The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  The ferocity that had carved a hole in his stomach did not abate, even a few days after his conversation with Alex. It was as if he had gained a new energy, a burst of power throttling through him. Dumping the phone, he had returned home with a new, fierce positivity. His new mission was to track down Graham Harries and see what mettle he was made of. After meeting with Sarah Kilpatrick one more time, he was able to ascertain the streets he used to make his way home at night. It was her information that had brought him to the grubby Palmer Street, along which a briefcase carrying Graham would shortly walk down.

  It was the quickest route to the little flat he rented in London and in the comfort of Westminster, it made complete sense to wander along the more dubious streets at night. Terrorists did not linger in salubrious surroundings, not even in the grit and the dark. Jack smiled at the ignorance and pulled his hood further down as he clung to the shadows and awaited the sound of Italian shoes on worn concrete.

  There was a dusting of frost on the cars, a sign that winter had truly settled in. The journey over to this side of town was a conquest; too many patrols to avoid, he had stuck to the quieter and more residential areas, crammed full of coffee shops and little boutiques. Walking along these streets, it was easy to forget the recession had happened and Jack took a deep solace in the twinkling store lights. He was filled with warmth as his mind wandered into the endless ambition of the past. Had he completed his course, he would have gone on to be an architect, building houses and fancy office blocks, sipping tea by the drawing board and staring out a rain drenched window to muse on what he might design. There was a chance he would have stayed with Jane, though he had no such desire now, and they might have settled down. He would have gone to America, Australia and explored Europe via train. Hostel hopping after university and getting lost after dark in Amsterdam, stumbling around the canals under the influence of something altogether strange. He would have had a life. He would have lived. And he would have come to London not as a terrorist, but as a tourist. He would have taken his picture outside Big Ben and he would have gleefully walked along the Southbank, watching the city shimmer in its reflection on the steady water.

  But the recession did happen. And he was here, right now in the moment, his head bowed slightly lower than normal, because his face was too infamous to be seen.

  Along his way he had seen debris was scattered across the road. At first it looked like litter, but then he saw that it was smouldering at the edges. Sharply, he looked up and saw a car burning across the road. Few heads granted it any attention. The flames danced amongst the traffic, which failed to stop. Somewhere in the near distance a siren floated down the street, but for the moment the car billowed black smoke and radiated heat across the road. A few homeless people had scurried towards it, holding their outstretched palms to the flames. Jack found himself standing still for a moment and absorbing the scene. The crowd around him flowed by, as if it were just another Ford in the traffic.

  As the ash rose into the air and fell majestically around him like snow, he recalled the attack on Edinburgh and the fear it had once instilled. Right now this burning car was not even registering to them. It was as if they were immune, as if this was all too boring now. Mundane. Disappointingly banal. What kind of world did he now inhabit where even the smallest acts of violence were considered too ordinary to even glance at?

  As the firefighters arrived, Jack walked on, merging with the rest of the impassive stream of people. As he walked side by side with them, immersed in the impossible danger that surrounded him, he became oddly stirred by those around him. Their lack of care, their lack of compassion. It might be the mode of society, the zeitgeist of his age, but he realised something altogether significant. If they didn’t care about the world around them, why the fuck should he give a shit about theirs? For a long time he had been anticipating this acceptance that leadership and change was driven solely by singular ambition - but standing there, in the throng of indifference, it really threw him that humanity could play with fire so emotionlessly and yet cry so ferociously when it burned.

  It was strange to think the degree of separation between himself and this powerful Man was so narrow. Claudia had seen him, Quentin had known him and now Graham Harries might have made an enemy of him. The Man’s connections seemed so far and wide; it begged the question as to what the MPs, that ran pitiful constituencies, had to offer someone who could flex his fingers and pull the strings of government at a whim.

  As he waited in the street, he saw how the leaves had built up a thick cemetery in the gutter. A sharp wind hurtled around him, the warm air from the underground sweeping around his frozen fingers.. It was easy to feel insignificant in the city, and though at one time that may have made Jack feel uncomfortable, it was now the perfect disguise.

  At last, the briefcase rounded the corner and Graham Harries, scurrying home, followed suit. His cheeks were flushed red, almost bruised as he puffed his way along the pavement.

  Jack’s gaze was locked firmly on Graham; his pulse racing as the monotony drained from his day like water circling a plughole.

  The commotion from the main street was but a dull hiss. Only their footsteps penetrated his quiet. Graham streaked past Jack, unaware that there was anyone in the shadows at all. At first Jack had thought he might allow him to wander a little further, but the opportunity seized him and he stepped into the pool of light cast down from the streetlamp.

  “Give my regards to him,” he shouted, the words reflecting off the buildings rising tall on either side.

  Graham veered round, staggering backwards as Jack pulled down his hood.

  “Get away from me!” Graham pointed a bulbous finger as he delved into his coat pocket to grab his phone.

  Jack advanced, knocking the phone out of his grip, “Pathetic. It’s little wonder he had you fired.”

  Graham stared back defiantly, his silence confirming everything Jack believed.

