The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  “We’ll go over the plan tomorrow morning before we leave,” Arthur said, “And after you’ve both sobered up.”

  Alex winked at him, “Need to let our hair down every now and then.”

  “Quite,” Arthur glared at Alex, his expression layered in mild contempt. Jack was surprised that Alex chose not to challenge the man.

  “Time for some rest,” Alex said.

  They made their way back up the stairs again - Jack glanced back at the set of guns again and although they still made him feel uncomfortable, he was more attuned to their sight. Upstairs Henry had retired for the evening. Phil and Mike were rolling out camp beds by the fire.

  “Where did you get those from?” Jack asked, yawning.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Arthur said, walking over to a window seat, where he lay down and kept his eyes on the dark horizon.

  “You’ve got the room upstairs,” Alex said, “If you don’t mind sharing with me again.”

  Quite surprisingly he found himself a little saddened that he wouldn’t be sleeping downstairs with his new comrades. Though they were all tired, he wanted that extra half hour of bonding. If he were going to be a part of this mission, he wanted to know more about the people he would risk his life alongside.

  Upstairs in the bedroom, two single beds stared back at Jack and Alex. They had fussy cushion covers and delicate floral patterns, matching perfectly with Henry’s personality.

  “Pick a side,” Alex said.

  “I wish you’d stop asking me that,” Jack smiled, heading over to the left hand bed and collapsing into his soft furnishings.

  A pressure had been building on Jack’s chest: anxiety about tomorrow. As Alex blew out the candle, the sweet smell of the smoking wick wafted Jack into a state of pure exhaustion. His eyes were flagging, his muscles heavy and his mind numbing.

  “Are you frightened about tomorrow?” Alex said.

  The journey to sleep abruptly aborted, Jack opened his eyes. He knew exactly what his answer was, but he was reticent to even admit it.

  “I know you are,” Alex continued, “But I want you to know that that’s okay. The day you aren’t frightened any more is the day you have nothing else to live for. And after all that’s happened between us, I never want that for you.”

  “Do you ever wish you could go back in time, back to before you left for the protest? The night we were supposed to meet for a drink.” Jack said, staring up at the blank ceiling above. He did. He wished it every day, and yet at the same time he felt a strange sense of belonging and purpose, though quite where this journey would end was beyond any realistic contemplation.

  “No,” Alex said, “Never could I ever regret what we’ve achieved so far.”

  “That’s just it, Alex,” he said, “What have we achieved? We’re fighting this unknown enemy - it’s everyone, from the people we’re trying to help to the ones carrying guns on the street. I mean where does it end?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out tomorrow,” Alex said, “We’re going to find out as much as we can about this Quentin Robson. Because something isn’t right. Something wasn’t right with the last set of politicians, and it’s not right now. We need to know more about our enemy, more about who they are, where they are, what they believe in. Because that’s the thing, they’ve outlined their enemy. They’ve painted their threats on the wall and we’re left in the dark, scrounging for information. Tomorrow, we’re going to change that.”

  “What is really going to change though, Alex?”

  “Everything,” he said.

  Morning rose in a crescendo of colour; dew on the grass sparkled with life as crisp, cool April air inhaled through the open window. Birds sung on a nearby branch, bright and chirpy and oblivious to the dangers of the day. Spring in the countryside was an abundance of life. The garden’s daffodils smiled brightly and as Jack stared at them through the kitchen window as he mindlessly cleaned his plate from the toast crumbs, he was reminded of the bed of flowers at Headquarters and the flower marked for Scar. A twang of guilt plucked his heartstrings. It had been months since he had thought of her and what she had done for him. He wondered whether her sacrifice was worth it. Had her decision to cover for him fundamentally changed his path?

  It seemed a lifetime ago that he worried about these issues. He remembered the disappointment of Eric not having any additional shifts for him; the long weeks and the repetitive Fridays. He remembered the hunger pangs of his Ration prohibition and the shock of seeing his father standing on the doorstep of number forty-two. It all seemed so long ago and it might have happened to another person had the images not been indelibly printed onto his retinas. All those lies and now they seemed but meaningless dreams, fantastical as they were irrelevant.

