The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  “I work in Westminster,” he began, deliberately not making eye contact with Mark, “Can’t say too much about it.”

  Mark’s eyes bulged with curiosity, “Oh, really? That must simply be fascinating. To work in government? Why you must know all their dirty little secrets.”

  He chuckled in the way that only fat, rotund men can do. Under the layers of cholesterol and fat parcels; grease-choked arteries and alcohol packed livers, these men all returned laughter from the bellows of their bulimic stomachs.

  Jack maintained an expressionless face; the kind that secret holders reserve only for those who are not in on the tale. Mark’s crinkled face quickly returned to calm.

  “Do you live around here then?” Mark asked, clearly accepting Jack’s non-committal stance on the topic of his work.

  “No,” Jack said, “I’ve a place in Whitehall - government provided.”

  Mark sneered with jealousy, “Ah, quite. Bit too bustling in the city though - too many of these Unsightlies wandering around at all sorts of hours. Don’t get that in Hampstead of course.”

  “Where I work, we don’t see much of them,” Jack said, smiling across the room as Beth returned with a glass of white.

  He took it from her and winked, “Thank you, kindly.”

  “Oh,” she gasped, “I must say that Scottish accent is delectable. Your wife must never tire of you talking.”

  “Ah, well she may well do when I finally meet her,” Jack feigned polite laughter, emphasising his accent even more.

  “Oh you!” she whacked him affectionately on the arm with the back of her hand, “I bet you could charm them from the trees.”

  “And the knickers from their -”

  “Mark!” Beth wailed, “Don’t be so crude.”

  Mark curled his arm around Beth’s shoulders. His weight brought her down a few inches. Pre-party drinks were twinkling in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, my dear Elizabeth,” he leant over and kissed her on the cheek, “My apologies.”

  “Quite,” she smiled, hesitantly.

  Jack reached in and gently extracted Mark’s arm from her.

  “Another drink?” he directed his question at Mark, though his eyes smiled back at Beth.

  “You’re on,” Mark said, wandering over to the drinks table again.

  “Are you alright?” Jack asked Beth.

  “Yes,” she said, adjusting her dress, “Thank you. He’s a lovely man, Mark. A little heavy on the drink this time of year - understandably so. It’s a time to celebrate.”

  “Elizabeth… it’s a very lovely name,” he said, as his mind drifted back to another girl of that name, in another lifetime, before the world had gone to hell and was merely on its way.

  “Thank you,” she smiled, sweetly and for a second Jack saw through the age-defiant moisturiser, crows-feet and smeared-on make up to the girl she was decades before. It was humbling, in a strange and yet sickening way, to know there was a human beneath all this exclusive wealth.

  “I’ll look after him,” he said, “Tend to your guests.”

  She thanked him again, and quickly dissipated into the mingle. Jack turned his attentions back to Mark, who was hovering over the whisky bottles and deciding which one to choose from with his fat finger.

  “So Mark, what is it that you do?” he asked, detecting that the man’s answer would be a lot less salubrious than working in government.

  “I own an advertising company,” he said, grabbing the bottle of Dalwhinnie closest to him and pouring a generous amount. “You’ll know all about the whiskies, I imagine?”

  “A bit,” Jack lied. Today he wasn’t the whisky lover - today he drank white wine and worked in government. Today he was not Jack Blackwood, but Harry Kirk. Harry Kirk who grew up in Inverness and who studied politics at St Andrews. Harry Kirk who moved to London two years ago. Harry Kirk who loved fine dining and tailored suits. Harry Kirk who knew nothing of poverty and cared little for those that did. “But I’ll happily try some with you tonight.”

  “I’ll hold you that!” Mark said, throwing the contents of his glass to the back of his throat.

  “Come, join me by the fire,” Jack said, pouring the man another drink and escorting him to the hearth. The tall flames licked the chimney; his bones warmed soothingly.

  The two men hovered silently for a few seconds before Jack took the helm and broke the silence.

  “How do you know Julian?”

