by S. G Mark
“How did what feel?” Jack asked.
“Killing him, the Home Secretary,” he said, “Did it feel like a victory?”
Jack paused. He had been frightened of this moment. Until now, he had kept within the confines of his little bubble of denial. Alex knew. The guards knew. But no one spoke about it. No one asked him how he felt about it. No one questioned his actions. No one had even mentioned it to him. But reality had just burst his defence of normality and its icy touch chilled his beating heart.
“Just tell me your update,” he said, not looking up from his desk.
“Did he beg for mercy? How did you do it?”
“We’re not here to talk about what I did or didn’t do,” he said.
“But you did kill him?” Samantha piped up, instantly looking shy.
“Joel, get on with your update,” he instructed, raising his voice a little.
But Joel was over keen to hear the gossip.
“C’mon, you really expect me to sit here in the same room as a fucking legend and not be allowed to ask him questions?”
Jack shot a glance at Joel. A strange sense of pride enveloped him.
“I did kill him,” he said, plainly, “I shot him in the head from about three feet away. Now, can I have your update?”
Joel’s eye lit up like orbs and, grinning madly, he began his update, “Fucking mental, man, fucking mental. Right, here’s the story…”
Community Centres across the country had signed up to a new government scheme that would mean mandatory community service for anyone who worked thirty hours or less a week. This move would mark the first time the community schemes had been written into law, which Jack believed to be a strange tactic to use when the threat of being reported on was very efficient. What exactly was the government hoping to achieve? Jack ordered Joel to investigate further.
As the meeting closed, Jack dismissed them. Outside the door he heard them chat about Quentin’s death. It seemed so hollow and meaningless now and yet it had barely happened twenty-four hours ago. His head was numb and was struggling to retain the information he’d been given in the updates.
It felt extremely strange dictating orders to others in the organisation. All his life he’d been the one taking orders, but now that he was the one giving them he felt more comfortable than he ever thought he would. Still, the idea that this was only temporary relaxed him a little.
Leaning back in his chair, he released the extra tension knotted in his shoulders. He was tired and impassive. Both emotions scared him. In an hour he was scheduled to return to the road. Exhaustion was not a state he wanted to be in if he were to keep his wits about him. The media had not yet broken the story of Quentin’s death, but the CRU and Nightstalkers were surely already in the loop and were no doubt preparing for revenge. Equally, the blend of unemotional guilt unnerved him. Perhaps his exhaustion had intoxicated what little energy he had left; perhaps he had not yet time to process exactly what had happened last night. In either case he was unsettled at how calm he was at reflecting on his actions. He had killed a man. He had killed the Home Secretary, one of the most important people in the country. He wasn’t breaking down. He wasn’t distraught or categorically falling apart. He was sitting, calmly waiting for someone to pick him up so he could return to London; return back into the thick of the war, into the grit of the rebellion. Jack felt obliquely inhuman.
An hour later there was a knock on the door. Jack looked up from the reports his comrades had left behind.
“Come in,” he said.
The door creaked open and one of the guards appeared, “The car’s arrived.”
Jack glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten in the evening. There was no chance the car was going to leave now.
“We’ll leave at first light,” he said.
But the guard shook his head, “No, we need to move you tonight.”
“Why?”
“We need to transfer you to another location. There you’ll wait until Curfew ends before setting off. It’s just basic security,” the guard said.
Five minutes later and Jack was ascending the stone steps into the interior of the farmhouse. A warming hearth crackled amber flame as several comrades, shrouded in dancing shadows, flicked cards between each other; their poker faces all too well practised.
The car outside was nondescript; a forgettable colour from a forgettable brand. Cold swimming around him, he shivered uncontrollably as he made to open the passenger door.
“Not in the front,” the guard said, opening up the boot, “You can’t be seen.”
The driver inside the car tossed a smouldering cigarette butt out the window and nodded reassuringly.
Unsure, but casting his doubts aside, Jack climbed into the boot. It was not the first time he had assumed this position - but he was grateful that the second time did not warrant the same circumstances.
“Where are we going?” he asked the guard as he stared up, the stars twinkling behind the man whilst he held the boot door open with a single arm.
“A village not more than half an hour from here,” he said, “Tell the man there you know his daughter Sally. Then he’ll know to trust you.”
The boot shut. Darkness consumed all. Jack’s heartbeat lingered as his sole companion. Shortly, the engine started and he heard the sludging mud slip under the tyres as they crept slowly out of the farmyard and into the unknown.
Sometime later, the car stopped. The sound of a car door shutting came and a moment later the boot flipped open. The driver helped Jack to his feet.
“We’re here,” he said.
They were parked outside a little cottage, which was surrounded by shrubs and trees. Tall daffodils flanked the low windows, poised to bloom. The brickwork shone with the platinum haze of softened rain. A solitary candle perched in the windowsill.
There was nothing else around them. The road disappeared into the ebony air in either direction. A chill whistled in the wind; winter clawing for survival. Above, the moon gazed down upon them, remote and detached from the stars.
