The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  “Okay,” Jack said, but the man still hadn’t let go of his hand.

  “One more thing,” he said, ducking underneath the counter and returning with a white plastic bag, “This should fit you. You cannot be seen like that where we are going.”

  He thrust the bag into Jack’s arms.

  “Ahmed, thanks you for your business,” his normal tone returned.

  Jack knew it was time to go. He stuffed the food inside the white bag and quickly left. Back on the streets again, he hurried back to the flat before his guilty conscious bore crinkles on his face.

  “Did you get what you needed?” Lana asked as soon as the front door was shut.

  Jack handed her the bag. She did not look remotely surprised by its contents.

  “He said something about how they will be ready at the usual meeting? I didn’t understand what that was,” he shrugged his shoulders. It was his job to convey messages, not to understand them.

  “Good, I was relying on that,” Lana threw back the bag to Jack, “Get changed.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere none of us belong,” she said, pushing open the bedroom door and indicating the conversation was at a close.

  Jack changed in the bedroom. The musty smell of sleep lingered from this morning. The clothes inside the bag were smarter than anything Jack expected. From the bag he pulled a smart, ironed shirt and a brand new pair of corduroy trousers. Slipping them on, they were almost perfectly his size.

  “What’s this all about?” he returned to the living room.

  Lana smiled, “You look perfect.”

  “What for?”

  It was then that Jack noticed that the table had been cleared and that the others were crouched around it.

  “You really haven’t been to London before, have you?” she said, smirking, “It isn’t like anywhere else. This is the raw battlefield. I told you before. Whatever you thought you knew about your Enemy before you set foot off the train, it’s nothing on what you’re about to learn. It isn’t just us and them, Jackie-boy. There is so much more to it than that.”

  Jack crumpled to his knees beside Craig. A map made out of several sheets of paper had been laid on the table.

  “What’s this of?”

  “Borough Market,” Craig said, “At least the one we run.”

  Jack instinctively looked to Lana for explanation.

  “We sell Rations at the markets - amongst other things,” she said, “Like I said, things are run differently around here.”

  “Doesn’t anyone know about it - if you’re doing it that openly?”

  “Simply knowing about the place puts you in danger,” she said, “Tell and you’ll get yourself killed. Hardly worth it, right?”

  “I don’t understand? If you’re reporting a crime to them, surely they reward that?”

  Craig spluttered, “You really are from up North. Here? Society doesn’t work on morals down here, even if they are the wrong ones. If you know of a crime, you’re complicit in it. End of. That’s why no one ever commits a crime in London. It’s the safest place there is.”

  “Right, okay, so why am I wearing new clothes? Other than the fact that the old ones were starting to smell,” he said.

  “Going out like you were a minute before around here is fine,” Lana replied, “But in some parts of this city dressing like that will get you killed.”

  “What?”

  Lana reached for a copy of an old newspaper lying on the ground. She threw it at him.

  Jack caught it and immediately the headlines stung his eyes.

  Scandal in Belgravia: Unsightlies Escorted to CRU

  “Unsightlies?”

  “People who don’t look right. People who don’t speak properly. People less educated. People who don’t dress well. People who don’t dress how others do. People who don’t agree with the majority’s opinion. People who misbehave. People who act inappropriately. People who aren’t like you.”

  Jack looked to Craig for further explanation.

  “Where we are going, we are all Unsightlies.”

  “If you aren’t with them, then you’re an Unsightly. Those people in Belgravia? Three kids from Bethnal Green who didn’t dress to the status quo of the area. An insider told me they were imprisoned for three months just for having the wrong hair colour and fashion choice.”

  “But I don’t get it - what’s made this special, this term? Who coined it?”

  “Who knows who said it first. What matters is that as soon as you step into certain areas, you are being judged. But this isn’t like before. It’s not a passing judgement. It’s a pigeonholing. You are what they say you are. You are what they think you are. You are what they fear you are. You so much as look poor, you’re in with the terrorists, or you’re going to steal their purse. If someone thinks badly of you, the only thing you can do is run. No amount of protest or justification will ever save you.”

  “So this,” he pointed at his clothes, “Is a disguise?”

  “The best you’ll ever have, Jackie,” she said, “Are we done with the planning?”

  Craig nodded, “We should head off as soon as - we’ll need to set up and suss out the area.”

  “Right, you and Paul go ahead now. We will leave in thirty minute increments. Jack and I will go last.”

  Immediately and without question, Craig and Paul stood up and collected their things. Within a few minutes they had left. Lloyd and Karl began preparing to leave.

  “So what happens when we reach this Borough Market place? What do we do? What do I do?” Jack spoke quietly to Lana.

  “Come with me,” she steered him into the cramped kitchen. A mouse scurried across the floor and back into its hole underneath the washing machine. She shut the door behind her before she spoke again, “This is all new to you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and no,” he spoke honestly.

  “You said you were at something in Fort William. And then you came from Leeds? What experience do you have?”

  “Enough,” Jack said defiantly. He was determined not to be flung on the backbenches again.

