by S. G Mark
Jack advanced a few feet. He was on the other side of the man’s desk and could read the scrawling handwriting, invoice summaries and sarcastic memos he had left for himself.
“Call them and you’ll put yourself in prison. Then your wife. Then your daughter,” Jack said slowly, “Make that call and you’ll be saying goodbye to all of this… thanks to your friends, it’d be all forfeit to the state. Even if there was a slim chance they didn’t link your daughter to me - and believe me, I’d make it up just to spite you - then she would be left with nothing. No silverware at dinner. No second reception room. Nothing.”
Julian’s hand went limp.
“I will drag you down to the gutter,” Jack’s threat was honeyed, “So you had better sit down and listen to exactly what you have to do.”
He fell into his leather chair and drowned his face in his plump palms. He inhaled, his entire body shivering.
Jack knelt down next to him, lowering his voice, “Julian, we own you now. I own you. Do as I say and she won’t be harmed.”
“How could you, she’s innocent, she’s only a child,” he sobbed through his sweaty fingers.
Jack bit the inside of his lip, the pain reverberating back to his brain, keeping him in check. Yes, she was a child and yes she was innocent. But then so were a lot of other people.
“I need to you to trust me,” he said, “I need you to believe that above all else, if you do as I ask, then I will never harm your family.”
“I can’t afford to give you any more money,” he spat.
“Half the money,” Jack said, offering a compromise he was sure couldn’t be refused, “Half the money and all you have to do is talk to your friends. One, in particular.”
The whites of Julian’s eyes flashed through the grating of his fingers.
“Quentin,” Jack said, “You tell me about him. You tell me who he is, what he has planned and what his weaknesses are. Do that, and I won’t harm Saskia. Your family will never suffer. I can promise you that.”
“Why? Why are you doing this? For what - revenge because someone stole your Rations? Revenge because you’re jobless? It isn’t Quentin’s fault, it isn’t anyone’s fault! What do you lot want?”
“I’m going to ask you a question, but I don’t want you to answer,” he said carefully, “What brings a man to war? I’ll give you a clue, just one. Money orders men to war, but it rarely ever calls them to it.”
He straightened up and wiped his brow on a tissue he swiped from a chrome box on Julian’s desk. Cowering in his chair, Julian was visibly trying to discover his own strength.
“That’s all you want from me?” he eventually said, “Just information and a bit of cash?”
“Sell your friends and buy your family,” Jack said, “It’s as simple as that.”
Julian took a few deep breaths; Jack could hear his brain processing his decision, “How often? How often do you want this information?”
“Initially, I want you to tell me everything you know currently about the man tonight. Then, I think I’ll drop by monthly.”
“And what if I don’t have anything new to tell you?”
“What indeed,” Jack said, perusing a delicate pen he found on the desk. It was inscribed with Julian’s initials.
Unfocused and partially obscured in shadow, Jack watched Julian’s body quiver behind the gilt initials.
“We went to Oxford together,” Julian cleared his throat, “I didn’t know him until our second year…”
February melted into March. Gusts of wind served as piercing reminders that summer was still out of reach. The laws had been passed in this time that meant the government could seize the assets of anyone brought in by the CRU. The riots that Jack and Lana witnessed were never mentioned in the media.
“Couldn’t even be bothered to lie about it,” Lana said, “Just pretend it didn’t happen.”
It came as no surprise to Jack, however. Blackmail was a skill he wished he never had, but the sad fact was the he was good at it. That was the worst of it; not that he was even doing it in the first place, merely that he was successful.
He had met with Julian three subsequent times. Every occasion had proved fruitful. In addition to Quentin’s background, Jack was made aware of when certain bills would be passed in advance and took measures to inform the rest of the organisation. Lana had eyed him suspiciously when she heard, probing him for the source of his information. Julian had also provided Jack with two further pieces of information that Jack was cherishing to himself for the time being. They did not immediately affect day to day operations, they were more ideas rather than implementations. Both unnerved Jack. Even Julian’s eyes could not disguise his disgust and in that moment Jack reserved a fragment of respect for the man.
Presently, Jack was propping up the bar with a glass of what he described as well earned whisky. It was the first drink he had since the crippling two-day hangover. Surprisingly, it didn’t taste as much like sick as he expected it to.
Dropping some change to the barman, he leant back, effortlessly confident.
“Long evening ahead of you,” Jack said.
The barman glanced up.
“Yeah, well it’s a Friday night, innit,” he said, juggling some glasses.
Swirling the whisky inside like a mouthwash, Jack gulped it back and continued his tread, “Why is it, do you think, that in a world of crippling debt, the bars are always open?”
“People like to get drunk,” the barman said, “So long as they do, I’ve got a job for life.”
Jack felt a familiar sensation in his chest. Despair returned, routed from another cause outwith The Resistance and the futility of his own failing personal life. He recalled his pathetic career of dead end jobs and sighed. A year ago he had been resigned to a lifetime of casual work with no hope of progression and no future to boot. Things will get better, they always said. But they never did, and were never going to.
