The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “I know it’s not uncommon for MPs to form cross-bench friendships,” he continued. “Especially in their local area. But I never thought that would be your style.” He cocked his head. “What’s she like?”

  “Catherine?” She was surprised to feel a pang of disloyalty. “She’s – she’s bright. A bit green right now, I suppose, but there’s something there, I think. She’s a decent woman, a decent politician.”

  John raised an eyebrow. She laughed.

  “Yes, a decent Tory, John. I know you think they’re some sort of mythological creature, but she is one. At least, she seems to be.”

  “Have you wondered why she’s befriended you?”

  Jennifer felt winded. “What are you implying?”

  He gave her a look. “Oh, come on. Don’t you think she might have been put up to it, that they’re using you to find out what the Opposition are doing, or to plant ideas in your head?”

  She spluttered. “Ideas! Come on, John. Do you seriously think the Tory party is going to successfully plant ideas in this head?” She rapped the side of her head with a knuckle.

  “OK, maybe not ideas. But she could be sending information back to Trask. Have you thought about that, even a bit?” He steepled his fingers. “What do the two of you talk about?”

  “You really don’t have to worry. We don’t talk about politics at all. I know all about her parents, her sick aunt, her most annoying constituents. I don’t know anything about her views on Tory policy, or her feelings towards the Opposition. We just catch the train some weekends. We make small talk, we wind down at the end of a tough week. I’m not telling Catherine anything you wouldn’t want me to. And she hasn’t told me anything you’d want to hear.” She paused. “Surely you trust me. I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but you know me better than this.”

  Jennifer waited, her breath shallow.

  Eventually, he leaned back. “OK, I believe you.” A pause. “Of course I bloody well believe you.”

  “Are you sure? It didn’t feel like it there.”

  He leaned his head back and rubbed his neck. “I’m sorry, Jennifer. This was stupid.”

  She nodded. “So who told you?”

  His hand stilled. “None of your business. But I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

  He seemed drawn. His expression reminded Jennifer of the way he’d looked at the height of their animosity, when he’d accosted her in the division lobby.

  “Are you OK? You look stressed.”

  “I’m fine. I just don’t like falling out with a friend.” Jennifer raised an eyebrow and John grinned. “Well, not a second time, anyway.”

  She returned the grin. “Is there anything else? I need to get to the canteen. I’m starving.”

  “No. Not today.” He sighed and stood up, still grinning. “Now, piss off and get something to eat before you fade away or something.”

  28

  May 2021. Birmingham

  The house was dark when Jennifer arrived home on Thursday. She’d spent an uncomfortable hour on the train trying to avoid questions from Catherine. Suddenly, an innocent request about her weekend plans felt loaded. She was tired, ready to kick off her shoes and slump into the sofa, and in need of someone to talk to.

  But once again, the house was thick with emptiness. She moved from room to room, wondering where everyone was. The rooms were unnaturally tidy, even Hassan’s. Normally she would walk in to a sea of mess and noise, Hassan refusing to go to bed, Yusuf trying to make calls around feeding the boys and Samir sulking about his homework.

  She padded back downstairs, rubbing her eyes and realising that these memories were from months ago. The house was like this more often than not when she got home now. What had changed? She felt a pang at the thought of them living their lives without her.

  She brewed a coffee, reluctant to have them arrive home to find her alone with a bottle of wine, and sat at the kitchen table. She brought out her phone and started scrolling through her emails. Twenty had arrived since she’d got off the train. She rubbed her eyes and sighed.

  She looked up at the sound of the door. At last.

  She leaned back to see into the hallway. The door opened slowly: not Hassan, then.

  She stood and walked into the hall, cradling her coffee. A smile on her face.

  “Oh. Mum.” Samir looked startled. “You’re early.”

  She looked at her watch. “No, I’m not. But you’re late.” He shrugged. “Where’s Dad?”

  He said nothing.

  “Where’s Hassan?” she asked. Another shrug.

  He squeezed past her towards the stairs.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Have you eaten?”

  “Mum, I’m fine. Already eaten.”

  “You been at a friend’s house?”

  He nodded. “Homework.”

  This wasn’t enough of an answer. She stared at him, tongue-tied. Since when couldn’t I talk to my son?

  “Night then,” he said.

  “Already?”

  Another nod. “School tomorrow.”

  “OK. Night.”

  She turned back to the hallway as he disappeared, his bedroom door closing with barely a sound. The front door opened again, more roughly this time. Hassan bounded through.

  “Mummy!”

  She opened her arms, letting him crash into them. Yusuf was behind him, struggling with bags. “Samir here?”

  She nodded. “Just got back. Where have you been?”

  His smile dropped. “D’you have to know our every movement?”

  It felt like a slap. “No,” she said. “That wasn’t what I—”

  “A council meeting dragged on and then I had to pick Hassan up from a party. Alright?”

  “OK,” she breathed, holding up her hands.

