The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  Lana was stuffing the money from another sale into her wallet.

  “That man,” he said, smiling as another customer arrived, “Did you recognise him?”

  “What one?”

  “The one that you just served,” he said.

  Lana shrugged, “What difference does it make?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, delving into his wallet to find the change for another sale.

  It was an odd concern he held, but something inside his conscience stirred. Was it right for someone to be served twice? He supposed that every Ration was being paid for, but this wasn’t about making money - it was about allowing people to have additional Rations. But then why did the man feel it necessary to make a secondary trip when he could merely have bought many items the first time round?

  “Excuse me,” a woman spoke to him, “But does this come with extras?”

  Jack nodded and her concerned face instantly melted into relief.

  “How much for it?” she asked.

  “It says right there in the corner,” Jack pointed to the top of the CD case.

  “And how many extras do I get?”

  “Just one,” he replied.

  Relief turned to disappointment.

  “I thought there would be more,” she murmured. “I don’t have that much money.”

  The woman’s dry skin was cracked, like a desert long forgotten by the rain. Her chopped hair ran with grease and her clothes were plagued by stains and holes. She wore no jewellery, though light bands around several fingers told Jack that this was not always the case.

  Jack grabbed another couple of CDs from the pile, “Here, these are also great albums to listen to.”

  Her lips grinned broadly, “You’re far too kind.

  She made to take her purse out, but Jack put his hands in the air.

  “No charge,” he said.

  “No, please,” she insisted, shoving a note in his hand, “It’s all I have.”

  She thrust his hand backwards and quickly withdrew, taking the Ration-filled CDs with her and scurrying down the street.

  “That was very generous of you,” Lana said, but her expression did not match her sentiment.

  “Oh what, should I not take pity on people?”

  “Remember we’re also trying to raise money here,” she said, “We can’t just give everything away.”

  “They do elsewhere,” Jack muttered, remembering his time in Leeds.

  “That’s elsewhere,” Lana spat, “You’re in London now and it’s a long way from Kansas.”

  Seething, Jack turned away from her. He disliked her entire attitude to this whole affair. Nothing he did was ever quite good enough in her eyes. He didn’t want to impress her, but he was growing extremely tired of her micromanaging and her endless stream of opinion on what he was doing. Only six days had passed since Fort William. Six short but intense days. He was still new to this entire world; still overwhelmed by it and still learning from it. How much did she expect from him after only six days? But then she was not in the business of training someone - she wasn’t like Kyle or Emma. Lana didn’t have time for Jack’s mistakes or misgivings. He had learnt that much in three days. In fact, Lana did not have very much time for anyone who disagreed with her and that greatly annoyed him.

  They didn’t speak for a while after Jack’s spontaneous act of generosity. This was partially because the stall was rammed full of customers and partly a result of having nothing else to say to her. As the stock began to dwindle, Jack was having to refuse some customers - disappointed faces disappearing into the mass of the crowd. For them, they might starve for a few more days before finding another batch of Rations on which to survive. On the other hand, they may have lost out on any hope for a warm meal for a few weeks. Jack tried his best to forget the consequences. He was not to blame for their situation.

  A flash of silver amongst the dark night - the man had appeared again, circulating the area around the stall. Jack met eye contact with the man, and he immediately looked away.

  Nudging Lana with his elbow, he leant in towards her, “That man is back again.”

  “So?” she shrugged.

  “Well it’s a bit unfair that we can’t sell any more when that guy’s been around twice,” he said, annoyed at her inability to see the injustice.

  “And how many faces do you remember? How many others like him have been twice, more? Maybe they just need the help more than you think.”

  “Then why come round twice, why not just get them all at once? He must know what he’s doing isn’t kosher. He must have a guilty conscience.”

  “Look, I don’t really care,” she said, “We’ll be getting a new batch of stuff later this evening so quite frankly I don’t give a shit about this guy. If you don’t want to serve him, I will.”

  Jack knitted his eyebrows with anger, “You know, I really don’t get you.”

  “Not my problem,” she said, rearranging the stock in front of her.

  Jack looked into the crowd and saw the man negotiating his way out of the market.

  “Fine, if you don’t care that’s absolutely fine. But you can not care alone,” he unclipped his wallet from his waist and threw it to the ground.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she was in shock.

  “Doing something fucking productive,” he said, pushing his way past the crowds by the stall.

  In truth, he had no real plan of what he was doing, but whether it was productive or not it was better than selling a few measly Rations in a market stall. Ahead of him, he saw the back of the man’s balding head. He hurried to catch up, wary of not being too close to him.

  The market was brimming full of people; choked up further by their heavy winter coats and scarves. Policemen lined the perimeter, their eyes rifling through the crowd like birds of prey with empty stomachs. Jack maintained his face slightly to the floor. The watching, diligent pupils of the massive crowd were scrupulous. The slightest intent etched on his face might trigger a frightful woman to dance off to the nearest policeman. In the land of chaos, fear reigned supreme.