The driver returned to the car.
“Where are you going?”
“On,” he said, “Someone will be here in the morning.”
The car started and he drove off, his taillights shrinking into the distance. As he heard a creaking noise behind him, Jack turned and saw an old man standing in the threshold, wearing old pinstripe pyjamas and a scruffy oversized grey dressing gown. He held a lantern aloft and tilted his head in confusion, his eyes squinting through the half light.
“I’m a friend of your daughter, Sally,” Jack said.
“Then come in, come in!” he beckoned.
With the icy upon the air, Jack did not require a further invite.
Inside was warm and cosy. It was the typical country cottage, with a mismatch of dark stained wood furniture, patchwork quilts and dusty old rugs stretching across the floorboards. The walls were abound with delicate artwork and bronzed antiques. In front of the sofa, a coffee table sported a basket of apples sat upon a white doily.
“Make yourself at home,” the old man said, shutting the front door behind them both.
Jack wandered in and took to the sofa instantly. After the uncomfortable journey over, it was good to regain some feeling in his legs. He stretched them out in front.
“The name’s Martin,” he said, settling into an armchair beside the open fireplace. “I trust you are Jack?”
He nodded.
“They told me you’ll be leaving as soon as Curfew ends, is that correct?”
“Apparently so,” Jack shrugged.
“Must be pretty important?” Martin said, his voice rising expectantly.
Jack stared at his own interlaced fingers. He wasn’t important. He’d just done something important. It felt strange to require so much security. But after what he’d done, it was unsurprising.
“Do you want something to eat, maybe?” Martin said, rocking gently back and forth.
Jack shook his head, s
ilently. His stomach had been in knots all day. He glanced at the clock. The twenty-four anniversary had passed and he hadn’t even so much as acknowledged it.
“I have a made bed upstairs for you if you want to just sleep?”
Again, Jack shook his head. He didn’t want to sleep. Last night he’d shut his eyes purely from exhaustion. He knew tonight would be different. The guilt would plague him in ways he could only hope were his imagination. Dreams would unfold into torturous scenarios that he would only realise were not reality upon waking; but the curse of his real memory would provide no comfort.
“Do you do this often?” Jack asked, observing that his host was unsettled by his new guest.
“Once in a while,” Martin said, “At my age it’s all I can really do.”
Jack pressed his palms together, “And you feel that this helps?”
He didn’t mean for his remark to come across so cutting, but Martin took it nonetheless.
“I might not be out there fighting the rebellion on the streets, I might not be as brave as you, but I’ve risked more than most just to give some fugitive a bed for the night!”
“I’m sorry,” Jack sighed, “I didn’t mean…”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Martin said, arms folded.
Jack stared at the floor for a few moments.
“So what did you do?” Martin asked, sympathy striking his tone.
“I killed a man…”
“Ah,” Martin said, pausing for several seconds, “And I suppose you think you’re a murderer?”
“Well aren’t I?” Jack raised an eyebrow, almost angry at Martin’s inability to take his confession seriously.
“I guess it boils down to whether or not you’d be standing here if you didn’t kill him?”
Jack shook his head, “He was going to kill someone… someone close to me.”
“And then no doubt you’d be next?”
He nodded, “I still killed him.”
“Aye, ye did son,” he said, “But cats kill mice… you’d never call them monsters.”
Jack looked up and caught the man’s endearing eyes.
“Shall I get you that soup after all?”
Having stuffed themselves with warm lentil soup and bread, they both headed to bed. Pulling back the covers, Jack found himself slipping off into sleep with unnerving ease. When he woke the next morning, he was pleased to not have a single memory of any dreams he’d had.
Martin was pottering downstairs in the kitchen. Two slices of buttered toast awaited him on a plate.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a stool by the breakfast bar.
A small radio crackled into life. Martin reached over and adjusted the frequency until it became coherent. Toying with his slices of toast, at the sound of the opening line, Jack rapidly lost his appetite.
“...Cameron Snowden has already offered his condolences to Quentin Robson’s wife, Arlene and is due to issue a further statement this afternoon. We can go to our correspondent, Peter Hughes, who is currently outside Mr Robson’s estate in Perthshire…”
Another man, Peter, took over.
“Yes, well, things are very subdued over here at the moment. Mourners have laid flowers outside the estate that Quentin grew up in and indeed where he spent many happy years with his own children, Michael and Rachel, who I am told will be arriving shortly to comfort their mother in this time of terrible, terrible need.”
“And is it any clearer exactly what happened last night?”
“The CRU are yet to make any official statement, but the general consensus is that someone broke in last night and killed Quentin and two of his bodyguards. Who these people were we can only speculate until the CRU issue a formal statement, but there have been rumours that Cameron Snowden himself would like to hold a press conference later this afternoon.”
“Thanks Peter,” the presenter said, “Well, it is a chilling story to hear first thing in the morning, but it is indeed true. Home Secretary Quentin Robson was killed last night in his Perthshire home…”
Jack reached for the dial and turned the radio off, staring madly as it returned an accusatory gaze. The secret was out now, though he was surprised they had delayed reporting it.