  As he dried his plate he felt his skin too dry for his bones, and an age passed over him that he did not recognise. Just as he’d asked Alex the previous night, Jack found himself missing the old days but he was disconcerted to find that he did not yearn for them as much as he once did.

  Alex returned the dry plate to the cupboard and found Mike slumping into the kitchen for his third cup of tea. Henry was a rich man with luxurious amounts of tea.

  “Morning,” Mike yawned, revealing a jaw full of fillings.

  “Alex wants us downstairs in an hour,” Jack said, who as sunrise first broke through the curtains had been instructed to cascade the timetable to his comrades by the man in charge.

  “Fine,” Mike said, refilling the kettle, “The next cup should waken me up. Wish I could have bloody coffee though.”

  Jack smiled awkwardly at him and then left to find some comfort in solace. Today was a major event in his life, he just couldn’t fathom precisely how. In over a year he’d been challenged by the CRU, inventing countless personalities to back up his identity cards; he’d been on the run, blackmailing someone he now, strangely, would call a friend. Julian came to his thoughts and he remembered what the man had done for him - how he had rescued him for almost certain arrest. A year’s worth of blackmail in return for one act of kindness.

  Sinking into the mattress, he contemplated what today meant and as he did so, he thought back to his seventeen year old self, sitting on a bed not unlike the one he was on now, crying for a sister he’d later kill and for parents he would grow to resent. How life had changed its course on that one fateful day. Had Jess never left, would he be sat here now? Or would he be one of the millions swamped by poverty, wrapped up in their own problems and oblivious to the tactile terrorism from their own government? Who would he have been and would he be happy?

  He sighed, a long exhale of exhaustion. Those questions would never be answered, no matter what the fate of today brought. Instead he returned his thoughts to why he had joined The Resistance. Echoes of the argument he’d had with Emma screamed from his past, but his reason no longer was punctuated with Eliza. Again he wondered how she was and if she was happy. How often did she think about him, if at all? But she wasn’t why he was here. Eliza might have been the reason he didn’t run in the beginning, but for over a year now his dedication to the cause had been fuelled by his own beliefs. In his time with The Resistance he had seen how society had become numb to the destruction shelled upon it. He had witnessed men and women being gunned down for so much as looking at the CRU officers. This was no longer a matter of love, it was a matter of justice: Jack just wasn’t sure if he had the calibre to pursue it.

  “Jack!” Phil called from downstairs, “Alex is ready now.”

  A minute later and they were all gathered in the basement. Alex stood by the map of Quentin’s estate as the others sat on what they could find; Jack an old tyre, Phil a stack of magazines, Phil rested against the far wall and Henry leant against an old artist’s easel.

  “Today’s the day then,” Alex begun, “After weeks of planning, we’re finally here, about to embark on what is arguably our most dangerous mission. We’re not blowing anything up. We’re not stealing cash from a supermarket. Today our
mission means more than just financial gain or temporary victory. Tonight, when we break into Quentin’s estate, we’ll be showing the government that we can walk all over them. We can waltz into their homes and take what we like. Nothing is safe for us, and nothing will be safe for them.”

  “What’s the plan then?” Phil piped up.

  Alex struck a hand to the wall, pointing at the forest, “You and Mike will arrive first and be posted at these locations. You’ll distract the guards that have remained behind by starting a fire. We,” he slapped a hand against a rudimentary drawing of a car, “That is to say Arthur, Jack and myself, will arrive by vehicle at the front of the estate, pulling into the driveway - which will be clear of guards by then. Arthur and I will then secure the perimeter. Jack will enter the building via the first floor patio.”

  “Uh what?” Jack struck his hand into the air in protest.

  “There’s an ivy terrace that leads up to the first floor balcony. Then there’s patio door into what we believe to be the Home Secretary’s bedroom.”

