The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  Not wanting to argue further, Jack unlocked his seatbelt and threw himself into the back, arranging his limbs so that every piece of him fell under the shadow of the backseat.

  “It’s a colleague from the Berwick team,” Jonathan said from the driver’s seat, “They must do spot checks. It’ll be fine if you keep out of sight.”

  The car slowed. Jack heard the window unwind, the fresh air rushed in like water from a broken dam. Torchlight streamed in like silk.

  “You alright there?” a Geordie accent sung merrily from outside, “There an emergency I should know about?”

  “Just a little business I have down south,” Jonathan said, “A bit high profile, mate.”

  “Alright,” the Geordie replied, “But be careful down the next stretch of road, it can be hazardous if you aren’t’ careful.”

  “Right you are,” Jonathan said, “Take care. Stay safe tonight.”

  A moment later and they were setting off again. Jack plunged even further into shadow. For a fraction of a second his mind had tricked him into thinking he’d met eye contact with the CRU officer. But the blurred man’s features were stolen from view all too quickly and before he could appreciate the severity of the situation, they had regained speed.

  Breathlessly, Jack clutched on to the sides of the car. Every time he came within proximity to being caught, he panicked a little more each time. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to keep calm and become attuned to the chaos, to the fear and to the danger.

  “It isn’t supposed to be this way.”

  Jonathan spoke; his tone brittle with desperation.

  “I know,” Jack replied softly, “I don’t want you to do that ever again.”

  Turning round, Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

  “Next time Eliza tells you to save me, don’t. I can’t stand it anymore. The constant worrying that one day I’ll be caught. I know I must keep going, but I really don’t want to. You think I’m a terrorist, and fine. But don’t think for a second the terrorists don’t feel pain, aren’t ever scared. You’re not the face plastered all over the news, the one they apportion blame to, whilst another group stores all their faith in you. I reckon I know what’s in your heart and I can hate you all I want, but I can never… I could never blame you for doing what’s right. That’s the funny thing, we both think we are right. The trouble is we both believe our own convictions far too well and we’ll never agree and I’ll never relent. You see to me, I didn’t see a CRU officer five minutes ago. I saw a husband. A frightened husband. So next time Eliza tells you to help me, don’t you dare.”

  Jonathan returned his eyes to the road. A sombre stillness encapsulated the air. Jack’s eyes were reservoirs for tears, but dared not spill a drop.

  What was there left now? Eliza was gone to him, and how could he take her away from such a safe home? What did he have to offer? He was just a pathetic man in the back of a rundown car, driving to nowhere on a mission doomed to fail.

  The car slowed. The engine stopped. The gentle hum from the heater simmered into an eerie stillness as the starlight above gathered above; wisps of cloud streaking across an otherwise calm night. In either direction, greyness stretched out into the deepest blue. There were no other cars. There was no sign of humanity anywhere.

  “It’s best if you get out now,” Jonathan said, “I don’t want there being any witnesses to this.”

  “Quite right,” Jack sighed, hoisting himself to the backseat before sidling his way towards the kerbside door.

  As his hand gripped the handle, Jonathan spoke.

  “If you can find Alex,” he said, “Liz… Liz will be…”

  “I know,” Jack said, “He’s alive.”

  “No,” Jonathan interrupted, “The more she knows, the more danger she’s in.”

  “You know, don’t you?” he asked, “You know what will happen to you if you’re ever caught, if she’s ever caught? The mere implication that you even met me carries a death sentence. I just don’t understand why that only now begins to bother you.”

  “I’ve seen things…” he began, “Things I… I don’t want to remember. But I do, every night. You can play the games on television, Jack. The world’s fucked up. Do you really blame me for trying to fix a little corner of it?”

  “Yes,” he said, “Because you’re not alone. And you’re all making the same mistakes.”

  “Maybe you think we are, but you’re hiding. You’re killing people. You’re creating this fear, this cult of terror. What makes you so sure you’re any better than I am?”

