The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  Scott stared at him and it was a number of seconds before he spoke.

  “Then what keeps you motivated? Why don’t you just give up?”

  A smirk appeared across Jack’s face, “Because I made a decision a while ago to stop giving a fuck what the people of this country think they want.”

  “Richard would have loved you,” Philippa said suddenly from behind him. Jack turned and saw her beaming, her eyes moist with sombre joy.

  Scott spoke next, this time his throat clogged and constricted, “I hope one day people will remember you. I know that no matter what happens to us, to my family, to my home… I will.”

  “I need you to take me to Blackpool,” Jack said abruptly, uncomfortable by the waves of adoration aimed in his direction.

  He hadn’t achieved anything as The Resistance Leader. He wasn’t even leader. Anything he ever did was all down to Alex and his schemes, his forward thinking. However, the awkwardness of the situation rocked his inner confidence and he felt something that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Empowerment. He had made the decision not to care and he had made that quite without Alex’s influence. People were dying out there, and they weren’t looking to some obscure, secretive, faceless leader to drag them out of danger. They looked to Jack. To Steven Lennox. Surely that had to count for something.

  “I can drive you in the morning,” Philippa said, “I need to bring some stuff to my mum’s ahead of the move.”

  Jack touched her arm affectionately, “Thank you.”

  They spent the remainder of the evening by the fire, sharing stories about those they had lost. Jack had refrained from his most personal tale, but it did not necessarily mean it was not present at the forefront of his thoughts. Philippa and Keith were nestled together on the sofa whilst Scott and Jack took the rugs.

  “My grandfather used to own this place,” Keith said to Jack, “Of course it looked completely different back then.”

  “Less electricity?”

  “Aye! And more class!” he laughed, “There was a big piano in the corner and there would be these awful songs every Sunday.”

  Philippa rolled her eyes at this point, “Not this again!”

  “They were strange songs, okay?” he winked at Jack, “Too much god, not enough metal guitar solos!”

  As the fire dwindled, so too did their energies. Philippa escorted Jack to the bed they had made up for him before fleeing to her own refuge. Though he was tired, he couldn’t help but fight the fatigue and acknowledge this wonder. By chance he had stumbled upon this family’s farm, and by luck they had been sympathisers to his cause.

  The old arching farmhouse beams creaked in the night, in a satisfying warmth. He felt safe here and though he knew he needed to move on, there was a part of him that wished he could just live in the moments just before sleep in this place. To repeat these wonderful seconds by the hearthside, surrounded by good people with good hearts… it was as much reason to fight as it was reason to avoid it.

  Morning dawned. Jack arose once more from the floral quilt. A breakfast of toast awaited him at the dining table. A steaming mug of tea was an inviting change to the last few mornings he’d experienced.

  Philippa was in the kitchen, staring into space.

  “If you aren’t comfortable with taking me to Blackpool,” he said, “I can find another way.”

  “No,” she said distantly, “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?” he placed his dirty place and tea in the kitchen sink.

  “What happens,” she began, “What happens if I’m stopped?”

  “I knew you weren’t comfortable,” he sighed, “I’ll find another way. I don’t want you to be in a position you aren’t okay with.”

  “No,” she interrupted him, “After the death of a child, there aren’t many uncomfortable positions left.”

  Jack looked at her warmly, but had nothing to say.

  “If I’m stopped, and they find you,” she continued, “What will happen to Keith, and to Scott?”

  “You mean will they be implicated?”

  Philippa nodded.

  “It’s likely,” he said, “I can’t rule out what they might do if you’re caught. But if you have a valid travel licence, and I’m in the boot for the entire journey, then the chances are they won’t be suspicious.”

  She folded her arms contemplatively.

  “We leave within the hour then?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she rushed past him and into her bedroom. Before the door closed, he saw her embrace her husband and felt a pang of guilt. Where they were going, there were no guarantees. The journey might be uneventful, but Jack attracted danger and he felt that involving her only served to sign her death warrant. Still, the selfish bastard inside him needed a ride to Blackpool.

  A little under an hour later, and Jack was lying in the boot once more. Keith was piling suitcases up to shield Jack from view should anyone go searching. Scott hung awkwardly by his father’s side, as if wishing to say something but never finding the guts. When the boot was loaded, Keith nodded a brief good luck. Scott waved one hand curtly. The boot came down and Jack was sandwiched in the dark between suitcases.

  The journey began. Philippa’s nervous driving eventually cooled to an easy ride. He felt for the woman. Though she had offered, Jack was now sure she was beginning to have doubts and wanted nothing more than to return to the comfort of her own family. Who was he for her to risk her life for?

  On the road again. The hours he’d wasted lying in the boots of cars in the past two years, he wondered how many days it equated to and what he might have done with them had he delayed sleeping with Eliza just one more night? Alex would have disappeared from their lives. He would never have been dragged into The Resistance. Eliza might have married him… she could be expecting their child. A daughter? Jack comforted himself with the notion that somewhere out there in a parallel universe, there was a little girl growing inside Eliza who had his eyes.

