The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

Kyle slid a train ticket and an ID card across the table, partially covered by his palms.

  “The train leaves in an hour,” he said, “Got you first class tickets so you’ll be fast tracked through security.”

  “So you assumed that I’d just say yes?” Jack was annoyed at Kyle.

  “You always do,” Kyle smiled understandingly

  Finishing their drinks, twenty minutes later they were at King's Cross Station. Kyle was leaving London tonight as well, though to where was not something Jack was worthy of knowing. The walk to the station was laced in tension. Jack was angry at Kyle’s assumption that he had no other plans and that he would leap to Kyle’s tune. It made him even more angry that he actually did.

  As they arrived at the departure boards and spotted their respective platforms, the two men turned to each other. Kyle handed Jack a small piece of paper.

  “This is the man’s name and address. Memorise it and then shred it.”

  Jack took it. John Malcolm, 43 Rothbury Avenue, Blyth.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Kyle asked, concern returning to his tone.

  “Yes,” Jack said, though he was quite certain he was lying.

  “He’ll be expecting you. Just go there and take him where you need to,” he explained, “It should be fairly simple.”

  “Where’s the safehouse in Sheffield?”

  “Someone will be there to meet you at the station,” Kyle said.

  It was then that, from across the station, Jack spotted a pair of eyes that instantly magnetised to his. Through the thralling crowd of passengers and security personnel, Julian’s powerful gaze penetrated all.

  Panicking, Jack stepped back from Kyle and hastily looked at the boards again to ensure he had the right platform.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” he said, turning away from Kyle and speeding towards the platform.

  He could sense Julian following him. His shadow was omnipresent.

  “Harry!”

  Jack winced. This was the last thing he needed right now. Surveillance keenly watching his every moments; two Resistance members conversing in public with police and CRU officers swarming around them like wasps at a picnic. He pretended he didn’t hear anything. The platform gate was a few metres away.

  “Harry!” Julian yelled again.

  Quickening his pace, he once again ignored it. But the little bugger was persistent.

  “Harry!” this time his voice was much closer.

  Unable to resist, Jack whirled round on the spot and before his eyes locked on to Julian’s they swept a glance at Kyle who was staring at the exchange.

  “Harry,” Julian said in a quieter tone, “What are you doing here?”

  Furious, Jack spat back a reply, “Walk away right now. You mistook me for someone else.”

  “Are you leaving permanently?” Julian asked defiantly, and almost optimistically.

  “You don’t get to know anything of what I’m doing,” he said, turning around to continue his on his way.

  “Why are you going to Newcastle?”

  Jack ignored him completely this time and marched through the barriers. He knew that Kyle had stayed to watch the whole event unfold and wondered what questions he would pose to him when they next met. But he had little time to dwell on that for he was now alighting on to the train and was finding his seat within the pristine first class section, inhabited by rich bankers and precious middle class couples. He took his seat by the window and silently thanked Kyle for choosing an individual table away from the prying eyes of his fellow passengers.

  As the whistle blew and the train took off he sighed with a gentle relief that for the next few hours he would be secluded from reality. It was just him, the train and endless fields until Newcastle and only his thoughts to entertain him.

  Past York, he examined the new ID card Kyle had given him. Harry Kirk was stuffed into the secret compartment of his wallet and would remain dormant until Jack’s return to London. Right now he was Simon Jamieson, a twenty-seven year old from Edinburgh. At least in this adventure he wouldn’t have to lie as much as he was used to. Exhaustion painted everything in a dull light. Presently, he felt too drained to even remember his own birth name. The public palpitations had ceased several weeks ago. He was cool, calm - collected even - but the fear had subsided to make way for an unending fatigue. At least he was back on the road and doing something again. Recently his life had become a routine of recruitment drives, blackmail exchanges with Julian and playing diplomat between the two women in his life. It was nice to be on a train to somewhere completely different on a mission to do something more meaningful than lying to eighteen year olds about how they could make a difference if they joined the Resistance.

  First Class was barely distinguishable to standard carriage, with one exception. His fellow travellers were all very well fed and smartly dressed. From his hours spent riding the Tube at strange hours of the day, he was used to sharing this space with weirdos offering drugs or merely shoving paper cups of coppers under his nose. As much as they would hound him down with the full force of the CRU and would rejoice to see him hanging from rope in Newcastle town centre, it was pleasant to travel with the kind of people whose first instinct was not to try and mug you.

  They pulled into Newcastle station at just before eight o’clock. Security queues lined the wall thrice-fold for the standard class passengers. For First Class travellers, they were escorted directly to their own private security gate where Jack waited not much more than a few minutes before his ID card was checked and screened. Out of the other side, he joined a queue outside the station as it waited for the bus to Blyth.

  Jack didn’t have the first clue as to where he was going - other than the address that he’d memorised. Halfway through the journey, Jack had ventured for a walk along the carriage and had thrown the paper out the train window. He had no idea what the man looked like, what kind of terrain the house was on and what the simplest escape route would be. It was already fairly late in the evening and Jack didn’t understand how Kyle expected him to use public transport as a means of rescue. And then that’s when it hit him exactly how ignorant he was being. Jack Blackwood: country’s most naive terrorist.

