The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  The room erupted into cheer. Midnight had passed. Jack slunk back to the wings as he watched the party link arms and mumble the melody to Auld Lang Syne. Scottish Jack found their ineptitude contemptible, but reminded himself that even he didn’t know the words.

  Quite isolated from the group, Jack was suddenly thrown back into the throng when Beth skipped up to him, beaming Cabernet Sauvignon.

  “And we’ve got a proper Scotsman amongst us!” she wailed, grabbed his arm and pulling him towards the others.

  “Och Aye!” a Croydon accent burned Jack’s ears.

  “Wee Jimmy!” Essex shrieked, hiccupping over her glass of wine.

  Jack feigned humour and linked arms with the Essex girl. She grinned widely and looked to her boyfriend, gleaming with pride.

  Beth was dancing around them with bottles of fizzling champagne, spilling it into people’s half empty glasses as she did.

  “More! More! More!” they began shouting and clapping, stamping their feet as she twisted and twirled. Bottle after bottle dribbled down the glasses as people shot the bubbles to the back of their throat.

  Julian was joining in - enthusiasm waning with every beat. Jack caught his eye as Beth poured him a third glass of champagne. He smiled, dangerously. The colour from Julian’s cheeks faded.

  But the beat took over and the jeering around them was overpowering. Drink for the excitement. Drink for the luxury. Drink to celebrate. Drink for the status of wasting precious bottles of champagne. This was a whole different world to the one Jack knew. This was a world of privilege beyond reckoning. The privilege of money; the privilege of not fearing the dark; the privilege of knowing what the future held; the privilege of never going hungry; the privilege of the few. And what did they do, the men and women of the few? They drank and drank until night and day met.

  The dancing didn’t quieten down until gone one. Beth’s knees were giving way and she was slumped by the fire nursing a warm cup of tea. Mark was snoring, stale glass of whisky slowly slipping free from his sweaty grip. The other guests were beginning to wind down also. Champagne bottles glittered the floor. Jack was nursing a pregnant headache. He ventured to the patio doors by which a number of others were smoking casually in the moonlight.

  The rest of London was black. They were but one of a sparse set of lights in the capital city. From the end of the garden the generator hummed; notes of money metaphorically bursting from it. They could have partied in the dark; Jack knew that. This was a statement - a statement of ability.

  A pack of cigarettes appeared in front of him. Jack followed the arm to its owner - a lanky man in a dishevelled waistcoat. He couldn’t have been more than thirty.

  “Fancy one?” he said.

  Jack shook his head, “I don’t smoke, sorry.”

  The man extracted one from the box, tucked it between his lips and lit it. The first inhalation was magically disguised by the man’s coughing and spluttering.

  “Are you alright?” Jack asked.

  “Yes,” the man coughed, “Yes, just… a bad throat.”

  He thumped his chest and the coughing subsided.

  “I’m Harry,” Jack leant against the patio door.

  “Paul,” he said, “You’re the Scottish guy, right?”

  “How could you tell?” Jack smiled, emphasising his accent. “Seriously, is it that unusual to hear someone from up North?”

  “A bit,” Paul said, “I guess the accent’s just a little funny though.”

  “Right,” he said, tailing off. He had nothing more to add.

  “You’re a friend of my Uncle Julian’s, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Jack nodded, “Yes I am.”

  “You work with him?” he asked, sucking in another puff.

  “Sort of,” Jack kept the details closely guarded.

  Jack took a few steps out into the patio. A neat little rockery served as a boundary between courtyard and lawn. A tired looking barbeque was shunted into the far corner; sheltered enough from the rain but not from the rust.

  “It’s some house, isn’t it?” Jack admired the architecture, craning his neck to fully appreciate it.

  “I used to come here when I was a kid,” he said, “It’s like a second home to me.”

  “Do you live nearby?”

  “I used to,” he said, tailing off, “Life wasn’t as fortunate to my parents.”