  The heartache was more numb today. Time was a healer, as the idiom goes; though Jack believed he was merely at the anaesthetic stage. Maybe tomorrow he’d remember less of what she looked like; forget more of what she’d said and one day in the future he might not even remember her at all. It was a future he both longed for and dreaded.

  “How are you getting on?” Jack shouted from the boot when they had been driving for about an hour.

  “Fine, roads are clear!” she yelled back. “We just passed the junction to Gretna Green!”

  “Fancy getting married?” he shouted, “I’m sure Keith would understand.”

  “It’s sorely tempting, sweetie! I’ve always fancied a younger model - a wee toy boy!”

  Jack chuckled to himself. There was something strange about humour now. How odd was it to laugh and joke in times like these? It nearly felt a betrayal for those that couldn’t laugh alongside them.

  “Let me know if you need to stop!” he shouted through, “Just so I don’t panic.”

  The gentle humming of the engine was almost a bedtime story. His eyelids began to shut and though he wasn’t quite ready for sleep, he allowed himself to drift into a little slumber, the murky somewhere between being awake and falling fast asleep.

  But the calm did not last long.

  “Uh, there’s some traffic ahead, Steven,” she shouted from the front.

  “Whereabouts are we?”

  “Near Penrith,” she said, “I could take some back roads to avoid it - I think they might be doing some spot searches? They’ve done that a few times on the M6.”

  “Do it,” Jack ordered, “Anything to avoid being searched.”

  A few minutes later and Jack swayed in the back, crushed against the largest of the fat suitcases, as the car swerved off the motorway and onto one of the country roads. The rolling curves underneath gave him a slight queasiness.

  “All clear ahead now,” she said, “But probably going to add extra time onto the journey. Do you want to stop anywhere, stretch your legs?”
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  “I’d rather just get there,” he said, “The more time we are on the road, the more danger you are in.”

  Philippa never responded after that. He took it as a quiet affirmation of the trouble she’d signed up for.

  It was extremely hot in the back of the car. Jack had to concentrate hard to avoid suffocating from the heat. He’d planned as far as getting to Hamid’s safehouse in Blackpool. After that he’d try to make contact with Kyle or Lana. He still didn’t know if Lana had even made it out of the riot alive. There’d be nothing on the news about it. The media had played their part well. All that effort, seemingly for nothing. It was as if the event never happened.

  Still, he tried to visualise his priorities. Catching the mole seemed high on that list, nearly as high as gathering more information on exactly what the government was up to. Through a police state, from the media to the education and now the food supply, they were trying to control society. But for what end? Every theory fell short of the logical test. There were no specific groups being targeted. It didn’t even appear to be a class war or an attempt to rid the country of the poorest. People from all walks of society were afraid of being deemed an Unsightly. Rations were unfashionable necessity for most people. From rich to poor, fear was an invisible member of all those families; perhaps even more so for the wealthy. Perhaps having more to lose made them more vulnerable than the rest. Perhaps they feared that their wealth was the only thing that made them ubiquitous in society.

  The car began to slow down.

  “What’s going on?” Jack yelled.

  “Spot check!” Philippa shouted nervously from the front, “What do I do?”

  “Where are we?”

  “We’re a few miles outside of the last village, can’t remember its name.”

  It was very odd for there to be random CRU checks along the back routes during the day. But he had to trust that Philippa was in the right frame of mind to handle it. A single woman with a boot full of suitcases was not entirely suspicious in itself. He focussed on keeping calm. It would just be routine checks off routine routes.

  “What do I do?” Philippa asked.

  “Just act normal. I’m not here. You’re moving to Wales remember,” Jack shouted from the boot.

  The car stopped. Jack heard voices outside the car.

  “Well hello there,” the officer said, bass trembling through his accent, “Travel Licence and ID card please.”

  There was a pause while Philippa, presumably, showed him both.

  “Travelling alone I see?”

  “J-just heading to see my mum in Wales. She lives just outside Cwmbran, do you know it?”

  “Not at all,” he said, “Don’t really get much time off in this job.

  After a few tense moments, Philippa’s anxious tone spoke again.

  “Is everything alright, officer?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “More than alright.”

  “Oh, really? How so?”

  “Well it’s not every day a beautiful lady swings by this little village,” he chuckled.

  “Why thank you,” Philippa said, though Jack could sense she was uncomfortable.

  “Are you, uh, heading to see your mum right now?”

  “Yes, she’s expecting me,” Philippa said.

  Jack’s heart thundered in his ribcage. It sounded as if he were the only CRU officer on the scene.

  “Oh well it’s a real shame that you can’t stay for a bit,” he said, “A real shame.”

  “Is that everything officer, it’s just my husband doesn’t like me driving by myse-”

  “I said it’s a real shame that you can’t stay,” he said, and a moment later Jack heard the car door swing open.

  The entire vehicle shook as Philippa screamed.

  “Get off me!” she yelled, and Jack could feel every swipe of her arms.

  He pictured the officer dragging her out of the car, Philippa’s feet scratching at the tarmac to try and fight him.

  “Help!” she screamed.

