by S. G Mark
Brian returned from the back door and nodded, knowingly.
“Take them upstairs,” Jack said, feverishly, “Take them out of sight.”
Footsteps paddled up to him, “But Jack, they’ll be sitting ducks up there?”
“I don’t fucking care!” Jack’s voice stole the stage, “They’re fucking children or already for the grave! What am I supposed to do?!”
Brian staggered back and Jack’s gaze slipped from the balding man to the generation gap behind him and he felt his heart falter. Seven days he had been conducting the same orchestra of lies and he was exhausted from it. He was not supposed to be here; he was not supposed to be playing this game of chess. He was supposed to be with Eliza, enjoying a happy but boring life together, where there was no chance for adventure, no scope for wealthiness; only contentment in a world satisfied by family and settling for less. But the CRU were marching towards them with wicked speed and any life he should have had was dead to him. If he were to stand any chance of survival, it had to be.
“Do you have a better idea?” Jack asked, suppressing the panic in his voice.
“Yes,” he emphasised his tone, “Get them out of here - at least they’ll stand a fucking chance!”
Jack nodded, “Do it.”
He hung back in the corner and watched Brian shepherd the fresh meat through the backdoor. A cold air spilled in and Jack took it as a forewarning of things to come. Once the meat had left, they too had to leave. For the moment, his concern was supposed to be primarily for the new recruits; but he was not that much of a hardened soldier yet. Heart rattling against his ribcage, adrenaline pumping through his blood, Jack’s only concern was to leave.
Brian returned momentarily from the backdoor.
“They’ve gone,” his tone was heavy, “We should leave too.”
Jack grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and headed towards the back, switching off the lights as he went. The CRU would probably find the place and comb through it in fine detail, but whatever they found, Jack aimed to be far away before that time came.
Out in the cold of the alleyway, Jack’s breath burst into clouds of fog. He turned to Brian.
“Make your way back to your safehouse,” he said, “Tell them it’s too dangerous to be holding meetings at the moment. These guys want to join, they want to do something - but we probably just lost any support because we are too vulnerable.”
Brian nodded in agreement, “Good luck,” he said, before tottering off down towards the street.
Jack’s concentration lapsed for a moment and he watched Brian meander off into public view. For a very sad second he contemplated that he would never see Brian again. Any second now pairs of hands could seize him and cart his tortured body off to prison. The same could be said of Jack himself; and it was that sobering thought that rekindled the energy in his legs for the march home.
It was as dark as ever; February was fast becoming March with no sign of improvement to the evening light. It was torturous to be kept in the shadows, both psychologically and physically. At the end of the alleyway he stopped, chancing for a better view along the main road. The brick building he leaned against gleamed with damp.
With one eye peering round the corner, he spotted three CRU officers talking to someone. They were laughing and joking in a familiar way. Jack ducked back out of sight and took several deep breaths. He was just Harry Kirk, on his way home from his girlfriend’s. He stepped out on to the main road and continued walking down the sodden pavement. Casually; he had to exude ease and calm.
Back in the safehouse, he found Emma leaning over a pot of boiling water. She flexed her arm enthusiastically.
“Feeling much better?” Jack said, running a hand through his soaked hair. He was relieved to be home.
“Still not a hundred percent though, I can’t move it beyond a certain point and it’s still incredibly painful,” she said, pouring a sachet of dried goods into the pan. “How did recruitment go?”
“Pathetically,” he slumped into the sofa, shoving Emma’s bedsheets out of the way. It was enjoyable having her around, but at times he missed the comforts of a real home. Drizzling down with rain, tonight was one of those times.
“What do you mean?”
“They aren’t fighters,” Jack rubbed his eyes, “They’re scared children and frightened pensioners, what can we do with that?”
“Don’t underestimate who your allies are, and never undervalue them,” she called from the kitchen.
“You didn’t see them,” he complained further still.
“Not them specifically,” she said, “But I saw one a few months ago, pathetic he was. Didn’t even know if he wanted to stay for the training, just kept on clinging on to this void hope of life just returning to normal.”
It was quite clear who Emma was referring to, and he wasn’t standing for it.
“You’re so fucking self righteous, aren’t you? he said, “It’s getting pretty old now.”
Emma appeared in front of him within a split second, “I’ve been here years longer than you and I joined voluntarily. Don’t try to fucking claim I’m being self righteous by being optimistic. Sure, Jack always has a shit time of it. That’s the way the world works. Getting pretty old of that now myself.”
Jack narrowed his eyes, “Piss off.”
“Just get a bloody back bone, Jack,” she spat, “Life’s shit, so deal with it. You can’t just write these guys off on first impressions - and right now we shouldn’t be writing anyone off. We need all the help we can get.”
He leant his head back on the cushion behind him. She was irritatingly right.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said, “The CRU came, so we had to disband. I doubt any of them will return.”
“Was anyone caught?”
“No,” he said, “Luckily we had an early warning system in Brian.”
“Balding little chap?”
Jack nodded.
“He’s excellent. I’m glad he’s safe. He was a right laugh when…” he tone dropped, “When he was on missions with me and my brother.”