  “I know you disappointed him,” Jack smiled, dangerously.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Graham spat, his finger now lowered at his side.

  “Yes you do,” he said, “He preys on the weak, the pathetic. Ones he can manipulate. I bet he had you right in his pocket. But I gather this man doesn’t stand for failure. David White failed him. He ended up dead.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Graham said, though he was poorly skilled in deception.

  “The Man who comes to you on dark nights and tells you what to do, the one who you fear more than anything to disappoint because he has the power to make you… and to crush you. Am I right?”

  Remaining silent, Graham tinged white.

  “Tell me his name,” Jack urged, grabbing Graham’s arm and squeezing it tightly.

  Graham laughed openly, pulling himself free of Jack’s grip, “You really think I’m going to tell you that?”

  “I bet you think you’re special, that you are being loyal to your little friend,” Jack said.

  “Oh what and are you telling me I am supposed to trust a filthy terrorist over him?”

  Jack winked, “Thanks for confirming he exists.”

  He began to walk away backwards.

  “Wait, I didn’t say anything,” Graham looked panicked, “I’m going to call the CRU!”

  The man scrambled for the pieces of his phone on the pavement.

  “Oh and you remember Arun Patel? I just want you to know that he managed to give me everything before you killed him.”

  Graham rose up from the asphalt, eyebrows knitted with confusion, “Arun betrayed us?”

  “You didn’t know? Maybe you should watch more carefully over who the CRU arrests. Maybe one day it might just be your wife. Your parents. Maybe they will find that a little donation has been made to unknown sources.”

  Jack grinned as horror spread like a virus across the MP’s plump face.

  Jack stepped away from the MP and watched as the horror spread across his face.

  “Tell him I s
ay hello!” Jack urged, flinging his arms in gesture, before spinning on his heel and breaking into a sprint.

  Overcome with glee and a sense of achievement, he kept on running until he was sure that Graham wasn’t able to catch up. Turning down another side street, at the end of which there were several garages, he slunk back against the brick wall behind him and slid down to his knees. The game had changed. Within a few hours, The Man would know for certain Jack was on to him. Instantly he felt sick as he wondered if he had just made a huge mistake? Had he revealed his hand too early? He needed to return immediately to his basement flat and lie low for a couple of days.

  And then what? Had Jack just made a huge mistake. What if The Man went further into hiding and became impossible to find? Had he just thrown away the one chance he might have had to learn more about him? Either way there was nothing more to learn from the vantage point he’d had for all these months. Forcing the situation to move to the next level could provoke an irrevocable hell, but something needed to happen. After four months of intelligence gathering, the pieces needed to move in order to end this tiresome game of chess. At long last, this despicable man needed to know that his existence was known to someone outside government. Jack had to show his hand so that this man could know that his had already been seen. Only then could this move forward. Only then could Jack see where the next level would take them.

  “Are you him?” a voice cracked the stillness, accompanied by the sound of crumpling cardboard.

  Jack looked around for the source and found an old man behind a forest of facial hair glaring at him from across the alleyway.

  “Yes,” he sighed, “You are him.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Jack sighed.

  “No,” the homeless man said, now pointing at Jack, “It’s you, I’m sure of it.”

  “Whatever,” Jack said, rubbing his temples.

  “Heck your face has been my pillow for several nights,” he said.

  “Is that right?” Jack said vacantly.

  “It’s three grand for a reward if I tell the CRU you were here,” he said, “Mighty tempting. I could get a flat, buy a nice suit for a job. Eat a decent meal. But I’m sure I could get confused which way you went.”

  The homeless man winked at Jack, who returned a grim smile, “You could join us, if you wanted.”

  “I don’t think I’d be any use.”

  “What’s the use here?” Jack said, “You’re just scum no one wants to admit exist. Fight with us and you could at least die knowing you weren’t that.”

  The homeless man sat up, his face straightening into sincerity, “My name’s Kenneth.”

  “Why are you on the streets, Kenneth? Because you can’t afford food, ‘cause you can’t afford your own home?”

  “A mixture of that, and a few other bad decisions,” Kenneth said.

  “Do yourself a favour,” Jack rose to his feet, “Fight for who you are. Cos right now, no one else will. Look round the corner, you can see them all, self-absorbed and insular. They won’t care about homelessness until they’re sleeping on the streets themselves. So go find a Resistance safehouse, get some food and a safe place to rest. Then in the morning, fight. Fight because no one else will. Fight because not fighting means you’re dead.”

  Kenneth stared up at Jack, a look of wonder emanating from his glistening eyes.

  “Piss off before I rat you out,” he smiled, “Running towards Trafalgar Square you were! Thought you were going to blow yourself up!”

  Jack struck out his arm and Kenneth took it, “Thank you.”

  Within minutes, Jack was marching back to the basement. All that was on his mind was what his next steps were going to be. Was staying in London even possible anymore? He had to leave, that was nearly certain, but the timing had to be perfect. Do it now, and he might not be able to return, do it too late and he might not be able to leave at all. He wished he still had that phone so he could call Alex.

