by S. G Mark
They talked for the remainder of the hour they had together before they set off on their respective adventures. Jack to the next safehouse, Anne onwards to Aberdeen as part of a bid to extract information from a key informant in the oil industry there. It appeared the energy supply was rumoured to reach a critical level and Anne had been tasked with finding out exactly why.
At the front door they hugged and wished each other good luck.
“Take care of yourself, Jackie,” she smiled, slipping outside.
Strangely moved by their chance meeting, he watched her from the other side of the stained glass, turn left down the road and disappear into a blurred horizon. He hadn’t thought about Fort William in such a long time. That night had been one of the most horrific he had ever seen, and yet it had slid beyond memory for the best part of nearly two years. How odd was it that after pouring so much emotion into his mistake, he couldn’t even remember the name of the boy he’d inadvertently sentenced to death.
On the nineteenth morning, he woke with an odd feeling of confidence. Tearing the duvet from his body, he stretched and yawned. The others he was sharing the room with were all still asleep. Jack stumbled to the bathroom and freshened up before heading downstairs.
“Good morning,” Owen smiled above the frying pan.
Today, Jack was in the town of Bath. When he was younger, his mum frequently recounted her trip to the town as part of the first holiday she ever had with her friends. As he strode through the town centre, the sites played as tokens to her stories and he felt grimly pleased to have some connection to the town through her. Though he was convinced the place had changed since her day - though the Roman baths remained, the town seemed oddly grim. Its citizens kept their heads down and for some reason the CRU officers outnumbered the people on the streets. Jack hadn’t ventured out much because of this. As he’d rushed to the safehouse, he’d heard chat from passers-by regarding an imminent attack. None came.
“You think it's safe to travel today?” Owen said, sliding two fried eggs onto Jack’s plate.
Jack nodded, “Another couple of days before it all dies down I think.”
“Aye,” he said, “You’ll be wanting to dye that hair back to what it were before you go too. It’s awful.”
Jack had briefly forgotten his new blond look and in the instant that Owen reminded him, re-lived the disgust he felt towards it.
“You must be exhausted,” Owen continued, “Travelling every day for the past, what was it, month? You’ll fall apart. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about now. The CRU don’t give a shit after a while - that’s one of the best things about them. Only want to arrest you if they get good publicity, but you’re old news now.”
“Thanks,” Jack murmured, “That’s… reassuring.”
“You ought to get involved in a mission my girlfriend is leading over in Norwich, I can put a good word in if you like?”
“What’s she doing?”
“It’s classified, so it’s important stuff. Norwich doesn’t have a stable local government right now, so I reckon she’s helping to bring it down,” he said, proudly, “I’ll send her a message shall I?”
Jack shrugged, “Sure…”
In truth, he didn’t know what to do next. He was frightened to return to London for the time being. Though the anonymity of the city was desirable, the fear of running into the CRU again was more powerful. For the past few weeks he had dwelled on his next steps. A few of his old friends had encouraged him to go back to recruitment and Ration distribution, but Jack was less than thrilled at the prospect.
The suicide bomber had haunted him to some extent. He wondered how radicalised someone had to become in order to sacrifice their life for their cause; and it took him many sleepless nights to realise that radicalisation was irrelevant. Whatever the man believed in, he cared about it so much he sought to destroy others to achieve it. There was something disgustingly victorious about his actions. Horrific though they were, they achieved something. The DD were an emblem of chaos and there was only one reason for that - because they did what they set out to achieve. He recalled the rally that The Masked Man organised. Those who had come looked on at him in awe, as if he was some sort of prophet. But there was no belief shoe-horned on to his actions and that was fundamentally confusion to Jack. As a member of the mindless public, he could never understand the attraction of such chaos. And yet the DD appeared to hold more sympathy in the public’s eye than The Resistance ever had. On numerous occasions it had struck Jack that The Masked Man was a strange figurehead. Completely anonymous, he held the support of thousands of anarchists without ever appearing to have any conviction in his own actions. He rarely made it into the news anymore, such that Jack even questioned whether he was even alive anymore. But the whispers from their insiders on the DD side told them that he still pulled rank and tugged at the reins. Their whole organisation made Jack contemplate The Resistance and their place in the battle.
Handing out fliers at invitation only recruitment drives and selling Rations on freezing stalls on the black market was doing nothing to help society and it was doing even less to attract support. It was mitigating the problem they faced. More bodies into the organisation meant nothing: they were cannon fodder for the CRU. Those of them that lasted more than six months were pulled into the same recruitment drives Jack was covering. They were spreading the word that the government was bad and that was no longer good enough for Jack. Not anymore. He was tired of riding the tidal waves the government threw at them. The Resistance stood for something they were not living up to.
“Owen,” he said, “Do you have any dye?”
“No, but I’m sure I could get some?” Owen said.
Back in the bathtub he went that evening. His coppery blond now a deep black, a little darker than his natural colour but he was happy with it. He looked like himself again. Though the same could not be said for Owen’s bathroom.
Streaks of black cried down the walls and splattered across the floor and sink. Despite vigorous scrubbing, it didn’t look like it was ever going to come off.
