The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  “It might be, I’ll need to have an architect look at it,” Kyle said, “I’ve only had this a few days. But,” he tapped his finger at the top right hand corner of the paper, “It’s got coordinates.”

  “What, you mean you know where this is?”

  Kyle grinned, “Aberdeenshire.”

  “So then we can actually go and see it?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve already booked the trip,” he smiled, “I leave in a few weeks. Travel in Scotland’s been suspended for a month.”

  “Why?” Jack asked - it was the first he had heard of this.

  “Officially?” he said, “It’s to counteract terrorism. Unofficially? They know who you are, Jack. They suspect that you’ll try to make contact with your family.”

  “Obviously don’t know me very well then,” he replied under his breath.

  Kyle began to roll the blueprint back up, “So that’s what we have so far.”

  They all sat back down again.

  Jack looked around them all and felt a strange sense of pride and respect being shared equally around the table.

  “Have we had any word from Alex?” Jack asked.

  Devin and Kyle shook their heads.

  “He’ll be hit by the travel suspension I suppose?” Jack asked, already knowing the answer. Furthermore it answered another question he had kept quiet on. With the travel suspension in place for another month, and with Alex trapped on the other side of it, it meant the leadership mantle rested on his shoulders for a while yet. “Right, Melanie, it’s your turn now.”

  An inactive Melanie suddenly erupted into excitement, “I just got off the phone from one of my sources and this is confirmed. David White’s former secretary and speechwriter, Claudia, has walked away from her position in Cameron Snowden’s Downing Street team.”

  “What’s the significance?” Jack asked, feeling ignorant.

  “Well,” Melanie grinned devilishly, “If she left, it means it was her choice. Now here’s a question… if you’re one of the country’s most powerful women, what could have possibly pissed you off enough to make you walk?”

  “That’s a fucking good question,” Kyle said, clapping his hands together.

  “What do we know about her?” Jack asked, “Can she be approached?”

  “She used to work alongside Cameron Snowden, so I doubt it.”

  Jack’s heart jolted as an idea sprang through his neurons. It was a wildly stupid idea, but he was keen to ignore all signs of danger and recklessness. Sitting at the helm of his leadership team, he felt more empowered than ever. Ever since Emma’s confidence instilling speech, he felt more invigorated and self assured.

  “Tell me where she lives,” he said, “Let’s see if I’m as famous as everyone tells me so.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The little town of Sevenoaks ignited in colour as the sun crashed into the horizon and illuminated the soft clouds in a vision of crimson that peaked into deepest gold. The trees swayed gently in the breeze; their newborn leaves rustling calmly as all else succumbed to silence.

  As dogs, clarted in mud, sprinted across the green, a soft rain began to fall. Each drop gently caressed his skin, as he stood underneath the taller of the trees in the woodland, facing out towards the war memorial - red wreath flagging under the wearisome weather.

  He drew his hood up, shadow cascading across his sullen and gaunt face. Three weeks of living underground, of being hidden from sight and blindly issuing orders without the benefit of experiencing life. Though the media attention had quelled, his alert was heightened. After all, he was still the most wanted man in the country.

  From underneath the trees, Jack watched the figure return from the shops, laden with canvas bags and dripping wet. She hurried across the leaf-strewn gravel driveway and into the grand white manor house with its thatched roof and sash windows. A neat hedgerow shielded the rest of the garden from view, and heavy drawn curtains maintained the highest of privacy.

  The sleepy commuter town had played host to him for four nights. Smuggled into the safe house via another car boot journey, Jack had settled in with his new host quite comfortably and though initially wary of revealing his face in public, he found that the public were less interested than the media might suggest. He wore an ordinary face for a man with such extraordinary hatred. It was the perfect disguise.

  His host, Sam, owned the local pub. Above the bar were four rooms he frequently rented, and where he could, he accommodated Resistance members as a priority. Whether they were passing through - many, as Jack heard, rarely stayed to take in the sights of the town - or in need to hide from the preying public eye for a while, Sam offered hospitality and protection. A quaint figure with a penchant for craft beers and ales, Sam welcomed Jack warmly to his home. So inviting was he, that Jack felt the man was more than a little star struck by Jack’s presence and, though Jack refused to answer, frequently questioned what could possibly have brought Jack to this tired old town.

  The woman shut the front door behind her. It was his fourth sighting of her. The first had been as she collected a parcel from the post office. As she strode confidently along the pavement, she carried an air of determination that Jack instantly found unsettling for reasons he could not quite fathom. Following her, he had tracked her until she met with a friend for coffee at which point he abandoned his quest and returned to The Dirty Swan, where Sam was leaning on the bar and drying glasses fresh from the dishwasher. The next day he ventured out again to watch her from afar. Her long black hair flowed delicately in the spring breeze. Today she was less confident as she scuttled towards the train station. Jack had been expecting her to hop on a train, but was quite surprised when a man alighted on the platform to wrap his arms around her. The confidence returned and Jack slunk back to the pub for a pint.