  Slipping out of the queue, he followed the dimly-lit road towards the multi-storey carpark. A few Unsightlies were hanging around in the shadows; lit cigarettes like stars in a sea of seedy darkness. He kept his head low as he skidded to evade the carefully placed CCTV cameras, entering the covered car park on the second floor and walking casually across the concrete in quiet hunt for the perfect car.

  Lana had taught him grand theft auto. It was part of her training for how to survive in London. He knew how to enter the vehicle silently; so it was in a matter of moments after he found the perfect getaway car that he was hot wiring a dark blue Kia and driving along the roads to Blyth.

  The dark night had set in. Radiant gold dots steered him from bleary eyed moments of weakness. The city’s boundary patrol smiled and allowed him passage when he explained he was meeting his girlfriend at a cottage along the coast. Lies were always best when they were heartwarming. As he turned into the flyway to Blyth, Jack slapped himself awake. It had been a long day and he wished he’d caught some sleep on the train.

  Blyth was an oddity of a settlement. It was very much a former mining village. Many residents were still stalking the streets an hour before ShutDown as if they were zombies minutes before dawn. Half of them were splashing around bottles of cheap vodka, occasionally spilling their legs onto the road such that every other car had to nervously swing to the right to escape a manslaughter charge. As he turned out of the centre, however, he was met with a sad sight. Line after line of homeless people were sitting along the kerb, wrapping themselves to keep warm with their meagre rags and frayed jackets. In a floodlit football pitch, Jack spotted several rows of tents by the goalposts. Further down the road, charcoaled buildings lay in ruins; evidence of a rebellious riot that no doubt never made the headlines. London itself was
a motley of poor; but the rich still far outweighed the destitute. Never before had Jack appreciated the divide between North and South until he saw a young mother of three cram her children into the boot of a car and tuck them in good night.

  Rothbury Avenue. By far the quietest street he had ventured down thus far. A few curtains twitched with anticipation as he slowed in his approach to number forty-three. He pulled up and felt numerous eyes upon him. By now, he was used to unwanted, prying eyes; only in London there were more places to hide.

  Number forty-three was identical to every other house in the street. It was a mirror image of its semi-detached neighbour, forty-one. Stepping over a smashed pot plant that lay strewn across the ice-encrusted flagstone pathway, Jack made his way to the front door and rang the bell, inhaling deeply to remind himself of what his job was and who he must pretend to be.

  A cosy light from within burst into life. Moments later, the door opened and a tubby little man smiled nervously back at him.

  “John Malcolm?”

  “Yes,” the man said quietly.

  Brushing past the man, Jack let himself in and immediately found his way to the kitchen where he helped himself to a glass of water. On the dining table he saw an open suitcase with clothes stacked on top. It was the only neat corner of the room. Dirty dishes were piled up on the sink; rubbish bags lined the back doorway. John Malcolm was not in a hurry to clean up after himself. The walls told another story for upon them were hundreds of photographs of John and his family. Many of them were crammed into giant collages, themed by year or colour, but the more special ones had their own dedicated frame. John on his wedding day. John and his children, not more than a few hours old in each. As he turned to meet the man’s eye, he felt a quiver of admiration poisoned by envy for a man who would sacrifice his family for his country.

  “You’re the one they sent?” John was a stuttering wreck, “I packed. I didn’t know what I needed, so I just packed essentials.”

  “I’m sure where you’ll be going you will be quite fine,” Jack reassured him in a forced tone, “Are you nearly ready? My car is out front.”

  “Yes,” John turned nervously and took in one last view of his kitchen, “Sorry. It’s just… goodbye.”

  “It’s a luxury some of us never had,” he said, filling another glass of water.

  “Polly,” he began, “My wife, she is visiting her sister. Toby and Jenna are at friends. I didn’t even have a chance to say a proper goodbye, not a meaningful one. Jenna just left without a word, Toby muttered something incoherent and I simply kissed Polly on the cheek. It’s a poor show for a husband and father they might never see again.”

  Jack placed the water by the sink, “You will see them again. I’ll make sure of it.”

  John nodded unconvincingly, “Give me a few minutes.”

  “Okay,” Jack said, taking another sip of water as John, sweat-patches and all, wandered through the hallway and creaked up the staircase.

  The house was quiet, save the occasional squeaking floorboard as John’s weight battled against gravity. Though he hated himself for thinking it, there was no avoiding the issue. What use was John for The Resistance? First impression was a nervous fat man. Mentally, Jack noted how long he would last in the wild. It was more than likely he’d be another Six Weeker. The CRU would probably catch him on his first time out of the safehouse. What good were recruits like these? Too fat to run, too stupid to outwit anyone.

  Jack sighed and placed his glass in the sink. Polly would get to it when she got back, probably believing her husband was lying asleep upstairs or comatose watching television. Maybe it would take her an hour to realise he was gone, maybe longer. Jenna and Toby probably wouldn’t even care for the first few days.

  Waddling, John returned, a fresh coat of body spray applied. He sighed heftily.

  “I’m ready,” he said, zipping his suitcase closed.

