The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “It’s not good,” she said. “Racist vandalism and low scale violence, all over the constituency. All over the city. My surgeries are full of frightened Muslim families, but it’s Yusuf they want to talk to, not me.”

  “But he doesn’t work in your office anymore. Right?”

  “No. He moved to running the shelter when they changed the rules about MPs employing family members. It doesn’t mean people don’t come to him sometimes, though. He’s built up a lot of trust.”

  “Ah.” Michael exchanged a glance with John and leaned back in his chair. He rested his elbows on the armrests and clasped his hands in front of his chest. John sat up straighter, pulling his papers towards him.

  “Anyway,” Michael said, shuffling in his chair. “That’s not what we’re here to talk about.”

  She nodded. “Hayley Price. Bronzefield.”

  Michael’s laugh rang out across the room.

  “Bronzefield,” he said, smiling at her. “You escaped by the skin of your teeth there.”

  She blinked, her face hot.

  “Fortunate timing,” he continued.

  She stiffened. So far, there were twelve deaths from the Waterloo bomb. And five more were in a critical condition at St Thomas’ Hospital. Only two had died in Birmingham, but that was two too many. How Michael could use the word fortunate…

  He leaned in towards her.

  “You need to put that behind you,” he said. “We’ve got legislative plans. It’ll have an impact on prisons. The prison population.”

  Jennifer looked at John, annoyed that he’d given her no warning of this. He scratched his cheek, the flesh loosening beneath his touch.

  Michael sat back. “Let me explain.”

  7

  November 2019. Birmingham

  Jennifer slung her bag on the hall floor, glad to kick her shoes off at the end of a long and stressful week.

  Her second visit to Bronzefield was haunting her. The panicked look in the governor’s eyes. The jeers from the women as she passed through the prison. She’d been to plenty of prisons before of course, it came with the job. But this time was different. There was an extra layer to the usual hostility and gloom, a sharpness in the air she could almost taste. She may not have lost her job because of Hayley Price’s death, but there were plenty who thought she should have.

  She leaned against the wall and rubbed her eyes, not caring that her mascara would blur. In the kitchen she could hear voices. She went in, pasting on her best smile.

  Yusuf was sitting at the table with both boys. This was unusual at this time of the evening. Normally Samir would be upstairs doing homework (or so she hoped) and Hassan would be getting ready for bed.

  She coughed and they all looked up. Samir’s face was dark, his eyes flashing. Hassan looked gloomy and there was a guilty look on his face that he was trying to hide.

  Yusuf gave her a smile that didn’t extend to his eyes. “Evening.”

  She motioned towards the boys with her head. “What’s up?”

  Samir muttered something under his breath and Yusuf glared at him. Hassan started to cry.

  She swept to the table, draping an arm around Hassan’s shoulders. He leaned into her, sobbing.

  “Shh, shh,” she bent to whisper into his hair. “It’s OK. We’re here.”

  She looked up at Yusuf, flashing a question at him with her eyes.

  Yusuf placed a hand on Samir’s shoulder. Samir huffed and pushed his chair back, knocking it on the floor. He stomped out of the room and up the stairs, not looking at Jennifer. She heard the door to his room slam.

  Jennifer watched in silence, feeling Hassan’s tears soaking into her blouse.

  “Tell me, Yusuf. What’s happened? What’s Samir done to Hassan?”

  Yusuf’s head shot up. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  She shrank back. What have I done wrong?

  Yusuf slumped in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  She looked down at Hassan. “What is it, sweetie? You can tell Mummy. Nobody’s in trouble.”

  “I said don’t make assumptions,” repeated Yusuf.

  “Well, tell me what’s going on,” she hissed. She could feel her palms growing clammy. “Did something happen at school?”

  Hassan let out a loud sob and pulled out of her embrace. “It’s James.”

  James was one of Hassan’s school friends. “OK, “ she replied. “What’s up with James?”

  “He’s not my friend anymore.”

  Jennifer shot another question at Yusuf with her eyes. “I’m sure that’s not true. James is one of your best friends.”

  “Not any more, he’s not,” muttered Yusuf.

  “He’s not Hassan’s friend. He’s a racist little shit.”

  Jennifer looked up to see Samir in the doorway, his cheeks blazing.

  “Samir!” Jennifer lifted herself in her seat. “We’ll have none of that kind of language.”

  Samir looked at Yusuf. “Sorry,” he said. “But it’s true.”

  Yusuf stood and crossed to Samir. “Come on, we don’t know that for sure,” he said, holding an arm out. Samir batted it away.

  Jennifer was feeling increasingly irritated. “Will someone please tell me what’s happened?”

  Yusuf dragged a hand through his beard. Samir watched him speak, fidgeting. “Hassan was supposed to go to James’s house after school today. I stayed at home, expecting James’s mum to pick him up, then I got a phone call from the school at four o’clock. Asking if someone was going to fetch him.”

  Jennifer felt her heart pick up a beat. She looked at Hassan. “Were you OK, love?” He nodded.

  “So I went to get him,” Yusuf continued. “Turns out James’s mum had left without him.”

