The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  The three heads in front of him nodded simultaneously. To his side, Kyle simply stared into the distance.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” Jack asked.

  Melanie spoke first, “What’s our next plan of attack?”

  Jack hadn’t thought of this. He hadn’t thought much beyond pulling the trigger if he was honest, but it was too late for forethought. Until Alex was better, he was making the decisions and calling the shots; Kyle made no protest against him and Jack found that maddeningly reassuring. Jack felt he was occupying a role Kyle was more deserving of.

  “Before the end of tomorrow, I expect Cameron Snowden to confirm that we attacked Quentin Robson. We have to prepare for the imminent backlash - we have to make our side of the story known. Quentin was involved in something -”

  “Yeah but we can’t prove any of that - and even if we could, do you really think what we say is going to reach the media?” Melanie interrupted.

  She had a point. The huge glaring hole in Jack’s ideology was that it was all based on the fact that the society they lived in gave a shit about what was going on around them.

  Jack sighed, heavily, scratching his stubble.

  “Well we don’t expect them to react kindly to what we did,” Jack began, rubbing his eyes, “We need to act before they do.”

  “Like what? Tactical bombing? We can’t pull that kind of resources together in a few hours -”

  “No,” Jack said, not wanting another dead body on his conscience, “But something as impactful. I mean that’s the problem… isn’t it? We’re fighting this fucking mess of a government and we don’t really know what is they are doing, why they are doing it. It’s all about control, but why? If we can’t figure out who we are fighting, what chance do the people we’re wanting to recruit have?”

  Kyle smiled approvingly.

  Slamming his hand down on the table, he found further strength in his convictions, “We need to find out what Quentin was up to. We need to know about the buildings. That man was allowing starvation as a means of torture. The public needs to know this. I want to know by the end of the week.”

  Melanie scribbled down some notes.

  “They are going to fuck us over because of what we did to one of theirs,” Jack continued, furiously, “So we have to make damn sure we are ready for them. The MPs, they are going to be shitting themselves. I want them followed. Each and every one of them. And then I want letters sent to their addresses - describing exactly their movements for the whole day. We’re going to get inside their heads. Create paranoia.”

  Kim nodded, already dialling a number on her phone, “I’ll get my guys on it for the morning.”

  “Good,” he said, “If killing Quentin was really the biggest victory this organisation has ever seen, then I want to damn well make sure it isn’t the peak. Right, okay. I think we all work to be getting on with.”

  He dismissed them, the adrenaline fuming from his pores. Everyone but Kyle immediately left the room to start on the preparations for tomorrow.

  Patting a hand on his shoulder, Kyle smiled at him.

  “You did well,” he said, “How are you feeling?”

  Looking at the door, Jack checked that they were alone, “Fucking terrified.”

  “Well it’s not coming across that way,” he said, “You just killed one of the PM’s closest friends in his own house. And here you are running the campaign, as calm as can be.”

  “Only while Alex is out of action,” Jack clarified.

  “I know,” he said.

  Jack stared at opposite end of the room. A painting hung in the centre. It was an ugly piece, blotched strokes blurring any structure to the scene it tried to set. The more Jack looked at it, the more he felt like he was in the painting.

  “Have we heard from the other two?” Jack asked the question he’d been dying never to hear the answer to.

  Without clarification, Kyle provided the answer in the form of a solemn shake of the head, “I think we can assume they are either dead or captured.”

  “Fuck,” he sighed. He struggled to remember their faces.

  Kyle opened his mouth to say something, but Jack snuck in first.

  “We left them,” he said, quietly, “We just left them to die.”

  Kyle didn’t react the way Jack had hoped. Instead of the disappointing hard stare he deserved, Kyle looked back at him expressionless.

  “You did what you needed to do,” he said.

  “How can you say that?” he asked, sharply, “How can you be so… so cold?”

  Kyle screwed his eyebrows with frustration, “Because I have to be. We all have to be. We can’t be personal about this.”

  “But isn’t this all personal? We aren’t here out of conviction or courage? We’re here because we have something, someone to lose,” Jack snapped. “I can’t turn it off. I can’t just see them as fucking casualties of human error. We shouldn’t have left them.”

  For a few moments Kyle appeared to be on the brink of saying something, but eventually decided to remain silent.

  “I need some sleep,” Jack said.

  “Devin will show you to your room,” Kyle said, rising to his feet and quietly leaving the room to fetch their host.

  That night, Jack lay awake, paralysed by fear. Though comfort surrounded him in every way - from the layers of pillows, to the pristine sheets and double bed, Devin had gone out of his way to make Jack feel relaxed and had still failed. Relaxation was a thing of the past now. In four short days, he had gone from pathetic member of The Resistance, to running it. He questioned every decision he had made that evening. Would Alex have chosen the same course of action? Was he likely to approve of it when he eventually heard about it?

  By morning, Jack had only had, at most, a couple of hours sleep. Even before the birds rose, the sound of patrolling Nightstalkers kept him on edge. As he drifted off, he slipped into paranoid dreams that they were coming for him. Several times he woke up, startled and wrapped in his own sweat.