  The lights blacked out. At first Jack thought ShutDown had arrived early, but then he heard the smashing of glass and shouting voices emanating from the front lawn. Rods of torchlight penetrated the hallway. Jack instinctively grabbed John and pulled him aside as a couple of stray bullets pierced the school photographs in the hallway.

  “Oh god! Oh god!” John was stammering, tears already streaming down his cheeks. “They knew! They knew! Please, help me!”

  John had grabbed Jack’s collar tightly and Jack hardly needed compassion to respond. The blithering idiot and he were both in serious danger.

  “The back garden - is there a way out?”

  John nodded furiously, “There’s a wood! We can lose them in there!”

  Jack heaved the man to his feet just as he heard the front door crash in on itself and a flood of footsteps filled the hallway. Keeping cool, Jack kicked the back door open, cold air swarming around them, he leapt out into the garden, ducking low into the shadows. As he turned he saw John struggling with his suitcase through the threshold.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he screamed back at the man, “Drop it! Now!”

  But it was too late. Several armed men dressed in black, preceded by their impenetrable torch beams, stormed into the kitchen. Jack hadn’t the time to think; his survival instincts were too overpowering. Even before he consciously decided it, he was backing away; but he was not as cowardly as to break eye contact with John, who had dropped the suitcase; contents spilling down the stone steps like long abandoned washing.

  “I surrender!” he said, slowly raising his arms, “I surrender!”

  The CRU Officers were not appeased. In the split second after John’s plea, Jack knew that they had come for one reason only and it was not to leave peacefully. John’s knees slammed into the step below, his body cascading down until his blood spattered, bullet engrained head smashed on to the final step; just as limp and as lifeless as he’d lived his final moments.

  As soon as the shot rang out upon the cold air, its master turned its crosshair towards Jack, who instantly threw himself through the old wooden fence, stumbling into the secluded alleyway that led to the woods. Staggering to his feet, he found himself crashing into another body, who fell backwards.

  Headphones knocked from his ears and scruffy, Jack instantly recognised him from the photographs in the kitchen and knew the consequences if he didn’t intervene.

  “Toby,” he dragged the boy to his feet and pulled him down the alleyway, “Your father is dead. Come with me if you don’t want to join him.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Heavy breathing. Thundering footsteps. Mechanical clicks of machine guns, preparing to aim, preparing to fire; fate was lost in its rampant will. A shaft of moonlight poured through the trees, sprinkled amongst the fine covering of frost.

  The hunt was on. Adrenaline soaked hounds of death rumbled through the wood, clarted in the tundra mud and reeking of violence. The pack weaved its way along the streets like a virus. Neighbouring houses were torn apart, families adorned in dressing gowns standing without protest in the front lawn as their homes were scourged of criminal activity. Cars in the street were smashed in and individually searched. Garden sheds were knocked down, undergrowth was sheared or blown apart. Screaming children watched as their parents were knelt down in front of a gun. True honesty only ever came through terror. For two hours they carried out their hunt, but saw not the flash of skin, nor heard the sharp intake of breath.

  Jack was shivering, his shallow breaths only barely sustaining his consciousness. The cold water froze around him as it trickled with pathetic urgency around him. Chest deep, he was crouched under a hidden embankment, carefully obscured by a thicket of trees and damned to darkness. His extremities were numb. But he was alive, and he was not entirely convinced he was grateful for it.

  Water splashed behind him. Through the grey dark, he could see his companion’s faint outline. He was nodding towards a murky point behind Jack, who immediately turned and saw a figure creeping along the edge of the embankment. Jack brought his finger to his lips, instru
cting Toby to keep silent.

  For several agonising moments the armed CRU officer strobed his torch through the thick blackness, illuminating all but the crucial patch. When he disappeared from view, Jack turned to Toby once more, who was shivering relentlessly; though whether from grief or the icy waters, he did not want to ask.

  In the seconds following his father’s murder, Toby was being dragged off into the woods by the mysterious stranger he’d met in the alleyway. The poor boy hadn’t had a chance to process what had happened to his father yet. He hadn’t even seen the body. The blind panic and fear of what was going to happen had led them to run as fast as they could to the woods at the end of the alleyway. Toby hadn’t stopped to question and though Jack was glad that he didn’t, he found it equally disconcerting that he didn’t. They had leapt over fallen branches and gnarled roots as they raced into the cover of darkness. Fortune had it that they stumbled upon this spot before the officers had entered the woods and had remained there ever since. Toby hadn’t said a single word. They had just ran.

  For now, Toby was staring at him, his eyes glazed in shock.

  “Are you okay to move?” Jack whispered ten minutes later, “We should head soon.”

  Toby nodded absent mindedly. Jack did not inquire further, but kept an eye on the deep horizon, primed for movement of any kind. He was worried about the boy. From his own ignorant experiences, he knew what it was like to be in Toby’s position right now. Silent though he was, he must have been internally calculating what exactly was happening and who to trust. Jack didn’t have a doubt in his mind that the boy had thought of running, leaving and calling for the CRU officers for help. It’s only what he would have done… back when he played the fool.