“Would you like a little brandy?” Martin’s voice broke through the barrier.
Jack steadied his breath, clawing at some semblance of control; it didn’t matter if it was six in the morning. He nodded.
Martin reached all too quickly for the half empty bottle - unlabelled.
“It’s my own make,” he said, sliding across two mugs and pouring them each a healthy measure, “Tastes fucking awful but it’s good for days like today.”
Jack grabbed his glass quicker than he’d liked and his mouth was awash with the disgusting flavour before he’d prepared himself for the stench of the alcoholic fumes rising from the liquid.
“Fucking hell,” he spat half of it out into his hand, “That’s rank.”
But even as his tongue recoiled from the taste, a warmth spread around his body.
“When you arrived last night,” Martin began, “I figured you were important - maybe you carried a few secrets or other, maybe you knew a bit about the enemy. I didn’t ever expect the most high profile killer this organisation has ever had…”
Jack quickly looked up, “What?”
Casually holding his mug of moonshine, Martin spoke softly, almost in reverence, “This is the single biggest victory against them we’ve ever had. No one has ever gone this far. We’ve taken down a few politicians - even the guy before him, but it was collateral. Fucking collateral in a bomb meant for someone else. You were there. You were right in front of the bastard I presume? You walked into his fucking home,” his cheeks rose in excitement, “And you killed the wanker on his fucking throne?”
Jack stared back at Martin, feeling a marriage of pride and disgust flowing in veins.
“I shot him,” he said, “In the back of the head.”
Martin raised his mug and chinked it against Jack’s, “You are a hero.”
Jack smiled, the nerves bubbling in his stomach could wait.
Battling his way through the toast, Jack helped himself to another smidgen of the disgusting substance Martin called brandy and retired to the living room, staring out the window at the quiet road outside.
His convoy to take him to London would arrive within the hour, if all went to plan. Birds were dancing in the branches as the sun streamed through the patterned cloud into the brambles and poured its brilliant radiance over the daffodils and tiny crocuses peeking out of the grass.
“You’re going to have a quite a garden here in the summer,” Jack said, idly. He knew nothing of gardening.
Martin, who was nestled in his armchair with an old hardback book, looked up, “I hope so. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”
“Gives you something to do, I suppose,” Jack said, “Not much to do in the countryside…”
“No,” he said, “It’s watching something grow. From all the madness in the world, and every single person who leaves my house never to return, never to know of their lives before or since their stay, it brings me peace just to watch the simplest of living things… grow.”
Half an hour later, the car arrived. Jack slipped from the window seat and to the front door, eager to leave and yet reticent for what was to come.
“Is Sally in?” the man at the door asked.
“Yes she is,” Martin said from behind Jack, “Come on in.”
Jack stepped aside and allowed the man to enter.
“I’m Tobias,” he said, turning to Jack, “I’m here to take you to London. The journey is going to be pretty dangerous, so we have to set off as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
Tobias paused for brief reflection, “We expect an imminent announcement that may prevent us from reaching our destination. But we have protocols. My duty is to make sure you are safe, and I will die before I see any harm come to you.”
“D
ie?” Jack was repulsed, “I don’t want anyone to die for me.”
“Sir,” he said, “If I may speak frankly, I am in awe of what you did last night and I would gladly risk my life to save yours.”
“I haven’t… I haven’t done anything,” Jack turned to Martin for help, but was met only with a sincere gaze.
“You’ve given us hope,” Tobias said, “A hope that one day we might beat them…”
Feeling more uncomfortable than ever, Jack quickly hastened the subject back to the matter at hand.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked.
“I’ve got a travel licence which permits me to get to Devon. That’s what our destination is until we stop off at a location near Windsor. Then I change ID cards and travel licences, meaning we can safely enter London as part of a usual commute. All this time, you’re going to be in the back. You can’t be seen by anyone until you’re at the London safehouse.”
“Right, okay,” Jack said, feeling comforted that he would be reunited with Lana and other familiar faces soon. He turned to Martin, “Thank you for everything.”
Martin nodded calmly, “I hope this is not the last time I see you.”
Grabbing one last look of the tiny cottage and the solitary man who owned it, Jack followed Tobias out into the driveway.
He opened the car boot. It was packed with random pieces of luggage.
“Hide behind them, if we are stopped and they look in the boot they won’t see much beyond the luggage. My cover story is that I’m moving back to Cornwall to be with my family.”
Jack clambered into the back of the boot, shifting stuff out of his way as he laid down, feeling helpless as he looked up at Tobias amongst the rubble that lay between them.
Tobias, meanwhile, confidently took out a gun from his jacket pocket and offered it to him.
“You’ll need this,” he said.
Jack took it, both petrified and comforted by it.
“If we are stopped and I know that it’s too late, I’ll sound the horn once and let the boot open. If you don’t hear the horn, and the boot is opened, then be on guard.”