  “Anyway, it’s late, and Hassan needs to get to bed.” He looked at her. “Will you take him?”

  She felt cold. “Of course.”

  She went downstairs, leaving Hassan asleep. It had only taken half a page of his book; the party had worn him out.

  Yusuf was in the living room, flicking between channels.

  “You alright?” she asked.

  He waved a hand. “Fine.”

  “You didn’t sound it, when you got in.”

  He grunted. “Yeah, well.”

  “Yeah well what?” Her heart was pounding. “What’s up, love?”

  He threw the remote onto the table. It skidded and fell on the floor. Neither of them moved to pick it up.

  “What’s up?” she repeated.

  He shook his head. “The usual.”

  She sat down next to him and put her hand on the sofa between them. He kept his own hand on his knee.

  “What usual?” she asked. “The kids?”

  He turned to her. His eyes were rimmed with deep brown shadows and his lips were swollen and pink, as if he’d been chewing them. “Not that.”

  “What? Talk to me Yusuf, please.”

  He sighed, scratching his chin. His beard was growing out and looked unkempt. “Casework, Jen. Leonard Trask and his bloody government. They’re not exactly making it easy for people.”

  She slumped back. Tell me about it, she thought. She reached for his hand.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Not your fault.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. At least someone wasn’t blaming her.

  “The council’s divided. Even the Labour group.”

  “What d’you mean? Divided on what?”

  “On what to do about Trask and his anti-terror measures. Whether the council has a duty of care to help the people affected.”

  The new Tory government had put forward a bill which included all of what Michael had failed to achieve, and added its own embellishments. The ban would no longer be limited to men under fifty, but would extend to older men, women and children too. And it included forced repatriation of immigrants who’d co
me to Britain in the last two years.

  The irony of this wasn’t lost on Jennifer; by defeating the bill when Michael introduced it, she’d only made it happen via Trask and his new government. She’d have hated herself for it, if her colleagues weren’t already doing that for her.

  “In what way?” she asked.

  He turned to her, his eyes red. “There are families facing destitution because the main earner can’t join them here. Even worse are the ones looking at deportation. And you know what’s hardest about it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Nobody cares,” he continued. “They’re all obsessed with security, with blame. No one can see what Trask’s really doing.”

  She nodded, still finding it hard to believe that such a divisive bill hadn’t sparked outrage, rioting even. But the country seemed to be dulled, more concerned with security than with recognising the bigotry being paraded as anti-terrorism. The election campaign had been marked by right-wing rhetoric that tapped into a mood of fear and recrimination, rhetoric that the divided and beleaguered Labour Party had done nothing to counteract.

  He turned to her. “D’you know what’s happening out there?”

  “Of course I do. We’re fighting it, love. The party’s united against it, and we’re doing everything we can to sway wet Tories.”

  He shook his head. “You seriously think that will make a difference? You know what their majority’s like. Sometimes it feels as if you’re hidden away down there in your Westminster cocoon – all of you – and you have no idea how this is playing on the ground.”

  “I know. I do surgeries, don’t I?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “You and I both know they’re all coming to me now.”

  She let out a long breath. “OK. Are you annoyed with me?”

  “Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know.”

  She squeezed his hand. He didn’t squeeze back.

  “I feel so powerless,” he said.

  She nodded. He wasn’t alone.

  29

  May 2021. London

  “Catherine, you can’t possibly support this! It’s appalling.”

  For once, Jennifer had been unable to hold her tongue about policy. In the taxi to Euston, she’d confronted Catherine about the government’s latest proposals.

  “Of course I support it. The Islamists radicalise people by attacking the way they think. We want to get there first.”

  On Monday, two days after John’s election as Labour leader, the government had announced a new policy for combatting radicalisation: the British Values programme. There was an oath, to be recited in schools and public sector workplaces. A vow of allegiance to the state. It made Jennifer shudder.

  “But Catherine, this policy just won’t work. This country is a nation of immigrants because people want to be here, to make a life here. You can’t force them to love the state.”

  “So what about the kids who are travelling to the Middle East? The men who set off those bombs? You think they want to be here? You think they want to be loyal?”

  Jennifer sighed. “Oh for god’s sake, Catherine. Making them recite an oath of loyalty isn’t going to change the way they think. Treating them with some respect might, but I guess Trask would never think of that.”

  “Jennifer! That’s out of order.”

  She said nothing: to retract would be lying. The interior of the taxi dimmed as they dipped into the drop off zone under the station.

  When it stopped, Catherine grabbed her door handle. Her knuckles were white. “I think we should travel separately tonight,” she said, looking out of the window.

  “Catherine, please.”

  “Catherine, nothing,” she said. “I think you’re being incredibly naive, trusting these people.”

  “These people? Who are these people?”

  She shrugged.

  “My husband, Catherine? My Muslim husband? My children? Are they under suspicion? Are they unwelcome?”

  Catherine said nothing, slamming the door behind her. Jennifer sat in stunned silence as the clip of her heels echoed away in the dark space.

