The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  “Then what do I do?”

  “Anything, everything,” he had said, “You’re fighting for survival. If we can’t figure out what is going on behind closed doors, then we will die.”

  “Surely it could take ages to find what we need?”

  “Even if it takes years, we need to keep trying. When you leave here, I don’t expect to see you for a long time. You’re going to be on your own. I mean completely on your own. No Kyle, no Emma, not even me.”

  “What should I do for money?”

  “That’s covered,” he said, “Once a fortnight some food will be dropped off, and a small packet of money and Rations. But you must not be home then. No one must see you there.”

  “And what happens if I find out something significant?”

  “Make contact, but only when you’ve gathered as much information as you can. Only when you are absolutely sure of what is happening should you break silence,” he paused, and looked at Jack tenderly, “I wish I was going with you.”

  “I wish you were going instead of me,” he had smiled.

  The third drop of food had arrived in the kitchen. A little hamper of fresh vegetables sat on the kitchen worktop, a little note nestled within.

  Enjoy your holiday, let me know if you need anything

  After the third week, there were days where he didn’t bother going out. It was easier just to stay in the darkness and think. Thinking was what he did most these days. There were no distractions. The only updates he received were from discarded newspapers or bulletin boards outside corner shops. More bombings, more raids. With Jack out of the picture, the cycle just continued. A habitual revolution, going nowhere.

  Sometimes he wondered how Alex was doing, and how close to finding The Mole he was. Jack had guessed that some of the raids were betrayals. And then he started to worry about his friends again. Had Kyle made contact yet? Was he even alive? The thought terrified him. How was Claudia fairing as she entered her second month of social imprisonment? And Emma? He missed Emma the most. She had been there when he had been at his lowest, and he felt that he was fast surpassing that point now.

  October brought rain and yet more misery. A few riots broke out in London over another cut to Rations and for whole week Jack confined himself to the flat, not daring to venture too close to the windows or even to light candles before Curfew. It was in that week that he wished more than anything to just disappear. His name would be vanishing from all the newspaper articles and he was no doubt becoming a shadowy figure that yielded less and less power each day. How easy could it be to just slip into irrelevance, and what a wonder it would be to live anew again. Another name, another personality, another background to invent. Jack could have an uncanny likeness to that bastard of a terrorist, and it could be the joke at work or the laugh down the pub.

  It was certainly a dream that offered so much comfort to him; to a man with nothing but the darkness for friendship. But every dawning morning broke the hope and before he lost the blissful sensation that dreaming brought, he would realise he was still lying on a grubby mattress, breadcrumbs from last night’s meal sprinkled across the bed as he’d tossed and turned in a sweaty sleep. If there was a place between dreaming and consciousness, it lived right there in that horrifying moment.

  Rioting broke out towards the end of September. A throwback to when it all began, the chaos was nearly nostalgic. Of a morning, Jack would emerge from the basement and find the streets littered with glass - shop windows broken and their contents trashed. Bins had been toppled over, car tyres set alight and poignant blood stains stuck to the asphalt; no corpses or living bodies remained as evidence. By night, Jack heard them shouting and screaming; the Molotov cocktails raining down and smashing explosive anger. Within minutes of erupting, the violence would rapidly escalate as trigger happy police and soldiers marched into seize control of the situation. It would hardly last an hour, and soon the dust was settling on another disillusioned street.

  Conceived by the anger directed towards the food shortage, it quickly mutated into something altogether more interesting. Jack had merged with the movements a couple of times, keeping his head low as to avoid detection. But as easily as he could hide in the crowd, easier it was to listen into the rumblings of discontent.

  “How can they expect us to survive on four Rations a week? It’s disgusting,” one man had said, “So if they won’t give it to me, I’m just going to fuckin’ steal it.”

  And so he and his companion had dived into the thick of it, grasping at the loaves of bread blasted from the nearby supermarkets.

  Another voice from another crowd, “Bastards, the lot of them! Filthy rich scum trying to take us down!”

  The woman had launched a brick into the air and had smiled with glee as she saw it smash down in front of a policeman. But as soon as the brick crumbled on the ground, the policeman was already taking aim. Jack had a moment to think, a second to decide… the woman hadn’t seen either of them. As the black smoke built up around them, and the fires all around radiated a dark heat, Jack watched from his cowering corner and waited for the bullet to hit. It wasn’t worth risking exposure over; and so her body crumpled to the ground, and another victim added to the long list to avenge.

  By late October the rioting had quelled, the rebellion crushed. Although soaking up the atmosphere had rekindled his fire, it had done little to serve his current purpose. Though he couldn’t help but be inspired by the little people on the streets, fighting for a cause close to their hearts. It was an act of such inspirational desperation and instilled a hope that maybe all was not lost quite yet.

  Winter’s cold air was bitingly refreshing. Everyone was dressed warmly; gloves, hats, scarves and thick warm coats, Jack included. For the past week he had remained indoors, which had given him plenty of thinking time to dwell on his approach.