  The bearded man was a few feet ahead, caught up in the bottle neck exiting the market. He had not turned around and though Jack was certain that the man would not recognise him, he was less certain about what he would do when he eventually caught up with him. For now, he just wanted to tail him. He wanted to know where the man would end up; he wanted to know where he had come from and what had brought him to the market. He was fearful that the man belonged to the CRU, but something about his conduct told Jack that this was not likely. He recognised the man’s behaviour: he had lived it. Suspicious of all around him, guilt etching across his grey skin and every movement reckoning itself the last.

  Jack followed him until the nearest tube station, London Bridge. Following him through the barriers, Jack barely acknowledged the guards randomly searching the commuters. As scores of people trickled out from the trains, Jack kept his focus on the one man in the crowd that he cared about. As the commuters snaked towards the exit, the platforms emptied. The man stopped suddenly a third of the way along the platform. Jack hung back behind a column, leaning around every few seconds to check that the man had not moved. Indeed it was not until the next train arrived that he moved at all. As the Westbound Jubilee pulled in, Jack kept a watchful eye on the man. He saw him board the train and quickly Jack scampered in pursuit. Hopping on to the same carriage, he quickly assumed a position relatively out of sight. More bodies crammed on board, however, and his view was slightly obscured. He could only just make out the side of the man’s face; he watched as he scratched his cheek and readjusted his glasses. As the train pulled off, the man extracted something from his pocket. It was the CD he had bought from Jack earlier. Within it was something that was sure to get the man arrested. Jack wondered briefly if he even knew the contents of what he had purchased; but he must have. He had asked for extras. If he had been CRU he would have surely arrest both Jack and Lana on the spot? Nothing about the
man’s behaviour was remotely in line with the police.

  Slowly the train depleted of people until the time came for the man to rise up and alight from it himself. Jack followed in hot pursuit. Through the platform and onto the next, he hopped on to the District line, only a few feet behind the man he was following. Where they were travelling to, Jack had no anticipated nor had he placed much appreciation to. He was barely acknowledging the real world; the buskers bursting out Christmas tunes on saxophones were peripheral to his goals; the choirs reciting carols were irrelevant to his plan right now.

  As the train hurtled through the tunnels, Jack kept a stringent eye on the man as he sat and perused a newspaper. At Putney Bridge, the man alighted and Jack followed him. Tapping out at the barrier, Jack kept a diligent distance between them. As he emerged from the station, it was clear to Jack that he was no longer in the inner city. This was suburbia. Rich suburbia. Trees lines the crescents; swish cars, newly polished, parked parallel to the clean streets; dog walkers casually admiring the crisp air. It was beautiful, and a stark contrast to the slum that he currently resided in. There was no sign of homelessness; there were no beggars queueing up at the tube station. From the initial outlook, it was as if the Crash had never happened. Who knew that the Rations were buried deep in the wallets of the residents? Who knew that poverty crippled the rest of the country? Who knew that Martial Law had already been enforced across the city? Who knew that Blackouts and Curfew reigned the night? It was as if he had stepped into another country, another timezone, quite without economic stress and political turmoil.

  Before him, a whole landscape of greenery interspersed the concrete. He was strolling across the road - as the Thames meandered casually into view to Jack’s right. A chilling realisation gripped as he understood that he was in a stranger place than ever he had thought. Chasing the shadows of a man he had only a casual acquaintance with, tailing him in the middle of an affluent suburb six days after Christmas Day. He should be digesting leftovers and miscellaneous chocolates. Whisky should be warming his blood instead of the Underground. But this wasn’t any normal Festive Period. He wasn’t anywhere near normal. Normal was a bookmark several chapters ago and everything that he had known about life had been wiped from memory; everyone he had loved had been cast back to the vestiges of memory and regret. Normal was a place to be jealous of whilst reality was merely petrifying.

  Jack followed the man along a quiet suburban street. Wealth oozed from every house. This once street was an entirely different world from where Jack had come from. Still, his corduroy trousers disguised his ill intent and that was all that really mattered. Poverty and maliciousness could always be disguised in trendy jeans and smart shirts.

  The man turned into Napier Avenue. Jack found it reassuring to hear another Scottish name. Having spent so much time away from home, he was beginning to miss the Scottish accents and humour. Only a few other migrants accompanied them along their journey, but many straggled behind or disappeared into their own cosy homes. The silver bearded man, however, was fast approaching his own antiquary home. With columns on either side of the entrance, Jack was instantly put in his place merely by looking at it. This was a man of incredible wealth, despite life’s fervent attempts to hamper it. In his compact gravel driveway was sat a dark blue convertible - chrome effect undamaged by time. An oak tree dribbled over it; its spiny twigs clutching for warmer days. Steps led up from the driveway - flanked by shrubs and pot plants endeavouring to survive the chilly bite of winter. Ivy intertwined the black iron railings and a cosy light flicked on above the front door. Inside, inviting ambers and warm reds pressed against the window panes.

  Jack hung in the shadow of the trees as he watched the man fiddle with his keys before entering the house. As the door closed gently behind him, laughter spilled out into the still of the night.

