The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Ouch. You’re hurting me,” said Hassan. He started to cry.

  “Samir!” Jennifer crossed to Hassan and pulled him away from Samir, folding him in a hug. “Shush now, just a bad dream. Let’s get you back to bed.”

  She steered her youngest son out as her eldest slammed the door behind them.

  On Sunday Jennifer woke early. She’d slept fitfully the past two nights, torn between worry about Samir and dread of the vote. She’d dreamed of the Houses of Parliament collapsing into the Thames and Samir standing in the wreckage, pointing at her. He’d stayed out till late on Saturday, and refused to speak to her or Yusuf when he got back. This morning they were going to tell him he was grounded.

  Yusuf was still asleep. His eyes flickered under their lids and he grunted, flinging an arm out and batting her hip. She watched him, wondering what he was dreaming about. All of their talk recently had been of the bill and the campaign; but would it invade his sleep the way it did hers?

  She eased herself out of bed and tiptoed downstairs. She picked up her iPad in the living room, anxious to check the news. When she got to the Sunday Times front page, her breathing stopped.

  PM DECLARES CONFIDENCE VOTE.

  She dropped onto the sofa, scanning the accompanying story. According to ‘anonymous sources’, Michael Stuart was going to attach the immigration vote to a vote of confidence in the government. She shook her head and pulled back control of her breathing. She reached for the TV remote, hand trembling.

  A reporter was stationed outside the door of 10 Downing Street, talking to the presenter in the studio.

  “No, we have no official confirmation of this yet – nor do we have a denial. We’ve been told the Prime Minister will emerge shortly to give a statement. However—”

  The door behind him opened and he scurried out of the way. Michael was emerging. He was alone, followed a few paces behind by two advisors. His face was pale, his eyes swollen, and he’d acquired some grey hairs. He forced a tight, fixed smile and shuffled to a solitary microphone. The camera panned out to show the famous black door and Michael’s wife Jane standing to one side. She had the wide-eyed look of someone who hadn’t slept.

  He coughed and reached in his inside pocket for a sheet of paper.

  “Good morning,” he said. He cleared his throat again then looked ahead. “As you will be aware, there have been reports this morning claiming that I have changed the terms of the vote on our anti-terrorism bill.”

  He paused to survey the waiting journalists and cameras. There was a silence broken only by the echo of a bird singing nearby.

  “Everyone in this country is concerned for their safety and wellbeing, and that of their children. The threat of terrorism means people feel less safe in their homes and as they go about their daily business. I feel that concern too. I have a family of my own, and don’t want my children to grow up afraid.”

  Jane Stuart looked down at her feet, playing with her wedding ring. Then she disappeared as the camera zoomed in on her husband.

  “This is why I am determined to rid this country of terrorists and their supporters. I’m sure every man, woman and child watching or listening today would support me in that.” Another pause. “As you know, there are those who would prevent me from doing this.” He licked his lips, leaving a faint sheen, and stared into the camera. “I say to these people, do not let our children suffer fear and terror. Do not let our country be violated by those who would seek to destroy what we value most. This is your chance to show that you, like me, want to make Britain a safer place.”

  He swept his gaze across his silent audience, steadier this time.

  “Because I feel so strongly about this issue, I have decided that the future of my government must rest on it. Without these measures, I and my colleagues will be unable to protect this country’s citizens, and we will have failed in our duty. So I have decided to attach the vote on this issue to a vote of confidence. I say this to the dissenters.”

  He paused, his eyes narrow. He leaned forwards and clasped hold of the podium.

  “Now it is time to decide which way your loyalties lie.”

  He smiled, his eyes gaining a hint of their usual sparkle, and nodded at the press. With a brief thank you he was gone, swallowed up by the familiar black door.

  Jennifer sat frozen, her iPad on the floor. She rubbed her temples.

  There was movement behind her: Yusuf.

  “What are you going to do?” he said.

  “God only knows,” she replied.

  23

  February 2021. London

  Back in London, she woke early again on Tuesday, the day of the vote.

  Leaving her flat for the chilly darkness of the street outside, she strolled to work. The sky was lightening, a denim tinge rising over the river, and the city was starting its day. Postmen were making their rounds, a pub was receiving a delivery of beer, and one or two commuters shuffled towards Waterloo. She wondered if these people’s lives, so different to her own, were easier. But as she approached Westminster Bridge and saw the Houses of Parliament looming ahead of her, she smiled. Soaring from the banks of the Thames, the building had a grandeur today. The faint haze on the river lent it a sense of majesty and mystique. The place still had the capacity to make her pulse race.

  Once over the river, she decided to keep walking past the front entrance, enjoying the early morning calm. Only a few jet-lagged tourists huddled outside for selfies. The solitary protester’s tent on Parliament Square was quiet.

  She turned into the southernmost entrance, on the Lords end, and made her way through inner courtyards, passing yet more postal deliveries and vans unloading catering supplies for the kitchens. The clatter of pans and hubbub of voices rang out, and she was accosted by the smell of frying bacon. She sauntered, unwilling to rush to her poky eaves office. Eventually she turned into the back half of the building. But instead of squeezing herself into the rattling lift to the third floor, she headed for the tea room in search of breakfast.