  Jack hung his head and once again the splinter rapt his attention.

  “If you’re so sure you’re on the right side,” he said, opened the door a fraction, “Then why are the government burning crops in the countryside? Tell me what possible good starvation can ever bring?”

  He stepped out of the car in the cool of the night, gently closing the door behind him. In the wing mirror, he saw Jonathan’s steel face turn a sour expression before turning the ignition and slowly setting off from the kerb.

  Hopping over the barbed wire fence, Jack watched his rival disappear into the fog of the night, red taillights flaring like maddening eyes. And within a minute, he was gone and Jack was alone.

  The soft mud clung to his trainers. Water seeped in through his soles. Great tracts of land swept up into the distant hills, upon which a patchwork of forest was painted. Jack’s crosshair was fixed on a little corner of that forest, far enough from the road to rest and close enough to still keep his bearings. He made slow progress, partly from the mud, partly from his sullen mood.

  It all seemed so pointless now. The fight - what fight? What war was it that he’d enlisted in? He remembered Eliza’s face, her beautiful smile and his heart wept when he recalled her bump. Pregnant. It meant more than just a baby growing in a womb. It was both a beginning and an end. A beginning of a new life, and an end to his fantasies. There would be no going back to Relugas Road. There would no reconciliation or forgiveness given. Suddenly Jack remembered, as if the memory had just skimmed the surface, that life was cruel, and all love was lost in the end.

  As the moonlight smiled coldly down upon his weakening body, Jack fell against the edge of the gate, pushing it open with his weight. His legs were struggling to carry him on, but it was only another few hundred yards until the forest. With heavy heart, he raised his feet through the mud once more. Clarted, each step forward seemed somehow backwards - as if he were returning to the wild. Eliza was always one step farther away and the life he might have lived, but a speck in the interstellar sky.

  Collapsing on to the roots of the first tree, Jack crawled into the shadow of the wood. There he heaved himself up and rested against the bough. A low mist hung over the valley below. It was silver silk, as if fashioned by a billion spiders. Everything was tarnished with an unfathomable sadness. The stars wept. The moon cried. The earth hummed a gentle melody. What was there left to save but this beautiful sadness? This beautiful planet of such vibrant life and defiant survival? What could he possibly save that could be worth anything… anything at all?

  “I can’t do it!” he shouted at the world, “I’ve nothing left. You’ve taken it all from me. I have nothing left to give!”

  The forest returned a still, uneasy quiet.

  Hunger burned in his stomach. Thirst choked his throat. Depression ensnared his arteries. As sleep caught him, he found himself floating through an ethereal glaze. Words passed through him. Ideas were as bright as the sun in the sky, but quickly dulled and faded from obscurity into the dream. What did survival mean if he had nothing to live for, or was he mistaken in believing that it meant anything at all?

  “Is he breathing?” a voice muttered.

  Jack felt a rush of blood to his head as he was hoisted from a deep trance into the glaring daylight.

  “Fucking hell!” a voice preceded galloping feet.

  Jack fell backwards against the grass. Eyes widening into bleariness, he coul
d make out two figures in the haze.

  “Is that -”

  “I think so,” the closer of the voices said.

  “Help me,” Jack mumbled breathlessly.

  A few moments later he was being lifted into the air, his frail body weakened by hunger and thirst.

  He woke in a strange bed. The heavy duvet had been tucked in at his side. Wood panelling flanked him from all sides. Floral cushions propped him up in bed. A vacant wicker chair stood in the corner next to a small, ornate bookcase filled with thrillers and cookbooks. A bright white glared from behind the net curtains. For a second he thought he was back at his parents’ house, the warm surroundings were familiar in a strange way. The deep voices outside the room brought him to his senses.

