The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “That remains to be seen, I think.”

  “You believe what you want. I just want you to know that there will be no negotiating from this office, or from Number Ten. Message clear?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  He sighed, his stare fixing her in place like a startled bird. Jennifer slammed down her cup, not caring about spillages now, and stood to look down on him.

  “We’re not going to give up, John. This is a shitty piece of legislation, and you know it. I’m just sorry it had to be like this.”

  Then she left before saying something she might regret.

  19

  November 2020. London

  “Will the Prime Minister confirm the veracity of today’s reports that he is seeking to extend the terms of his new proposals to include other minority groups as well as Muslims?”

  The Leader of the Opposition sat down and a deafening roar erupted, making Jennifer’s ears smart. All around her, Labour MPs were yelling: Bollocks! Shut up! Sit down! On the benches opposite, the Tories were cheering: Got him! Disgrace!

  It was five minutes into Prime Minister’s Questions. Michael Stuart approached the dispatch box calmly, eyeing Trask and the rest of his tormentors. His face was calm but his usually sleek, dark hair curled around his earlobes; he needed a haircut. Behind him, John sat in the front row, a look of scorn on his face as he eyed Trask.

  “The Right Honourable Gentleman should not believe everything he hears outside this chamber. He knows as well as I do that our proposals do not take into account an individual’s religion or race. I wonder if he has forgotten what he himself said in this house a few short months ago?” He paused to look around the chamber, ignoring the muttering that buzzed along the benches. “Mr Speaker, if I may quote.”

  There was quiet while Michael looked at his papers, broken only by a muffled laugh from opposite. Jennifer knew he didn’t need them; he’d have his words memorised. But Michael was always the master of the dramatic pause.

  “‘The risk of the ranks of terrorist organisations being swelled by immigrants is great, and that risk is highest in the case of those immigrants coming from Islamic states.’” He looked up, waving a hand to take in his colleagues, to invite them into a conversation. Then he leaned forward, looking at Trask. “Did he, or did he not, say that?”

  More jeers from both sides, so intense now that Jennifer couldn’t tell what was coming from the government benches and what from opposite. The effect was like being plunged into a trough of water in the middle of a football terrace. The Prime Minister paused, his brown eyes surveying the Tory front bench. He raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath. “Will he not agree with me that since the first terrorist attack so near to this House, he, like me, has been actively seeking to reduce the number of potential terrorist recruits entering this country? And that he, like me, believes that the best way to do that is by restricting immigration from high-risk states? I ask him, did he say that on March the seventeenth this year, or did he not?”

  He sat down again to a riot of shouting. Jennifer glanced at Maggie, sitting next to her.

  “Order, order!” The Speaker was standing now, trying to bang his gavel hard enough to be heard. The rumbling subsided as Leonard Trask rose. Someone placed a hand on Jennifer’s shoulder from behind, making her flinch. She turned: there was an approving smile too. Plenty of them.

  “The Right Honourable Gentleman knows full well that he takes what I said out of context. I will concede that I did indeed state those views. However, if he read his Hansard correctly, he would know that I suggested negotiations with high-risk states over eligibility for immigration. Not a ban!”

  Eventually the noise abated, the jousting ceased and it was time for the lowly backbenchers; their weekly opportunity to seek the PM’s attention. Some did it to get their face seen, others to raise an issue in their constituency. Many did it to boost their standing with the PM. But Jennifer was none of these. She actually needed an answer to a question.

  Each time a question was answered, she sprang up like a grey-suited jack-in-the-box. Others were just as quick, and after five questions she still hadn’t been called. She tapped her fingers on the file in her hand, impatient.

  At last the Speaker called her name. A hollow feeling sucked at her chest and she grabbed one hand with the other. She took a deep breath and turned towards the front bench.

  “Will the Prime Minister confirm reports I have received from officials that he is considering widening his restrictions on immigration to include all Arab states, including those with secular governments, and is consulting on the possibility of forcibly repatriating male immigrants who have entered this country from those states since the summer’s terrorist attacks?”

  The room erupted. Papers were waved and the rumble of the benches shuddered through Jennifer as she sat down. She smiled at Maggie, who grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Her palm was as damp as Jennifer’s was dry.

  Michael rose to his feet, shuffling papers. The hair at the back of his neck was damp. He turned briefly towards her, not making eye contact, and then turned back to face the dispatch box.

  “May I thank my honourable friend for the question. Such reports are based on wild rumour and speculation only and I do not wish to lower myself to respond to them. However, given her penchant for scandal, I would be interested to hear what the papers have to say about this tomorrow.”

  Behind Jennifer, one MP let out a spluttering laugh. Jennifer shook her head, miming disbelief. On the front row, across the aisle from the ministers, Javed Iqbal was waving his papers in the air and laughing. His eyes gleamed with something, as if he could taste victory. Maggie’s face had the look of an animal about to catch its longed-for prey.

  Jennifer bit her lip. Tomorrow’s papers would be reporting Michael’s failure to deny her accusation, hot on the heels of Trask’s which was so keenly rebutted. But they hadn’t won yet. As John turned to look at her, his eyes full of steel, Jennifer worried she had begun a fight to the death.

