The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  Yusuf pulled back. He was nodding but didn’t look convinced.

  “Look, if she hasn’t leaked it tomorrow then I’ll talk to her,” she said. “What I tell her can go public anyway, so it won’t matter.”

  “And what will you say?”

  She leaned back. “My god. I’ve got no idea.” She pushed out a long breath. “I can’t do this on my own.”

  He leaned in again and stroked her hand. “You’ve got me, love.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He frowned and started to pull away and she quickly grabbed his hand, holding it between hers. “Sorry. It’s just – I’ll need other people with me. To help me beat Michael.” She paused, examining Yusuf’s face. “And John.”

  Yusuf nodded.

  “Are you OK with this?” she asked. “He’s your friend.”

  “This is more important,” he muttered.

  “OK. I’m tired. Let’s go to bed. I’ll ring Penny, get her over here. We’ll need to get the constituency on board.”

  Penny was Jennifer’s agent, a brusque, efficient woman who didn’t always appreciate Yusuf’s involvement in her campaigns. He pursed his lips. “You’re right.”

  Jennifer squeezed Yusuf’s hand. “Thanks.”

  17

  October 2020. Birmingham

  “Jennifer, hi! Glad you decided to call back. So are you going to tell me the real reason for your resignation?”

  “Lucy, I want you to know how much I hate doing this. You know how committed I’ve been to this government, and John Hunter goes back a long way with my family. I don’t want you to publish the fact that it was me who talked to you. Say ‘unattributable sources in the Home Office’, or something like that.”

  “Anything you want, if it means I get the story. Have you talked to anyone else?”

  “No other press, if that’s what you mean. I hoped you might handle this a bit more sympathetically than some of the others.”

  “Thanks. So—?”

  She really wants this story, thought Jennifer. She took a deep breath and nibbled at a wayward fingernail. She was standing next to the bed in her room, one of the few places she could be alone.

  “OK. Well, to start with, I did not resign because of my family. I want to make that very clear.”

  There was silence while Lucy waited for her to continue.

  “Lucy, you know I don’t like doing this. I know leaking something like this isn’t a very – well, honourable – thing to do, and I hate doing it. But I really believe that by making this public, it will help to prevent what I think is a very unwise move.”

  “Which is?”

  “I resigned because I was asked to introduce some new legislation. Banning immigration from a number of Muslim states. The idea is that it will stem what is believed to be a tide of actual or potential terrorist recruits entering the country.”

  “Jennifer, am I hearing you right? A blanket ban from Muslim states? Which ones, exactly?”

  “I think you need to ask the Home Office that.” Put John on the back foot, she thought. Make him confirm or deny her accusations.

  “So because of a small number of extremists, they want to ban all Muslims from entering this country?”

  “Well, not all.”

  Jennifer’s heart was pounding now, and her fingertip was bleeding. She pictured John’s solid face, the way he had looked at her when she told him she would have no part of this. She plunged on.

  “But yes, that’s the general idea. Regardless of how many of the people committing these crimes are actually immigrants, or even visitors.”

  “Right. But hell, Jennifer, that’s huge.”

  Jennifer sat down on the bed, her skin turning cold. What were the implications of her disloyalty? It was too late now.

  “Thanks for this, Jennifer. Look, I’ve got to go. Catch the press and all that.” The call clattered to an end.

  Time to implement Yusuf’s damage limitation plan.

  Jennifer ran downstairs. In the kitchen Yusuf had his back to the door, along with Penny, who had arrived while she was on the phone. The two of them were caught up in a stilted conversation about the garden, standing on opposite sides of the kitchen. At Jennifer’s arrival they turned, surprised.

  Penny approached Jennifer, giving her a sympathetic look that made her feel like an invalid. She hugged her and Jennifer stood stiffly in her agent’s arms, unaccustomed to the contact. At last Penny let go and held her at arm’s length, looking into her face.

  “I’m proud of you, Jennifer. You’ve done a great thing.”