  “OK,” breathed Jennifer. Surely it was a misunderstanding. People forgot these sorts of things all the time.

  “When I got him home there was a message from James’s mum on my voicemail.”

  She nodded. An apology, she imagined. “I’ll bet she felt really stupid.” She knew James’s mum; had chatted to her in the playground on Fridays. She was a nurse who worked at the local hospital and seemed friendly enough.

  “No,” replied Yusuf. His face darkened.

  “What?” she said. “Will you just tell me?”

  Samir spoke. “She doesn’t want her son playing with a Muslim.”

  Jennifer looked at him. “What?”

  Samir scowled. “You heard. Racist bitch.”

  “Samir!” she shouted. “That’s enough. Yusuf?”

  Yusuf pulled his phone from his pocket. “Here’s the text.”

  Hassan shuddered in her arms.

  She took the phone and read. James won’t be playing with Hassan anymore. With everything that’s happening, we want to protect him. I’m sure you understand.

  She let the phone slip from her hand onto the table. “What the—” she gasped. “What is she on about?”

  Yusuf shook his head. “I can’t be sure.”

  Samir clenched his fists. “Of course we can, Dad. She wants to protect her precious little boy from Muslims like us.”

  Jennifer looked at Yusuf. “It could be anything,” she said. “It might not be—”

  “I’m inclined to agree with Samir.” Yusuf glanced at Hassan, who had buried his face in his arms on the table. “But let’s not talk about it right now, hey?”

  Samir grunted and threw himself upstairs. The door slammed again and the house fell silent apart from the rhythm of Hassan’s sobs.

  Yusuf was upstairs, trying to get Hassan to sleep. Jennifer had read him a story and brought Rufus to him. But even having his beloved cat purring on the pillow wasn’t enough. Yusuf was on the bedroom floor now, lying quietly while he waited for Hassan to sleep. Something he hadn’t done since the boys were toddlers.

  Jennifer sipped at a glass of wine, trying to calm herself. The liquid dragged in her throat, sharp and heavy. The TV was on but she was oblivious: some dr
ama she hadn’t been following. She didn’t have the energy to find the remote and turn it off.

  She cradled her glass in her hands and slumped into the sofa, feeling the energy drain from her. Maybe James’s mum would see sense in the morning. Maybe Yusuf had misunderstood. Maybe – probably – Samir was overreacting.

  She turned words over in her head, intent on speaking to James’s mum, on clearing things up. If it meant getting to the constituency office late, then so be it.

  She had an early meeting with the police commissioner. She couldn’t miss that. She put a fist to her temple, feeling a headache coming. When did it all get so hard?

  The toilet flushed upstairs and Yusuf padded down. She put her glass on the coffee table, willing herself into alertness.

  Instead of joining her on the sofa as normal, he took the armchair next to her. She watched him pick up the remote and flick through the channels.

  “I’ve got a meeting I can’t get out of in the morning,” she said once he’d settled on a channel. “Can you speak to James’s mum?”

  He froze, remote in mid-air.

  “This needs sorting out, quickly,” she continued.

  He winked the TV off. He didn’t look at her.

  “I’ll be at the mosque,” he said. “Besides, it’s not as easy as that.”

  She said nothing. From upstairs she heard a noise. Hassan? They both listened for a moment, staring ahead. There was quiet.

  Yusuf scratched his beard again and turned to her. “If this woman is what Samir says she is, d’you seriously think she’s going to respond to me?”

  Jennifer swallowed. “But we’ve known her for years.”

  “No,” he said. “You’ve known her for years. If chatting to someone on the playground once a week counts as knowing them.”

  “That’s not—”

  “She doesn’t talk to me. I’ve never thought much of it – a lot of the mums don’t like talking to the dads. Maybe they think it’ll look like they’re poaching us. But now I think about it, I don’t think she’s ever actually talked to me. Not properly.”

  Jennifer felt herself grow cold. She couldn’t believe that this woman who she’d happily exchanged pleasantries with for the last five years was a racist.

  “Do you really think—”

  Yusuf stood up. “I wish you could understand.”

  She rose with him, working to keep her body language as open as possible. He stared towards the window, his eyes dark.

  “I’m not talking to her,” he said. “I’ll talk to the school, see if they can resolve any problems between Hassan and James. They’re good at that sort of thing.”

  “OK. But I want to talk to his mum too.”

  He said nothing. She reached for his hand. It was stiff but he didn’t pull away. She ran through the next day in her head.

  “OK,” she whispered. “I can do the afternoon school run, speak to her then. Let’s talk about something else. I’ve had an awful week.”

  He turned to her. “Awful week? You don’t know the half of it. The boys are like china, work is manic. It’s getting worse, you know. People like James’s mum, who a week ago would never… Now it’s OK. Don’t you see? Do I need to spell it out for you? Being wary of Muslims has become acceptable.”

  She struggled to hide her frustration. Why was he making her feel as though this was all her fault? “I do know. D’you think it’s not happening in London? I was walking to work on Tuesday and there was a gang of kids throwing insults at an old couple. Telling them to go home.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told them to get lost, of course. Yusuf, you don’t think I’m going to stand by and watch that sort of thing happening?”