  Fame was a curious thing, Jack noted as he first stepped out into the crisp May air. Spring had slept in this year. Though he kept his face low and his expression indescribably banal, there was still the fear at the back of his head that it would only take one person to catch a glimpse of his mug and be hit with instant recognition for it all to be over. He took more than a risk leaving the safety of the basement in Cumbria. His life hung on the line, and yet he felt that what he had planned was worth everything.

  Steven Lennox had been all over the news. Far and wide his face smirked at its hateful audience. Snippets of quotes from people in his past claimed that his actions came as no surprise. The news stories poured in - childhood friends described their shock at what he had done. One paper had even sought out Jane, his ex girlfriend for a quote. Jack was humbled when on camera she declined to comment.

  After a while the media grew bored and Steven Lennox became tiresome. There had been no confirmed sightings - owed to Jack keeping largely underground - and soon the stories paled into the back pages and, finally, into obscurity. The media storm had been expecting a retaliation. Jack made sure to disappoint. His plans were set. Every evening he was being fed with updates from Melanie and Kim. Every evening he chose one MP to torture by way of photographic evidence of their day slipped through their letterbox. It was a message that The Resistance were capable of anything. Two MPs had resigned already, quickly disappearing from the limelight and replaced by steelier characters.

  But for Jack, the gentle walks around Sevenoaks were quite unremarkable. Perhaps had he returned to London, the story would be completely different. The cities were more equipped for the readiness of terrorism. London was exactly where the government expected Jack to be and so, for the time being, it must be exactly where he was not.

  Sleepy Sevenoaks settled into a shimmering twinkle of street lights and headlamps. Jack was on the brink of adjusting his hood and returning to The Dirty Swan when, from the corner of his eye, he saw the front door open again.

  Sweeping long black hair, umbrella cradled in her hands, Claudia hurried from her driveway and half way along the street. Pausing briefly, Jack waited a few moments before tracking her from
the other side of the pavement.

  The street she lived on a was a glorious suburbia of semi-detached houses and kempt gardens with rows of newly planted bulbs promising a summer of colour and greenery. Every driveway held a car. Every window leaked a view of the wealth within. Huge trees sprouted from the asphalt as they lined the length of the road. They arched over the cars beneath them, casting long shadows in the setting sun.

  Jack followed Claudia as she raced into town. The shops were all shutting, but the pubs were spilling forth with customers; beers in one hand and smoke spiralling up from the other. Headlights streaked past, small puddles splashing pathetically against the kerb. As the sun shrunk behind the curve of the Earth, the palette of colour washed away to dullest blue.

  For a long while now Jack had been contemplating who this woman was. He knew that she had been a speechwriter and assistant to David White and had continued to work in government until she resigned recently. Beyond that, he knew little else. From her house and lifestyle, she appeared childless. He was not convinced the man she was meeting was even her husband. Claudia was an elusive figure and Jack was completely intrigued by her.

  A few short years ago, and she was one of the most powerful women in the country. Something between David’s political demise and her resignation had changed that. Jack wanted to know what would have made such an ambitious character abandon the Westminster dream so easily. What did she know of the government and did she entirely agree with how it was being run?

  Jack crossed the street in order to be closer to her. He watched her march determinedly and quietly drew conclusions about her personality. Above all, Jack was fascinated by what information she held in her head. What did she know of the government’s intelligence on The Resistance? Did her position in government grant her superior knowledge of their Masterplan? It was all speculation and after several days of tailing her, it was driving Jack to madness.

  Abruptly, Claudia stopped. Her handbag had slipped from her arm and was lying splayed open on the pavement. Its contents had erupted from within and were scattered around her. Bending down, she began to frantically gather them together.

  Three, four strides later, Jack knelt down beside her, reaching out for the stray hair brush.

  “Oh thank you so much!” she exclaimed, grabbing the brush from him, “I’m so clumsy at ti-”

  Their eyes locked, recognition flowing both directions. Jack hadn’t quite let go of the brush. They were linked through this one inanimate object for a few brief seconds. Her lips quivered, eyes dilating. Rain streamed down both their brows.

  Jack knew his time was limited. Before she could say anything, Jack winked at her and rose up to full height before marching down the street.

  When he was sure that he was clear from her sight, he broke into a run, fuelled by the rush of his encounter. He felt powerful. He felt in control. He felt the terror he’d impressed on her flow through his veins and felt stronger for it. Unyieldingly, he was reminded of Julian and the times he had manipulated him. For a fractured moment he experienced a surge of loss. Sometimes he forgot what he’d done; other times he merely wished he could.

  As he made his way home, he wondered how Claudia was feeling. Had doubt already crept into her mind and was she convincing herself that she hadn’t seen him? Though it was a possibility, Jack deliberately ignored the outcome of what might happen if she called the CRU. However, he had many hours to think about this woman. Whatever happened in her job, she had decided to resign. That meant her friendship with the authorities was more than likely to be tenuous. It was hope. A vague and drastic hope.

  Sliding in through the pub’s back entrance, he slithered upstairs and collapsed on to his single, unmade bed. Doubt was a virus. Had he even made the right choice? His plan all rested on his opinion of this woman; his own theories about why she might have left and from past experience, his thought process was not exceptional when it came to how other people might react.

