by S. G Mark
“Can you ensure I have their full support?” Cameron croaked.
“As surely as you have mine,” the Man smiled, thinly. Cameron vaguely recognised it as the first time he had ever seen his friend display any pleasantries. He was grave man who spoke little of his own life, and yet somehow they had known each other for years. Single minded to the point of obsession, they rarely ever spoke of events outwith politics and never socialised. Still, he was a friend; an advisor of infinite worth and equal intrigue.
“It means a lot to me,” Cameron said, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your support. Most would rather have my job than help me do it. You really are the most selfless man in Britain.”
“That I may be,” the Man said, the smile fading from his lips as if they’d been blessed by it.
“So, we are still on for the end of March?” Cameron asked, hesitantly.
“Let us meet later this week to make the final arrangements, but yes. Everything is largely in place,” the Man said, “I’ll be in touch.”
The Man bowed very slightly before backing away from the desk. Cameron sighed uneasily. A confident wave of relief crashed over him. His pulse calmed. His throbbing temple quelled.
As the Man grabbed the door handle, he turned and looked briefly at Cameron before speaking once more.
“Oh and the last person to remind me that I wasn’t Prime Minister died three days ago,” he said, “Don’t make the same mistakes as your friend.”
The door shut gently behind him as he left. Cameron stared on in an absent shock. He hadn’t explicitly said so, but there was no doubt as to who he was referring. David White was dead.
Muted grief struck Cameron and he finally raised the glass to his lips.
Chapter Sixteen
“You can’t leave, Lana!” Jack shouted.
But the front door had already slammed shut. He threw the remote across the room; it shattered a vase, spilling plastic flowers everywhere. Emma struck him with a piercing glare. He was incensed: by what he had just heard and the argument that had followed it.
Murmuring in the background of his atmospheric hate, the television continued; immune from all emotion. The news crews were regurgitating to the viewing figures what the three of them already digested. Security Powers: stepped up. Threat Level: heightened. Laws to forfeit criminal’s estates to the crown. Rules to prevent data from being diverted around government channels. It was crackdown time. It was the fucking end.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” he snapped at Emma. She was wearing her superior skin today. It glowed with self satisfaction.
“You can’t control her,” she said, “Quite frankly if I hadn’t been shot, I’d be joining her. Now is the time to do something.”
“Now’s the time to give up and save our own lives while we still have the chance,” he spat, fuming. Only death awaited them if they continued. But just as he couldn’t see a way forward, neither did he see a return path. It was less a dead end, more an isolated point in space.
“And what life is that, Jack? The life you’ve not been a part of for nearly eight fucking months? You really expect to just slip back into the stream of things and carry on no questions asked? You really think you could just accept the gunmen marching along your street while bombs go off on a nightly basis - who knows maybe it’ll be your turn to be blown to pieces next.”
“Yeah well at least it wouldn’t be our bombs,” Jack sighed, leaning against the wall and using it to slide down to the carpet.
“They were never going to make it easy for us,” she said, lowering her voice.
“Easy? It’s fucking impossible,” Jack’s tone trembled with tension, “I don’t even know who the fuck we’re meant to be fighting anymore? Is it the government - who everyone else in the bloody street seems to think are doing a cracking job - or are we fighting the DD or the GD or every other destructively chaotic rival we have? No one out there gives a fucking shit, Emma! Lana and I have been out there every fucking day this year and they don’t give a shit what we stand for, only that we give them Rations. We could be fucking Nazis and so long as they get their fucking dodgy supply of bread they don’t care. That’s the truth of it. That’s who we are killing ourselves to save, Emma.”
Emma stood up sharply, clutching her injured arm, “And what about the corpses down there - you really think their families would exchange their bodies for a few extra Rations a week?”
“Probably,” he lied, too pissed off to relent to reason.
“You don’t mean that,” she said, “You’re just scared.”
“Please don’t tell me how I’m feeling ever a-fucking-gain,” he said, narrowing his eyes. He despised her for her observation.
“Fine then,” she pointed at the door, “Go. I won’t stop you. Run back to Eliza and your happy little surrogate family.”
Jack remained firmly where he was.
“What, have you lost your nerve?” Emma taunted him, “It’s just a simply journey on a train up North - and you’ve left all this behind now. No more revolution, no more clandestine meetings and safehouses - you’re free! Like you wanted - this life, dropped like a stone in the water.”
“Shut up,” he said.
“No I won’t,” her tongue was steely, “You don’t fucking get to tell me what to do, Jack. Unfortunately, I outrank you.”
He opened scoffed, “I’m sorry, outrank me?”
“Certainly. I’ve more experience than you, and right now that is definitely showing,” she said, towering over him. “Now stop fucking wallowing.”
“What the fuck are you talking about - since when has The Resistance had a hierarchy?”
“It always has,” she said.”
“It’s a fucking joke then.” he said, “Since leaving headquarters, every place I’ve visited, everyone I’ve met is all doing something different. It’s a fucking shambles of an organisation.”