  In all these long months, Jack had received only three pieces of communication from Alex, the latter of which had arrived Wednesday morning and contained only three names with little obvious context. Now seasoned in this practice, Jack knew exactly what it meant. Arun Patel, Sarah Kilpatrick and Richard Montague were all people working in Whitehall that he could trust to contact. He had heard Sarah and Richard’s names before in passing, and their work with The Resistance had preceded them.

  It was the life line Jack needed, though he was ashamed he needed one at all. That afternoon he had gathered together his intelligence and condensed it into logical groups - something to take to the informants. It was a pitiful amount he had gathered, and mostly based on assumption. Now was the time for hard evidence and as he sat in the dilapidated cafe near Leicester Square, he hoped that Richard was going to help him find it.

  He ordered a tea from the foreign waitress and sat in the corner with his back to the window, inspecting a spoon such that he had a warped view of the exit behind him. He waited only a few moments before a man in a long black winter coat entered and immediately sat across from him.

  “Hello,” Jack said, just as his tea arrived.

  Richard smiled and ordered a coffee before lowering his voice to a deep whisper, “Good to finally meet you.”

  Richard Montague worked in the Department for Health; a senior civil servant, he had close and regular contact with Marlene Ford, the MP who lead the division. He had supplied interesting information to The Resistance on the health statistics of the country, before the numbers were smudged for publishing. The rate of deaths amongst the elderly were concerningly high, and Jack was not looking forward to what Richard had to offer today.

  “I’ve read a lot of the information you’ve leaked,” he said, “I’m quite impressed you’ve managed to evade detection this long.”

  “I have my ways,” Richard said, taking an envelope out of his pocket and sliding it underneath the table, “It contains information you may find useful - with regards to something very new about to be marketed to the public.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a free prescription, desig
ned to strengthen the immune system where nutrition lacks.”

  Jack was highly confused. On paper, it seemed like a great idea but he was instantly sceptical.

  “You are right to be bemused,” Richard said, “The pill… well I haven’t seen the details of it… but no one else in my department has either.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “That at best… it does nothing at all,” Richard said.

  “And at worst?” though Jack had a fair idea what to expect.

  “What do you think?” Richard sighed.

  “Is there any way to stop this going into production?”

  Richard shook his head, “It’s too late. Marlene’s already announce it. What do you think stopped the rioting?”

  He had been holed up for so many days with no access to any information… he hadn’t realised.

  “I have to go though,” Richard said, “I’ve risked a lot just getting here.”

  He made to stand up, but Jack pleaded with him to stay.

  “Five minutes,” he said, “I just need five more minutes.”

  Reluctantly, Richard retreated to his chair and sipped the remainder of his coffee. Mentally, Jack prepared himself to ask the delicate question.

  “I need to know if… I need to know who Marlene meets,” Jack asked, “I need to know their names, where they meet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking,” he was not prepared to divulge the plan. It was too precious to be made public.

  Richard nodded, “Fair enough. I’ll see if I can get it to you by the end of next week?”

  “Thank you,” he said, “I’ll contact you later to arrange pick up.”

  Jack rose to his feet just as Richard met his eyes.

  “I’ve seen her with someone before,” he said, “Someone who clearly made her uncomfortable.”

  “Oh really?” Jack smiled, “Most politicians make me feel that way.”

  He didn’t want to attract attention to it, but secretly his insides spiked with serotonin. There was a link now - he need only confirm it. As he left the cafe and into the wild storm brewing outside, he felt a long awaited sense of achievement.

  All humans had their weaknesses, all humans must have a place for solace. Placing himself inside the mind of this man, he tried to imagine what they were like, where they might live and why their agenda was so precious to them. It was a thought that consumed him as he returned to Westminster gardens. It was dangerously pleasurable to walk among them - The Enemy. To be so ordinary to them and to have such deplorable thoughts within, it gave Jack such a thrill that he ventured out this way more than he should.

  Leaning on the wall overlooking the Thames again, he inhaled the now, much colder, scene that unfolded. Ambulances screeching across the bridge; hordes of tourists battling each other for the best view of Big Ben. The chatter, the static, the childish delight and the bullish temperament - it was all bubbling in the cauldron of the city, stirred vivaciously by The Man sitting on the throne of power. He wanted this mess. He wanted the riots, the chaos, the dissent, the revulsion splitting the country in two. It was no longer a question of linking theory to fact. The truth was unfolding every day. Richard’s information only served to further confirm it. A free nutritional pill to counteract the side effects of a poor, unvaried diet caused by a decade of Rations and the now immediate threat of low supply?

  Jack didn’t need to open the envelope to know the answers it contained, but as he sat back down the bench he felt compelled to seek reassurance. It was a friend he leant on all too much recently. With no Alex or Emma to turn to, it was all on him. He had to make the right decisions, to make the best call he could.

