The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  Sam sighed and Jack felt that the man agreed with him to an extent. However, a heavy presence filled the air. Doubt, Jack recognised it instantly. Doubt and hesitance.

  “I’m going to go out tonight, Sam,” Jack said, “And when I return I might not be the same man.”

  “Why’s that?” Sam said.

  “Because no one who ever changed the world ever remained the same,” Jack said.

  He rose from the bed and switched off the television. Sam looked at him apprehensively.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  In his short time with Sam, Jack had quickly learned that he was a simple fellow. Though astute enough to be aware that there was something wrong with the current society, Sam was unable to grasp any further conclusions. Maybe he was just as naive as Jack was when he first stalked the halls of headquarters. It was for that reason that Jack reserved his patience for him.

  “I’ll return tonight, but not until after Curfew,” he said. “Keep an eye out for me.”

  Jack threw the door open and left.

  Hood drawn up, he wandered through the little woods opposite The Dirty Swan for a while. Darkness was a solace for those who were too exposed to the light. Jack enjoyed the gentle breeze through the trees; the rustling of crisp leaves and the soft coo of a nearby owl. The woods curved round to the residential suburb he’d spent the past few days mentally mapping.

  Standing in the shadows, a splinter of street light penetrating through the branches, Jack watched the road ahead with fascinated interest. As still as it appeared, he could hear the gentle hum of a car approaching and the minute laughter of a couple walking hand in hand along the perimeter of the wood.

  Though after three days he could hardly make grand assumptions on the woman’s schedule and habits, Jack reckoned that from their earlier meeting she might wish to spend her evening in the confines of her own home. However, his track record for these critical decisions on other people’s behaviour was tragically misaligned to how he had envisioned them. Still, he was gaining more confidence by the day. Perhaps it was being hunted that had given his instinct and judgement a jolt of life; instead of spending days and weeks mulling over decisions, having a matter of hours to make life or death choices was a luxury. It forced him into a position where a decision had to be made with whatever information was available.

  Slowly he made his way along the wood to the turnstile exit and hopped across the road as it turned into the cricket green he’d been loitering near earlier that. The war memorial was hauntingly illuminated.

  Claudia’s house appeared empty save one light upstairs. As carefully and as silently as he could, Jack slipped into the driveway and crept along the flower bed until he reached the side of the old house. Ivy clawed at the walls. A sweet smell of honeysuckle invited Jack to the back garden, passing a tarpaulin covered wood pile and a multitude of broken garden furniture, from deck chairs to an old chimnea. A set of steps at rose up from the gable end of the house to a beautiful terrace at the ear of the building.

  Rattan furniture sat unoccupied in the middle of the terrace, sporting a view of the magnificent lawn that ran down to the end of the garden, where a lonely shed suffered from years of neglect.

  Turning his back on the garden, Jack was confronted by a set of patio doors, the floor length curtains on the other side nearly drawn to a close. Jack pressed his head against the window to catch a better glimpse at the room within. In the dull light he was able to make out a dining table and a modern kitchen behind it. Jack pulled the patio door handle. It didn’t budge.

  Stepping away, he investigated another window that looked over into the kitchen sink. It was jammed shut. Moving round the other side of the house, Jack followed a little path that led to the garage. As he approached it, he saw an array of wheels and other car parts piled up at the side of the garage entrance. By coincidence, the pile reached nearly up to the height of the lowest part of the garage’s sloping roof. He followed a gutter back towards the house and saw that a window somewhere between the ground and first floor was open.

  Finding purchase on the tyres, Jack launched himself up, clutching on to the gutter and hoisting his body on to the garage roof. He was worried he was going to make too much noise - that the tyres would topple down on top of him or crash into the precariously placed terracotta pots below. But luck was on his side and he sidled himself along the roof.

  The sash window was just within reach, but open a fraction too low for him to slide through as it was. Rising to his feet, Jack stood between the roof and a small drain pipe that protruded from the house. With the tips of his fingers he managed to push the window up further, just enough for him to be able to crawl through. After a moment’s tricky footing, Jack pushed all his weight over to his left foot, which clung precariously to the small drain pipe. He felt it give way. A sharp fall and a skipped heartbeat; he latched onto the windowsill. Dust crumbled around him as he hung by his knuckles. Pulling himself up, his chest became level with the window and eventually he found enough traction to clamber through and land, cat-like, on the carpet staircase. Mud flaked from his shoes.

  As he absorbed his surroundings, he caught his breath and listened intently for the slightest of noises. In the distance he heard something, as if rain shattering on a tin roof. The sky outside was clear with the crisp coldness of spring. Ahead of him on the landing, a shaft of light poured from a doorway; a slice of brightness in a sea of murky black.

  Treading the carpet as lightly as he could, he made it to the landing. Five rooms fed off from this one small area, decorated by hanging landscape paintings of the sea. Now adjacent to the door which was slightly ajar, Jack figured what the noise was.