“Well you look better than my bathroom,” Owen sighed as he threw down his cloth in resignation. “Are you going to leave tonight?”
Jack shook his head, “Tomorrow morning. I haven’t quite convinced myself I’m ready to go back.”
“Well as I said, you don’t have to. My girlfriend, Coreena, she is leading some pretty big stuff in Norwich.”
Jack didn’t want to belittle his hosts’ enthusiasm, but he had no interest in helping out with some local corrupt government. Important work it might be, Jack couldn’t foresee it making any grand difference to the state of society.
Keeping low had allowed Jack time to think - a little too much time. The little things didn’t interest him anymore. Giving out Rations and recruitment drives were pointless activities he no longer had the heart to attend.
Owen had been kind for his part. A little oafish, his smile portrayed all the best intentions. Though his support offered no real solution to any of The Resistance’s problems, the organisation appreciated the effort he went to assuring every member who stayed was offered a safe, warm and secure place to sleep. It was just a shame that a good night’s sleep couldn’t ever fix any of The Resistance’s problems.
Running his fingers through his new hair, Jack said, “Let’s get some dinner, there might be some others joining us tonight.”
“Brilliant,” Owen seemed delighted - before the crash he was a chef in a local restaurant. Jack guessed he missed that aspect of his life more than he ever let on to the lodgers who came to his house. He understood though. After all he, too, knew what it felt like to be useless in a powerful world.
Dinner sizzled in the oven, but no new visitors came. Jack and Owen sat down together over their meal.
“I tell you what,” Owen said, “The guys are really missing out a treat tonight.”
Owen always referred to any Resistance members who had stayed at his home as “th
e guys.” Jack found the term humbling for he knew where it came from - that drive to belong, to feel part of something.
“I’m going to miss your cooking when I go,” he said, “Definitely the most delicious food I’ve ever eaten at a safehouse and bloody hell you wouldn’t imagine it all came from Rations.”
Owen smiled graciously. Sometimes it was the little things that mattered, Jack thought, putting the matter to rest. At least for the night.
The following morning came too quick for Owen. With only an empty house to keep him company, Jack almost felt guilty for abandoning him.
“You’ll see Coreena soon, I’m sure of it,” Jack smiled, opening the back door and stepping out into the crisp Spring air. The sky was an explosion of cobalt and sunshine. The birds, skipping from branch to twig, sung merrily. The first buds of the year had flourished in a sea of green - a comforting sight after so many months of darkness.
“Take care of yourself, Jack,” Owen said, “London’s a dangerous place.”
“So is everywhere else.”
As he set off towards the station, he calibrated his mind with his fake identity. Today he was Ben Wyatt, and he always imagined him to be a little smug and self righteous. Over the year he had played his parts so well, always assigning his identities with a unique personality. Granted it provided additional cover, but it served mainly to keep him amused on long journeys and sleepless nights.
Today, Ben Wyatt wanted to stop by the local pub before he picked up his ticket to London. He was headed there on business - and would later enjoy a champagne reception at some exclusive hotel. Ben Wyatt bathed in money. Ben Wyatt was above all such political nonsense. Ben Wyatt wanted a quick whisky, just a little alcohol to make him feel alive.
He headed into the station’s pub, which Jack found was surprisingly busy until he realised it was Saturday. Socially acceptable drinking hours had been extended until eleven in the morning.
“I’ll have a Laphroaig,” he said.
Wordlessly, the bartender took the bottle from the top shelf and poured a measure into a glass, then dunked a single ice cube into it. Bliss.
Jack took the drink and found a table by the television. The news was playing. Cameron Snowden’s plastic face stared right back at him. Jack narrowed his eyes at the man. The hero of the hour, as the banner beneath his televised face read; Jack wanted to vomit. As the newsreel faded through various footage of the Prime Minister’s week, he wondered exactly what the media were proclaiming him to be a hero of. As far as he could see he had visited a lot of hospitals and spoke to a number of bombing victims.
Bitter, Jack focussed his attention on what he would do when he returned to London. His first move would be to return to Lana’s safehouse. It would be nice to see a friend after all this time on the move. Tomorrow… he needed to find something to involve himself in that wasn’t Rations or recruitment. There must be some area in the organisation he could make a difference in.
He downed the remaining whisky - it was tantalisingly soothing. It had been a few years since he had a Laphroaig and he wondered why he didn’t order it more often. Gathering his thoughts and placing them in the imaginary suitcase for all things assigned to Jack Blackwood, Ben Wyatt stood up and returned his glass to the bar, thanking the bartender and stepping out into the piercingly bright day.
No sooner than he had ventured a few steps when he heard something to stop him dead in his tracks.
“Hello friend,” the familiar voice was cold, yet disturbingly friendly.
Jack closed his eyes with frustrated shock. Without turning, he addressed his new companion.
“It’s been a long time, Alex.”
When he opened his eyes again, his old friend was staring back at him; several new scars made fine additions to his face. Secretly, Jack wished each and every one of them had been more painful than the last.
“How have you been?” Alex asked.
“You don’t care, so let’s cut the shit, yet?” Jack said, unyielding to Alex’s pretence. They weren’t friends. They were two people who pretended not to know each other.