“Don’t you wish you could be doing something better?” he asked, “Something worthwhile?”
The barman shrugged, “I get free booze occasionally, what’s not to like.”
Jack leant in on the bar and took the time to figure out what he was going to say next. A part of him wanted to just tell the man about The Resistance, the brutality of the government and the manipulation of society through the media.
“Don’t you think there’s anything better for you out there?” he asked, “Don’t you remember growing up with ambition and achievement?”
The barman shrugged again, “What does it matter? We’re all in the shit now.”
“What if you could change that?”
The bartender shot him an odd, inquiring look, “I don’t want any trouble,” he said cautiously.
“And you won’t have any,” Jack ceased the conversation, taking his drink over to an empty booth at the back, a cemented feeling of despair settling into hopelessness.
Everyone in The Resistance wanted to be there, but everyone he spoke to outside of the organisation returned him the same quizzical looks; questioning his character and judgement merely for posing the question that life could change for the better. It was almost like they associated any change, good or bad, as being intertwined with terrorism, crime and immorality. The way things are the way things are - that was the motto of the modern Britain. Maybe it was the motto of women before the Suffragists. Maybe it was the motto of Black people before Martin Luther King. Maybe it was just the motto of the narrow minded, apathetic fools that he used to rank himself amongst.
Hypocrisy could be acknowledged, and discarded. In many instances, Jack was unkeen to do either; today he was too angry to be humble. It had been a long February and an even longer year. He missed home, he even missed the basic comforts of Headquarters. As he sipped his Julian-Syme funded whisky, he thought of those he’d grown to know at HQ. The farm boy, Aiden, and his father Joseph. Were they still around? What had become of the countryside? He hadn’t seen or heard from Kyle since leaving him at th
e station in Leeds. He knew Emma had been in touch a few weeks ago, but heaven forbid he was worthy enough to be privy to their whispered words on the telephone.
Closing his eyes, he tried to shut out the world, even for a second. It was impossible. The cackle of a woman’s laughter, the snort of a man’s self importance; the clinking of glasses, the jingle of the till; the sirens sweeping by outside and the steady flow of chatter like a crashing river reverberating through the valley. He was exhausted and for one measly hour he wanted nothing more than to be Jack Blackwood, pathetic excuse for a human being and bonafide selfish cunt.
Extracting his mobile from his pocket, he examined it routinely. Her number was just an internet few searches away. He still had access to his old email, though Alex had forbidden him to use it. Somewhere out there in the world wide web, was a little trail of identity that led back to him. Insignificant traces of Jack Blackwood, of comments on news articles to user details on shopping websites, reviews of products and of course the social media accounts. The latter were outright verboten. Even in the unlikelihood Alex hadn’t deleted them, Jack didn’t want to know what remained of his public self. Would there be messages left by his friends, emotionally wrecked at his absence? Had that chapter passed, only to be replaced by bitter anger at his continued silence? They were questions Jack was reluctant to answer. But still he toyed with the idea, almost as if to reinforce his desire for ignorance.
Though Jack Blackwood could be shut away and contained within a few lines of HTML code, there was one aspect of his abandoned life that he struggled to forget. As time drifted by and as the revolutionary days greyed into one, Eliza shone as the brightest, and quietest, star. He scarcely remembered the last words to her - that time was stolen from him - but he there were three words that stood out most to him that evening.
“I love you,” he had said, and he remembered kissing her on the cheek, or was it the forehead? Memories were so precious and yet so easily deceived.
Occasionally he remembered her waking from her slumber and slurring a sleepy reply, “Me too.”
Memories, too, could be fabricated.
As much as it was painful to be without her, he knew that what he was fighting for would bring them together - in an age where they would never have to look over their shoulder, never have to run and have nothing to fear. Every effort, every step taken, he was doing it for her, for them. He glanced up at the barman and caught his eye. The latter glanced away quickly.
Jack sighed and wiped his eyes with his fingers. Exhaustion did not define how he felt; this ran deeper than the bags under his eyes and the frequent yawns. It was encrusted on his bones, a grey hue on his skin. And so returned the thoughts he continually batted away. Futility was an enemy almost as big as the one they were all facing. It was the end of March and in his time with The Resistance the fight had only become harder. There were no great victories to claim and as consequence to the stringent new laws, there was no tsunami of members willing to risk their lives for a faceless organisation. They were no sooner to ending this battle than when he had first joined it. In all this time he had never expected total revolution, but the tectonic plates had barely shifted in either direction. All those deaths, all this suffering: for nothing.
The phone buzzed on the table in front of him. Unknown number. He picked it up.
“I need you to get me a drink from the bar, I fancy an Old Fashioned,” it was Kyle, and he hung up instantly.
Jack downed the dregs of his drink and wandered up to the bar.
The barman eyed him as he served another customer. Jack slouched on the bar and toyed with a coaster. His heartbeat was elevated with anticipation. He hadn’t heard from Kyle in months, why contact him today? And why like this?
“Another?” the barman indicated to the bottle of cheap whisky he’d served Jack the first time.
“No, I think I’ll have an Old Fashioned,” Jack said.