  Pushing back the door, he found himself in a quaint bedroom. A four poster bed, perfectly made with neutral quilt covers, flanked by two ornate mahogany bedside tables topped with gilded lamps that shone out a bronze glow. It was a rich room, dripping with fine tastes and elegant styles. There was no clutter or even the tiniest mess. The chest of drawers, patented, reflected a brilliant sheen. A collection of high heeled shoes were stacked neatly, almost as if on display.

  A door on the far side of the room was left slightly open. Steam rose from the crack. As he suspected, she was in the shower. As he waited for her to finish, Jack investigated her room, discovering fragments of the person she was.

  Underneath another stylised painting of the ocean was a grand dressing table, adorned with an intricate set of mirrors and tiny little drawers. A tiny ballerina crowned what appeared to be a jewellery box. Idly, Jack opened the drawers, which revealed an array of makeup products, mainly moisturisers. A wardrobe in the corner contained nothing but smart women’s suits and dresses, matching shoes placed directly underneath each outfit. He closed the doors. The shower continued pattering against the tiles.

  What was most prominent in the room was not her extravagant style, but a lack of his. The man he had seen Claudia with clearly did not live here. It seemed alien to Jack that a woman of her age would live alone in a house this size. She can’t have been more than forty, but for some reason it struck him as odd that she would choose to live alone.

  At last the shower petered out. From within the en-suite, Jack heard Claudia’s wet feet slapping against the cold tiles. Preparing himself, he found shelter near her dressing table, which was parallel to the en-suite.

  Casually, Claudia flung the door open and walked into her bedroom with a towel wrapped snugly around her figure. Her shoulders were dripping and her footsteps soaked the carpet. She was softly humming to herself whilst shaking the water from her hair with her hand.

  From behind her, Jack leant against the wall; psyching himself up to begin. It was much easier now than it ever had been before.

  “It’s not safe to leave your windows open in these troubled times,” he said, cutting the silence with his deep Scottish accent.

  Claudia shrieked, jumping around and clutching her towel to her chest. Her face washed white.
<
br />   “Anyone might get in,” he smirked.

  It took her a few seconds for her to take in what was happening. The poor woman stepped backwards and fell into her bed.

  “It was you, earlier,” she asked, her hair dangling over her face.

  Jack didn’t commit to answer.

  “What do you want,” she continued.

  Remaining silent, Jack paced the room, building the tension with every step. Claudia tracked him, her entire body facing him at all times.

  It was difficult to know where to begin. He did want information, but right this moment he wanted something else. Jack had pondered over the past few weeks about what was most important and he had eventually drawn an invaluable conclusion. The most precious aspect of Julian Syme was never his money, nor even the information - it was the promise of it. Jack held something over him and like a puppeteer he could command him. Whatever it was that Jack asked, he knew that Julian was going to endeavour to provide. To have that control over someone - that was almost as important as what they were able to give.

  Terror swam through her eyes, but her limbs remained calm and limp.

  “What do you want from me?” she said, her voice weaker than last.

  Jack stopped and stared at her, their eyes meeting and digging into one another. In an instance, Jack knew that she was stronger than Julian. All alone in an echoing house, there was no family to protect, and maybe a women of her political importance had passed caring about her status in the community.

  “Why did you resign?” Jack asked, his voice low and delicate.

  It was the last question she was expecting. She tightened her grip on the towel and looked sharply away from him.

  “Don’t try to deny it,” he continued, “I know.”

  “You know nothing,” she snapped.

  Jack tilted his head with curiosity, “Enlighten me.”

  Claudia scowled at him, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “You know who I am,” he said.

  “You’re just some cunt who's got a time limit above their fucking head,” she yelled. “I feel pathetic just looking at you.”

  “How am I pathetic, if you’re the one dripping not only with water but with fear? You haven’t moved an inch. You can’t trust to take your sight from me.”

  “You broke into my house, and you’re asking me not to be frightened?” she scoffed.

  “Why didn’t you call the CRU on me?” he asked. “Before, in the street. You looked right at me and you didn’t say a goddamn thing. Why?”

  Claudia looked more frightened.

  “What do you want from me, Steven?” she asked.

  “I want to know why you resigned,” he asked, “I want to know what you saw that disgusted you so much you abandoned a twenty year career in politics for. Was it a country life of farmer’s markets and village fetes?”

  “You want to know what I saw that was so disgusting? Quentin Robson’s fucking funeral. His wife and kids distraught as they read poxy poems that couldn’t in a million years describe how much they are going to miss him.”

  “I shot the man in the back of the head as he raised his own gun to kill a friend,” Jack said, “And don’t tell me he was defending himself because I know what that man was capable of. Starvation as torture? You must think I’m sick, but not half as sick as this government is. A government that you were a part of, that remained in power by borrowing your eloquent words.”

  Claudia gazed at the ground; her skin was now dry, but her eyes were less so.

  “It’s not a secret,” she sighed.

  She was almost laughing.

  “What do you really think is going to happen here?” she was smiling, “You threaten me, I tell all and you overthrow the government in time for tea?”

  Jack retreated to the window and lifted the curtains a little with his finger. The sky twinkled with the cosmos.