Jack cut his baggage loose and turned his attention to her, “Are you alright?”
Emma smiled vaguely and turned her attention back to the boiling pan of powdered food. Jack took this as a sign that he was not to ask any further questions.
After a few minutes silence, Emma spoke again.
“Still, pathetic recruits are the least of our problems,” she returned with a bowl of flavoured noodles in one hand and a newspaper in the other; the latter dropping onto Jack’s lap.
The front headline shouted out at him.
Cabinet Reshuffle - Meet the Newbies
Below were three pictures of the politicians themselves, taken in action-shots as they marched down the street, reeking of professionalism in their smart attire. Helene Mycroft, Martin Sandilands and Quentin Robson were pristinely pruned and well groomed. Mycroft would be leading Education whilst Sandilands would be heading up Defence and Robson was now Home Secretary.
“How is this bad?” Jack asked Emma, who was munching away.
“Helene Mycroft is renowned for being fierce when it comes to the proper way to educate. I reckon we can expect a big change coming there, and not for the better. Sandilands isn’t a huge worry, but this Robson guy… someone told me he was a right terror to work with. And look where he is at!”
Jack looked back at the photograph of the man. He was in his fifties or sixties and carried a smug second chin, though he wasn’t fat anywhere else. He turned overleaf to read more about the three stooges.
Helene Mycroft, according to her heavily censored biographic, was in her late thirties, and became an MP having worked for several years in the advertising industry. She had three school age children. The more Jack read about her, the more certain he was that she was one of those delightful school-run mums that drove their five year home in a four wheel drive. Maybe it was because she was automatically on the other side, but he didn’t
trust the sight of her.
Martin Sandilands was a bit of a non-event of a man. The newspaper couldn’t even bring themselves to invent a character for him. He was in his sixties and that was nearly the only information they had on the man. In terms of marital affairs, it simply stated divorced.
Quentin Robson’s biographic was a maze to decipher. He was portrayed as a man of great wisdom, having spent years teaching as a professor at the University of Oxford. There he was captain of the rugby team and met his wife, with whom he has five children with. Jack struggled to find a reason to hate the man as he knew he should. Even the picture, taken at the family’s latest garden party, was more quaint than socially domineering. Quentin and his wife, Rosie, had lined up their children and friends for a huge school-style photograph. Jack read the names of his children before continuing with the guest list from left to right. Francis Pierre, Lyle Castle, Harold Manson, Pamela Wilkinson, Julian Syme…
His finger stopped over Julian’s name. It couldn’t be true. His eyes traced up to the photograph again and sure enough the man was standing there, broadly grinning next to Pamela Wilkinson. Julian Syme.
“Disgusting isn’t it,” Emma looked over his shoulder, “That there are families out there hosting annual garden parties whilst others scrape for food in bins.”
“Yeah,” Jack said vacantly, a thought forming in his mind that refused to leave.
As midnight chimed from the nearby church, Jack lay staring up at the ceiling. Lana was in deep slumber in the bed above. That was the system they’d agreed; Lana on the bed, Jack sleeping uncomfortably on the floor. Tonight, he was even more uncomfortable than usual. Every few minutes he shifted position, tossing and turning in plight of cosiness. But the pins and needles in his arm was not what was keeping him from sleep.
The thought churned in his mind like butter. He despised himself for even contemplating it, but in his heart he knew that it was a good idea. Julian Syme was friends with the new minister for Home Secretary. He could not help but smile at the prospect of revealing to Alex the value of his asset. But there was more than the five hundred a month that he could extract from the man. The stakes were higher. They were no longer about financial support. Julian was in a perfect position to act as a double agent, siphoning off information from Robson and relaying it to The Resistance. Granted, the man might not know much about his friend’s new job at present, but that was an obstacle Julian needed to overcome.
However, the obstacle in Jack’s current path was whether Julian would even agree. Blackmail carried enough weight to extort five hundred a month, but was this new request really worthy of that same price? Did Julian even care that much about the scandal his family might suffer from if the truth were to be revealed? Could his friends in high places not make the matter simply disappear? Fear of social repercussions was not enough, not this time. Jack needed to use something he hadn’t ever used before; something he was naturally averse to but somewhere at the back of his mind this impossible choice was merely a construct in his own mind, peeved by a life that he no longer had the luxury of enjoying. If there was one thing that was ever going to persuade Julian Syme to report on his friend’s political activities, it was threat. And Jack knew exactly where to hurt him most.
He rose from his crumpled heap of sheets and out into the tiny hallway, keeping quiet so as not to wake either Emma or Lana. He took out his phone and dialled the only number he knew.
“Brian,” he whispered.
“What’s wrong?” sleep dripping from his anxious tone.
“I need you to check out everything you can about a Saskia Syme,” he asked, “Call me when you have something.”
The calm water melted by. Carcasses of weeping willows, dipping their scalped fingers into the cool river, they traced little tremors in the otherwise smooth glass. Little pale icebergs floated peacefully by as mute reminders of a harsh winter now passed.
