The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  Another person hurried across the road to avoid him. He only had a matter of minutes to disappear from this street before the police or CRU came charging in. Someone was bound to call it in. And that was when he stopped in his tracks and turned. The protest was still slithering along the streets, hissing their contemptible words.

  At a steady run he raced back the way he had come, past the Mercedes he had hidden behind until the street merged with the main road ahead. He cooled his run to a gentle jog and dove into the safety net of the GD protest. Whoever these people were and whatever their repulsive opinions were, for the next few minutes they were going to save his life.

  On either side of him he received quizzical looks.

  “Have you got a spare placard?” he shouted, pretending to smile cheerfully.

  A woman handed him one reading “God’s Love Heals All.”

  Taking it with hidden trepidation, Jack hoisted into the air; keeping an eye on both sides of the march that he wasn’t being followed. So far it appeared no one was tailing him, but having only ever experienced being pursued on by the CRU on a small scale, he didn’t trust his own instincts.

  From the voices surrounding him, a chant erupted.

  “Who do we love? Jesus Christ!” the crowd shouted, “Who will heals us? Jesus Christ! Who will save us? Jesus Christ!”

  Jack was unnerved to be a part of it, but he joined in regardless. He didn’t have to believe in the words to say them; and at this moment in time he was not overly keen to be disassociated with the GD.

  The women on either side of him smiled as he joined in, and through their magnetically entrancing eyes he found the energy to shout louder and more enthusiastically. It was strange to be in the thick of this strange cult. So many vulnerable people who chose to latch on to God and self deprecation as a way of atoning for sins they had never even committed; it was hard to be near them and not try to challenge their beliefs.

  “Where are you from?” the woman who had given him the placard asked over the chanting.

  “Paisley!” he said, thinking fast on his feet, “In Scotland! I heard about this protest and just had to come!”

  She returned a warm smile, “My name is Hannah!”

  “James,” he smiled back at her. “Are you from London?”

  She nodded her head, “I live in Camden.”

  Awkwardly, he hung close to her for the next stretch of several hundred metres. As he kept his eyes on either side of him, he continued the conversation with Hannah, in an effort to merge into obscurity. She was twenty eight years old, a nursing home carer who’d lived in London for about ten years. Hannah was content with the conversation mainly being about her. Jack let her talk and he didn’t want her to stop for as long as he was actively involved in a conversation, he didn’t look out of place in the crowd.

  “This is my twentieth protest,” she grinned proudly, “How many have you been to?”

  “Oh,” Jack said, stumped, “I’ve lost count actually.”

  “Dedicated to the cause!” she attempted to high five him - he was a little slow on the uptake, “It must be really active in Paisley.”

  “What must be?” Jack said, distracted as he accidentally made eye contact with someone outside the protest.

  “The protest movement in your local GD?” she said, “London is good, I hadn’t realised how big Scotland’s one was going!”

  “Yeah, it’s massive,” he said, now using his placard to hide his face from the street side.

  He hadn’t planned much beyond joining the protest. For how long it would go on for he had no idea. He had a vague idea that he could make friends with these people by the afternoon, maybe blag a sofa for the night. But even GD supporters watched the news. Sooner or later they would recognise him and it would not end well.

  However, leaving the protest meant he might as well hand himself in. The media were clearly plastering whatever image they had of his face over their network broadcasts and newspaper bulletins. With so many people watching the protest on the pavement, there was little chance he could leave unnoticed. But if he stayed, he needed to get into a better character than James for even he couldn’t sustain this degree of interest in the GD for much longer.

  “Are you alright?” Hannah asked, touching his arm. “You seem a little…”

  “I’m worried,” he said, thinking fast, “I’m worried that someone’s not going to like what we say, and they’re going to attack us.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, “God is on our side, nothing can harm us while we speak in his name.”

  “It just doesn’t feel right,” he said, catching a glimpse of the street through the throng of protesters.

  “Do you want to leave?” she asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

  Before he knew it, she had grabbed his hand and was leading him away from the protest.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded to know, pulling away his hand.

  “Follow me,” she whispered harshly.

  Intrigued by her change of tone, Jack obliged and his curiosity grew as she led him down the first side street away from public view. As soon as they were in the cover of the shadow, she pushed him against a inset doorway and held him there, moving her face so close to his own that he could have kissed her without effort.

  “You need to get off the streets,” she whispered.

  “What? Why?” he faked ignorance.

  “I know who you are and you need to get to cover as soon as possible,” she said pressing him back further against the door.

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend,” she said, “A friend who won’t have long to live now.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  Hannah drew herself even closer to him, “I’m CRU,” she whispered.

  Jack was instantly captivated by fear.

  “But I don’t want to be,” she said, “Not anymore. I know what you’ve done. I know what you can do. So go.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, frightened that she might be playing him.