  The next morning’s press was full of it. Splashed across the front pages of the left-leaning papers were accusations of hypocrisy, of isolationism. The more upbeat right-wing papers, in contrast, chose to credit Trask with a kind of victory over Michael.

  Jennifer hid in her flat, her phone switched off. A small press pack was gathering in the street below, their babble reaching her second floor window.

  At eleven she had to leave for a meeting. She toyed with using the fire escape to make a sneaky exit, but this would mean climbing down two flights of stairs which were little more than ladders. Besides, she could handle the press – when she was ready.

  She opened the front door to the street. It was narrow, with Victorian buildings looming on either side, opening right onto the pavement. The press pack was causing quite an obstruction.

  “Good morning,” she said breezily.

  They lunged at her. “Ms Sinclair! Can you tell us where the information you revealed at PMQs yesterday came from?” one of them asked. Polite; broadsheet. Jennifer pushed through, saying nothing.

  She started walking. Not too leisurely: she didn’t want to give the appearance of grandstanding. And not too fast: she couldn’t have them thinking she was afraid. The cold morning air stung her cheeks.

  They followed closely, the pack shuffling along the pavement behind her. “Jennifer! Why d’you want to bring the government down?”

  The words were like a dart fired into her back. She froze. Thinking fast, she took a deep breath, turning to face them. She squinted and they became a grey amorphous mass: no faces, no individuals.

  “I don’t want to bring the government down. Britain has gained massively from having a Labour government and it’s the last thing I want for that to be lost. I just want to stop a law that’s unjust and counter-productive.”

  They started pushing again. They could trap her here if she wasn’t careful, goad her into saying something she regretted.

  “Now if you don�
�t mind, I need to be at work. Excuse me, please.”

  She retreated, the click of her heels echoing off the red brick walls. She looked back to see them breaking up, knowing she wouldn’t return for some hours. She quickened her step towards the everyday rush of Waterloo, where she hailed a cab and made her escape, feeling like a character in a film noir.

  At the Houses of Parliament she hurried to her office, a tiny third floor room much like the one from her first term. In the eaves and with no windows, it was dark and stuffy and smelt of the accumulated sweat of generations of occupants. She spent as little time here as possible, but today it was a refuge. She slumped into the solitary armchair, squeezed in between a desk and two small bookcases.

  There was a knock on the door. She stared at it. Go away.

  “Jennifer? It’s Maggie. I have news.”

  Jennifer let her in, going round to the chair behind her desk so Maggie could take the armchair. The room was at full capacity.

  “You were great yesterday,” Maggie grinned. “Everybody’s talking about you.”

  “Thanks. But I don’t want everyone talking about me. I want them talking about the bill.”

  She laughed. “Oh, come on, Jennifer. You don’t have to be all high and mighty with me. Number Ten are in a spin, briefing and counter-briefing all over the place. I’m not even sure if Michael Stuart knows what’s going on. This is great.”

  Maggie’s green eyes shone. She loved this: the game, the fight.

  Jennifer hated it. All she wanted was the best outcome with the fewest possible casualties. Minimum collateral damage. But she couldn’t get this morning’s accusation out of her head.

  “Maggie, I was doorstepped today.”

  “That’s excellent! They’re really taking notice.”

  “It’s not excellent, not at all. One of them asked me why I wanted to bring the government down.” She leaned back, looking at the low eaves. What have I done? “I don’t want to bring the government down. But they think I’ve got some sort of vendetta and that’s why I resigned.”

  “Don’t worry, love. It doesn’t matter what they think. What matters is that they’re paying attention, they’re listening.”

  Jennifer looked back at Maggie. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Course you can.”

  “If it came to it, if this bill was going to bring down the government… would you keep going, would you take it that far?”

  “You know I’m not one to shirk my responsibilities. If something’s wrong, then I’ll vote against it. And if Michael Stuart insists on introducing racist laws, then yes, I’ll vote against him, whatever that means.” She clasped her hands together and smiled. “But it won’t come to that, you know. They’re going to cave in. And even if we win, why should it bring down the government?”

  Jennifer shivered. “Oh, I don’t know. Something about the way John spoke to me the other day. They’ve got a lot riding on this. The tabloids support it, the Americans have done much the same thing already. Michael Stuart won’t want to look indecisive.”

  “OK.” Maggie came to perch on the desk. “So what about you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Jennifer, would you carry on with this whatever?”

  She hesitated. “I really don’t know. I can’t imagine it happening, can’t picture it in my head. We’re different, you and me.”

  20

  January 2021. London

  It was a Tuesday morning and Jennifer didn’t have to be in Parliament until nine o’clock. She ran a hot shower in the hope that it would wash away some of her tension. As the steaming water plastered her short hair to her skull, she closed her eyes and tried to clear her head. Finally, relaxed but not purged, she stepped out, wriggling her toes on the bathmat and reaching for a towel.