  Jennifer shrugged and looked down at Penny’s necklace of purple beads. It lent a grey pallor to her skin.

  “Thanks. Didn’t have much choice really,” Jennifer replied, shaking her off. Penny sat down opposite Yusuf and Jennifer took a place at the head of the table.

  “They’re outside,” Penny said. “Hacks.”

  Jennifer smiled inwardly: Penny had never liked the press. They got in the way of the voters, as far as she was concerned.

  “Well,” Jennifer said. “I’ve just been on the phone to one.”

  Penny’s face darkened. “Yusuf told me.”

  “Right.” Jennifer’s voice became businesslike. “So, Lucy Snape has the story now. It won’t be long before everyone else does. Let’s get working on that statement.”

  ‘Minister Quits Over Immigration Ban’ ran the Guardian’s headline the next morning.

  By the time Jennifer had ploughed through the new morning routine of getting the kids dressed behind closed curtains, the radio and TV channels were running the story too. She sat at the kitchen table, Yusuf opposite her. He watched her reactions as she read the story on her iPad. The crowd outside the front door had grown in the early hours, and getting the boys off to school had been a trial.

  The other papers were still reporting that she’d resigned for the sake of her family, although that had by now been relegated deep inside, on the political or comment pages. Jennifer knew that her resignation was nothing to the uproar this legislation would cause; that she had become only a small part of the story. Despite the disappointment at being made aware of her own inconsequence, she was relieved.

  “I think we should go and stay somewhere else for a while.” Yusuf pushed the iPad out of the way, forcing her to look at him. “You can’t think straight while you’re under siege.”

  “No. I’ve made my bed and I’ll lie in it. If it’s too much, we can let the boys stay at your mum’s for a few days. A treat for them. But I don’t want to hide.”

  “But what will you tell them?”

  “Nothing. At least nothing they don’t already know. Not till I’ve had a chance to talk to some backbenchers. Or, rather, some of the other backbenchers.” She smiled. She’d have to get used to that title. Having resigned from her ministerial job, she was back to being a backbench MP.

  Yusuf looked worried.

  “Thanks for being with me on this, love,” Jennifer said, taking his hand. It was soft and warm. She looked at him properly, maybe for the first time in weeks. He was wearing a blue silk shirt, one she’d bought him for his birthday. It brightened his skin and made him look alive. “I know it’s not easy for you. But think of the support you’ll get on the council.”

  “I know. Not all of them. But most, yes.” His eyes were steady on her face.

  Jennifer smiled at him and put down her cup of tea, which had grown cold. “So. What’s next? I’ll stay here for a few days, see some more of the kids. Battle my way through some advice surgeries. Then on Monday I’ll head back to London, start stage two.”

  Yusuf returned the smile. Jennifer was surprised to feel his grip tightening on her hand, transferring its heat. He rose from the table, pulling her up. The shirt shifted, light catching on it. He’d tucked it into his black jeans. Suddenly she was taken back to their first date, to the sight of his slender hips in smart black trousers, the shirt he’d worn. The years had been kinder to him than to her, she thought.


  She followed as he pulled her out of the room, through the hallway and to the stairs.

  “Let’s take our minds off it for a bit,” he said.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Surprised, she followed him upstairs.

  18

  October 2020. London

  It was a Wednesday night and Jennifer was deep into a meeting of the campaign team she’d pulled together in the fortnight following her resignation. Maggie Reilly, the rebellious and larger-than-life MP Jennifer had watched in action so many months ago, was dominating the meeting with a description of her techniques for dealing with the Labour Whips.

  “You just have to switch off, Jen” she said.

  “Jennifer, please. Only Yusuf calls me Jen.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Then I’ll call you Jenny.”

  Jennifer opened her mouth to protest but Maggie had regained her flow.

  “It’s like being in a room with a toddler throwing a tantrum, or trying not to bait a snake. I just go into a zone.” She closed her eyes, raising her arms as if in a trance. “One where I know I’m right and I shouldn’t be swayed by these jumped up bastards. They wouldn’t know a genuine opinion if it smacked them in the face with a wet kipper.”