  Jack wanted to ask more questions, but knew he would be pushing too much. He was already in danger of exposure. Twisted round his finger though Julian may be, there was no security that he wouldn’t weasel his way out of it; he could easily sacrifice himself and call the CRU. It wasn’t out of the question. Julian’s character was completely unchartered. The kind of creature that would fraudulently obtain additional Rations from dubious sources though he may be, it was no guarantee of the man’s principles - indeed, if he even had any.

  “Paul,” Beth’s voice called from the patio door, “Be a dear and refresh the jugs of water…”

  Paul smiled, kissing his aunty on the cheek as he passed.

  “Are you alright?” Jack asked her.

  She exhaled, “I think so. Too much champers.”

  “I didn’t realise there was such a thing,” he said, “Would you like me to get you some water?”

  “Oh, that would be lovely actually…” she collapsed into a decking chair crystallised in ice. She didn’t seem to notice or care.

  Jack ventured back in and found Paul in the kitchen, filling up the jugs of water on the side. He wasn’t alone. Mark was slunk over the oven hob, swaying on the spot. This was the epitome of luxury and class. As Mark repressed his retching, Jack wondered exactly who the Unsightlies were.

  Jack returned to Beth, water in hand. However, he arrived to find that she had slipped into sleep. Instead of waking her, he left the water on the edge of a large pot plant and returned inside.

  Julian was hovering by the fireplace - the last of the embers dwindling to death. Many of the other guests were pulling on coats and gathering their belongings - fur coats and designer jackets accompanied with wreaths of scarves. Julian was paying them little attention. He was intently staring into the bottom of his empty glass. Jack approached him with care.

  “Your wife’s asleep,” he said.

  “Don’t you fucking talk about my wife,” he muttered fiercely.

  Jack instantly felt the personal blow. Sobering slightly, he realised exactly what he was doing. This was not a mean trick or a practical joke; he was threatening a man and his family.

  “What do you want from me?” he pleaded.

  “We’re just heading off,” a woman tapped Julian on the shoulder, “It was lovely to see you all. Fantastic party, as ever!”

  “Thank you so much for coming,” Julian turned and hugged the woman, “Take care getting home - and Happy New Year.”

  “Same to you!” she narrowed her eyes affectionately.

  As soon as it was polite, Julian wheeled round.

  “How much? How much do you want to just walk out right now?” he begged.

  Jack thought it over. He’d forgotten the value of money and from the surroundings he was currently in, he guessed that a similar amnesia had struck Julian and his family also. What, then, was an appropriate bribe to walk out of this man’s life?

  “Five hundred a month,” Jack said, driving in at the top end of his bargaining.

  “A month? For how long?” Julian looked shiftily either side of him, wary of stray ears.

  “Until I say so,” Jack said.

  “Come with me,” he said, leading Jack out into the hallway and back up to the study; closing the door shut behind them. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” Jack maintained an expressionless face.

  “I have… I have bills to pay, I can’t…”

  “You’ve got all this,” Jack said, idly picking up a gold paperweight. “You buy Rations - what for, when you have all this? Isn’t what you have enough?”

  “Please, please don�
��t do this to me,” Julian spoke softly, “You have no idea how hard it is…”

  And that was when he pulled the trigger on the gun Jack was holding to his head. Enraged, Jack stormed towards the pathetic man, quivering in his greedy guilt.

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” he seethed, “Don’t you fucking dare play that card with me… I’ve gone hungry… I’ve gone without a proper meal for weeks… I’ve seen good people resort to stealing so their families don’t starve.”

  “You sold me those fucking Rations! It’s your sick organisation that I funded - you should be fucking grateful!”

  “Sick organisation? I don’t blame you for your ignorance, so I’ll let that slide… but you saw what kind of people were buying from me today… did they live in big houses in posh suburbs downing expensive wine as if it were water? And there was you in the middle of it, your fat belly rumbling for more. Five hundred a month or I walk downstairs right now and announce to every single one of them that you’re a member of The Resistance. Just mentioning it will condemn you to jail and your wife to social exile. I wouldn’t be surprised if the government seized your entire house. All your life’s work gone… in a sentence.”