“Yeah,” she held back a laugh, “And you know why that is? Because our people keep on getting killed. We haven’t time to recollect our thoughts. Our population is not increasing, but it is ever changing. People joining, people dying. We haven’t the stability to create the order we might want. But you have no excuse not to follow my orders.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I’ve seen you at your worst; at your most vulnerable - and you haven’t reached anywhere near that tonight,” she said.
Jack glared at her. He resented her, but right now he couldn’t afford to refuse her. His options were limited. On the other side of the door lay an even more uncertain life - a life unsupported by stolen money, fake ID cards and safehouses. Even if he made it to Edinburgh alive, there was no way he could adequately explain to Eliza where he had been without endangering both their lives. And could it ever really return to normal? He didn’t even know if he had seen too much. Three months on from operating in the real world, he was still a novice.
“What do you want me to do?” he said, not even looking at her in the eye.
Simultaneously, a phone began ringing. Jack immediately reached for his, but it was not vibrating in his pocket. Emma turned and picked up her jacket, searching through the pockets. She took out her phone and held it to her ear.
“Hello,” she answered, pausing for an answer on the other line, “Where are you meeting? Right. I can’t leave the house, but I will send someone in my place. Jack. I’ll tell him the password.”
She hung up; her eyes folding over from the screen to Jack’s naive shell of a body.
“Tonight, Jack,” she said, “I want you to be me.”
The rain streaked down the dirty windows; condensation a thick layer of scum upon the tarnished glass. Outside was a tumultuous battle of powers waging war quite separately from each other. The storm swirled and coiled around the city; raging furiously but for no purpose or reason at all other than to just be. The heavens were crying inconsolably. There was no reason for their sadness just as there was no cure. On the streets upon whi
ch its tears battered inconsiderately, another, quite different, war was being fought. The ground troops were exhausted, merciless cannon fodder; their victims confused casualties of a battle they had no knowledge of participating in. Beyond the streets in little offices the men tapped at their computer screens and shouted down their phones, orders that could never be retracted and must always be obeyed. For rhyme nor reason they failed to ask why; as beyond them still the embattlements stretched farther still, until someone at the pinnacle of the ziggurat gently scratched his chin and nodded with resolute acceptance that everything was to plan.
“Jack,” a short, balding man named Brian tapped his shoulder and a glass of whisky flew into view.
“Thank you,” he said, abandoning his watch and sighing. “Have you bolted the doors?”
Brian nodded, “I doubt we’ll have long though. They were only two streets away fifteen minutes ago.”
“Has everyone arrived?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink. It was sour, bitter and soothing.
“As many as will come,” Brian said, his expression weakening with sadness.
“Then it’s time,” Jack said, rising to his feet and gulping back the rest of his whisky.
Downstairs the eagers minds awaited. The drill would be the same as it had been every night for the past week. By now he had it memorised and refined. A week was a long time in his life right now. A week of hiding. A week of lying. Every day it became easier and now it was simply routine. Tactics had apparently changed since Ben Nevis. They had done away with the covert leaflets and were now going for a more direct approach, inviting susceptible minds in a bid to push them over to their side.
As the view of the bar crept into sight, his heart sunk for the fourth time that week. Bright, innocent eyes twinkled back at him - far younger than his own. And where they weren’t, they were old callouses gouged out by the spitefulness of time. They look up at him expectantly, and he felt instantly insufficient. He was not going to cure their poverty or heal their broken hearts. He was not going to lead them into victory or avenge their loved one’s death. He was there simply as a tool to inspire; to fuel a hatred that Alex could use.
A drink was ready for him at his table. The small gathering turned to him. Jack took a sip of the cheap cider and steeled his nerves as eight hopeful faces glued to his own, pinning all their faith to one liar in a rundown bar in Southwark.
“I know why you’re here,” he spoke gently, “I know what you fear. I know what you’ve seen. I know you want change. You want change so badly you’ve risked your own life to even dare speak it. There are many out there who have thought of change. Some of them have died. Others will have disappeared from the streets. The rest of you are here in this room…”
Jack paused for reflection. The words he had been told to recite had suddenly lost what little meaning they had. On the first night he objected, on the second night he resisted and on the third he had relented.
He glared at the room again. Eight humans desperate for change. Eight nameless humans who would risk their fight an enemy they knew little about, save only that it had cancelled their Rations or arrested their loved ones. What did they know of the struggle? What did they know of the fight to survive, of the fear pressing on their shoulders, of the prickle of hair on the back of their neck that could so easily be the wind; what did they know of changing their name constantly, of creating a whole new personality day after day, week after week. Hardship through mandatory community service. Desperation through Rations. They knew nothing of reality, but as he sat staring hopelessly at them, he remembered that a little over six months ago neither did he. He cleared his throat, and recited his lines.
“If you are strong enough to be here, then you are strong enough to fight for us,” he continued, his lies like treacle as he stared back at pathetic souls stripped of courage and forgotten by bravery, “We can’t promise you safety, but we can promise you justice… and if you choose to serve us, you must abandon the life you now lead for anyone you’re close to will be accomplices. Tonight is the last night of your lives, and the first night of freedom.”