  “David White,” he said abruptly.

  Silence from behind. He knew he had hit the spot.

  “All those years together,” he said, “You must miss him.”

  “David’s dead,” she said, her voice cavernous with meaning.

  “Aren’t you frightened?” he asked, wheeling round, “Doesn’t it scare you how easily this is being done?”

  Claudia had collapsed to the ground. Her towel had fallen from her body, sullen breasts drooping on either side on her skinny body.

  “What do you want?” she sobbed into her hand.

  Jack knelt down beside her, “I want this to stop.”

  Through puffy eyes, she looked at him, “You can’t stop it. No one can.”

  He reached out and stroked her arm reassuringly. She shivered at his touch.

  “I can,” he said, “And I will.”

  Claudia looked at him, edging away.

  Mission accomplished. Jack had set his trap. He need only reel her in.

  Naked, the woman sobbed into her knees. Her entire body trembled and Jack felt a twisted sense of satisfaction.

  Touching her arm sympathetically, he rose to his feet and looked at her guiltily.

  “When you’re ready,” he said, “I’ll be there to listen.”

  Suddenly she looked up. Her shimmering eyes were emblazoned with fear.

  “Claudia,” he said, almost whispering, “I don’t want to do this, I just know I have to.”

  Casually as if he’d just stopped by to say hello, Jack left her bedroom and descended downstairs to the front door, which clicked behind him as he left. A cold, clean air swept across him. Whatever had happened tonight, something stirred within him and he knew that a little more of Jack Blackwood died.

  Shutdown was fast approaching. It had taken less time than he’d thought. As he retreated back into the woods, his thoughts remained with Claudia and he wondered if she was still sobbing on her bedroom floor, devoid of clothing and dignity.

  The lights went out as he opened the backdoor to The Dirty Swan. Shutdown. Sighing only with the relief that he had made it back at all, Jack locked the door before heading to his tiny room.

  However, before he reached the staircase, Sam swooped in from the bar, towel over his shoulder and stinking of beer.

  “Jack,” he said, “Someone’s here.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Jack followed Sam into the main bar, which was vacant save a solitary figure in one of the booths.

  As soon as his smile cracked, Jack knew who it was.

  “Still alive?” Alex croaked.

  Jack strode across the pub and threw his arms around him. Alex reciprocated, patting him on the back. Never before had Jack felt such a surge of gratefulness for someone’s company.

  “How’s the wound?” Jack said, withdrawing to have a better look at Alex’s frame. He looked well - better than the last time he had seen him at least.

  “Oh,” Alex said, “It’s just a flesh wound.”

  Jack smiled, “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Me too.”

  There was a moment of mutual respect that took Jack by surprise. For the first time in a long while he felt an equal to his friend.

  “Where have you been tonight?” Alex said, grabbing his pint of beer and taking a long gulp.

  “Oh c’mon, Alex, don’t even try and pretend you don’t know,” he said.

  Rising from the pint, Alex grinned, “I thought it impolite to ask. But I assume all is well with Ms Claudia?”

  Jack nodded, “Give her a little time first. But yes, I think we have her.”

  “Good,” Alex’s expression was buoyantly delicious.

  Jack sat down opposite Alex. Meanwhile Sam tended to another pint - a moment later it landed in front of him, an eager Sam standing over them both.

  “Thank you,” Jack said, shuffling along so that Sam could sit next to him.

  Alex and Jack exchanged looks. The same thread sewed through their thoughts. Sam’s eyes swivelled between the two men.

  “How have you been keeping, Sam?” Alex asked.

  Sam n
odded enthusiastically, “It’s been quiet here, but I’ve kept a record of everything!”

  He made to leave the table, but Alex halted him.

  “Show me in the morning,” he said, encouragingly, “But all is well?”

  “Yes,” Sam said, “It’s been great having Jack here though.”

  “He’s a right laugh, isn’t he?” Alex smirked. Jack caught the sarcasm and glared it back at him.

  “It’s really… inspiring to have him here,” Sam looked at Jack, who was overcome with an uncomfortable sensation he wasn’t able to articulate. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget that I’m part of something bigger. The past few days, Jack has made me remember what it’s like to be important.”

  Jack flushed crimson with embarrassment. He’d kept mainly to his room and had only sought Sam out for alcohol and food.

  “Sam,” Alex said, “Why don’t you fetch those records after all?”

  Sam nodded and Jack was instantly reminded of a puppy. The barman leapt from the booth and scurried down into the cellar.

  Alex turned immediately to Jack.

  “So,” he said, “You’re becoming a hero.”

  “Don’t joke,” Jack said, “I’m not at all happy with this.”

  “No,” Alex said, “It’s a bit odd.”

  The two of them stared diametrically. Jack could not help but think he had an inkling as to what his friend was thinking; he just didn’t want to bring it up.

  “How are you coping?” Alex eventually broke the impasse.

  “I never expected to be in this position,” Jack said.

  Alex gulped another fifth of his pint, “I admit, I thought you were going to be good. But not this good.”