  Julian stuttered a reply, but with no definite commitment to either decision.

  “Five hundred a month and I can protect you,” Jack lied to sweeten the deal.

  “Protect me from what?”

  “From anyone ever finding out,” he said, “This would strictly be between us. I won’t give your name to anyone else in the organisation.”

  “You… you would do that?”

  “Yes,” Jack said, “You would be anonymous to everyone but me.”

  “And this… and this money… where would it go?”

  “Do you really care?” Jack asked.

  Julian shook his head; his double chin reverberating his detachment.

  “How will I give you the money?”

  “I’ll contact you, arrange to meet.”

  “And what if I change my mind? What if I report you?”

  “You won’t do that, Jules,” Jack said, cockily, “You want an easy life. You want fine dining and caviar and nice things and a standing in society.”

  “Alright then,” Julian found confidence in his voice again, “Tomorrow. Meet me in town. I’ll give you the money then.”

  “When and where?”

  “The millennium bridge on St Paul’s side. Three o’clock.”

  “Done,” Jack smiled, producing his hand for Julian to shake.

  “I don’t shake hands with terrorists,” Julian pushed the hand away.

  “No,” Jack smirked, “But you’d quite happily fund them to save your own skin.”

  He grabbed the door handle and left the study. More guests were trickling out the front door - including Julian’s nephew, Paul, who looked behind him and gave Jack a small wave.

  Jack returned to the living room and found Mark sobering up with a tall glass of water. Beth was hovering over him, ensuring that he was alright. She herself was whiter than frost.

  “Oh, there you are,” Beth looked up, not at Jack but her husband behind him. “Everyone’s gone apart from Mark and the Evans’s.”

  “Sorry,” Julian leant in and kissed his wife affectionately, “More shop talk.”

  Exasperated, Beth sighed, “On New Year’s Day! Will you ever taken time off?”

  “I best be off,” Jack announced, feeling that it was time to leave this family in peace for a few hours.

  “Do you have far to travel?” Beth asked.

  “Jammy bastard lives in Whitehall!” mumbled Mark.

  “Yeah, I was just going to get the tube home…”

  “Oh, but it won’t run until the morning,” Beth said, “You’re welcome to stay here… Since Saskia’s left, we’ve got plenty of room. Mark’s going to have to stay over as well.”

  “No, really, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow,” Jack lied, he felt he could no longer burden this poor woman with his presence. He could feel the pain he was causing her, even if she couldn’t yet.

  “Well at least let me give you some money for a taxi,” she said, reaching over to the dresser for her purse and siphoning out several notes.

  “No, please,” Jack protested, despite having no cash or clue to get home.

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” she displayed the money in front of him.

  “You’re too kind,” Jack smiled, taking the money from her.

  “I’ll call you a taxi - thank goodness Curfew was cancelled today! Would have been a nightmare for everyone.”

  Beth grabbed the landline phone and dialled a local taxi company. Julian took over caring for Mark as he grew ever greener. Meanwhile Jack stood insensitively nearby. He felt Julian watching his every move. A dark shadow was passing over his chest; gently applying greater pressure with every moment.

  “Taxi won’t be more than a few minutes,” Beth smiled when she returned. “It was lovely of you to come though - I do hope we see you again!”

  Jack leant in and kissed her on both cheeks, “It was a pleasure. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

  Behind her, Julian glared at Jack. Feeling the resentment grow, Jack insisted that he wait outside for his ride home.

  The cold air smothered him like an uncomfortable blanket. As he passed the Porsche he was reminded exactly why he was extracting money from the family. It wasn’t right that people in their position should even be on Rations, let alone take from people who genuinely needed it. It angered Jack to think that Julian didn’t even acknowledge his crime - he was more concerned with saving his own skin and that of his family’s. Preservation ruling over principle.