  The papers were daunting - at first a series of complex chemistry information that Jack did not have the patience for. A few pages in, however, he found a section with data he could all too easily identify with. It was the number of claimed Rations per age group and gender. The youngest had the higher proportion, gradually declining until it reached a sharp drop around sixty. Another graph compared diets before and after the recession and introduction of Rations. Naturally nutrition was worse off than it had been, but it was the curious scribbled handwriting that intrigued Jack the most. Clearly from Richard, it seemed to be hastily written down.

  More susceptible to disease and viruses, weakening population essentially

  Jack stared at the words, pondering their deeper meaning. Why did this man, this government, want a weakened population? Had that been the plan all along? To introduce Rations and slowly disintegrate their immune system? Jack read further on until the document brushed upon the background to the pill.

  Codenamed Vita Vitale, the paragraphs and paragraphs on the pill all reiterated the same thing - that it would boost the nation’s health and reinstate any deficient immune system. It contained vitamins and supplements as well as chemical identifiers that Jack didn’t understand. On paper, there seemed to be absolutely no detrimental effects whatsoever. The pill would be given out free of charge to anyone who applied for it and they could have an unlimited prescription of it. It didn’t make sense. In a country that still claimed to be crippled by debt and suffering from a stagnant economy, how could the government afford this?

  However, it mattered little for the reason or means to which it was being produced. The announcement had worked. Jack had presumed the rioting had come to a bloody conclusion so severe that it served to severe all further acts of anarchy. The dull realisation that these fiery rioters were appeased by the promise of a wonder-pill sunk deep into his stomach. Was any of it worth fighting for when the nation was too self concerned to look beyond their own problems? Jack sighed as he wondered why the government were trying to make the population weak… when it was already so pathetic.

  The DD attacked again in London a few days later - an East End estate completely devoured by flame. There had been no clear target, just civilians. Another victory for anarchy, another defeat for The Resistance. Whenever the DD struck, the media would always lasso The Resistance into the bloody debate. How would the catastrophe have been worse had The Resistance organised it, when might people expect the next big attack by them?

  Once again the newspapers were saturated with his face and once again kept out of sight in the basement flat, far from prying eyes. From the corner of his window he snuck the occasional glance round the curtain to catch a glimpse of ankles and shoes marching past with abnormal haste. As was customary in the days following an attack, few wanted to linger on the streets for longer than they had to.

  Diving once more into his notes, his living room wall resembled that of a madman’s cell, with insane scribbling covering every inch of the plaster. His writings had ventured into the hallway now, where he had categorised the agendas that The Man might have. None of them had plausible fulcrums on which Jack could rest his argument on. Whilst interesting and temporarily appealing, nothing of the dystopia he was creating was smeared in religious overtones; there was no evidence to suggest it was gearing up to some sort of ethnic cleanse. It wasn’t targeted, it wasn’t even about personalities. David White was bland and easily forgettable even despite the scandal of his arrest. Cameron Snowden, whilst strong, lacked a commanding presence that Jack would have expected from a government that was fighting to stamp its personality on the nation.

  Now in November, the isolation was truly getting to Jack. He had heard from Alex one more time since October, a quick message to reassure him all was well. Far from setting him at ease, it made him more nervous than ever. This had been going on for far too long and without any real progress. When he was not scribing the walls with his inane thoughts, he was trying to silence the ones he did not want to have a voice. A little baby crying, a mother and father four hundred miles away bonding over the life they had created. Exhausted yawns, reddened skin blotched with fatigue and joy in equal measure. It was a hard thought to force from his mind, and some days he struggled to let it go at all.

  A few days ago h
e had met with Sarah Kilpatrick, who was able to provide some invaluable information regarding Elizabeth Reid, the Secretary for Work and Pensions, and an altercation she had in her office one evening. Whilst no one was privy to what exactly was said, one junior civil servant spread the gossip far and wide the next morning only to be brought into Reid’s office by that afternoon, never to be seen again. Her desk was cleared by security, and those who had her private number were unable to reach her. Although Sarah had suggested that Elizabeth might be having an affair, Jack had smiled broadly, knowingly, as he wandered back to the loneliness of his basement to scrawl another name under the list of influential MPs.

  He had already had his second meeting with Richard, which had served only to confirm Marlene’s relationship with The Man. Her diary was spattered with meetings at undisclosed locations, at odd times and with unmentioned attendees. Now that Jack knew what he was looking for, it was incredibly easy to spot.

  Pulling on his ragged shoes and anorak, he set out on the road again; this time he was to meet Arun Patel who had sounded extremely delighted to hear from Jack directly. The unusual location for their meeting was Arun’s brother’s vacated flat in Walthamstow. The entrance was concealed by bins and other refuse whilst the long staircase leading to the flat door was dark and stunk of damp. The flat itself was shrouded from what little daylight there was left. Dirty windows filtered the light such that everything was toned with sepia. A lone man stood in the kitchenette of the tiny space.