Despite the years of degradation that weighed it down, there was no other word to describe Oxford but quaint. Quaint little shops sandwiched between quaint little cafes down quaint little roads that ran circles around quaint university buildings, broken up by the quaint little river. Quaint though it was, there was a smug atmosphere of superiority. This was a town for the intelligent, for the disgustingly wealthy that could still, despite everything, afford tuition for whimsical social sciences and the Bullingdon Club. Jack knew he was a stranger to every single person in this town. Far from relative poverty he had grown up in, he had never been close to privilege and it was privilege that smothered Oxford like syrup. Though it was not an ostentatious syrup, but a meek smothering that covered every crevice. Jack Blackwood did not belong here, neither did Steven Murray; but Harry Kirk was a gentleman with all the right attributes.
Jack exhaled deeply, he’d been trying to quell his nerves all day. He had been building up to this day for a week now, ever since he received the call from Brian. His plan had been forming and fermenting as his conscience bubbled with repulsion and disgust. For every con he saw to his plan, he reassured it by reminding himself why he was doing this. Somehow, though his reasons were never good enough, he was now leaning on the ice cold wall by the river Thames as it flowed majestically through the university town. Saskia Syme’s favourite spot, according to sources. Jack declined to know which - he despised the mere thought that the information was freely available. Instead, he simply waited to catch his prey.
He wasn’t at all sure when she would arrive, if she would at all. When, or even if she did at all, then the rest would pan out ad-lib. From there he was in deep waters and he was not a skilled swimmer. Still, it was a plan and a better plan than any of the others were putting together. Emma was still with injury and had not left the flat yet. Lana was scarcely home and Jack had a suspicious feeling she was planning something against the GD as she was out more frequently than usual and refused to answer any questions when directed at her. Jack was quite exhausted from life at the flat - the sub-life of hiding, resting and eating powdered meals. It was clear that Lana and Emma did not like each other and no amount of effort on Jack’s part was going to change that. He didn’t much care why, he just hated the hassle and the atmosphere it created.
A group of women stalked by, Jack clocked their faces but none of them were Saskia. He pulled the small picture of her out of his inner jacket pocket. Brian had printed her social media profile for him. She was very pretty. Blond curly hair framed her petite features; bright blue eyes sparkling beneath her parting. According to Brian she was only nineteen and studied Philosophy at Oxford. He shouldn’t know this, not about a stranger. He felt uncomfortable by it. But his discomfort was not what this was about. The greater good, as Alex would have put it, was worth more than the cost of his conscience.
Jack fidgeted with a crumbling part of the wall. He watched as the dust avalanched into the frosted grass below. He wondered what he was going to say when he first saw her, if anything at all. Perhaps it was more prudent to wait until the right time. Stalking the girl was not the option, he needed to be clever. He needed to be charming. At this point his chest yearned for Eliza. He’d been burying his feelings for her deeply of late, but with all his strength, she could not be blocked out now. He missed her tremendously. There were times where he’d thought to call the house, even if it were just to hear her voice as she picked up. But he couldn’t risk it. Protecting Eliza was his prime concern; it was the reason he was here… and yet… something inside him stirred. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t even lust. It wasn’t truth, it wasn’t even specifically justice… he could hardly describe the whirlwind of emotions he felt. But his motives were not solely for Eliza; not anymore.
A girl giggled behind him. He turned around and his heart leapt a little. Blond hair atop a tiny frame was throwing bread to the desperate ducks. She turned to her friend behind her and grinned victoriously as the ducks waddled their way. Crystal blue eyes met and Jack instantly felt sick. He smiled from the corner of his mouth, but there the smiled ende
d and the bastard began.
Leaning casually back against the wall, he watched with cheerful exterior as the girls fed the remainder of bread to the ducks. He idly thought how kind it was of them to give away what they couldn’t afford to creatures less able; and then he bitterly remembered the wealth her family enjoyed. Still, the joy in her heart was genuine and her generosity vastly outpaced her father’s shrewd Ration fraud.
For the next ten minutes they fed the ducks before settling down onto a nearby bench, laughing and giggling even more enthusiastically. Jack maintained a flirtatious gaze, though even he was doubtful that it came across as anything but creepy.
He saw them looking at him and thankfully they were only continued to giggle, though even that was becoming rather tiresome. As he wondered what to do, he was also aware that his time was limited. Girls became bored of attention if it was never developed and it was at this point that he reminded himself that he wasn’t Jack or even Steven, both pathetic when it came to reading women, but Harry Kirk… and he could be anything he wanted to be, just for one day.
The cold biting his fingertips, he traversed the short distance between himself and the girls. As he approached, the smiles faded from their faces and their heads turned in synchronous to him.
“Sorry,” he scratched the back of his neck in what he hoped to be perceived as charmingly nervous, “I saw you from over there… and… I just had to say hello… well no that’s not strictly true, I saw you the other day… and the day after that and I’ve been fascinated with you ever since.”
Jack stared right past her friend, and directly into Saskia’s dazzling eyes. She blushed, her cheeks a fine shade of rose.