  “We were at Oxford together,” he said, “Little runt beat me to the rowing team - course, I left all those sport activities after that as you can clearly see.”

  Jack laughed with him, “Sport is overrated anyway.”

  “Quite! But my god it was useful with the ladies,” he gestured with his right arm, “God I miss those days.”

  Jack was feeling increasingly uncomfortable with this man, but there was no chance that he was going to leave the party now. Harry Kirk was growing into a perfect disguise - well educated, government aide with connections to the highest people in the land. Harry Kirk cared not for the disgusting attitude of a fat man at a party.

  “I bet you know what I mean,” he smirked, swaying slightly on his toes, “Those little ladies of Whitehall must be begging to be governed by you.”

  “You wouldn’t believe,” Jack grinned, “They run around in those skimpy little pencil skirts, blouses half undone. You know what it’s like working in an office.”

  Mark’s fat fingers trembled gruesomely, “Only too well, my friend. Only too well.”

  Another round of wine for Jack; another shot of whisky for Mark. They were slumped in chaise longues by the fireside. The alcohol seeped into Jack’s bloodstream and despite being in a room full of self-indulgent strangers that would so much as hang him by the noose as soon as they discovered where his true loyalties lay, Jack was beginning to enjoy himself. It was the first time in a long while that conversation didn’t revolve around the CRU, The Resistance, safehouses or missions. No amount of alcohol could wash away the deception, though. He was playing a part - a character in a dull play through which the entire plot developed through menial conversation. Mark was not divulging anything of worth. His topics of conversation only served to impress his own influence on the world. His successful businesses; his intelligent children; his important friends and his big fat wallet.

  “I’ve run dry again,” Mark said, tipping his empty glass upside down to further demonstrate his point.

  Jack grabbed it from him - sensing that the more drunk he became, the more his tongue would follow suit.

  “Dalwhinnie?” Jack hopped to his feet, “You’ve nearly finished the bottle.”

  “Isn’t that what Hogmanay’s all about?” he slurred, leaning back into a soft cushion and grinning to himself.

  Jack weaved through the throng to the drinks table. The house was busier than when he had first arrived. It was fast approaching half eleven. Soon, the bells would be ringing in a new year.

  The bottle of Dalwhinnie sat, nearly empty, at the edge of the table. Someone else had clearly swiped a shot at it for there was a lot less of it than there had been twenty minutes ago. Nevertheless, Jack poured the final dregs into Mark’s glass before helping himself to another glass of wine. Harry Kirk was a Sauvignon Blanc drinker. Barely had the wine splashed into his glass than a hand swept in front of him, swiftly grabbing the bottle from him. Jack stepped back sharply.

  Julian’s convulsing figure stood in front of him, enraged and strangled with anger. Stumped as to what to say, Jack kept his mouth firmly shut. The man appeared as if he were seconds away from damning him to hell; thrusting his accusatory finger into the air and crying for the gallows.

  Silence amongst chattering. Jack stared right back at the man. The secrets they both held were opaque only to them.

  Confidently goading the man, Jack reached out to grab the bottle of white and continue pouring. As far as Harry Kirk was concerned, his old friend Julian had no reason to fear him.

  “What
are you doing here?” Julian muttered under his breath, gritted teeth only reluctantly allowing any syllable passage.

  However, before Jack had any opportunity to answer, Beth swept into view - her perfume arriving only by a second’s delay.

  “Julian, where were you earlier?” she smiled sweetly, but underneath her demerara smile she was annoyed at her husband’s unexplained disappearance.

  “Just the office,” he leant in and kissed her on the cheek; scarcely removing his eyes from Jack.

  “Well, you know your own priorities,” she simpered, gently touching Jack on the hand. “I’d best leave you two to catch up. I’ll let you know when it’s ten minutes before the bells.”

  She slipped into the crowd, restoring herself as host and mistress of the party.

  “Has my wife given you a tour of the house?” he asked, suppressing his rage.