  Panic seized him initially, but quickly subsided. If he was in any danger, he would surely have realised it by now. Throwing off the duvet, Jack slipped out of the bed and onto soft carpet. He was naked save for his underpants. Grabbing a dressing gown on the back of the door, Jack threw it open, his eyes wild with questions.

  Immediately as he stepped over the threshold, he realised he was being stared at by three people. He found that he was in the living room of a quaint cottage, filled with antique furnishings and a cosy fire smouldering in the corner. A crisp log pile offered a sweet scent, whilst the smell and sound of bubbling soup in the kitchen distracted him.

  “Where am I?” he said, staring between all three.

  The woman was standing over the stove, adorned in a thick jumper and her hair loosely styled. The two men were standing near the front door, still wearing their wellington boots and jackets.

  “It’s alright, dear,” the woman advanced on him, “You’ve had a long sleep.”

  She reached out a hand to touch his arm, Jack brushed it away. He felt exposed, but secure at the same time. It was confusing. There was no way they hadn’t recognised him.

  “Why have you brought me here?”

  “You asked for help,” the moustached man spoke first. He seemed to be of a similar age to the woman and must have been her husband.

  “I need to go,” Jack moved from the spot and instantly went in search for his belongings.

  “You’re too weak to go out,” the woman said, “Please, stay. At least for dinner.”

  Jack stopped in the middle of the living area. He felt the heat from the fire tingle his skin. Slowly her turned towards his hosts.

  “We know who you are, son,” the husband said, “There is no need to be frightened. Not in our house.”

  Lightly, Jack shook his head in disbelief, “I can’t ask this of you… You don’t know what that means.”

  “It means we’d probably be killed if anyone ever found out,” the woman said.

  “But… but you must know what I’ve done?”

  “Of course,” the husband said, “But I think you’re making the assumption that we give a shit.”

  Panting on the spot, sweat trickling down his brow, Jack fell to his knees. The woman ran towards him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Jack grasped on to her legs and sobbed into her waist. The kindness of strangers.

  “Let’s get you something to eat,” she said, gently lifting him up and placing him on the sofa behind her.

  Wiping away the tears, Jack stared up at the advancing men as the woman patted him on the shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Keith,” the husband said, “This is my wife Philippa and our… our son Scott.”

  Jack smiled feebly at each of them, “I… I can’t thank you enough for your kindness.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Keith said, “Under this roof, you thank no one.”

  “Why?” Jack asked curiously, “What have I done to deserve that?”

  Philippa returned with a glass of a murky substance. A defiant smile crept along the edges of Jack’s lips. Gratitude emanated from him as he took the glass of whisky and held it against his chin, smelling the fine aroma circulating beneath.

  “You’re an inspiration to us all,” Scott said.

  Gulping back the whisky, Jack shook his head gently, “I don’t see how I’ve been much good to anyone.”

  Scott looked awkwardly at his dad, who seemed instantly to know what to say.

  “You’ve given us hope,” he muttered, his tone tinged with a dark emotion Jack faintly recognised, “You’ve given us a reason to carry on.”

  Clutching the half empty glass in his hand, Jack contemplated what the word meant. Hope. It seemed a stranger to him, let alone a friend who generously spread his reputation.

  “Come, let’s eat,” Keith said.

  The table was laid, complete with crochet tablecloth and wicker table mats. Four bowls had been placed on five mats. Jack instinctively looked at the empty place setting.

  “Our son,” Keith said, “Richard. The CRU killed him last month. They wanted to take over our farm, demolish it. Richard was never one for backing down.”

  “And they killed him?”

  The story bore a terrible echo.

  “Took away his body,” Philippa came over, carrying the pot of soup. “We can’t even bury him.”

  Rage smouldered inside him.

  “We have two months to relocate,” Keith said, “Philippa’s mother has a place in Wales that we have lined up. Scott and I are just gathering up the tools and selling them as we can.”

  Philippa ladled out the soup. They each had a single piece of sliced bread to accompany the very watery mixture.