  The tea room was all but deserted. A still calm hung over the space, intensified by pockets of light dotting the tables. It was as if the room itself was taking a deep breath in preparation for the rigours of the day. Few MPs were in the habit of getting in this early and only a couple of tables were taken, each with a single occupant. One of those occupants was in a large armchair in a corner, almost obscured by a copy of the Guardian. John Hunter.

  Jennifer hesitated then decided it would be worse to ignore him. Swallowing hard, she approached his chair. He looked up.

  “Hello, John.”

  “Jennifer! What are you doing here?” He’d paled.

  “Sorry. I can…” She motioned towards the door.

  “No, no. Stay here. I imagine you’re feeling much the same as me, eh?”

  She nodded, taken aback by his friendliness. Last time they spoke, he had hissed at her not to leak their conversation. And he’d been scared of losing his job. Was that still the case?

  She fetched herself a pot of tea and sat back down. John folded up his newspaper, dropped it on the unoccupied chair, and turned to her. Behind her, two MPs passed them, talking loudly; she wondered who they were but didn’t turn. John nodded at them then sipped his coffee. Jennifer shifted in her seat and John pulled at his collar.

  Finally they were alone.

  “Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?” said John.

  Jennifer looked up from her tea tray, raising an eyebrow.

  He smiled. “I mean, you and me. We were just starting to get along so well. We’ve been through a lot together.”

  “We certainly have.” She sipped her tea, nervous of what this might be leading to.

  “I’m sorry we ended up on opposite sides. You had bags of potential, but I can’t imagine Michael having a need for that now.” He chuckled to himself.

  “Are you OK? You seem different.”

  “Oh, me I’m fine,” he replied. “It’s him you need to worry about. A man possessed,
he is.” He leaned back and scratched his ear. Hairs were sprouting from it; that was new. “Thought I’d come and escape for half an hour or so. Funny for you to do the same thing. You don’t normally come in here this early.”

  “No. First time. I didn’t realise how peaceful it could be.”

  “Yes. Not like it gets later.”

  “Are things OK with you? You and Michael?”

  His face hardened. “Of course. Why shouldn’t they be?”

  “It was just when we—”

  “Forget that conversation, Jennifer. I’ve done what Michael required of me, and today it’ll all be over.”

  She opened her mouth to contradict him but realised he was right. Whichever way today’s vote went, this phase of the lives, of their careers, would be over. What was she going to do with herself?

  He downed his coffee and picked up his paper, recomposing himself. “Anyway, I should be getting on. I’ll see you later, no doubt.”

  “Yes, see you later… John?”

  “Yes?”

  Jennifer stopped herself, resisting an urge to wish him good luck. “Nothing.”

  He frowned and left the room, his footsteps reverberating in the quiet.

  The time came to file into the chamber. It was as packed as during Prime Minister’s Questions, or Budget day. Jennifer fought her way along a bench near the back; Maggie was already in place. As she passed through the crowds finding their seats, chatting and trying to get comfortable in the tight space, she felt people’s eyes on her.

  She smiled back at them, trying her best to seem calm and optimistic. She reserved her broadest smiles for fellow rebels, but didn’t get the response she’d expected. One or two looked swiftly away.

  She frowned, confused. Were they all about to turn back to Michael?

  Most of the people she passed were not rebels, and would only have disdain for what she was doing. Their eyes bored into her. By the time she sat down, she was sweating.

  She took a few deep breaths and wiped her face with her sleeve, glad she’d worn a dark jacket. Maggie was on one side and another Birmingham MP on the other. Other dissenters were scattered around the government benches. They had decided not to sit together, so that when speeches were made, it would look as if they were coming from a larger number, more widely scattered throughout the party.

  The debate started with John, who began without flourish; words prepared for him by the civil servants. Formalities over, he launched into full flow, repeating the arguments Michael had made on TV two days before. It was a good performance – he knew his career was on the line.

  Dawn Goodwin, the Tory Home Affairs spokesperson, responded less convincingly. The only punches she managed to land were those mocking the Prime Minister for blackmailing his backbenchers so that he could keep his job.

  Her comments were greeted with laughter by the Tory benches. Around Jennifer, Labour MPs called out criticisms. She sat in silence, waiting for her turn.

  John and Dawn traded a few more blows, until it was time for contributions from the backbenches. Jennifer jumped up and waved her papers, disappointed when someone in front of her was called. He made an ingratiating speech, praising the government’s tough approach to terrorism and asserting that tighter immigration controls were a price worth paying for greater security. More were called; Labour MPs defending the government, Tory MPs attacking it. One MP, who had told Jennifer just half an hour before that she was still rebelling, delivered a short speech saying she had returned to the fold.

  Jennifer was beginning to lose hope when at last she was called. She rose to her feet, ignoring the whispers around her. She heard someone mutter ‘turncoat’. She felt Maggie shift her weight next to her. She, like the others, was relying on Jennifer.