  “And what am I going to do there?”

  “You are going to loot through his personal effects for anything we can count against him. Arthur and myself will then enter by the kitchen and ensure downstairs is secure before we begin sweep of the living areas.”

  “And what are we looking for?”

  Alex looked at the room at large, “Quentin Robson is a trusted friend of Cameron Snowden. If anyone knows what the government’s next step is, it’s going to be him. We want anything, last dialled numbers on his phone; his computer records, printed documents, bank statements. Taking anything you can.”

  Everyone nodded, except Jack, who simply accepted silently what was commanded of him. It was going to be straightforward, more linear than he’d anticipated. All he needed to do was climb a garden feature in order to break into the upstairs. He remained oddly calm for someone who had no experience in such affairs. In all the time with The Resistance, he had handled dodging the law, recruitment and the odd theft - he had mastered the art of lying long before - but never had he attempted anything this serious. It was curious then, that he felt strangely at ease with his task, his heart not racing nor tainted with guilt for committing such a crime.

  “In two hours, Mike and Phil will head out together to the agreed location where they will wait until eight o’clock. Arthur, Jack and myself will ride separately and arrive at eight fifteen, by which time the guards will be gone and we will be free to enter. Is everyone clear? Mike and myself are the only ones with the exact location of Quentin’s estate and for security reasons that will remain so. In an emergency, we scatter and reach separate safehouses. We will then make contact through a secure comrade. Is everyone clear?”

  Jack nodded, and turned to see that he was among agreement.

  “Then load up,” Alex waved his hands in encouragement.

  Mike and Phil headed straight for a cupboard at the other end of the basement. They took out an assortment of guns and knives, before deciding on a shotgun and pistol each as well as a couple of knives for close combat. Jack watched absently, unaware that he, too, should be loading up.

  Alex approached him, “You’ll need to take some protection.”

  Jack stared at the gun Alex had presented him, and shook his head, “It doesn’t feel right.”

  Alex nodded and didn’t pursue the matter further. But Jack saw Arthur throw him a quizzical glance and he knew that his behaviour would seem odd to anyone but Alex. His comrades knew nothing of his background, but similarly Jack knew little of theirs. Phil resembled a car mechanic, Mike had the biceps of a builder. Who they were beneath that was a complete mystery and so it was that Jack allowed himself a little relaxation about his stance on weaponry.

  After they’d packed the car, Mike and Phil returned to the living room to warm their hands by the fire before setting off.

  “Are you nervous?” Jack asked Mike.

  “Yes,” he said, “If we’re caught, we’re dead.”

  “I know,” Jack’s expression whitened.

  “Quentin’s in Whitehall with all his fatcat chums,” he said, “Keep a cool head and you’ll be fine. I think we’re only nervous because this is the first time what we do really matters. This isn’t a bomb or a bloody protest. What we find out tonight could change things. We might discover something important - and for me that is worth all the nerves, and every single day away from my wife and kids.”

  “You know that’s the strangest thing,” Jack said, “I’ve been on so many of these things where we meet our comrades and it’s all about the mission and what we have to do… and sometimes we forget to ask why it is we’re all doing it.”

  Mike smiled at him, his neck tattoo wrinkling under his double chin, “Yeah, but sometimes it’s better we never ask.”

  At that point Phil called him to the car. Alex told Jack not to say goodbye, but to keep out of sight. Their car disappeared down the drive. Jack went to make himself another cup of tea.

  An hour later and Jack was in the back passenger seat, with Arthur driving and Alex alongside. The group barely spoke and Jack assumed it was in part to Arthur’s isolation to Jack and Alex’s history, and so did not chase conversation. Instead, he stared out the window and watched the countryside roll by, tormented by a fresh storm of rain clouds and frost. For several hours they drove, always taking the longer back roads instead of the quicker motorways. Several times they were stopped and all their IDs cleared by security.