“Fine,” Alex said, unfazed by Jack’s reaction, “I need you.”
“For what?”
“A mission.”
“To do what?”
“Drink?”
“I have a train to catch,” Jack said, making to barge past him.
“No you don’t,” Alex said, “And if you leave, I’ll just call the CRU.”
“And I’ll tell them all about you,” Jack replied, bitterly.
“No you won’t,” Alex said, brushing past him and heading straight for the pub, “I hear you love a good Laphroaig.”
Narrowing his eyes with contempt for the second time that morning, Jack followed Alex back into the pub. The bartender nodded to Alex as they entered.
“Great,” Jack said, “You’re keeping tabs on me through the fucking staff now.”
Alex took the table Jack had just vacated.
The bartender came over with a bottle of Laphroaig.
“Thank you,” Alex said, tucking an extra tip into the bartender’s pocket. As he disappeared, he turned to address Jack, “I saved his mum’s life, now he’s forever indebted to me.”
“Get to the point, Alex,” Jack said, not wanting to entertain Alex’s ego.
Pouring them each a glass, Alex’s lips curled into a dangerous smile.
“I’ve been watching you for some time,” he said, “You’ve evolved from the frightened little idiot you used to be.”
“So you’ve been checking up on me?” Jack wasn’t surprised.
“I prefer to see it as making sure you’re safe,” he defended, “Though I’ve had little to worry about. You’ve made quite the impression.”
Jack took a sip of the whisky, he had the suspicion he was going to need to be drunk very soon.
“You looked lovely on the television,” Alex winked, “When all this is over, you should think about switching careers.”
“My wallet fell…” Jack attempted to explain himself, but Alex waved his hand.
“No matter,” he said, “I know what happened. These stories are fed back to me all the time - the little gossip train is very frequent when you’re the one in charge. What I really want to know though is this fund you have set up. If my sources have it right, you have quite the little income arrangement. That’s fine, we have that all the time, but from you? I was surprised. By all accounts you’re fantastic at recruitment… but I can’t help feeling there’s something else going on here.”
Jack looked at his friend, nearly a decade of friendship between them: eighteen months apart was never going to erase what Alex knew of him.
“Blackmail,” he said, “I blackmailed this guy. I saw him buying Rations several times at a market and I didn’t like it. It wasn’t fair. I followed him home and I blackmailed him.”
Alex slowly applauded him, “Well done, Jacky. If I had a hat, I’d take it off to you.”
“There’s more…” Jack allowed his gaze to fall to the floor; the weight of the shame he carried was too much to bear at times.
“Go on,” Alex leaned in, intrigued.
“The man I’ve been blackmailing,” he said, “He’s a good friend of our lovely Home Secretary.”
Alex grinned broadly, “Can I let you into a secret?”
Jack shrugged, “Yeah?”
Whispering, Alex said, “I already knew.”
“How?”
“All major intelligence goes through me,” he said, “And when this little document landed on my lap not three weeks ago, I knew exactly where it had come from and I knew exactly who I needed to speak to.”
Jack knew what he was referring to. It was Quentin’s timetable, the one that Julian had passed on to him.
“He’s in London tomorrow night,” Alex said, “Some gala, or something. It’s not important. What is, is that that his country estate is lying completely empty until Monday.”
“What are you trying to s
ay?”
“I’m going to pay it a visit,” Alex said, “And you’re coming too.”
Jack laughed, “What makes you think that?”
“Because you’re bored,” Alex said, “Because you’re fed up of that side of the organisation. You’re done with recruitment, you’ve finished with Rations. You want to make a difference and you’re worried that we are failing. Well, now is your opportunity,” he held out his hand, “You’ve passed the test. Here’s where the real shit happens.”
Jack looked at his friend apprehensively. He felt like Alex had reached inside his mind and had cherry-picked his thoughts. Maybe his friend just knew him too well. For a few seconds he continued to stare at Alex, attempting to second guess what his motives were, if he were being genuine and gauging the morality of what he was getting involved in. Those seconds disappeared quickly and his answer was almost pre-decided. Jack was not the naive liar he’d arrived as. He was a blackmailer. He had inspired a new generation of members. He’d seen men shot in front of his eyes; he’d ran faster than he ever thought were possible. He’d changed his identity more often than he could remember. Jack was slowly losing himself in the mayhem. What damage could a little more do?
Jack took Alex’s hand and shook it, “What do you want me to do?”
“We’ll discuss later,” Alex said, “For now, let’s finish this bottle. I want to know what my friend’s been up to.”
Jack knocked back the contents of his glass, “What do you care, you’ve been out of the scene for nearly two years.”
“True, but it’s busy being me,” Alex said, pouring them both another, “How are you adjusting?”
“Well it’s been fucking difficult,” Jack said, lowering his voice, “Let’s see, I’ve been shot at… I’ve had friends die… I’ve spent the last three weeks moving around the country because the CRU are looking for me… I’ve dabbled in blackmail, I’ve said and done some pretty horrible things… and … oh yes, how could I forget, I’ve been cut off from my family and loved ones since you fucking kidnapped me.”