  She opened her eyes and cracked a grin, settling back down on the sofa in the tiny living room of Jennifer’s London flat. Jennifer had raced through an emergency tidy-up before the meeting, stuffing papers into bins and shoving some in her bedroom. The others laughed as Maggie glowed like a leading lady in the warmth of the spotlight.

  Colin Hayes was perched opposite, on a hard-backed chair dragged in from the bedroom.

  “That’s all very well, Maggie. But what we must come back to is how all this plays out in the press. The Whips have friends in the media, and we need to cultivate them too.”

  Colin was a new MP in a rock-solid South London seat which he’d won in a by-election as the ‘local guy’. He hadn’t made much impression on Jennifer or anyone else but he was a former journalist and his media contacts might prove helpful.

  The final member of the group was Javed Iqbal, the son of Pakistani immigrants whose loathing of this bill trumped his untrammelled record of loyalty. Javed had a puffy, lived-in face and stark white streaks snaking through his thick black hair. Maggie was dismissive of his former loyalty and Colin struggled to understand why he couldn’t be a back-slapping socialite like him, but Jennifer valued his insight.

  Tonight they were planning a strategy for influencing ministers. Media attention had swelled and ministers were proving unwilling to make statements; the BBC had taken to keeping seats empty in the studio when a government spokesperson couldn’t be found.

  “Look, both of you,” Jennifer interrupted. “We’re not talking about the press or the Whips tonight. We need to divvy up these ministers and decide what order we’ll try to meet them in.”

  Maggie nodded. “I say you take the meetings, Jenny.” Jennifer squirmed. “You know full well they won’t listen to me.”

  Jennifer sighed. “I don’t have good relations with all of them. Certainly no one in the Home Office…”

  “It’s not worth talking to the Home Office,” Javed said. “Concentrate on the others.”

  He was right. “OK,” Jennifer said. “Let’s write out a list, identify the ones worth talking to, and who we’re friendly with. Then we can work out who talks to each one. OK?”

  She grabbed a piece of paper.

  The next morning Jennifer was woken by the buzz of her mobile rattling on the bedside table. She fumbled for it and looked at the display: number withheld. Hoping it wasn’t a journalist, she answered it, stifling a yawn as she settled the phone on the pillow beside her ear.

  “Jennifer? It’s John. John Hunter.”

  “John? It’s not even six in the morning.” She didn’t bother to hide the drowsiness in her voice.

  “Yes, I know. Look, we need to talk. Can I see you in an hour? Come to my office. I’ll have someone waiting for you so there’ll be no problem getting in.”

  He hung up. Jennifer sank below the duvet, letting herself drift back into sleep, until ten minutes later the alarm clock went off. She climbed out of bed and dived into the shower. As the hot water brought her to life she wondered what John might be up to. She sure as hell wouldn’t be responding to any requests to back down.

  Fifty minutes later she was at the main entrance to the Home Office, now repaired and open for business. Sure enough, a man she’d never seen before was there already – the ‘somebody waiting’. She followed him inside, taking the familiar route.

  There were small changes. The hallways had been redecorated and the place smelt of fresh paint mixed with dust. And there were subtle shifts she couldn’t place; maybe the pictures had been moved, or the carpet colour changed. She felt like an exile returning to the country of her birth; at once familiar and unwelcoming.

  Outside John’s office, the man left with another curt nod. There was no one else around. Jennifer gave a sharp knock on the door. “Come in!” came the response.

  John was behind a monstrous new desk, angled for the best view of the door and window. In front of it were two sofas and a low table, with a cafetiere of coffee and some pastries. The smell of coffee mingled with the paint tang and the fuzzy, hay-feverish scent of new carpet. Every surface gleamed.

  “Jennifer,” he said, smiling and gesturing towards a sofa. “Please take a seat.”