  She froze. There was a familiar voice coming from the bedroom, on the other side of the door.

  Yusuf? She frowned and crept to the bathroom door but couldn’t make out what was being said. It definitely wasn’t her husband, though. She shrank back, her hand on the door handle.

  She knew that voice.

  It was John.

  What the hell was he doing in her flat – in her bedroom? Had he come to give her a dressing down?

  How had he got in?

  She reached for the pull-cord and turned off the light, silencing the extractor fan. The drain made its habitual gurgling sound and a pipe gave a single bang deep in the wall.

  Now there was another voice.

  Jennifer scanned the bathroom, looking for her phone or at least some clothes. But she hadn’t brought anything in with her, not even a dressing gown.

  She pulled the towel tighter and pushed the door open, peering through the crack.

  The bedroom outside was empty.

  She hesitated, clutching the towel.

  Be bold, she told herself. She pulled her shoulders back and pushed the door open with feigned confidence, painfully aware of the towel wrapped around her.

  She fell into the room and collapsed onto the bed, weak with relief and embarrassment. It’s just the radio! It had come on while she was in the shower. She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, heart still thumping.

  John was still speaking.

  “…which is why it’s crucial that the police and other law enforcement bodies have all the support and resources they need do their job…”

  “Mr Hunter,” interrupted the interviewer, “you haven’t answered my question. Is it true that you’re going to extend this bill – that you’re going to restrict immigration from all the Arab and southern Asian states?”

  Jennifer sat up. This was the first time John had spoken publicly since PMQs, and the first time her question had been put to any Cabinet member on air.

  “Look. The terrorist attacks were a tragedy, and something we have to make sure doesn’t happen again. That’s my priority – and I’m doing everything I can.”

  “Yes, Home Secretary.” The interviewer’s words were respectful, his tone less so. “But that wasn’t what I asked…”

  “Look, let me continue. The Home Office attack showed the terrorists are as desperate to stop us catching them as we are to stop them getting to us. Terrorist groups are recruiting right here in the UK. And they’re recruiting young men in the Middle East, especially Pakistan, who they get to come here to recruit more, and with some of them, to commit acts of terrorism.”

  “So why haven’t there been more attacks?”

  “The police and other authorities are working hard to find terrorist cells. We’ve been working closely with the Americans. They’ve got this problem in the States, but recruitment isn’t so high, ’cause they don’t have such a big Muslim population. So…”

  “Hang on a minute. I must stop you there. Are you meaning to say that a sizeable Muslim population inevitably leads to more terrorist activity? That’s a very bold statement.”

  “That’s not what I said.” John’s voice was hoarse now and he had picked up pace. Jennifer could picture him on the phone to the studio from his office, leaning over his desk. Sweating.

  “You don’t need me to tell you,” he continued, “that the majority of Muslims in this country are peaceful and want no part of this. But there are young men being taken advantage of because they’re disillusioned with the West.”

  “So – to return to my first question – you say that terrorist cells are sending people to this country specifically to undertake terrorist activity. So why don’t you make sure those individuals are prevented from entering the country, rather than imposing a blanket ban?”

  “We don’t know who they all are. Most of them have got no traceable connections to terrorism when they leave their home country.”

  “So how do you know they are terrorists?”

  “We find out later on. I can’t tell you how, but we’ve got good evidence. Very good.”

  “Which means that we have to believe you based on evidence which you are unable, or unwilling, to provide? I’m sur
e many people will be very worried by that.”

  “Look…”

  “But to the second part of Ms Sinclair’s accusation.”

  Jennifer’s heart jumped at the mention of her name.

  “Will you be forcing people to return to where they came from, even if they entered this country legally? What does this make of the Department for Employment’s policy of encouraging migrant workers in order to address skills shortages?”

  “Ah, now Jennifer – Ms Sinclair – wasn’t right on that one. We will be repatriating people, but only those we believe are involved in terrorist activity. We won’t be deporting everyone, not at all.”

  “But the evidence you’ve been able to gather against people so far is pretty flimsy. What court of law will decide whether these people are guilty of the crimes that you’re accusing them of?”

  “Look. We don’t have the luxury of time. We’re creating a review system run by the police and the immigration service, with a judge presiding. It’ll be able to make speedy decisions.”

  The interviewer spluttered. “So people will be deported, despite entering the country legally, for allegedly committing a crime which no court has found them guilty of.”

  John inhaled. His voice became shrill. “It’s not like that. The alternative is more terrorist attacks – something I’m sure your listeners want us to stop.”

  Jennifer blinked up at the ceiling. If this was a Conference speech, John would have been jabbing the air with his fingers. His face would have been red. It probably was. But would the hall have been applauding?

  “Minister, thank you very much for your time.”

  John coughed. “OK. No. Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  Jennifer realised that she’d been holding her breath. She was cold and the bed was growing damp. She stood up and started to get dressed.

  As she pulled on her shirt, she was interrupted by the phone. A journalist, wanting her response to John’s interview. She rebuffed him, preferring to check her facts before responding to accusations of lying, and turned her phone off yet again.