The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  The door opened and a patrol of CRU officers entered. Jack opened his wallet and prepared himself for inspection. Harry Kirk had been resurrected.

  Two bodies approached his table. Barely looking up, Jack slid his ID across to them for inspection. They picked it up, nodded, and then dropped it back to the table. They were a daily scenario in public places. He’d had his ID checked four times inside of an hour before. Every time he was grateful to The Resistance’s forgers, for their skill was the only reason he was still alive.

  It had been tumultuous year. Shortly after arriving in Blackpool, Kyle sent him back out into the field in search of the mole. After months of trying, he had no leads. The trail had not gone cold, it was just never there to begin with and Jack had no idea where to begin. There was no way of knowing who had betrayed them. Throughout his search he had gathered notes on all the Level Ones and had memorised the list of sympathetic politicians and civil servants. On dark alleyways he’d met some of the less senior envoys, who revealed little that added value to Jack’s quest. Of course in this time the organisation had discovered several spies, each who had been dealt with under the full severity of the betrayal. But of all the ones that were reported to Jack, none of them had been exposed to the level of secrecy that was being strategically leaked.

  The summer saw a spell of raids of safehouses. Kyle suspected the mole and Jack was inclined to believe. Some of the places hit were restricted access, and the casualties were great in number. They’d claimed the lives of a few people Jack had gotten to know over the course of the year. Friends he could share a sneaky beer with after Curfew, discussing mundane life and the chances of Arsenal winning the league that year. People he could share a meal with and offer respite from the waging war. Further than friends the killing went, though. A number of high profile investors disappeared and many informants in the government were killed in a series of raids. There was no doubt who had been responsible for the leak, and yet there was nothing Jack was powerless to prevent it. Without a whisper of a guilty trail, all he could do was chase his own theories as they led him astray from the true path.

  Autumn brought a time for them to lay low. Jack sheltered with Emma for the whole of October by the coast in Cornwall. They camped out in a little cottage by the cliffs and spent the entire month distracting themselves from the drama of the fight. They played the endless board games and would take long walks along the beach. The salty sea air was rejuvenating.

  “I never want to leave,” Emma said, as they sat on the rocks by the beach; the tide sweeping in around their feet. Grey clouds loomed above the steely rolling waves. “I wish we could just spend the rest of our lives here, quietly forgetting everything. Is that a bad thing? I don’t want to remember right now. My husband… my children… Am I a bad person to want to forget them?”

  Jack had pulled her into a tight hug. Wind whipped around them, Emma’s hair flying wild. He had no answer to her questions, but he felt complete empathy. More than year had passed since he had last seen Eliza. The anniversary of his disappearance had been tough. He had spent the day slaughtered under the influence of a few bottles of whisky. Immobile for days, he was glad of the painful hangover - something to make him forget another type of agony. However, he wasn’t alone in his depression. Emma had joined him, seeking solace from the anniversary of her brother’s death. One year on from the worst days of their lives.

  “We should build a raft,” he said, gesturing to the ocean, “Sail out on the morning tide and live out the rest of our lives on an island somewhere.”

  “Or as pirates?” she had said, “Pillaging villages along the coast and burying the gold under little palm trees in the Caribbean.”

  As they smiled, their glazed eyes met and shone a reflection of the crescent moon. The waves crashed upon the shore and brushed against their toes before being stolen back into the depths of the granite waters.

  Winter had not been kind to The Resistance. They emerged from the cottage to discover Alex had organised several bombings throughout the country. As a member, it was not an easy fact to digest. In a matter of hours they had been responsible for nearly four hundred deaths: just to prove a point.

  The government response was exactly as they had expected. Within two weeks, Martial Law had returned and emergency powers had been created to make it easier for the army to deploy and open fire when they saw fit. As a result two thousand people were killed in a month. The news reported them all as dissidents, but Resistance eyewitnesses claimed most were just people on the street. That was how Cameron Snowden proved his points.

  During the winter months, Jack reconnected with Lana in their safehouse in Southwark. Though she was busy dealing with various projects to do with bringing down the God’s Disciple’s, they still had moments together where they could speak little of their work. Occasionally they were joined by a few other members who had been shipped in for special missions in the city. The safehouse had been classified as top level and only the most trusted members knew of its existence.

  Thus, it felt more like a home than any of the others. The underlying security radiated a warmth that no other safehouse rivalled. Or perhaps it was merely Lana who brightened each visit. As he waited for his friend to arrive, he recalled how he had stood by the window in the Southwark safehouse, watching the world unfold beneath, from which he could hear the painful screams of the dangerous streets below - salivating perverts in hot pursuit of high heels, shiny daggers poised against petrified throats. Lana was asleep on the sofa, the television droning a dull white noise. A couple of empty glasses told of tough night of self reflection. Jack didn’t know why, but the night just felt special. He had been exhausted from weeks of travel, late nights and early rises and to have one night with a friend was such a precious thing to him these days. From all the city hopping, to the variety of missions he was involved with, he was entrusting his life to new people every day; always in the company of a stranger. it meant the friendships he had were all the more important.

