arrived. Kyle held the door open as Emma and Ed raced in from the rain and found a table in the corner. Jack exchanged a nod with Kyle as he stood up to get a round of drinks in.
“What happens now?” he asked Darren, “We just sit and wait for someone to approach us?”
“Pretty much,” he said, “Those who are desperate know we are here.”
“And what if they choose to report us?”
“They would probably be arrested too - just for knowing where to find us,” he said, “Not really worth the risk.”
A small trickle of customers arrived over the next half hour. Jack watched them intently, noting their habits, their movements and how relaxed they were. One woman in particular seemed to be very on edge. She knocked back her shot of what appeared to be straight vodka as soon it left the barman’s hand. The poor frightened mouse was looking anxiously around the room, her focus never lingering on anywhere for more than a few seconds at a time.
As Jack ordered another whisky, he watched how the woman gradually drifted away from the bar. She did not arrive with anyone nor appear to be waiting for anyone either. Slowly she edged towards the table that Kyle and the others sat at; though she ensured that she barely looked in their direction.
“I think we’ve got one on the line,” Jack muttered to a sleepy Darren, whose head was resting on his folded arms on the bar.
“About time,” came his muffled reply.
Jack watched closely as the woman hovered around Kyle’s table, shifting her handbags around nervously and checking her watch every few seconds. When she dropped a tissue on the floor, Kyle was the first on scene, reaching out to grab it as it fell and from this distance Jack saw that he had slipped her several Rations alongside her tissue. The woman could barely muster a thank you, and instead nodded her head nervously as her cheeks flushed crimson. Seconds later she found the exit as another cold draught swooped in to remind them all that winter was still lurking outside.
An hour later and a large party stumbled in - already tipsy from pre-pub drinks. Several of them were wearing Santa hats and illuminated costumes. Christmas jumpers was the apparent dress code. Though the establishment was livelier, Jack saw no one go anywhere near Kyle’s table. Darren was becoming a little bored, tracing the edge of his glass with his fingertips in an attempt to achieve resonance: fifteen minutes later he was still failing. However, Jack was far from bored; the place was alive with activity and he was magnetised to it. Every movement, he was locked on to. He’d matched every screech of laughter with an owner; he’d listened intently and logged several of their names. Jake, Linda and Kacey. His attention had not slipped nor faltered; indeed it was devouring the scene.
“I think we’ll give it another half hour before we head back,” Darren said, looking up and signalling the barman that his presence was required.
Jack nodded, “Keep an eye out, I need to nip to the gents.”
Darren winked, “The excitement frustrates me!”
As excited as he was to be a part of the plan, Jack couldn’t help but feel a little disillusioned by the evening’s events. Whatever risks they were taking by handing out Rations, it didn’t seem wholly worth it. The number of Rations they had given away hardly outweighed the cost of simply being out in the public; the lack of interest in their services only served to hurt morale. Jack was bored, Darren too. There was little point in being here. The entire day had been a complete waste. First they had failed to save Alan Marsh and now they were needlessly loitering in a bar, hoping that they may help one or two people. It was beyond frustrating.
Pushing open the door to the men’s bathroom, Jack’s eyes were met with a wiltering state of disrepair. If it had been recently cleaned, it had been beautifully disguised. White stained tiles betrayed but an inch of their original colour. From a cracked window pane, a cool, quiet air gently sighed in; a calming relief to the musty bar.
As he reached the sinks, a creak behind him told him that he was no longer alone. Casually turning around, he smiled vacantly at the man who had just entered. It took a second before Jack realised that the man had not come here for the same purpose he had, for he stood stationary in the centre of the bathroom, looking directly, unblinkingly, at Jack.
“Are you alright?” Jack asked, drying his hands on his trousers.
“No,” the man muttered.
Jack vaguely recognised the man from the bar, but couldn’t place his face - he might have been there the entire time, or he may have only just come in.
“Are you…?” the man began, “Are you from them?”
Jack was hesitant to reply. He knew who the man was referring to and he ensured that he made no physical confirmation that he was - he didn’t blink, his gaze didn’t falter, he maintained a steady breath and above all he kept his mouth firmly closed.
“I’m sorry,” the man sighed, “I don’t mean to accuse… no, that’s not what I meant at all… but I was told… I was told you could get… certain things… from here, if you spoke to the right person? I’m desperate, my wife… she isn’t coping with our supply, she so hungry, all of the time…”
The man was drowned by his own patheticness. Dark circles under his eyes told Jack of sleepless nights; a nocturnal stress that lay dormant at the sight of the sun. His skin was grey, flaking around his cheeks and he coughed repeatedly; a wheezing, irritable throat from a rundown immune system challenged by hunger, stress and cold.
He made to turn his back on Jack, but in that instance Jack’s conscience broke free.
“How much do you need?” he said, reaching into his pocket; pulse trickling slightly faster than normal.
The man’s eyes brightened with hope as he turned back to snatch a glance at Jack’s hand delving into his pocket. Beady, greedy eyes focussed on the Rations as Jack extracted a handful.
“Four, maybe five weeks’ worth?”
The quantity sounded a lot more than Jack was able to give out - at least to one individual person. But memories of Jack’s own predicament r
eturned to him, galloping out of history and into the present. Less than a year ago, Jack would have asked for any amount of Rations - his starving belly struggled to cope with his prohibition. How could he refuse the man his wish when he had suffered so greatly himself?
From the pile he had, he separated out five weeks of Rations and offered them to the man, who approached eagerly, like a squirrel sniffing for nuts. No sooner had the man’s hand reached to grab for the Rations, however, had Jack swerved to avoid a set of handcuffs being drawn from the man’s back pocket.
He barely had time to gasp in the horror of his mistake - regret washed over him as he wished he could reverse back forty seconds.
“You filthy little terrorist,” the man shouted at him, launching a fist at Jack, who caught it and crushed it against the grotty tiles.
Blood dripped down from the man’s knuckles. Jack threw a punch directly at the man’s face - cutting a chunk out of his eyebrow and smacking him right in the nose. Staggering back, the man grasped on to either side of the cubicle as Jack thrust a kick into his chest. The man toppled backwards, slumped over the toilet as his head cracked against the cistern. Crimson smeared the dirty white.
Sweat trickled down Jack’s temple. His brain was only just processing what had happened. The man was unconscious, there was no doubt; but Jack was more concerned that he had been capable of such violence - and without dedicated thought. Much bigger concerns were mounting as the seconds skidded by; the man had set Jack up. He had been a CRU officer, a spy.
Jack approached the man’s unconscious body and lifted up the flap of his jacket, delving into the inner pocket from which he retrieved a plastic identity card not dissimilar to his own, fraudulent one. By contrast, the one that he held in his hand was not a civilian one: the words Criminal Referral Unit were printed all over it and when Jack focused on the words, CRU Street Officer, directly below the man’s name, he was stricken with shock. Jeremy Tambor probably hadn’t come alone.