  “I’ve seen too much and I know the consequences of what happens when you speak up. So go. If there’s anyone who can destroy them, it’s you.”

  “How can I trust you? You’re in a GD protest, but you’re really CRU?”

  “It’s one in the same fucking thing,” she said, “Now go.”

  Hannah pulled him out of the doorway and threw him forwards. Instantly she turned her back on him and began rushing back to the protest.

  “Come with me,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  She raced forward and took it, her expression softening to near tears.

  “If you hate them so much, join us. We can take them down, we can destroy them - together,” he said, grasping her fingertips, but she was already pulling away.

  “They’d kill my family,” she said, “And when the realise I let you go they are going to kill me.”

  “Then all the more reason to come with me, join The Resistance,” he said.

  Shaking her head furiously, she let go of his hand, “I can’t. Go, please, before they find you.”

  Staggering backwards, Jack watched her turn and make her way back to the crowd again. He wanted to help her, to show her his gratitude.

  “Hannah!” he shouted, and she turned on the spot; surprised to find him racing towards her. She hadn’t yet reached the main road.

  “Damn you, just go!” she struck an arm out and pointed to the road behind Jack.

  Jack shook his head, “They’ll kill you if they knew you let me go, right?”

  Hannah nodded, “Which is why you have to go - so it’s not all for nothing.”

  “Give me your arm,” he said, “Quickly.”

  She offered out her arm, confusion spread across her face.

  “This might hurt, but it’ll at least give you a fighting chance,” he said, placing his hands over her arm and twisting it beyond what it could take.

  Hannah screamed as the bone snapped; Jack grab
bed her by the throat and slammed her body back against the concrete wall behind her. He then took his nails across her face and shoved her to the floor, before leaning in and whispering into her ear.

  “Tell them I attacked you when you tried to arrest me,” he said, “At least now you can prove it.”

  Crying on the tarmac, Hannah mouthed a “Thank you,” but Jack put a finger over her lips.

  “You do not thank anyone,” he said, “Join us if you can, but I will not judge you if you don’t. You give me hope that there’s still a reason left to fight.”

  Rising up, he turned his back on Hannah and raced down the street, wiping his own tears from his cheeks. A stranger’s sacrifice: the kindest thing in the universe.

  The roads were empty this side of the protest. Void of the CRU, the police and the faceless organisations that would hunt him down until his limbs were destroyed and strewn across the streets in celebration, he marched onwards and shed a little piece of who he was along the way.

  As much as he hoped Julian was dead, he hoped Hannah would survive. He hadn’t looked back when he left her: his only option was forward. If he were to dwell on the past right now, he was going to die. He knew it. He needed to focus on survival. There was no Julian Syme, no vulnerable CRU traitor; Eliza did not exist and neither did his father’s judgement. Jack Blackwood in the present was the only thing he cared about right now. His mistakes were frozen in time; he couldn’t regret them now just as he couldn’t forfeit his chances to live. Whatever the future held for him, be it round the corner or behind the next parked van, he needed to be prepared.

  Taking the quiet streets at every opportunity, he kept his head low and only glanced up to cross the road. Every siren he heard made him jump. Every person he bumped into, startled him. He wanted to know what the rest of the world knew about him. Did they know his full name? What picture did they use to draw their viewers in? Was it recent? Could anyone recognise him from it, or just close friends?

  Feeling incredibly vulnerable, he was more alone than he ever had been sitting at the end of his sister’s empty bed; more isolated than when he’d gone to her funeral. What had he done to become this killer…? What did it even mean to kill - did killing Quentin mean more than killing vermin? Quentin Robson was a horrible man that supported and developed a horrible government. Through his policies, thousands had been incarcerated or killed. Though he may not have pulled the trigger, did it make Quentin any less of a killer than Jack? So many questions fermented in his mind - and with every new question, he considered its worth. What did it even mean anymore? Maybe there had been a time where the idea of killing someone had marked the cutover from innocent bystander to fully fledged Resistance member, but he had passed that point a long time ago. And then he thought of Julian? Julian was a nice man in a horrible world. Selfishness and loyalty to his family were not crimes, at least not yet by any law in this country.

  Throat choking with disgust, he raced on through the streets. Hours passed as he dodged pedestrians and avoided densely populated areas. Every so often sirens wailed and he would duck for cover down some alleyway, overflowing with bins and rubbish and a stench of human shit. Old CRU posters grinned at him and served to remind him exactly how much he detested what they stood for. Every time he saw one, he thought of Hannah and his heart jolted when he realised the very real possibility that she could have been killed for helping him. Though her injuries could support her claims that Jack escaped, her managers might have punished her regardless. Still, he consoled himself, it was the best chance he could have given her. It was her choice not to come with him - he couldn’t have made that decision for her.