  Spring was settling in now. Little buds sprouted from the gnarled, bare trees. Daffodils braced themselves above the blades of grass. The sun lingered a fraction longer each day and the frost suffocating the country began to melt and trickle into the brittle soil.

  “Hey,” the figure settled into the booth. They stared at each other across the scratched table for a few seconds. It had been two weeks since their last meeting.

  “How are you?” Jack asked, a fragment of a smile appearing on his lips as he courted a soft loyalty with the man, “What do you want to drink?”

  Julian seemed nervous.

  “A gin and tonic,” he said, “The usual.”

  They’d met several times before in this pub. Each meeting had become friendlier than the last, but it had by no means thawed to friendship. Occasionally they would meet at his home as well, and Beth would fuss and fret over him as she prepared a three course dinner for them. With such warm reception, Jack could always find an excuse to come to Putney Bridge. However, there were occasions that warranted some anonymity and today was such a time.

  Jack went to the bar and ordered, keeping an eye on Julian at the same time. He appeared more on edge than usual, but that was easily explainable. The government had increased the penalties for aiding terrorists. Before he may have faced a lengthy sentence, reduced by the threat of blackmail he received. Now, there was no excuse he could throw at them to explain why he helped The Resistance. If caught jail would be inevitable, and he almost certainly would never leave.

  Returning with the drinks, Jack initiated his first question, “How is Beth?”

  “Fine,” Julian said through gritted teeth, “She wants you to come to dinner soon.”

  “How lovely of her, I’ll try to make time next week?”

  “This has to stop,” Julian said, “Please, Harry. You are ruining my life.”

  “How long have we been doing this, just over a year?” Jack asked quietly, “I’ve been good to you.”

 
Laughing, Julian violently grabbed his glass and gulped. When he’d finished, he stared long and hard at Jack, “You’re a leech, draining me dry. This has to stop, please. I’m begging you.”

  He didn’t want to bring it up again. As a matter of principle he always avoided it as best he could, but despite all the steps forward in their relationship, he still needed to remind Julian the origin of his hatred.

  “How is Saskia again?” Jack had never revealed to Julian exactly what had happened with his daughter. It sickened him to contemplate his actions.

  “I’m done playing your games,” Julian said.

  Smiling, Jack shook his head, “You don’t get to say when this is over. I do. Look at the television over there, didn’t you hear the speech? In our whole relationship have you never even explored the possibility that I might be doing some good in the world?”

  “My money is being spent blowing people up,” Julian whispered sharply, “Do you know what that makes me? A fucking murderer. Have you any idea what this is doing to me? Do you even care? You make out The Resistance to be this voice of altruism, but you sit here taking my money every month and forcing me to extract secrets from my friends. Fine you’re helping the country, but what about me? What about my life? Is that not worth anything to you?”

  Sitting back, Jack nursed his cold whisky and relished in the moment. He knew Julian was not a friend and despite numerous attempts, could never be persuaded to listen to the truth. What was important to him was not some ethereal battle over right or wrong, justice or freedom. No, Julian’s focus barely skirted the edges of importance. He was more concerned with protecting and preserving his own way of life, his own possessions and his neat little family. It was a selfish view, but one shared by millions. Had enough people cared beyond the fences of their own homes, there would be no Prime Minister calling arms to war, the guns would be lain down in defeat, and no one would kill the children anymore.

  “My word is my bond,” Jack said, “Your existence and this whole arrangement is completely unknown to anyone but me. If I die, you are free. So you may say that I don’t care about your life or that I don’t value you it as much as the ones I claim to be helping, but tell me… in all the time we’ve known each other, have you ever once truly feared for your life?”

  For a moment Julian seemed taken aback; his voice quickly found its footing once more, “I fear it all the time, Harry. Every single second of my life,” he paused to sip his gin, “But not from you.”

  Slowly, Jack surveyed the man. His crusting age had accelerated since their last meeting. More silver hairs lined his forehead than before; shadows stained his eyes and the frailty of a middle aged man veneered his skin.

  “Is that doubt I hear?” Jack said, mockingly, “Don’t tell me you’ve defected to our side?”

  “No,” Julian was quick to reply, “I’m not a monster like you.”

  Jack focussed hard on Julian’s answer. Was he indeed a monster? He didn’t feel quite the part, as if there was something missing.

  “In a strange way,” he began, “I respect you a lot more than I think I should.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Julian sipped his gin.

  Jack leant forward, unsure of his own comment, “I just think you’re an intelligent man, despite your ill advised faith in your government.”

  Julian returned a sceptical look, “You’ll enjoy what I managed to get for you this time.”

  From his pocket he pulled out a sheet of paper with scribbled notes in his own handwriting. “This is a list of places he’s going to be over the next month. Does this buy me my freedom?”