  A black cab swept into view and parked by the kerb. Jack pulled the door open and hopped in.

  “Taxi for Whitehall, right?” the driver said, making eye contact through the rear-view mirror.

  “Actually, I think I might go see my girlfriend - can you take me to Camden? There’s a shop called Ahmed’s Nuzagent’s near Inverness Street - she lives right above that.”

  “Right you are, mate,” the cabbie pulled into the road.

  Jack watched the suburban house disappear from view out the passenger window; speckled by spots of rain on the pane. The dark shadow on his chest had settled. The pressing sensation on his chest was stronger than ever; heartbeat thundering underneath. He hadn’t conceived his plan thoughtfully; it had just spilled from his mouth. Extracting money from a wealthy family he had just happened upon on in the market. Whatever guise he dressed it in, it was nothing more than blackmail. Money in return for Jack’s silence - and the worst part was that Jack knew the pain he would cause and proceeded anyway. Beth, who had been sweet enough to pay for his taxi ride back to the Safehouse, would be devastated by who the real guest in her house was that night. A terrorist - that’s who he was; that’s who Julian described him as. Not until tonight had he even considered himself as one; but on the journey back home all that dwelled on his mind was the terror that would keep Julian tossing and turning all night. It didn’t matter if it was for the greater good; on a human level, that’s exactly what he was causing. Jack the Liar reared his ugly head and snarled. It wasn’t even difficult to fabricate the stories. Jack was Harry Kirk, a lovely man from the City. Harry Kirk was wealthy, charming and sophisticated; Jack Blackwood was a loathsome liar who would threaten and manipulate any situation to his advantage.

  Rain showered from a brooding, starless sky. The streets morphed into black rivers and tributaries. Glaring headlights speeding by shone on the streaks whipping the air. Party goers stumbled on the streets, excitedly screaming and throwing their arms in the air. Girls in tight little dresses; shirtless men drizzled in diluted alcohol. The cancelled Curfew had brought back the life to the nightscape; for one night only they could pretend that things were just as they once were and in typical style, they partied so hard they would inevitably forget the freedom. Jack would have been one of them. A year ago he craved a drink mos
t of the working week - it was the only true escapism. He craved it even now; but not for the value of escapism; not to forget and not to deal with the shitty monotony of life - but to drown the guilt in the pit of his stomach; to refuel the fire in his gut that told him he was on the right path and above all for it to drag him into a state where he felt that he was justified.

  The taxi pulled up outside Ahmed’s Nuzagent’s. Jack paid the driver, giving him a handsome tip, and hopped out into the downpour. Immediately his skin was soaked. He walked over to a black door on the right hand side of the shop and pretended to press the buzzer. As the taxi drove off into the distance, he waited until it had turned the corner before he set off in the direction of the Safehouse.

  The party in Camden was continuing just as it was in central London. Whereas two nights ago it may have been treacherous to be out in town at this hour, alone or part of a group, it seemed that all fear had been forgotten. Down dark alleyways Jack glimpsed fragments of the homeless downing their bottles of cheap cider; but the main parades were thronging with normality. Everyone he passed was cheering and yelling. He almost envied their ignorance. This was their night; their moment to enjoy limitlessly. They had no fear or repercussions. They may panic about their future, but they knew for certain that it was going to outlast the day. Jack didn’t know that bliss. A crosshair had been drawn on his forehead - and it was only a matter of time before someone fired.

  He turned into Inverness Street and found shelter in the doorway. He buzzed the flat and the door opened. At the top of the stairs a wild eyed Karl greeted him, but the fury caught on his tongue kept composure until Jack was securely in the flat.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” he raged as Jack sauntered into the living room.

  Candles lit the flat, and he instantly missed the generator Julian had. Jack slumped into a chair, sighed, and wiped the rain from his face. Before he summoned the strength to answer, Lana raced in, pulling on a jumper. Sleep traumatised her eyes.