  “No, she hasn’t,” Jack said, finally wrestling the wine from Julian’s grip and pouring himself a liberal glass. He wasn’t leaving here tonight - not forcibly anyway.

  Julian led him through the throng and out into the cool of the hallway.

  “Perhaps my study would be best to start,” he said.

  Jack followed him upstairs to the first floor and to a cosy little study lined with old printed books; charming watercolours and ambient lighting. An oak desk gazed out into the back garden - ivy clutching at the window panes. Affixed proudly to the wall were framed certificates of the man’s many degrees. Bachelor of Arts, several Masters too. Written in medieval calligraphy was the man’s name, boldly betraying his identity.

  “Julian Syme,” Jack said, perusing the frames, “A very mystical name.”

  The door shut gently behind, and finally the man’s rage was unleashed.

  “What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing here?” his shouting was suppressed into whisper.

  “But we’re friends?” Jack said chirpily.

  “Don’t you fucking play with me,” he thrust his finger across the room at Jack, “I know who you are.”

  “Well that’s great, because I know your friends very well now.”

  “You leave, right now. Leave now and I won’t call the police,” he recoiled his intimidating finger.

  Jack smiled, admiring another painting, “I’m rather enjoying myself though,” he sipped his glass, “Good wine, by the way.”

  “I mean it, I will call them right now.”

  Jack flung another gulp of wine to the back of his throat, pausing for effect as he watched Julian’s temple throb.

  “If you were going to call them, you would have already done it by now,” he spoke casually, “But you haven’t… and that’s not because you’re a decent man. No, I think this goes a little beyond that.”

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” he seethed. “Now.”

  “Or what? If you call the police, I will tell them exactly how many Rations you should have and then exactly how many of them you actually do? Better ask for two cars - I’m sure they’ll want to have a quick wee chat with Beth downstairs as well.”

  “Don’t you…”

  “Don’t I what? Don’t I dare? But I do, Julian. I do.”

  “Who are you?” he growled.

  “I’m exactly who you think I am,” Jack said, “But you? You on the other hand are exactly who you are pretending not to be. Rich man in a rich house; rich friends drinking posh wines and scoffing fine canapes. Why does a man need Rations when he has all this? More to the point, why does a man need to buy them when he gets them free from the state.”

  Julian recoiled, “You make me sick.”

  “No, Julian,” Jack advanced, “You make me sick. There are people starving out there, in this very city and yet it is you who chooses to believe that you are somehow worse off - or that starvation can be cured by throwing money at it. But you aren’t starving - I mean look at you…”

  Julian’s rotund stomach quickly cinched in.

  “How much do you value all this?” Jack gestured at their lavish surroundings. “How much is it truly worth to you? The price of a sneaky black market Ration? The cost of letting someone like me into your home? The cost of your conscience as it drips slowly into inexistence each day?”

  “Get out.”

  “No,” Jack said defiantly.

  “Then I’ll call the police,” he threatened again.

  “Pathetic,” Jack spat, “Same threat, little meaning. I didn’t respond to it the first time, why the fuck would I bother the next? You aren’t going to call them, Julian. You have too much to lose. Even if you managed to lie your way out of the Rations scandal, the gossip would spread. How many of them are down there? Fifty? A hundred? Do you really think you could keep the police coming to your house on Hogmanay from the gossip mongrels? The CRU turning up at your house. People would talk and talk and talk until one day your name will be dragged through the mud so often you’ll be one of them. The Unsightlies.”

  Julian was cowering against the wall. From out beyond the door and down in the hallway, Beth cried up to them.

  “Julian, Harry!” she said, “It’s almost time!”

  “Harry? That’s who you are?”

  “I can be anyone you want me to be,” Jack smirked.

  “You work… you work for… them?”

  Jack approached the insufferable man, eyes bulging with excitement and pride, “Yes.”

  “You sick bastard,” Julian spat.

  “And you, sir,” Jack bowed facetiously.

  “How many women and children have you killed? How many lives taken?” Julian whispered emotionally, sweat beads trickling down his temples.