  Sliding the paper across for a better view, Jack examined the lines and dates. Quentin was going on quite the tour. He folded it up and put it in his pocket.

  “How accurate is this?” Jack asked.

  “I copied it from his journal last night,” he said, “It’s susceptible to change, but I thought you’d be interested.”

  “And the money?”

  Julian reached for his pocket.

  “Keep it,” Jack said, appreciating the value of what he had already been given.

  Julian seemed a little too hopeful; his beady eyes widening.

  “This isn’t the end,” Jack said, “Call it a reward. Do you want another drink?”

  Julian had downed his gin and tonic. He nodded, “Why not?”

  Over the past year Julian had provided invaluable information on Quentin and his office. Little notes on upcoming policies, discussions and possible expansions of the CRU. With the information he provided, The Resistance could adapt to new laws faster than the government could anticipate. Julian had even provided basic information on Quentin himself, revealing how he had been during their days at university together. Smug, self important - he was every inch the man Jack anticipated him to be. However, the piece of paper that was stuffed into Jack’s pocket presently was more important than all the information he’d received so far, combined.

  Another round appeared at the table a minute later. The alcohol was softening Julian’s mood. His shoulders were more relaxed and he was making more eye contact than usual.

  “Whereabouts in Scotland are you really from?” he asked, “I’ve been trying to figure out the accent for a while.”

  “Paisley,” Jack lied.

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Paisley?” Jack said, confused, “Have you ever been? It’s awful.”

  “Scotland, I mean.”

  “Strangely no,” Jack said, “No, I don’t…”

  His mind drifted into a place he’d shut off in his mind a long time ago. Edinburgh. The old cobbled streets, the land where the sky constantly buckets rain and the fog sets in thicker and faster than January sales.

  “Prefer the warmer climate down South?”

  “Something like that,” he said, “Less midges.”

  “What’s it like, working for them?” Julian asked tentatively.

  Seeing what he was doing, Jack quickly put a stop to it, “Nice try. This conversation is at an end. Let’s go.”

  “I didn’t mean, I just wanted to -”

  “Drink up,” Jack said, catching another glimpse of the television and seeing the smug Cameron beaming at all his followers. The war had started years ago, this bastard had only just got around to telling everyone.

  Outside, rain slashed against their faces. Gunfire sounded not too far away, but it was muted by familiarity.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Jack said, shaking the man’s hand.

  Julian skulked off in another direction as Jack headed towards the nearest tube station. He was going straight back to the safehouse Lana ran. Last summer they abandoned the old council estate flat in King’s Cross and had taken ownership of a rundown apartment near Southwark. It was one of those dully lit affairs, graffiti scrawled on the walls, heroin needles cast carelessly aside in the external hallways. A breeding ground for criminals and a haven for the insane, its extension of safety was limited solely to the apartment’s defence against the CRU, which resided purely in its anonymity.

  Lana had remained in London all this time, despite Jack’s encouragement to join him in the North. She had been fighting the God’s Disciples movement for the past year. Though he didn’t entirely agree, she was leading the efforts to bomb their churches and had already struck three services in the past six months. Being around her was uneasy when she talked business, but for the rest of the time he could forget that she was responsible for so much death.

  As he approached the station, he spied the long queue meandering up to the ticket hall. Instantly he knew there was something not quite right. There was ages yet until curfew and any mention of a line being down would have these people queuing for the buses instead.

  “Excuse me, what’s happening?” he asked the woman standing in front of him.

  She turned round, looking slightly worried herself, “I have no idea, I think it’s the CRU security team again. They closed Wembley Park station the other day just t
o arrest one person.”

  “What? Just one person? Couldn’t they have just done that without inconveniencing everyone?” Jack feigned annoyance, but his eyes were pierced at the end of the queue, where he saw a flash of a uniform as two figures were embroiled in an argument.

  A fireball exploded from the centre of the figures, erupting all in its orbit into flame. Glass shattered and rained down upon the crowd. Screaming reverberated in his ears moments before tinnitus set in, muting even the cries of the woman he’d just spoken to. She’d been struck by a shard of glass. It protruded from her neck as blood gushed forth and breath exhaled relentlessly from her body. Her bloodied hands clutched at his shins. He knelt down and saw the wound closely - there was nothing he could do.

  Looking up he saw the queue dissipate in chronic panic. Ash fell like snow around them. As the crowd scattered, the bodies of those that could not join them melted into view. Limbs missing or sprawled adjacent to their old bodies, it was carnage.

  From either side of him the CRU officers charged in, guns armed and primed to strike. There was a time for compassion, but this was not it. The instinct to run, the selfish gene, captured him whole. Turning to the wounded woman, he broke free from her bloodied and sweaty grip.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep and muffled.

  Staggering backwards, he reeled around and began striding back in the direction he had come. A voice in his head yelled for him to keep moving, to not stop for anything. Deep in his pocket, he felt the catalogue of lies burn. An ID card for every person he was supposed to be. With this many CRU officers around, being stopped was not a chance he was willing to risk.