  “Real shame you can’t stay,” he said, and Jack heard his lips violently kissing her body, “The things I would do to you. The things I’ve done to so many other beauties.”

  “Get the fuck away from me!” she trilled.

  “You’d love them. They loved them,” he said.

  Jack felt sick. Vomit rose inside him. But still he remained in the car as the harrowing scene unfolded. He was panting, the heat mixing with anxiety as he cowered in the boot. Five, six, seven more screams and shrieks scratched at his eardrums. The car shook again, this time with the force of two bodies. He heard - he felt - the officer’s groaning as it reverberated through the car body. He felt every minute thrusting and after a few shameful seconds, Jack snapped with morality. Kicking down the boot wall and rolling over into the backseat, Jack burst through the passenger door, rage throbbing through him, crowned with adrenaline and furious disgust.

  The officer had pinned Philippa against the bonnet, his hands grasping both her wrists tightly. His cock was pressed against her bare stomach. The bastard had ripped off her top and there were scratches across her breasts.

  As Jack appeared from the car, the officer pulled up from her body and shoved her aside. Instant recognition as their eyes met; but the man had but nanoseconds to contemplate his next move because Jack was already striding across, fist clenched.

  The first punch slammed the officer backwards, toppling him to the ground. Jack laid a kick into his stomach, again and again and again. He felt the man’s kidneys burst by his toes. Rage contorted him, controlled him. The officer was writhing, struggling on the tarmac. Jack whacked the man’s face in until the blood burst from every vessel. His nose was crimson. Scarlet drooled from his mouth. His eyes swelled as he kicked and kicked and kicked the man until he lay still and moved no more.

  Philippa was lying on her back on the asphalt. Her trembling hands cupped her modesty. Tears ran down her cheeks, her make up smudging her innocence. Jack looked at her, breathing heavily. His fists were burning with contact. They were bloodied but he was not sure with whose blood. She looked up at him, both grateful and repulsed.

  Stepping over the officer’s body, Jack held out a hand to help her to her feet. She grabbed it with both hands and fell directly into his chest.

  “Did he…” Jack began, though he was sure he’d stopped it in time, “Did he…”

  In his chest, she shook her head violently, clutching on to him even more tightly.

  The officer was lying still, Jack wasn’t even sure he was breathing. No part of him cared if he was. Death was a kind reward to what he deserved. How many others had he violated? How many wished they had been in Jack’s position right now.

  “C’mon, we need to get back in the car,” he said.

  “I c-can’t d-drive,” she whimpered.

  “I’m not asking you to,” he said, “Get in the side. I’ll move his body off the road.”

  “Is… is he dead?” she asked, holding the car door open and staring at the officer’s body as if she was reliving every horrific moment in her head. And she probably was.

  “Do you really care?” he said, kneeling down and pushing the lifeless body into the ditch.

  It was only then that he realised they miles from anywhere. Fields and woodlands stretched out as far as the eye could see. There was no one else on the quiet road. Jack suspected that was the officer’s intention. As the man’s body rolled to a stop against a lonely boulder, Jack walked over and reached into the man’s jacket pocket and grabbed his ID.

  Gavin Sears, CRU for Morland.

  Jack spat on him and returned to the car, scooping up Philippa’s travel licence, ID card and jumper as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Philippa was staring hard into the distance. He handed the jumper to her, without looking. Vacantly, she dragged it over her body. Jack grabbed the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition.

  “I’m going to drive us to Blackpool,” he said, “Then I’m goi
ng to ask someone to drive you to your mum’s.”

  She continued to stare out the window, though Jack sensed she was hearing every word.

  “Listen,” he continued, “I’m not going to say it’s going to be all okay. It might not be. It probably won’t be. But we both need to carry on because that’s all we can do.”

  He took the handbrake off and gently pulled off the kerb.

  “I want you to look into the wing mirror and I want you to stare at his fucking corpse,” he said, the scene already disappearing into the distance, “And I want you to know that as soon as you can’t see him anymore, that’s it. That’s the point where you have to carry on. For your husband. For sons. Both of them. It’s a sick world we live in. It’s a sick,” he slammed his fists against the steering wheel, “Fucking,” he whacked the dashboard, “World. But as soon as that man is gone from your sight, he is fucking worm food. He will not haunt your memories. He will not haunt your sleep.”

  Philippa reached out a cold hand and simply held on to his as she looked out the window and into the wing mirror, watching the past unfold into history.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rain streamed down the windscreen, the wipers set to a steady beat. Woodland skipped by in blurred visions of green and bark. A river running parallel to the road rippled with intense rage as it raced towards the great beyond, with its thrashing waves and vibrant, never ending horizons.

  A chilling silence beheld them, abducting any joy or hope they had left in them. Jack gripped the wheel as Philippa continued to stare at the wing mirror, a million distances shrinking into one. To speak of it seemed to belittle it to conversation. Somehow, it felt worse than when he’d killed Quentin. Had he waited a second longer, what memories might she suffer for the rest of her life? What cruel games would her mind play in her nightmares, in her darkest fears - he’d saved her from something worse, but merely because it never happened did not mean she would never imagine it had.