The barman suppressed a laugh, “We don’t really do cocktails.”
“I really want an Old Fashioned though,” Jack leant towards the man, trying to put across a point even he wasn’t clear on.
Regardless, the barman raised his eyebrow slightly and seemed to understand the messaged Jack had conveyed.
“Maybe I could make something similar,” he said, “Would your friend like one also?”
A hand slumped onto Jack’s shoulder - he jumped and nearly fell off his barstool.
“Fucksake, what are you doing here?” Jack clamoured back into the chair.
Kyle was grinning back at him, merrily.
“Is that for me?” he pointed at the glass the barman had just slid across the bar.
“What the fuck are you playing at? I nearly revealed too much to that barman!” Jack seethed at him as soon as they had returned to the booth. He’d ordered a double whisky, just to handle the shock.
“What the fuck possessed you to do that?”
“You asked me for an Old Fashioned! I thought it was code,” he emphasised the last word by lowering his tone, “Why didn’t you just come in and get it yourself?”
“Saves time,” Kyle smiled, knocking back a gulp, “Besides, you can never tell how rammed these places can be.”
“I could kill you,” Jack sat back, gazing at his violently shaking hand.
“You weren’t really going to mention anything were you?” Kyle said, anxiously.
“I don’t know,” Jack sighed, “I really don’t know.”
“Fucksake, Jack,” Kyle’s smiled morphed commandingly, “You really need to be less fucking stupid if you’re going to last long.”
“Remember I’ve not exactly had the proper training,” Jack hit back.
Kyle stared at him disappointedly, “You were the one who wanted to leave training early. You were the one who wanted out there in the big wide world.”
“And you took me to a goddamn bloodbath,” Jack clutched his glass of whisky, feeding his energy into it so much he thought it may break.
There were a few moments of silence before Kyle gulped an apology.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “That was never my intention. But this is where we stand now. Neither of us can go back in time and change that. What’s done is done, we just have to deal with it… and I thought you had.”
Jack looked at him and wondered what Emma had told him in all their secluded conversations.
“I’m really proud of what you’ve achieved these past few months,” he continued, “The funding you found for us is the height of gossip.”
“Is it?” Jack had never revealed to anyone exactly how he was obtaining the money.
“But what’s really grabbed our attention is the information you’ve been leaked. It’s been invaluable.”
Jack stared back at him, emotionlessly on the surface, but searing with a twisted sense of pride and accomplishment.
“What’s your secret?” Kyle’s grin returned.
“A secret,” Jack took a sip of whisky.
Kyle raised his own glass, “To secrets.”
Jack chinked his glass against Kyle’s and the two men steered away from serious conversation for what felt like the first time in decades. For a few precious minutes they were discussing the good old times; their wild post-university days and the fun things they got up to. Kyle reminded Jack of several late nights he’d blacked out or had happily forgotten - most notably of the occasion where Jack had accidentally seduced Kyle’s landlady, whose husband consequently became upset and threatened him with fists.
“I was just being polite to her!” Jack stressed, laughing uncontrollably, “It wasn’t my fault that good manners turned her on!”
“That’s… gross… what a fetish.”
But their laughter quickly faded when they caught each other’s tired, grey eyes. Their youth was a million years behind them, and adulthood had hit them faster and harder than expected. Instead of mulling over options of mortgages and starting families, they were living secret lives, forging criminal and dangerous
minds. Jack was blackmailing a perfectly nice, if selfish, man whose daughter he’d fucked just to get information on rich politician he’d almost certainly never meet. Kyle was a killer. Kyle was a dab hand at the sniper rifle; his mind dealt in body counts, mitigating risks and accepting necessary casualties.
“I miss those days,” Kyle said solemnly.
“Me too,” touched by the sombre moment.
The nostalgia had concluded, and there was now only business to discuss.
“You’re alright, aren’t you?” Kyle’s tone shifted, “This… person you’re getting the information from, are you sure about them?”
“Yes,” Jack said, resolutely, “I’m absolutely sure of him.”
Poor, pathetic Julian. His reigns were taut.
“And down here, you’re fine?
“Yes,” he said, “I’m with Emma. But then you probably already knew that.”
Kyle couldn’t have lied even if he tried, “We’ve been in contact. Which is why I’m here, really.”
“And here’s me thinking this was a friendly catch up on the good old times,” Jack shook his head. He’d seen it coming, but somehow he felt a little used. Two months he’d been isolated in the concrete jungle without even the slightest bit of contact from Kyle and after ten minutes of chatting it was time to throw aside the friendship and ship in the battle tactics.
“Jack, don’t be like that,” he said, “You know what’s at stake.”
“Go on then, what do you want from me?”
Kyle glided over the bitterness like a bird of prey swooping through a meadow, “I need you to do something for me. We need to extract one of our guys and take him to a safehouse.”
“When do you want this done?”
“Tonight.”
“Where is he and where do you want me to take him?”
“A village near Newcastle. We want him taken to a place in Sheffield,” he said.
Jack was taken aback, “You want me to leave tonight?”