  “This isn’t about me or how much of a sick bastard I am,” Jack said, his words flaring with lies, “This is about you and what you did and what you do and who you are and what you love.”

  “Fuck off, just fuck off,” Julian shoved Jack backwards but his resolve soon stumbled as he gazed into Jack’s frightening, maniacal eyes.

  “Julian! Harry! You’re going to miss it!” Beth cried up the stairs, significantly closer than last time.

  “It’s your choice, Julian. This is your life. Your mistake, your choice.”

  “You’re a sick bastard,” Julian whimpered.

  “What’s it worth to you?” Jack reiterated, “Is it worth your life? Is it worth your wife’s? Is it worth the scandal, is it worth the guilt? Is it worth the sleepless nights, constantly watching for the knife in your back? Think of the shame, the disgust from your friends, colleagues.. neighbours.”

  A knock on the door.

  “Harry? Julian? Are you in there?” Beth shouted from the other side.

  “Time’s up,” Jack whispered, eyes bulging with menace.

  The door creaked open. A puddle of light spilled in from the hallway. Beth’s shadow curved round the frame, frustrating frazzling her hairline. Her eyes fell magnetically on to her husband’s. His pale complexion betrayed the silence he was keeping.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked, nervously.

  Julian glanced at Jack, whose mind was wracked with the escape routes he was forming. The dangerous waters he was treading in were rapidly rising.

  “Yes,” Julian said abruptly, but resolutely, “Sorry, Harry was just admiring my office here.”

  “Ah, it is beautiful isn’t it? We had it refurbished a few years ago,” she smiled, “Just how Julian wanted it.”

  “I’m envious,” Jack charmed her with a treacle Scots accent.

  “It’s nearly midnight though,” she said, “You’d better come down and join us.”

  “Ah, yes,” Julian said.

  “Are you sure you’re alright?” she queried.

  “Yes,” Julian reaffirmed, “Sorry, we were talking shop. Harry just told me a bit of bad news… doesn’t concern us though, my sweet. Not to worry.”

  Though she continued to look worried, it subsided significantly from her expression.

  “Let’s just join the party then,” he said, smiling.


  Beth took the encouragement in her stride and began to walk back to the party below. Julian turned to Jack and a cocktail of resentment and fear splashed across his face. Jack was in command.

  He followed the couple downstairs. The party were all ensuring their glasses were full and their merriment was charged. There were a few minutes left until midnight. Mark was slumped on the chaise-longue, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had been left high and dry for the best part of twenty minutes. Jack refilled his glass and sipped it contentedly. Julian’s eyes swung round and lapsed on to him - seeking reassurance that Jack wasn’t standing behind him, knife pressed against his back. Jack raised his glass slightly and smiled at the man, his psychological hostage. Julian Syme was in his pocket - he only needed to figure out exactly what his uses were.

  As the climax to midnight mounted, the chatting subsided as everyone waited in strange silence for the coming of a new second; a new minute; a new year and hoping all the promise that they’d been duped into believing would follow suit. Jack observed the guests; watched how they excitedly checked their watches in the seconds leading up to the big hour; he saw how they looked at their loved ones, hope captured in an emphatic wordless love; and after a moment he became very aware of how alone he was. Standing aside from the rest of the party, cradling his sixth glass of wine; not a friend in the world to call home to; no home to even return to; a girl he loved but could not face to say her name aloud. Exactly a year ago he was dangling off the cliffs of Salisbury Crags’, a wicked wind culling any party spirit - but he and Kyle were hardier than that. They sat there fighting the cold, smashing their cans of beer together jovially until the alcohol kicked in and numbed their senses to anything remotely upsetting or uncomfortable. Then the skies alit with the wonders of chemistry and gunpowder - stars bursting into enigmatic cartwheels, transcending the magical royal night, below which a black city lived and breathed an invisible fear disguised as depression and dismay. And for a faint flicker of a second the drink would take hold and the fog would come down, across the streets and roads, and drown all the horror that brought him to the bottle in the first place.