  The sun began to set; streaks of amber crescendoing into a scarlet demise. The moon, a web of silver in the sky, rose high above the tower blocks as the stars shone down an ancient light. It chilled Jack beyond words. Night fell, the city awoke in tungsten streetlights and streaming headlights. He was a dark figure among many, and that should have comforted him.

  Every few hundred yards he passed shops selling newspapers bearing Quentin’s image. Thankfully his own image was nowhere to be seen. As he’d guessed several hours ago, only the television companies had spread his face across the nation first. They must have announced his name too late for the print run. It was a blessing that he was eternally grateful for.

  At last he reached the council estate. It was really the only place he could think to go to. He didn’t trust the other safehouses as much - there was always the chance that they could have been turned, or might even house the high ranking mole. Right now, the only person Jack knew he could trust was Lana.

  Dogs barking; drug dealers sneaking out for business and old ladies rolling their shopping bags behind them. A fox treaded the pavement ahead, glancing back leanly in hope for a tasty morsel of rubbish. As Jack turned into the courtyard, he felt a wave of security pass through him. He was on the home stretch. All it would take was a few more minutes of time to be on his side. Clinging to the shadows and the fire escapes that ran up the height of the block, he counted the steps remaining until he reached Lana’s front door.

  Rain pattered down on him. Heavy April showers battered the estate. As he climbed to the top floor, he stopped to draw breath at the sight of the city he’d just crossed for survival. He’d made it, but whilst he’d started his journey as one man, he’d arrived at the safehouse another.

  Jack hammered on the door. A moment later he heard the chain rattle and the lock slide out of place. The door opened gently. Lana smiled from inside.

  He launched himself through the threshold and hugged her tightly.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he began to sob.

  Lana kicked the door shut and withdrew from him. She looked at him with such sorrowful eyes as she took him through to the old familiar living room with its old familiar furniture and the comforting view of the wastelands of humanity that was the estate.

  “Jack,” she said, sitting him down on the sofa, “Are you alright?”

  He nodded, “I think so.”

  “You’re on TV,” she said, at first seriously, but without warning she burst into laughter, “You’re on fucking TV.”

  Tears streaming down his face, he caught her eye and was infected by her laughter, “Turn it on. I want to see.”

  Quite convinced they were laughing over different things, he straightened himself up to watch the screen as Lana switched it on and tuned into the news.

  It was his face. Pixelated though it may be: it was his face. It was a still from a CCTV video - it was from Quentin’s mansion. The bastard had been recording them the entire time.

  “They know,” he laughed, “They all fucking know now.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Jack’s grin couldn’t leave him - he feared he might be suffering the long awaited breakdown he’d anticipated having since August last year, “I honestly don’t know. I absolutely could not tell you how I feel right now.”

  “Where have you been?” she asked, “Did someone take you here?”

  Jack shook his head, “I walked. All the way from fucking Mayfair I walked.”

  Lana reacted by jumping up and drawing the curtains, “Someone could have followed you here!”

  Her tone was angry, but Jack couldn’t care. He knew he was safe. They could have shot him at any point along his route home. Maybe some of the public had seem him, but the trail had gone cold after Hannah. He felt it on the streets. Jack wasn’t being hounded, not in the same way he should have been.

  “It’s okay,” he eventually said, as Lana went to check the locks on the front door, “We are safe.”

  “Jack, you’re on the fucking news. They know who you are!”

  “Well then they know a lot more about me than I do!” Jack suddenly snapped, and he sprinted to the sink to throw up.

  Lana stroked his back, “I know how you feel.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Don’t I?” she sighed, “I’ve killed people too. You forge
t who you are for a while, and maybe you never really learn it again. I’ve spent years coming to terms with my actions, and after all this time I still lie awake wondering where the little teenage rebel went. Ten years ago, Jack, ten years. I was so stupid, I couldn’t even pay attention in class. I got drunk in the streets from age thirteen. Not a day goes by where I don’t wonder what I have become.”

  Jack wiped his mouth and backed away from the sink; collapsing into the sofa and staring vacantly at the television. The news reader was reporting from Quentin’s estate again. Lana joined him a few moments later, reaching over and placing a hand on his knee. He built himself up to say something, but as his lips opened he was distracted by the newsreader.

  “The police have issued a warrant of arrest against The Resistance leader, Steven Lennox...”

  His eyes were captivated by the words - but it was not his real name that surprised him. He was expecting that. Jack Blackwood hadn’t existed in the eyes of the law for a very long time, since before Alex had taken him. Instead, his gaze was locked firmly on the phrase that frightened him most of all.

  “They’re calling you leader now,” Lana said, “Is it true?”

  Jack absorbed the true meaning of the phrase.

  “Is Alex… is Alex…” she stuttered.

  Jack shook his head, “No. But he’s out of action for a while.”

  “What happened?”

  Jack got up, his body itching to move again.

  “We were ambushed,” he said, vacantly, “It was all a setup. They knew we were coming.”