  “Enough? Enough experience not to get yourself killed? Enough experience not to get anyone around you killed? I need to know I can rely on you.”

  “You can,” he said, “Just tell me what to do it and I’ll do it. What I can’t stand is not being in the loop.”

  “You and me both, Jack,” she said, sighing with frustration. “I’ll be with you to the market. But as much as I like you, I can’t mother you. This is more dangerous than anything you’ve experienced before.”

  “Dangerous?” but Jack wasn’t scared by the word, more enthralled, “The CRU have arrested me twice and I’ve walked free both times.”

  Lana was stunned, “You? Seriously?”

  “You say these people - these people who call us Unsightlies pigeonhole us? Don’t do the same to your own kind. I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  Jack was finished with what he had to say. He left Lana in the kitchen and was high on adrenaline. Jack Blackwood: master of his own destiny.

  After half an hour, Lloyd left. Another thirty minutes later and Karl disappeared too. Meanwhile, Lana went through the plan with Jack.

  They were to arrive at Borough Market. It was open late for New Year. They were to head to a specific stand. There, they would take over duties from a woman who had long worked for The Resistance. They would sell genuine goods to anyone who wanted them. If they asked if the product included anything, they would sell them their goods plus one Ration for every item they bought. It was remarkably simple.

  “Karl and Lloyd will be on guard duty - patrolling for any CRU activity. Craig will be discreetly approaching those who have bought Rations and trying to persuade them to join our cause. A lot of the people who buy Rations don’t necessarily give a shit about what we do. They take the Rations and still think we are scum.”

  “So why take the Rations?”

  “Because we’re giving them out -
because the cost of our Rations is far less than buying what they want from the shops. So long as they get what they want out of our transactional relationship, that’s all that matters to them. It’s like fucking a whore and spitting on her once you’re finished.”

  An hour later and they were on the bus. Jack felt extremely exposed, even in his new disguise. The bus driver raised an eyebrow when he appeared unfamiliar about the price system. Throughout the journey he and Lana were receiving strange looks. Lana was conscious of it, but assured Jack that it was only because he was so tense.

  “I’m only tense because they are staring at me.”

  “I thought you said you could handle this?” Lana whispered, disguising her sternness as a giggle for all those watching the show.

  “I can, I can,” he reassured her, just as he caught the eye of a man chewing on a stale ham sandwich a few seats in front of him. Bread crumbled on to the man’s chest like rain.

  “Right, well there’s only another four stops before we get off anyway.”

  Jack was annoyed with Lana. She barely knew anything about it and yet she didn’t think he was up to the task. He was nervous. He had every right to be nervous. Regardless of his experience, he was a wanted man, just for knowing what he knew. Every pair of eyes watched him. Every pupil dilating; judged him. He was a stranger to them as much as they were strangers to him. The trust void between them spread like ice crumbling into a crevasse. How could Lana simply ignore them? They were the hibernating enemy.

  Four stops later, Lana leapt to her feet and casually got off the bus. Without caring if Jack was following her, she marched from the road through a small, but densely packed alleyway. Market stalls were crammed into the tightest of spaces; overflowing tables of handmade bracelets, local produce and tourist knick knacks.

  Lana weaved her way through the crowd as Jack struggled to keep up. The pedestrians were unrelenting and cared little for where anyone else was headed. Eventually Jack reached the end of the alley, by which point Lana had already made her exit and was in the middle of embracing a woman. She was older - mid forties at the youngest. Streaks of silver ran through her copper hair. As Jack approached, she widened her arms to greet him.

  “You’re my nephew, come to mind the stall,” she whispered in his ear.

  As she pulled back from him, she beamed. Jack returned her excited smile.

  “It’s so lovely to see you again, Aunty!” he grinned broadly, “Just a shame my mum couldn’t be here.”

  “Too busy sipping champagne, no doubt,” the woman said, “So glad you’ve followed her genes and have seemed to have made it in life. You’re looking fantastic.”

  It was a superficial conversation that Jack realised was not played out for him. From the other side of the woman’s stall, keen ears prickled and their owners heads’ tilted, perchance for a better sound.

  “But listen, thank you so much for looking after the stall,” she said, “Dinner will be waiting for you when you get back. You like a good cannelloni, right? With gruyere cheese on top?”

  “Sounds delightful,” he said, making to hug her goodbye, whispering “I don’t even know your name.”

  “And you never will,” she kissed him on the cheek and skipped off down the alleyway that they had just come from.

  Lana was already setting up the stall; wrapping an apron around her waist that clunked heavily with cash. The stall was a mashup of things. CDs lined one corner; fresh apples and pears in a basket at another. In the middle there were books and DVDs as well as some spurious touristy items, including a miniature Big Ben and a waving golden cat.

  “No one’s seriously going to buy this shit, right?” he whispered to Lana.

  “What do you mean?” she looked genuinely confused.

  “Never mind,” he said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just encourage them to buy our stuff,” she smiled, but the corner of her lips pinched irately.

  Jack sighed and pulled on his own apron, rubbing his hands together. It was cold. A frozen wind whipped round occasionally, buffeting the stall’s canvas cover and blowing free the stagnant raindrops that had settled on the roof.