  “No. Of course not.” He was looking at the photo over the fireplace. An enlarged print of the four of them when Hassan was a baby, taken in a photography studio. They were all smiling. Samir was tickling Hassan who laughed hysterically, his pink mouth open in an excited O.

  He turned to her, his shoulders sagging. “But Michael. I’m not sure what he’d do. And that’s what counts.”

  “You know I can’t—”

  He shrugged and stood up. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  She opened her mouth to protest but he was gone, clattering onto the lower steps and then catching himself and slowing as he remembered the sleeping boys. She fell into the sofa and blinked at the TV, her stomach twisting.

  8

  November 2019. London

  “The Right Honourable Member patronises us all if he thinks we don’t know what this Bill is really about.”

  Maggie O’Reilly, third term MP for Hull in the North East of England, was the third backbencher to respond to John’s latest statement in the House of Commons, and the first to attack it. She was a large, impressive woman with a penchant for brightly coloured scarves and a habit of rebelling against the government.

  Jennifer felt John tense beside her. Beyond him, Michael was stony faced. He muttered to himself through clenched teeth.

  John had announced new measures to combat radicalisation in prisons; the measures Michael had wanted to talk to Jennifer about. Officially, any prisoner converting to any faith would be subject to increased vigilance. But Jennifer, like everyone else, could read between the lines.

  Maggie continued. “The government wants to victimise prisoners who convert to Islam. I know they talk about all religions but let’s be honest here, that’s not what they’re talking about.”

  The benches hummed with muttering and the shuffling of papers. Jennifer folded her arms and shook her head, knowing people would be watching her.

  “So let me ask a question, seeing as that’s what I’m supposed to do of course.”

  More muttering. The Speaker sat forward, ready for a rebuke. Maggie glanced at him.

  “Apologies, Mr Speaker. I promise not to go too far.”

  The Speaker pursed his lips; he and Maggie had clashed plenty in the past.

  She took a deep breath and puffed out her chest. “So, my question. Would this legislation have done anything to prevent the October attacks?”

  There was a silence broken by a cough from somewhere behind Jennifer. Opposite her, the Tory home affairs spokesman looked uncomfortable. Attacking the Home Secretary should be his job.

  Maggie wasn’t finished. “It wouldn’t, would it?” She looked at the Speaker again. “That was a question. And so is this. Can my Right Honourable friend the Home Secretary tell me if any of the perpetrators of last October’s bomb attacks were recent converts to Islam or any other religion, can he tell me if they were British, and can he tell me if they’d recently – or ever – been in prison?”

  She smiled and sat down. A hubbub rose behind Jennifer, a mix of agreement and dissent. Jennifer felt the seat back behind her shudder as people hit it with their palms. John smiled tersely and the Tory front bench looked uncomfortable; Trask knew he was missing out on an opportunity, and would loathe having a Labour backbencher, however notorious, steal it from him. Many of the Opposition MPs were on their feet, ignoring the Deputy Speaker’s cries for order before shuffling back into place like a class of naughty toddlers.

  John stood up, stirring the air. A bead of sweat was working its way down the back of his neck into his shirt collar. Trask and his home office spokesman smirked and relaxed into their seats.

  John turned to face Maggie, smiling.

  “Mr Speaker, I’d hate to deny certain members of this house the opportunity to make political capital from this tragedy that has taken the lives—”

  But however far he raised his voice, John couldn’t be heard above the shouting. A dozen or so Labour MPs rose to their feet and the Tories joined in, feigning indignation. There was a shout of ‘hypocrite’. Around Jennifer the mood was sinking. Next to her two Cabinet members muttered together, looking sidelong at John.

  Finally the noise subsided and the Speaker addressed himself to John.

  “I would like to advise the Right H
onourable Gentleman to take care in the precise form of words he uses to describe the actions of members of this House.”

  John nodded and swept a hand across his forehead. The back of his collar was damp and his grey-blonde hair was darkening at the tips. He cleared his throat, drew himself up and continued.

  “As I was saying, the tragedy that hit us in October isn’t something for politics. I’m pleased that the Prime Minister” – here he motioned towards Trask – “has put away political rivalry so we can demonstrate this House is united in its determination to stop terrorists. Don’t forget what happened in October. An organised group of terrorists infiltrated our transport systems and created carnage. Dozens of people died and many more were injured. This can’t happen again. I’ve already gone into detail on the recruitment taking place in prisons; I shouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

  He paused and wiped his brow. “Ask yourselves: do you want to do everything you can to prevent another disaster, or not? If you do, then you have to support this Bill.”

  He sat down amid more shouting and thumping of feet. The bench beneath Jennifer shook. The same two Cabinet members who had been whispering were now falling over themselves to reach past her and pat John on the back. John turned to her and winked, taking her by surprise; she didn’t manage a smile in return.

  Jennifer rushed back to the Home Office building. She had a lot of paperwork to get through and a briefing on prison security at six pm. Then there was a networking event with business leaders from the constituency, something she wasn’t looking forward to.