Jennifer opened her mouth to speak but the other woman’s hand was on her back, easing her into the corridor. A flood of teenagers rushed past, en route from one lesson to the next. She thought of Samir at home, missing this. She stood watching them, overcome by their chatter and energy. Is this what Samir was like when he was at school? She could barely imagine it.
She turned to the Head, ready to respond, to question this woman who just three years earlier had boasted of the school’s ethnic diversity. But Tina was talking to another teacher, already onto the next thing.
She turned back to Jennifer. “Thank you for coming in, Ms Sinclair.” She disappeared between the tousled heads that swarmed around her.
Jennifer could only stand and watch, her chest filling with hot anger.
“Yusuf!” she called, throwing the front door closed. “Are you here?”
She flung her coat onto a hook, ignoring it as it fell to the floor. She dropped her bag and kicked it at the wall.
Yusuf appeared, his face pale. “What’s going on?”
“That goddamn woman. You’re not going to believe what she said about Samir!”
Yusuf glanced up the stairs. “Please, calm down,” he hissed.
She let out a long shaking breath. She was trembling. She had no idea how she’d got home and no memory of the route she’d taken. It was a miracle she hadn’t crashed the car.
She stared at Yusuf, lost for words. “She told me he should be in a Muslim school.”
His face fell. “Oh.”
“Oh? Oh? Is that the best you can do?”
He scratched his chin. “Well, are you that surprised?”
She stared at him, suddenly feeling as if a wall had dropped around them, as if the two of them were trapped inside it. “Of course I’m surprised. That school prides itself on its diversity.”
He pulled his hand through his hair. “It’s part of a system that doesn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Come into the living room,” he said, looking upstairs again. She followed his gaze. Maybe it would be better for Samir to know about this. Or maybe not.
She slumped onto the sofa. “I can’t believe this is what we’ve come to.”
Yusuf came to sit next to her after easing the door shut. “It’s not new.” He was staring off into the distance, eyes unfocussed.
She turned to him. “How d’you mean?”
“That new Muslim school. The council are putting Muslim families under pressure to apply for it. Not to go to Samir’s school.”
She squinted at him. “First I’ve heard of it.”
He shrugged. “I haven’t seen anything official, but you read between the lines of the admissions letters they send out to parents and it’s there, alright. They want to segregate us.”
He looked at her. His face was hard and his eyes were hooded.
“Who’s it coming from?” she asked. “Who’s telling them to do that?”
“Who do you think? The Department for Education.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be daft. I’d know about it.”
“I’m not being daft,” he snapped. “It’s true. MPs don’t know everything, you know.”
She stood up, ignoring this barb.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
He nodded at the door. “You’re going to go up there, tell Samir what she said to you.”
She looked at the door and clenched her fists. “No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m going to do something better.”
31
May 2021. London
“Have you heard about what the Department of Education are doing?”
Jennifer was in John’s office; it had taken all her willpower to wait until Monday.
He rose from behind his desk and frowned. “What? Surely you’re here to—”
“Have you? Do you know they’re trying to bring in segregation?”
His brow furrowed. “Segregation?”
“Muslims. Muslim kids. They don’t want them in the mainstream schools.”
He stood up, pulling back as she leaned towards him. “Hang on. Let’s just calm down a little—”
She sighed. “Jesus Christ, John. Are you aware of it, or aren’t you?”
He looked her up and down, calculating. “Tell me what you’ve heard,” he said.
She gave him an abbreviated version of what Samir’s headteacher had told her, and a less abbreviated one of what Yusuf had said.
John rubbed the stubble on his chin. “OK,” he said.
“OK?”
He put up a hand. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
She glared at him.
He nodded. “We did already know something about this.”
“Why haven’t you said anything?” She knew Education wasn’t her brief, never had been. In fact, nothing was her brief right now. But still, as one of only a few MPs with a Muslim family, she was shocked he hadn’t warned her. Or maybe Yusuf. They still kept in touch via email and the occasional letter, something she found pleasingly quaint.