  She sat on the sofa. He rounded his desk and cleared a spot on the other, which was strewn with newspapers. He leaned forwards and poured two coffees, placing a pastry on a plate and handing it to Jennifer. He didn’t take one for himself.

  She took a sip from the coffee and turned towards him. Behind him, through the large window, the sun was rising over the buildings opposite. She frowned and shifted in her seat to bring it behind his head, not to be blinded. She wondered if this was deliberate.

  “Let’s get straight to it, shall we?”

  Jennifer nodded, ignoring her pastry.

  “I s’pose you’re expecting me to try and talk you out of your little campaign, to offer you your job back, or something like that. Right?”

  “Ah! Damn.” Jennifer had spilled her coffee – on her trousers, not on the beautiful new cream sofa. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue and mopped herself up. John watched in silence, a patronising smile dancing on his lips. When she had recomposed herself he was still giving her a level stare. It seemed Jennifer was expected to speak.

  She put her damp rag on the table.

  “To be honest John, I really didn’t know what to expect. You surprised me.”

  “OK, I accept that. But seeing you again yesterday, it made me realise how bloody rude I’ve been.”

  She waited.

  “Yes, I know you’ve been trying to contact me,” he said. “And that poor old Mandy has been fobbing you off. Not her fault, of course.” Jennifer nodded; of course it wasn’t. “So I thought I should do the decent thing and get in touch. Have a chat. Let you know how things stand.”

  She smiled, intrigued. “I’m glad. You and I go back a long way, and I’d hate for us to become – well, enemies.”

  “But you know we can’t be friends again, just because of that,” he replied. “I trusted you. I talked the PM into promoting you way beyond your experience, because I knew how committed you were, how determined. I thought to myself, That’s the sort of girl I need. Someone who’ll stick with it, battle through the flack and stay with us through thick and thin.”

  Jennifer stiffened and decided to let the girl go. She hadn’t been expecting a lecture.

  “But I was wrong, wasn’t I? I stuck my neck out for you – gave Michael the impression you were the type who’d never do what you did. Who’d never resign like that, and most of all, would never leak things to the bloody press in such an underhand way.”

  His face had turned red. Clearly, he wasn’t as calm and in control as he was trying to make out. was red and a lock of ha
ir bounced over his left eye as he spoke. Jennifer dug her fingernails into her palms, suppressing the anger that threatened to mirror his.

  “There is no evidence that I leaked anything,” she said, pushing down the tremor in her voice.

  He gave a sharp shake of his head. “Come on, Jennifer. Don’t play the innocent with me. I know how friendly you are with Lucy Snape. When I saw her by-line on that story, I knew straight away. A bit of rooting around, and I had it confirmed by the end of the day.”

  He pushed his hair back and raised his cup for a long, noisy sip. Jennifer didn’t know what to say. At length, he put down his cup and looked at her. The fire in his cheeks was fading but his eyes still had a sharp gleam.

  “Nothing to say for yourself? No, I thought not. What I wanted you to know, Jennifer, is that I wouldn’t offer you your job back if you were the last bloody candidate on earth. The PM gave me hell after you resigned. He couldn’t kick you so he kicked me. And all this shenanigans has made him stubborn about this bill. If it doesn’t go through, I’ll have to resign. So you’ve just made him more determined.”

  Jennifer leaned forward. “I know what he can be like. But I also know that there’s a large part of him that is pragmatic, conciliatory. If it looks like the government could lose a vote, I think he’ll negotiate. And we’re willing to find compromises, you know.”

  John gave an exasperated laugh.

  “You really think that, don’t you? I know you don’t mean to hurt the party, I know you’re too loyal for that.” His eyes narrowed. “Or you were. But you are hurting the party by carrying on like this. Michael won’t back down. And come to that, neither will I. We’ll take this to a vote, and we’ll win. The Tories may be condemning us now, but when it comes to it, this sort of stuff is right up their alley. They know if they opposed us, their voters would be up in arms. So we’ll get it through comfortably, don’t you worry about that.”