  Risk. It was a strange beast. As Jack sat staring up at the stationary ceiling fan, he wondered if he had just risked too much. Arrogance played with his heart. Consistently, he failed to realise the true consequences of his actions. Under Alex’s influence, would he ever have ventured this far outside? His face was plastered on the media - it only took one person to recognise him, or to at least think they did, for it all to be over. And now he’d purposefully revealed himself. What was to come was a dark hole of time he couldn’t evaluate or panic over.

  He switched on the television. The tiny cathode-ray flickered into being. As the picture slowly shifted into the screen, the credits of some documentary were replaced by the titles of the national news. Though it was a source of invaluable information, Jack wished for once he could turn on the television and drown in himself in the garbage being broadcasted. Where there were the dramas, the comedies and the cheesy action films, there was also sinister undertone of a broadcasting agency laced in propaganda. There was never any relief, not like before in his life as a measly shift worker whose life was spiralling down to a six foot hole in the ground.

  Leaving the television quietly muttering to himself, he went over to the sink and splashed water on his face. His tired eyes stared back at him from the little mirror, which somehow seemed to highlight the worst of his features. The blue bags under his bloodshot eyes; his dry, grey skin. Maybe that was why no one recognised him when he ventured outside. He looked nothing of the youthful man who portrayed him on TV. Gone were the best part of his twenties. Sunk underneath the heavy burden of broken ambition and poverty; forever rooted by his inhibitions, tormented by his own lies and now… forever hounded by his mistakes. That man on the news that smiled from the still: that was not Jack. And then he realised, that indeed they had never said it was. That boy was Steven Lennox. That’s where his last refuge lay. Apportioned blame to an apportioned persona.

  Splashing more water on his face, he reached for the small towel. That was when he heard it. Softly spoken, barely audible at the present volume, but unmistakeable. Jack froze. His hairs prickled as if he were in the same room, just behind him - as if his breath might breeze across his skin, seconds before the lightest of touches.

  Slowly, Jack turned round, dropping the towel as he focussed on his crying father, wiping tears from his reddened cheeks, paparazzi camera’s bursting into torrents of flash. Instantly, Jack’s own cheeks were moist.

  “My… my son,” Ray continued over the microphone, “Has committed… atrocious, atrocious crimes. But he is my son. And if you are out there, Steven, then please I want you to listen. You need to turn yourself in. You need to... “ he whimpered into unpleasant sobbing, “You need to do what’s right.”

  The words cut deep into Jack. He knew exactly what his father was referring to.

  “I know… I know you are probably… scared,” he continued, amidst flash photography, “I know you might even believe that you are justified, but please. Turn yourself in. Please end this turmoil. For the sake of Mr Robson’s family. For the sake of Mr Syme’s. For your own.”

  Ray breathed a “Thank you” into the microphone before being quickly escorted away from the cameras in a blur of navy suits.

  His dad. On screen. Pleading for his son to surrender.

  Jack collapsed on to his bed; the springs creaked under his weight. Arms lying pathetically by his side, Jack watched the screen as it faded from the conference room and back into the new studio.

  “Steven Lennox’s father,” the newsreader said, “Making an urgent appeal for his son to turn himself over to the authorities following the deaths of Quentin Robson and Julian Syme.”

  For several minutes Jack continued to stare at the screen. The subsequent images fused together into one reel of fractured colour. The walls seemed to close in around him and the joyous anonymity he had suddenly felt seemed false, a fool’s imposter. For his own father to speak out to the whole nation… Jack was lost for words. It wasn’t fear he felt - fear that the government had gotten to his family.
It was disappointment. Though he never had been expecting it, to hear his own father’s blatant disapproval, Jack could not help but feel completely void inside. Empty, discarded: the emotions revolved around inside of him and he felt transported back to the hospital bed, back to the funeral and the moment his parents had disowned him.

  A gentle knock at the door. Jack looked up abruptly.

  “Who’s there?”

  From behind the door, the muffled voice, “It’s Sam.”

  “Come in.”

  A moment later and the door opened and quickly shut as the landlord entered. Broad shouldered and plump around the midriff, Sam was dripping with sympathy.

  “I’ve just seen,” he said, pointing at the television set, which was now covering the local weather.

  Jack nodded, unsure of what else to say.

  “Are you alright?” Sam said, sitting on the edge of the bed alongside Jack, who shrugged his shoulders in reply. “It must be hard, not being able to tell them the truth.”

  “They know it,” Jack said, “They all know the fucking truth. They just choose to ignore it.”

  He wiped a tear from his eye, blinking to stem the flow. This? It wasn’t worth tears.

  “Whoever said ignorance is bliss is going to be hugely mistaken when I am finished,” he muttered.

  Sam looked at him oddly, “What do you mean?”

  “It’s no secret what’s going on out there. Some have embraced it - you know the ones, the journalists behind the Unsightlies terms, the ones who scowl at your unemployed status. I’m fucking tired of their pleas of ignorance. There isn’t a damn person in this fucking country who doesn’t know something is wrong, they are just too selfish to fucking admit it.”