“Calm down, Jennifer. For God’s sake just calm down. We will provide opposition on this, and a robust one too. But I’m waiting for the best time to attack.”
He sat down and gestured for her to do the same. She slumped into a chair. The energy had left her and she felt drained. John had seen her raw side plenty of times, and she’d seen his. But now, given what he’d asked her on Thursday, maybe wasn’t the time.
“Look, I’m not s’posed to be telling you this.” He raised an eyebrow. “Not as things stand. But Deborah’s got a team working on it. Gathering evidence. Then we’ll hit him with it. In the next week or two.”
Deborah was the new Shadow Education Secretary, or at least she would be today, when he announced his appointments.
“Do you think it’ll make much difference?” Jennifer asked.
“Who knows? But that’s why we’ve got to be careful. Plan for it. We can’t just do a knee-jerk attack on anything we get wind of.”
She swallowed. “Of course not. That’s not what I was suggesting.”
“No,” he said. “Tell me everything you know, alright? And get Yusuf to keep his eyes open too.”
“Of course. And John?”
“Yes?”
“Two things.”
“Yes?”
“First, your request for me to spy on the Tories via Catherine Moore?”
“Jennifer,” he hissed, glancing towards the door. “It wasn’t—”
“Call it what you will. But let me think about it.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re accepting my job offer then?”
She smiled. “Yes. Of course I am.”
“Jennifer.”
Jennifer paused and turned to face the person whose hand was on her arm. “Catherine. Hello.”
Catherine cocked her head. “Are you OK?”
She flushed. Catherine had caught her running down the corridor to the lift, desperate to reach her office. To retreat. To think. And this was the first time they’d spoken since their argument in the taxi. Catherine was hardly around, now that she was a junior minister in the Foreign Office. Jennifer had watched her perform in the chamber, avoiding eye contact as if she could hide from her old friend. She’d even considered catching a different train.
She pulled in her breath, thinking fast. How was she going to do this, without being a total bitch? “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“It’s good to see you,” Catherine said. Her eyes were bright and she held herself taller. Jennifer glanced at the floor but Catherine’s heels were lower if anything. The posture that came with a promotion.
“You too,” she said, starting to move away. An advisor stood quietly next to Catherine. She could sense his tension; his body was still and he bristled, as if itching to tell Jennifer what he thought of her. She laughed inwardly
.
Catherine’s expression was warm. “What have you been up to?”
Jennifer shrugged. “I’m fine. It’s good to see you. Anyway—”
“How’s Samir?”
“He’s OK.” Why was Catherine asking after Samir?
Catherine smiled. “Good.”
Jennifer nodded. She looked at the advisor, wishing he would whisk Catherine away.
“Morning, ladies.”
She shifted her gaze to see Leonard Trask behind Catherine, smirking. She shuddered.
He pressed his hand on Catherine’s shoulder, close to her neck. Catherine’s eyes widened.
“Prime Minister,” Catherine said, her voice betraying a slight tremor. “How are you?”
“Oh, Catherine. Call me Leonard. Please.” He looked at Jennifer, his eyes dancing. “And who’s your friend? Jennifer Sinclair, none other. I knew you liked to stick the knife in, but I didn’t know you were planning on crossing the floor.”
Jennifer willed herself not to retaliate. He wasn’t worth it.
“Hello, Prime Minister. No plans to join you, I’m afraid. So sorry to disappoint.”
She met his gaze. He looked her up and down then turned his attention to Catherine.
“So,” he said. “How are we enjoying the new job?”
Catherine gave a tight smile. “Very well, thank you.”
“Good. Do us proud.” He let her go.
“I’ll bid you ladies good day then.” He breezed off, not waiting for a response.
Catherine was massaging the spot on her neck where Trask’s hand had been.
“Does he always treat you like that?” Jennifer muttered.