  By the time Jennifer arrived home, she was bubbling with suppressed indignation. Yusuf barely had time to kiss her hello before she exploded.

  “You won’t believe what Catherine said tonight! I’m shocked. Speechless.”

  Yusuf peeled her jacket off – in her distraction she was getting her arms tangled in its sleeves – and hung it up. He steered her through to the kitchen, where the remains of the kids’ dinner were still on the table.

  “Yusuf! You haven’t even tidied up yet!”

  He raised his hands. “What? Hassan’s only just gone to bed. You’re pissed off with Catherine. Don’t take it out on me.”

  She sighed and started clattering mugs around, spilling water as she tried to fill the kettle. Poor Yusuf, always at the receiving end of her anger at the world. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  She felt his hand on her shoulder. “Let me do that. You’ll break something. What’s up? What happened with Catherine?”

  She spun round. “You know Trask’s British Values Bill?” He nodded. “She’s only all for it. Thinks brainwashing is OK.”

  She stared at him. Normally she’d know how he’d react, but lately he was distant. It unnerved her; Yusuf was the biggest constant in her life and she in his. They’d always pulled together, through everything life had thrown at them. Failed campaigns, professional headaches, parenthood, even financial struggles. They’d faced it all together. But with her drive to stop Michael, and now her frustration at being unable to stop Trask, had she driven him away?

  She looked at him as he put a wary hand on her shoulder, his brow creased. What could she say, to bring him back?

  “Remember, love,” he sighed. “She’s a Tory. I know she’s your friend. But she’s one of Trask’s MPs and even if she doesn’t really think what you say she said, well – she’ll support him, won’t she?”

  Jennifer pulled back, feeling her shoulders sag.

  “Maybe John was right,” Yusuf continued.

  “What?”

  “With what Trask’s doing, with what she’s voting for, how can you stay friends with her?”

  “You don’t understand,” she snapped. “It’s common for—”

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Cross-bench friendships and all that.”

  She nodded.

  “But it’s different, now,” he said. “They’re different.”

  Jennifer reached for him but he pulled away. “I think that – maybe – you’re being naive, love,” he said.

  “That’s not fair. Catherine’s not like Trask, you know.”

  “No? How does she vote? Does she follow the whip?”

  She shrank back. “She’s just a backbencher right now. It’s not the only way to—”

  “They’re not all like you.”

  She tensed, heat filling her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t you get it? Most MPs will support the party line no matter how bad it is. She’s a first term MP, Jen. In a traditional seat. Are you honestly that surprised that she’s supporting this bill?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose not.” She needed to listen to him. But whenever she got off that train, stepped into the House of Commons, the frustration overwhelmed her. Not to mention the self-recrimination. She still believed that if she could turn Catherine, make her see the faults in her leader, then maybe she’d atone somehow. It was the only course of action she could see through the haze.

  “Well, then.” Yusuf pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her. His body was hard and tense; he’d lost weight.

  “I have no idea what I’m doing anymore,” she whispered.

  John’s new office was furnished in a style that felt more fitting for Michael: pale green wallpaper and cream curtains with two emerald green armchairs and a compact sofa at the centre. The pale wood desk was small and covered in paperwork. Jenni
fer remembered John’s ship of a desk in the Home Office and wondered how long it would be before this room was refurbished.

  John was standing behind the desk, gazing out of the window. He turned as she entered.

  “Ah, Jennifer. Sit down, please.”

  She sat on the floral sofa, jealous of the space he had here on the second floor of the Commons and of his view of the river. It wouldn’t be long before there was a mahogany monstrosity in front of that window.

  He lowered himself into one of the armchairs. It was small and hard, not suited to a man of John’s proportions.

  Jennifer leaned back – the sofa was too soft and made her back twinge – and then edged forwards again. She had an idea what this meeting was about, and wasn’t looking forward to it.

  He didn’t hesitate. “I want to offer you a job.”

  She hesitated. “I already told you I’m happy on the—”

  He waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t seek to serve, and all that. I know you better than that.”

  She had to admit the offer did make her heart race, maybe for the first time in weeks. But she needed to stay out of the limelight, for the time being.

  It didn’t do any harm to listen, though.

  He laughed. “Not disagreeing with me then?”

  She shrugged.

  “Anyway,” he said. “I want you to take the Home Office brief.”

  “Home Office? Your old job?” She hadn’t been expecting that.

  “Well, not exactly. It’ll have the word ‘Shadow’ in front of it. Although you can’t exactly complain about that.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it? Anyway, I think if you’re part of my shadow cabinet, your connection to Catherine Moore could help us.”

  She stiffened; this again. “How so?”

  “One of my team suggested you might pass back information on what Trask’s up to. Via your new friend.”

  Jennifer narrowed her eyes. He clearly didn’t know that she wasn’t on speaking terms with Catherine right now. But she didn’t like the thought of him discussing her with his team.