  Night settled in around five o’clock. Stars twinkled overhead through a misty veil of midnight cloud. As total darkness struck, they switched their lights to dim and drove along the country roads as ghosts. Throughout the entire journey there had been minimal conversation. Alex was engrossed in the plan, Arthur was fixed on the road and Jack was mentally preparing for what lay ahead. It had been a strange journey, and he was sure he was far from the end.

  The radio dial displayed the time. Jack’s gaze was glued to it for the final minutes preceding their deadline. Bright orange emblazoned his eyes such that when he looked up to see them turning left into a narrow lane, he was slightly dazzled before the images began to fully form in his head.

  Smothered in a charcoal blue, the grounds were vacant. Huge lawns stretched to the woods, just as Arthur had drawn them. At the far end the kempt grass merged with the depths of the trees in a haze of creepy primeval light. The gravel crunched underneath the tyres as they slowly approached the grand building ahead. Eight seventeen. The game was on. The guards were gone.

  Just outside the entrance they pulled up, seeing no guards react to their presence. Alex turned to Jack and nodded reassuringly.

  “No turning back now,” he said, opening the car door and exiting.

  After a deep breath, Jack opened his door and shut it quietly behind him. Arthur was glancing left to right, surveying the grounds around them. Alex pointed to a patch far ahead of them. A spark of fire glinted Jack’s eyes; a brilliant reflection of the calm night’s sky.

  “Over there,” Alex pointed at the ivy crawling up the side of the building. “We’ll secure downstairs.”

  Jack nodded, his heart thudding against his chest. Delayed reaction it might be, there was no denying he was fearful now.

  As Alex and Arthur disappeared round either side of the building, presumably flanking any possible enemies inside, Jack grabbed a handle of the ivy terrace and found that it securely took his weight. Slowly but steadily he climbed as the wood dug splinters into his knuckles. Ivy brushed against his face, smothering him in foliage. Several times he glanced behind him, keenly looking out for anyone watching his pathetic entrance. Far off in the distance the fire still burned, though he heard nothing of the commotion it caused. He wondered if the guards had reacted, but as he’d heard nothing in the way of resistance, he knew that luck must be on their side.

  At last he reached the top and leapt over the edge to the safety of the small balcony. Several pot plants lined the area and two deck cha
irs lounged in the centre. Jack imagined Quentin and his wife relaxing on a summer’s evening out here, glass of wine in hand. From here they had a brilliant view of their little kingdom. Far off towns and villages sparkled like fireflies on the horizon.

  To his left was the patio door. Luck would have it that it remained open. Quentin placed too much hope in his guards to check his own security measures. The door slid open. By the cold moonlight, Jack felt his way to a lamp on a bedside table and flicked it on. The room bathed in a warm glow. A grand four poster bed dominated the room, carved with fascinating artwork Jack had little time to appreciate. To the far side of the room a dressing table occupied the space by the window. Sporting grand views of the garden, it offered little but a solitary brush atop the varnished plane and an assortment of makeup in the drawers.

  A wardrobe promised more than it delivered with numerous suits and dresses crammed into the antique. The bedroom offered nothing but the extravagant lives of a politician and his wife. Jack sighed and headed to the hallway outside.

  Downstairs he imagined Alex and Arthur securing the building, ensuring each room was vacant. He had heard no commotion or unrest since he’d entered the building. All was going to plan.

  The hallway was just as grand as the exterior. A chandelier dangled from the ceiling, dazzling despite not being turned on. Portraits lined the wall, classical styles of the family no doubt. Everything was decorated to an exquisite detail. It made Julian look comparatively poverty stricken.

  Across the hallway was an intriguing door. His mind already on Julian’s home, he wondered if, like his slippery friend, the Home Secretary had his own office. Pushing the door open gently, his suspicions were confirmed. The office was brilliantly designed such that it merged in with the contours of the room. Upon the central desk, which curved towards the window and a view of pond that burst with moonlight, sat a computer making odd whirring noises. It was still on.