  Downstairs, Devin had laid on a cooked breakfast for him. Despite his protests, Jack was forced to eat his way through fried eggs, tasty bacon and crisp wholemeal bread. It was a luxury he felt he didn’t earn.

  Kim arrived shortly after Jack had finished his last morsel and was wiping his chin with the cotton napkin Devin had provided.

  “I’ve got eight guys following MPs, two of which are in the cabinet - Rhys Thomson and Seamus Daniels,” she said, clutching her phone, “I’m getting hourly updates from them.”

  She sat down beside him and helped herself to a cup of tea, “Mel will be along shortly. I think she’s spoken to someone about a programme Quentin was running.”

  “Good job,” Jack said, not feeling qualified enough to anoint anyone with praise.

  The doorbell rang and Devin raced to answer it.

  “How did you sleep last night?” Kim asked, “You don’t look great.”

  “Cheers,” he said, sighing.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” she fumbled over her apology.

  “No,” Jack said, “I’m not offended. Just fed up.”

  “I understand,” she said, “I think we’re all excited something finally seems to be happening.”

  Jack looked at her sceptically. His turmoil was her excitement.

  The kitchen door opened and Melanie was standing in the threshold, a grave expression plastered on her pale face.

  “What’s happened?” Kim asked.

  A moment of steel silence preceded Melanie’s stammering jaw.

  “They… the-they,” tears began streaming down her cheeks, “Th-they k-killed them… b-burned down the house…. while they were in it.”

  “Whose house? Who’s dead?” Kim shot to her feet dramatically.

  “The two… the two who were caught… the ones with you,” she looked directly at Jack, “Their families… they’re dead. The baby… the tiny little baby…”

  Shock blasted all sense from him. Melanie collapsed into a chair. Dev
in scurried in behind her, catching her just as she landed. Kim stared around everyone in the room systematically searching for any semblance of reason.

  Jack couldn’t even define it as grief. He hadn’t a picture of their faces to imagine and cry over. They were nameless figures in someone else’s life he’d shared but an evening with. And yet it cut through him as sharply as if they were his own flesh and blood. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was simply remote disgust.

  “Bastards,” Jack said, “The fucking bastards.”

  “How did they know who they were?”

  “They must have broken them,” Jack said, coldly, “This is a message to us.”

  Rising to his feet, he inhaled deeply. Rage contorted through his veins.

  “I need a car,” he demanded, not looking at anyone specifically. It was an order. He needed it followed.

  He saw Mel instantly look at a frightened Kim.

  “I need one, now,” he demanded.

  “Tobias should be with you,” Mel suggested delicately.

  For the plan he was forming in his mind, he didn’t want any witnesses.

  “Just get me car,” he reiterated, “Please.”

  “If they know Phil and Mike were involved…”

  “They knew The Resistance was behind it from the start,” he said, “They’ve known this was coming for a long time.”

  “You can’t be sure….” Kim said.

  “I am fucking sure,” his voice trembled. “Now get me a car.”

  Kim got to her feet and started dialling her contacts immediately. The others looked on at him; Jack felt he almost frightened them.

  He walked over to the kitchen window and stared out into the brittle rain plummeting from the charcoal sky. Umbrellas pattered the pavements; cars splashed through the rushing roadside rivers; a normal day unfolding beneath a heavy storm. The world a few lives lighter, and Jack’s heart a little heavier.

  A baby. There were no words for how disgusted he was. He imagined the flames licking the sky, billowing out of the upstairs windows in a neat little terraced house; deafening screams echoing from within. The crying confusion of a life so small piercing above all else until suddenly, it just stopped.

  It was a little after seven in the morning when he got into the driver’s seat of the car Kim had ordered. The bonnet was a little bent, the clutch stubborn and the seats frayed and worn, but it was sufficiently disguised in the rush hour traffic. With everyone heading into the city, Jack was one of the few heading outwards.

  As he edged through the traffic, being stopped at nearly every traffic light, the tense worry strengthened its grip. The whole dynamic of his relationship with the rest of the world was changing. He was still another face in the crowd, but as he drove along the city streets, he felt every face gradually edge slowly in his direction. As he flicked on the radio, the news readers were in dense discussion over Quentin’s death. Speculation was rife. One reporter believed that the DD were responsible; another was sure that Cameron Snowden would release a statement later that day claiming The Resistance were to blame. One guest suggested GD involvement, but was quickly shot down.

  No mention of a house fire anywhere in the country. It was of no advantage to the government to announce it to the nation. It was a message intended for one specific group and they had most certainly received it. Jack launched into fifth gear, even more determined to reach his destination in time.

  Over the past few days he’d thought of little else. Someone had told Quentin Robson that The Resistance planned to infiltrate his estate and from the very first second a betrayal had been mentioned, Jack had zeroed in his crosshairs on the one person he thought was capable of it. The man just so happened to have the perfect motive as well.

  Putney Bridge. Over the past year that he had been coming here, never before had he arrived with such rage anchoring him down. The rain was battering the windscreen; the road ahead obscured by streaks shooting down from the battling sky above. Jack felt that the world was emulating his heart.