  The market was busy. Very busy. Stall after stall lined the street. They all seemed to be selling the same cycle of junk and yet that didn’t stop the shoppers crawling through the wintry weather to get here. It was Hogmanay - Jack felt they should be out getting slaughtered on cheap alcohol instead.

  A few curious customers approached the stall, picked up a few items, perused them in their hands before replacing them back on the stall. Jack stared at them as they did so, unsure of what to say to them. He was not a salesman. This wasn’t what he signed up for, though he argued internally with himself that he hadn’t signed up for anything at all.

  “Talk to them for fucksake,” Lana hissed under her breath, “They might be fucking terrified of being caught.”

  “How do they even know what we’re selling?”

  “The right ones will and we can’t scare them away by staring at them blankly. You’ll frighten them off!”

  “Right, fine, okay,” Jack’s patience was really being tested. He wasn’t comfortable with this. Selling Rations at some strange London market was not his idea of revolution. Alex’s impassioned speech to him earlier that year filtered through his memory. The anger he had felt at being told these mad lies at the time had dissipated and had been replaced by an anger that he was doing nothing to help. His fingers were numb. His mind was racing. His patience was wearing thin. His determination burnt a slow ember, and a new set of kindling was being piled on top.

  Twenty minutes of finger-numbing eventlessness later, and Jack’s patience was but a memory. He rubbed his hands together to keep warm. His breath froze around his stubbly beard. No one had passed their stall. The whole venture was proving utterly useless. Lana herself was even visibly disappointed.

  “How long do we stay here?” Jack broke the uneasy silence between them.

  “As long as it takes,” she hissed, furiously rearranging some of the items on the stall. Fine fragments of frost had formed over them.

  “But Lana, nothing is happening. No one is coming and even if they do we can’t know if they are genuine.”

  “Can you just shut up already?” she snapped, “All I’ve heard from you so far is a stream of fucking negativity. I’m sick of it. I’m sorry if the day is slow, but this isn’t about you, okay? It’s not about how bored you are or how fruitless you think our plan is, it is what it is and if we can help a few people today then I’ll be happy. That’s what I care about.”

  Lana turned her back to Jack and he knew that any conversation was over. He was angry at her, but more because he felt a little bruised.

  He turned away from her and was instantly met by a pair of dark eyes staring at him intently.

  The man was in his late fifties; silver beard shaping his face and several layers of clothing told of hours spent wandering through the streets.

  “I’d like this,” he said, picking up the nearest object in reach. It was a second hand David Bowie CD. His gaze didn’t wander down to what he was purchasing.

  “Sure,” Jack said, taking the CD and reading the price tag, “That’ll be twenty quid.”

  “Does it come with anything?” the man said and Jack instantly knew what he meant.

  “Yes,” he confirmed, “Yes it does.”

  He returned the man’s change.

  “Thank you,” he said, before shuffling off.

  The sale had been remarkably easy, for a criminal offence. He wondered briefly how the old Jack would have reacted. Occasionally breaking curfew and harbouring a minor fugitive was one thing, but there was something fundamentally worse about selling fraudulent Rations. He was effectively handling stolen goods. Any Ration not supplied by the government was essentially a theft. The Ration sold would eventually go on to purchase products they couldn’t legally buy.

  A few minutes later another customer arrived and another tran
saction took place. An ordinary middle-aged woman, bought a DVD. She had her scarf wrapped around her head and it might have been keeping her head warm, but Jack suspected that its purpose served more than just that. She too asked if Jack could throw her in a little extra.

  Lana was also being kept busy as a couple stopped by and bought a few items. It was all very surreal. Jack’s frost bitten fingers were warming slightly the more his hands were to-ing and fro-ing from his wallet belt to the customer. Furthermore he couldn’t believe the diversity of the people now descending on the stall. Men and women of all ages were in demand of Rations; some dressed as poorly as if they had scavenged the streets for clothes that morning, others were slightly smarter and cleaner; others stank of sewers and body odour but many were normal, polite and seemingly unhampered by hunger.

  “Glad you’re getting the hang of this,” Lana said during a lull in customers.

  The market was packed as snakes of people slithered through the tight, narrow corridors between stalls. Many were idly perusing their stall, but not committing to anything and instead being distracted by the next colourful stall. They were like moths dancing towards the brightest light.

  “It feels strange,” Jack said, “I don’t really know how I feel about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel good that we’re helping people, but terrified that I’m selling something to the wrong person,” he said, “What happens if they report us?”

  “Well firstly, anyone caught with an illegal Ration is implicated in the crime as well, and secondly by the time they get home and realise that something’s wrong, we’ll be gone.”

  “I still don’t feel any better about it,” he said.

  “Just relax,” Lana reassured him, “Right now we’re a couple of traders trying to make a living. We ain’t got another agenda.”

  A hand appeared into view as another random CD was picked up by a customer. Jack exchanged money and superficial smile. Appearing in the corner of his eye was a flash of silver hair as a familiar man disappeared from the stall and into the slithering crowd.