  It was time.

  24

  February 2021. London

  “I stand before you today with a heavy heart and a troubled conscience,” she began, to the sound of muted jeers from the Opposition.

  “The Prime Minister has given us a choice: to support this bill or to stand against him. As you will know, I am not someone who finds it easy to vote against my government. Until recently, I was its loyal servant.”

  The jeers came again, louder this time. Some were from the Labour benches. Jennifer pinched her fingers together, willing herself to stay calm.

  “But if we support this bill, what will we be allowing to happen?

  “There are families in my constituency who are watching this house with fear today. Women and children afraid that their husband or father will be banned from joining them in this country. Elderly people desperate to have their sons here so they can be supported in old age. Brothers and sisters separated with little hope of reunion. People who feel that this country is rejecting them, at a time when life is at its hardest.

  “This country has a long tradition of offering a welcome to those who would make a new life here. Throughout our history, we have been an immigrant nation, comprised of people who have come here to do the best they could for themselves and make a contribution to their new home.

  “The many thousands of people in this country who came here from Muslim states, or whose parents did, have an undeniable stake in our country’s future and are an integral part of it. Yet how must they feel when they are told that they should not have been allowed here in the first place?”

  The House was quiet. She glanced around and pushed on.

  “I remind you that the government wants to ban immigration of men between the ages of eighteen and fifty from Muslim states. The men themselves do not have to be Muslim, or even resident in those states for all of their lives.

  “The government seems to think that all men who have lived in a country where Islam is the main faith are potential terrorists. This group would include my own husband, and his father. It would include two members of this House. It would include over three hundred men in my constituency. People who came to this country to forge a better life for their families, some to escape political tyranny in their home country for a better way of life here.”

  She paused, thinking of Yusuf. He’d be at work, watching this on the TV. Surrounded by colleagues. Or would he have hidden away in his office? She hoped she’d do him proud.

  “Does the Prime Minister think he can protect our freedom and democracy simply by denying them to others?”

  The House erupted on both sides.

  “Order!” cried the Speaker.

  Jennifer smiled. She glanced down again at her notes, reminding herself of the next few lines so she could deliver them whilst maintaining eye contact with her audience.

  At last there was quiet. She looked ahead and continued.

  “Colleagues, before you support this bill, consider this – of the thousands of men who legally came to this country from Muslim states in the last five years, how many were terrorists?”

  She paused. Behind her, she heard Maggie whisper to someone.

  “The answer is just one. The majority of those who have committed terrorist acts in this country came here illegally or under false papers. This bill would do nothing to stop them. And those who did not come here illegally, who were British citizens, were born here. This bill would be powerless against them.

  “There is just one man who came here legally and went on to become a terrorist – the man who drove a van laden with explosives into the Home Office.”

  There were a few intakes of breath. Jennifer knew she was taking a risk but pressed on regardless. She looked at John, who was staring ahead.

  “For the sake of this one man, the government wants to close this country off to people who have a legitimate reason for coming here. In revenge for what one man did to us – I was there too, remember – it wants to punish thousands.

  “I know what is at stake here. And as I have already acknowledged, this is not an easy decision for me, or for anyone in our party who has spoken against this bill today.”

  She looked around the Government benches. The chamber
was quiet. She could just make out the sound of the protesters outside on Westminster Square, at least half of whom were on her side. They were listening to her, she was sure. She could turn this round.

  “But in government or not, we are the Labour Party, built on principles of fairness and inclusion. I know that what I am asking you to do is difficult. But what do we sacrifice for the sake of power? Our ideals? The right of frightened, hungry people to cross borders in search of a better life? Or simply our own pride?

  “I urge you, look deep into your hearts and ask yourself if you really want to make that sacrifice.”

  She sat down to silence, and a familiar squeeze on the shoulder from Maggie. After what seemed like an age, voices rose around her. MPs were on their feet, eager to be the first to respond, to slam her down or lift her up. She felt cocooned in this wall of noise, an invisible curtain shielding her and Maggie, who smiled and kept hold of her arm.

  “Fantastic, Jenny,” Maggie mouthed. “Bloody brilliant!”

  Jennifer was pushed towards the ‘no’ lobby by a wave of jubilant Tory MPs. She shrank away from them, wishing she didn’t have to physically join them to vote. She was shivering.

  “Come on, Jennifer, stick the knife in!” one of them shouted.

  She felt sick. She understood how, by attaching this to a confidence vote, Michael had separated the government’s survival from the immigration bill. Even MPs who hated what he was doing wouldn’t help her destroy the government.

  But after making that speech, after leading the campaign for so long, and after throwing in her ministerial career for it, she couldn’t back out now. She shuffled through the crowds of opposition MPs, trying not to show her dejection.

  On her way through the voting lobby, Jennifer was accosted by Leonard Trask.

  “I wish the Labour Party had more of your sort, Ms Sinclair,” he said. “Heaven knows you’ve got enough fools and cowards, but traitors – no, you don’t come across those every day.”