  Parking at the side of the road, he switched the engine off and lay back in the seat, shutting his eyes and allowing dreams to briefly catch flight. Pressed against his chest, he’d felt the gun for the entire duration of the journey. It was a symbol of what he’d done, and what he was about to do.

  The clock on the dial read five minutes to eight. Jack knew the man’s routine. Leisurely breakfasts which included croissants and cups of coffee. He’d leave no earlier than quarter past eight, allowing time for the traffic to ease. He’d then hop into his Porsche and breeze into work. His penchant for scheduling and order made Jack’s plan all the easier. He’d only need to walk up and ring the doorbell to initiate it. And that’s exactly what he did.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The door opened, aroma of croissants and coffee spilling into the porch. Julian looked up at him, a yawn fading into an expression of shock as he focussed on the gun that Jack was pointing at him.

  “What are you doing?” gasped Julian, inching backwards.

  “We need to talk.” Jack demanded.

  “I have nothing to say,” Julian grabbed the door and made to slam it shut.

  Jamming his foot in the door, Jack held a tighter grip on the gun.

  “Don’t play games,” he warned Julian. It took everything in his power to restrain himself from beating the man on his own doorstep.

  From down the length of the hallway, Beth’s sweet voice echoed.

  “Who is it, sweetie?” she said, stepping into the hallway and clutching a tea-towel in her hands. “Oh, Harry, it’s been such a long time since you were last over! How have you been?”

  Jack discreetly buried the gun back in his inner jacket pocket before beaming a welcoming smile at her.

  “Sorry, Beth, it’s been so hectic at the office lately - in fact I’m just picking Julian up today because something urgent has cropped up,” he explained, “I need his help, but I’ll stop by this weekend if that’s okay?”

  Beth returned a more sombre expression, “We can’t, I’m afraid. I don’t know if Julian ever mentioned, but we were close with Quentin Robson and his family. Julian went to university alongside Quentin, they’ve known each other for years. Such tragic, horrible news. And to hear it over the radio - well, we were devastated. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we expect the funeral to be held at the weekend.”

  “My deepest condolences,” Jack feigned his best tone of sympathy, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. You must be feeling absolutely dreadful.”

  He looked at Julian in particular; the man couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a few milliseconds.

  “Absolutely,” she said, “I hope they catch the bastard who killed him - they are talking about it being a terrorist attack. On Quinnie? Julian and I can’t think of a single person who would want to harm him. He was such a dear friend, so kind and gentle. Oh and the kids. Michael and Rachel... I dread to think what they are going through right now.”

  Shuffling nervously on doormat, Jack didn’t know how to react. He felt sympathy, even empathy towards Quentin’s family but he wasn’t sure how to process it. He wasn’t convinced he even could.

  “Don’t let me keep you from work though,” Beth said, wiping the corner of her eye with the tea-towel. “The world has to keep on turning.”

  Julian turned to her and kissed her on the cheek. She flushed, and patted him away as her embarrassment piqued.

  “Romantic old fool,” she giggled, whipping her husband playfully with the tea-towel.

  Waving her a gentle goodbye, Jack stepped backwards to allow Julian through. As Beth shut the front door, Jack immediately dropped his Harry Kirk persona.

  “Get into your car,” he ordered.

  Without much defiance, Julian unlocked the Porsche and got into the driver’s seat. Jack hopped in on the other side, feeling the gun pressing against his chest once more.

  “Why are you doing this?” Julian asked, frantically checking his mirrors and drawing a shaking h
and towards the handbrake.

  “Drive down to Richmond Park,” Jack said.

  It was the closest place Jack could think of, but the rugged park would be ideal for what he had planned. Short of leaving the city, it was perfect for the secluded location he had in mind for his private chat.

  “Whatever you can say you can say it here,” Quentin protested.

  Jack pulled the gun out again, “You aren’t in any position to argue with me. Just drive.”

  They reversed out of the driveway and on to the main roads. Police cars shot by; another emergency, another crime. Jack’s heart thundered inside. The gun lay in his lap; fingers bound tightly around it, but not on the trigger. Consumed with rage, Jack fought to keep silent for the duration of the journey as he relived flashes of the night he’d killed Quentin. Time had embellished the memories - the fear and doubt that had frozen him before he shot Quentin seemed to have disappeared in retrospect. He’d picked up the gun, fired it and watched the man fall to the ground in a matter of seconds. There was no emotional turmoil or any creature of doubt. Was it cowardly to forget how life truly happened, or was it coping mechanism? Either way, Jack clutched on to what he could in order to steady himself, and to make sure his firm grip on the gun never loosened.

  From the corner of his eye he could see Quentin panicking and slowly suffering a breakdown. The thoughts that must be racing through his mind - Jack almost pitied him. However, as horrifying as the journey was for Julian, it was increasingly more difficult for Jack. One street he was determined to follow through in his plan, the next he let the anger subside and common sense spoke to him rationally until the next set of traffic lights. With every internal argument he had, his mind carried a whole set of images and memories to justify his actions. Consequently, Jack felt completely torn. There was no right or wrong path anymore; he just had to pick one and understand that once the decision had been made, he could never retrace his steps.