Eight sets of eyes blinked blankly back at him. He was almost tearful. The youngest might only have been sixteen or so; the eldest could have been his grandfather. Two polar generations fighting for the same cause and were they not almost certainly doomed to die, Jack might have been touched by the symbolism. Instead, he was merely sickened by the prospect that he had encouraged these men and women to an early grave.
“What do we do?” a pitiful voice spoke out from the crowd.
Jack turned on him and recited to him what he had told several others earlier that week, “Join us.”
“And then what?” a girl murmured.
There the great adventurous tail of his recital ended. And then what? Sit, lying in their own self pity for several months until they decide that they need to become involved? Jump straight in with little experience and get themselves killed within days? Train them for weeks and weeks and then shove them into a mission they are not capable of, either physically or mentally? Jack suppressed his own experiences in a gulp.
“Fight with us,” he said, “Fight them on the streets. Fight them in their homes. Keep fighting until your last breath.”
“Fight who? Them, the CRU?”
“He means the GD, you daft twat,” one of the teenagers said.
“No,” Jack stared harshly back at the boy, “No I don’t mean them. I don’t mean them at all.”
“Then who is causing all this shit? Why have we got guards on our street and fucking border controls at stations?”
Jack sighed and buried his head in his hands. They hadn’t a clue. He was preaching to the indoctrinated, who only knew that something was wrong and were ready to point the finger. Trigger happy, so long as someone else was to blame. A voice crept into his ear.
“We need to leave,” Brian’s terrified voice prickled in his earlobe.
Jack leant his head in closer, “How close?”
“We have ten minutes at most,” he said.
“Fucksake, could you not have warned me a little sooner?” he snapped, “What’s the plan?”
Brian looked at him sparsely.
“Brian,” he muttered under his breath, “What the fuck is going on?”
The man was shaking; his pores were drizzled in sweat.
“Keith, the landlord, he ain’t been back in twenty minutes,” he stammered, “I c-can’t find him.”
Time froze. They’d been betrayed. Jack’s mind clicked into action; alerts flaring in front his eyes as plans forms wherever his sight trailed. Backdoor, possible chances of detection. Hidden cupboards, likelihood of existence. His mind was ablaze with poor possibilities.
“Fucksake couldn’t you have told me a little sooner?” he hissed, trying to maintain a calm expression in front of the sea of novices before him.
Brian stammered a pitiful response. Jack ignored it. He didn’t need answers, he needed plans.
“Go to the back door, check it’s locked. I’ll check the front door is open,” he said.
“Open?” Brian’s eyebrows knitted with confusion.
“What’s going on?” chirped one of the boys.
“Backdoor, now,” Jack threw his arm in the direction he commanded Brian to go in. His heart rate was thumping. He hated the way he was treating his friend, his comrade, but ten minutes was rapidly descending on nine; and neither was enough time to escape. He checked his wallet; Harry Kirk smiled back at him. Nice Harry, the man in Whitehall with good connections and a healthy sum of money in his bank account. Harry would save the day. Harry from quaint Inverness. Harry who was twenty-five. Harry who liked football and custard creams and lazy Sunday afternoons in the pub.
By the entrance to the grim pub, Jack stuck his head to the glass and checked outside. Other than the amber streetlights, he could see very little of the road in either direction. Peaceful as the pavements looked, Jack knew better than to assume danger was far away. I
nstead, he turned on his followers.
“You really want to be a member of The Resistance?” he bellowed, “You really want to fight your way to justice, to avenge the deaths or arrests of your love ones?”
Their fragile faces frowned, but nodded.
“Then fight,” Jack said, “Stay here and fight, or flee and face their own special kind of justice. If you want to go, I won’t stop you.”
The youngest of the group, a small boy with a shaven head and crooked teeth stepped backwards. His eyes were struck with fear; his irises forever dilating.
“Please,” he said weakly, “Can I go?”
Jack strode over to him and knelt down beside him, “Turn left out of here and then follow the road until you come to a crossroads - take the right hand road and you’ll find a back alleyway that runs parallel to the road you were on. Follow that until you come to the tube station. When you arrive, get on the next train. Don’t look back unless you’re absolutely sure you’re being followed. Don’t stop, not even for traffic. Above all, don’t panic. You having nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide. You were never here, so you have nothing to hide. Leave this place knowing that each and every one of us will forget you ever arrived.”
The boy, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, wiped his eyes, “If… If I’m caught….”
“Then you tell them this,” Jack bit the side of his mouth to deliberately prevent him from his own tears, “You tell them that wherever they sleep, we will wake them. Wherever they rest, we will disturb them. Wherever they live, we will find them.... and we will kill them.”
The boy muttered something incoherent before fleeing to the front door and dashing out into the cold air. Jack turned immediately to the others.
“So, this is what we have left,” even he could not find enthusiasm in his voice. He turned and scattered his thoughts across the endless possibilities that lay in the next few minutes.