  Racing down the steps into the little flat he called home, he shut the door and locked it tight. The darkness loomed, nearly comfortingly. For as long as no one knew he was here, he could stay in the comfort of this anonymous security. For four months his inhabitancy had gone by unnoticed from the residents around, what difference would another couple of days make? When the news hit the headlines that Jack was in London, Alex would surely arrange for his removal from the city. Until then he had to sit tight and exist in the isolation he had become accustomed to.

  Far from the Jack who had sat deliberating on his own misery on a bunk bed in headquarters three years ago, this new version felt nauseated at the thought of waiting for fate to greet him. Backing away from the door, he ventured into the living room and sat once again in the gloom, the writing on the wall surrounding him from all angles.

  Slowly over the course of the evening, the regret sunk in. He should have let Graham Harries continue on his journey. There was a chance Graham might have been on his way to meet The Man himself. Jack might have been able to finally catch a glimpse of his face, or the outline of his body. He had been an idiot to interrupt the MP… and yet at the same time he knew that had he seen even the shadow of The Man, he would still be ignorant of everything else. Merely seeing him wouldn’t mean catching him, or even being any closer to realising exactly who he was or what his plans were. Interrupting the monotony was what was important. But regret rarely listened to reason.

  Morning came and with it a dull ignorance that Jack could happily bathe in as he slowly woke from slumber. Surprisingly he hadn’t dreamt at all: it had been the most peaceful night’s rest he’d had in weeks. His eyes seemingly glued shut with sticky sleep, he wanted the slumber to last forever, until a time where he was safe and where the regret and pain felt more like a dream than a current, repugnant memory.

  Suddenly overcome with stress, Jack stretched and retreated to the bathroom to wash his face. Splashing himself with water, he felt sickened by the uncertainty that lay ahead. He tried to convince himself that nothing up to that point had ever been certain either, but there was something secure in what he was doing in London. The monotony was familiar and reminded him of the life he used to lead. Going out to stalk the streets, returning to ponder on the mistakes he had made, on what he had learned that day. And yes there was the urgency of finding out more about The Man and the government he controlled, but somehow that seemed less taxing in comparison to the problem and the task he now faced.

  As he stared back at the face in the mirror, he wondered who he had become. Was it Steven staring back at him? Was it Jack? Was it a murderer, a terrorist? A wanted man or just someone who wanted a quiet life, a place to hide?

  Water trickling down his face, he heard the letterbox open and slam back into place and raced out to see a piece of paper falling gently to the doormat. Grabbing it, he eagerly read its contents.

  Meet me in Covent Garden, 1 o’clock sharp. We need to get you out of London. Kyle.

  Joy rushed through him. Kyle was alive. He’d never felt so relieved. The worry that clung to the back of his throat disappeared in an instance. It hadn’t been an intense worry, but it had been a thought steadily growing in the background. With no contact outside Alex, he was left to guess the fate of his friends. Kyle might be alive, but there was every chance that Emma had been killed or captured. Had there been more safehouse raids? How many others had he known, if only for a night, been arrested or slaughtered where they stood? Confined to isolation as he was, he relied only on the fragments of information released in newspapers. He didn’t feel involved in the fight anymore, despite all the important work he was doing. It didn’t feel real, and it certainly didn’t feel like he was sacrificing anything like the others were; like he used to. Seeing Kyle’s handwriting felt like he had just re-established that lost connection and the three long months suddenly felt incrementally, but satiably, shorter.

  Even more joyously, Jack was to be leaving London. He knew that hundreds of miles away Alex had stewed over Jack’s fate with a stro
ng drink in his hand. As Jack entered the living room again, he could only imagine two scenarios had happened to meet Alex’s rescue criteria. Either Jack had gathered all the information he could, or his life was in danger.

  Paranoia ticked along like a clock in background. He tried suppress it, even ignore it. But it was omnipresent. There was nothing he could do but wait until the time came to leave for Covent Garden. However, alongside waiting came anticipation and with that old friend came doubt; and soon a gathering of old acquaintances had formed. Fear had brought a bottle of wine, worry only brought beer for himself. Hope and optimism were quietly sitting alongside stress and regret. Conversation was scarce.

  Ultimately, Jack knew that if his was in real and immediate danger, Alex would have arrived that morning to escort him from London himself. It was with huge strength that he managed to persuade himself that something more positive must be happening. Surmising that Jack’s investigations must have triggered something on either the government’s side or The Resistance’s, he wondered if Alex had ordered Kyle to take him to the next level of his mission. Or perhaps it was something less complicated and just a chance for a meeting between the two leaders of the organisation?

  Either way, time dripped by at an agonising pace. All he could do to save himself from the incessant cocktail of boredom and paranoia was to recount the theories on his wall of scribbles and to try and commit as many of them to memory as he could. Jack had long since learnt that there was never any guarantee of returning to the same place again.

  At quarter past twelve, he pulled on his jacket and tied his shoelaces; scanning a last look at the basement flat before throwing open the front door and climbing the steps to the pavement level. Either direction the faceless crowd loomed, and he disappeared into it like smoke in a gentle summer breeze.