  “Two generations this has been in my family,” Keith said, stirring his soup, “And now it’s all going to hell. Farm Collectives, or whatever they are calling them. I mean it sounds great, more efficient techniques and the wider community going to help out, but they are just taking away a living from hard working people. Legacies, driven out for the sake of cost effectiveness. We don’t even get a choice. They bully us into joining them until we give in. And those that do fight… it’s not right that I should lose a son as well as a stupid piece of land. Not for that. Not for anything.”

  Scoffing down a piece of torn bread, Jack spooned a few mouthfuls into his mouth before pausing to chew.

  “They aren’t going to amalgamate your farm,” he said, “They’re going to burn it.”

  “What?” Keith was stunned, “It’s perfectly good land!”

  “And they probably know that,” Jack said, “They don’t want your farm to grow crops on. They don’t want to control you. They want rid of you so they can burn the fucking place to ash.”

  “But, but why? That’s only going to hurt them?”

  Shaking his head, “No. It’s going to hurt us. It’s going hurt the people who can’t afford food, who rely on Rations. They want to starve them out.”

  Philippa sat down at the table, white as snow.

  “Your son died for nothing. Your son died so that the government could starve people to death,” Jack said, “And I’m sorry for being the one to tell you, but it’s true. You need to move as far away as possible from here. There’s going to be nothing left once they’re finished. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Aberdeenshire, alight with miles of farmland burning.”

  “But - but people must surely know?”

  “I filmed it. I put online,” he said, “But the censors are too quick. I doubt there’s any trace of the video left.”

  He dug into his soup as the family stared at each other.

  “Why am I an inspiration when you don’t even know half the story?” he asked, bemused. He looked up and saw the family staring at him. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. When… when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have, you forget… you forget what you used not to be able to see. I remember what it was like to be ordinary, to not be on the run, chasing my own shadow and frightened of my own breath. It is just too long ago for it to really mean anything to me anymore.”

  “Eat up,” Philippa said, “You need all the strength you can get.”

/>   Glancing down at the soup, Jack concentrated on finishing the rest of this bowl. The family did not speak for the rest of the meal. When everyone was done and there were only bread crumbs and dirty spoons left, Scott cleared the table. Philippa and Keith sat, mirroring each other with clasped hands and elbows resting on the table. A few moments later they subconsciously grabbed each other’s hand and held them tightly, heads bowed and eyes glazed.

  Jack felt out of place. It was a grief he had no right to witness. Rising to his feet, he helped Scott pile the dishes and wipe the surfaces down.

  “You’re really him, aren’t you?” he asked as Jack filed the glasses into the cupboard.

  Nodding, “Yeah. I’m him.”

  “What’s it like?” he whispered. “Every time you step out the door, you must know it might be the last?”

  “Sometimes you forget,” he said, and a shimmering memory of watching Eliza at the window distracted his thoughts for a second, “Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes it just makes you angry.”

  “We support you,” Scott said, “I mean, we don’t know everything. But you make sense to us. From all this mess, you’re the only one who has ever spoken anything that makes any bit of fucking sense.”

  “I’m glad someone thinks so,” he said, drying his hands with a tea towel. “Do you know what the worst part of being me is?”

  Scott rested his back against the counter and folded his arms, eagerly.

  “It’s the lack of hope,” he sighed, “You look at me and you’re inspired. Maybe you know others who feel the same, maybe you’re too frightened to tell anyone else. But me? I’ve journeyed the length of the country and I’ve seen such desolate, disenfranchised despair. And what really hurts, after all that I’ve done and risked… what really, really fucking hurts is that no one thinks there’s anything wrong. They just… carry on. The neighbours who disappeared get replaced. The friends they used to be in contact with, just a memory. The jobs they had, just work. Holidays, education, ambition - all luxuries they can’t afford. They are quaint memories from a childhood they once had. Everyone has been forced into trying to survive they’ve all forgotten what it’s like to live.”