  Glancing behind him, Jack crept around the edge of the shadows, crouching for cover. The crisp air tingled his numb skin. Until this point, he had not put much thought into his plan. His intent had only been to follow the man, to understand who he was and confront him. Reality’s cruel tricks had stolen the show. There was more to this man than Jack had thought. No one in a house like this should ever need more Rations than the government granted; money oozed like molten lava from the brickwork. The glistening chrome revealed the word Porsche across the car bonnet. These people were not starving. Anger gurgled in his stomach - finally his attention was rapt.

  Stepping out from the darkness and into the pool of light spilling over from above the front door, Jack kicked the gravel aggressively. He had no clue as to how he was going to play his next move. Leave now and he might lose an opportunity, though quite for what he was still contemplating. He wished Emma was here; or Kyle. They had real plans. They knew how this whole thing worked. They were natural liars. They carried off the intellectual prowess that history remembers all great revolutionaries possess. Jack was just Jack. Clueless about the vast majority of the world’s activity; naive to the core and trusting to the extent of idiocy. Kyle and Emma would understand the significance of the situation Jack was now in; they would turn it to their advantage. Jack, however, simply stared up at the vacant doorway in the hope that something might happen.

  “Excuse me,” a voice called over the cold air.

  Jack turned to see frost breaths rising from a shadowy figure.

  “Are you here for the party?”

  “Yes,” Jack’s lying tongue lashed its full control.

  “One of Julian’s friends?” the man stepped into the porchlight. He was middle aged. Jack assumed the man he had followed was Julian.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m only an acquaintance. I didn’t know if this was the right house?”

  “Ah,” the man smiled welcomingly, “Well you’ve got the right place. Shall we get out of the cold?”

  The man advanced forward and ascended the steps to the front door. He rapped the knocker several times. Jack hesitantly followed him to the porch. A few moments later the door opened and the laughter avalanched into the open air.

  A woman appeared in the threshold, beaming at Jack’s new acquaintance.

  “Oh Mark, you made it!” she leant in and kissed him on both cheeks, “How have you been?”

  “I’m fantastic, Beth, simply fantastic,” he caressed the woman’s hand gently, in polite reverence.

  “And you’ve brought a friend?” she tilted her head towards Jack.

  Jack instantly copied her movements, leaning in and kissing Beth on both cheeks.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” he lied.

  “Oh, delightful, I’m sure,” she seemed a little flustered that she didn’t know Jack’s name.

  “Harry,” he found himself saying, “I know your husband.”

  “Well lovely to meet you, Harry. Do come in, both of you. You’ll catch your death out here,” she hastened them in and shut the door quickly behind them.

  Instantly, Jack’s blood defrosted. A bright corridor stretched before them - at the end of which was a majestic staircase; white bannister and runner carpet. Pale yellow wallpaper complimented crimson stained hardwood. The walls were littered with antique curio. From the left, the hubbub originated.

  Beth took Jack and Mark’s coats and shuffled them into the rest of the party. It was another world. Suited waiters circulated the room with silver platter canapes. Designer dresses dazzled and glittered in the candlelight. Gilded lighting dappled their rouge lipsticks, and their hair shone like a crystal dawn. A fire crackled under a magnificent mantelpiece - decorated with framed family photos and a fine china vase, bright yellow flowers pushing out the last of their blossom like a dying breath. Bookcases lined the wall; mahogany crafted into the walls and lined with bindings from a generation long forgotten.

  There was a certain class and exclusivity to the guests. Wealth glistened in their diamond earrings; shone in their brilliant pearls and twinkled in their sparkling white teeth; interwoven in their jet black tuxedos. Gently,
a piano played airily in the background - a twinkling of melody contradictory to the humming and chattering; the sporadic squeal of laughter and the hearty chuckle of the boy’s club reminiscing on the good old days. Jack was instantly confounded, and he failed to prevent it spilling into expression.

  “Are you quite alright?” Beth returned, “Can I get you a drink? A little wine perhaps?”

  “Yes,” Jack immediately said, shaking off his disgust, “I’ll have some white, please.”

  Beth smiled vacantly and glided off into the crowd. Jack followed her across the room for a while until his eyes were distracted and overwhelmed by the frivolity of the party. As families starved and shivered in their cold homes, another class wined and dined as if a recession had never come knocking on their door.

  “So how do you know Julian then?” Mark appeared in front of Jack, accompanied by freshly poured scotch on the rocks. The crystal glass looked quite at home in his chubby, reddened fingers.

  “We’ve worked together,” Jack improvised. His heart raced - but far from fear, it was excitement. In this room, his lies could become truths. His deception was the thin veil that cast him aside from the criminals they’d spit on in the street.

  “Oh, in the same company?” Mark said, wielding his glass jovially.

  “Sort of,” Jack said, surveying his new acquaintance in a critical light, “Let’s just say our paths have crossed a number of times.”

  “What is it that you do?”

  Jack gazed idly around the room and through the glamour and glitz; through the wealth and empowerment, the one thing that struck Jack as royal currency in this place was uniqueness. In this world, money was a basic commodity. Jewels were handed down the line like packaged ready meals on a conveyor belt. Travel was essential; wisdom was affordable to the right buyer; experience was a culture and fame was an idol for all. Status was the last vestiges of desire for these leeches of society, and it was in there that Jack placed all the hope he had left.