She lowered her eyes and continued her kneading.
“You shouldn’t let him, you know. It’s just not on, not these days. Or is that standard practice in your party?”
Catherine glared at her. “Don’t. It’s my party and I won’t have you badmouthing it.”
“OK, OK. I’m sorry. But I hope that I saw the bad side to him tonight, not his nice, public face.”
Catherine said nothing. Jennifer watched her walk away, reflecting on what she and John had discussed. This wasn’t going to be easy.
32
May 2021. Birmingham
“Jen!” Yusuf knocked on the bathroom door. “Jen, you need to come and see this.”
Jennifer was under the shower, trying to revive herself. She hadn’t made it home to Birmingham until almost midnight the previous night and had a surgery in just over an hour. She wasn’t sure how much confidence she’d give her constituents in her ability to help them, with her face pale and her eyes rimmed with dark circles.
She turned the water off. “What? What’s up?”
Samir again?
“There’s been another bomb.”
“What?”
She hurried into the bedroom, dripping on the carpet. On TV was a flat, low building, with flames just visible on the right of the screen and smoke rising into the air. A caption rolled onto the bottom of the screen. Breaking news. Bomb in Milan.
“Milan,” she said. “The summit.”
Yusuf put a warm hand on her shoulder.
She turned to him. “Catherine’s there.”
He nodded, eyes on the TV.
She took a step backwards, hitting the back of her legs on the bed. “What’s happened?”
“It happened about an hour ago. I was in the garden, only just saw.”
She put a hand to her chest. “Oh my god.” She paused, thinking back to Trask’s face over Catherine’s shoulder. “Have they said anything about the British delegation?”
“No, not yet.”
There was a shout from downstairs; the boys, arguing over the PS4.
“I’ll go,” said Yusuf.
She perched on the bed, watching the screen. She flicked between channels, hoping for more information. They were all showing the same pictures.
The building was a convention centre in central Milan, where a summit was being held between European foreign ministers. The summit Catherine was attending. Fire-fighters moved around the huge building like ants between pockets of smoke.
She tossed on some clothes then hurried down to the living room. She perched on the edge of the sofa, chewing a hanging nail on her thumb.
The TV switched to an indoors shot: a long, empty table with five groups of microphones in front. The press faced it, corralled behind a slim rope. Finally one of the doors opened and a group of men filed in, accompanied by seven heavily armed security guards; one for each country represented. James Harrington, the Foreign Secretary, was there, and five of the other Foreign Secretaries. The Russian representative had been injured, and a deputy was in his place.
No sign of Catherine.
Jennifer half-listened as each representative in turn repeated the same message: this was an atrocity, an attack on a democratic and open summit, and the perpetrators should be condemned. All refused to answer questions about who those perpetrators might be, or confirm casualty figures.
The politicians rose and filed out through a door behind them. Jennifer screwed up her eyes to watch the door. As James Harrington stepped through it, there was a glimpse of a woman speaking to him. Tall with long dark hair. The lights in the press conference room made her shadowy and indistinct. But it was her.
Jennifer sat back, realising she’d been holding in tension for over an hour.
She flicked through screens on her iPad than looked up to see Samir walk in. He stood next to her in silence for a few moments, watching the screen.
“Serves them right.”
Jennifer blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
He turned to her. “Government. What do they expect with the way they treat us?”
He sat down in the armchair across from her, watching the screen. She stared at him, wondering if this was really her son.
“Samir, my friend is in there. She could have been hurt. There are other people too, people who’ve got nothing to do with the government. They’ve been hurt. Or they’re missing.”
He shrugged. “OK.”
“OK? Is that all you can say? Innocent people are missing, possibly dead, because of a bomb going off and you think it’s OK?”
He gazed at her. His eyes were dark and his cheeks flushed. He was gripping his knees with both hands.
“Mum, these bastards are kicking Muslims out of the country and calling us all terrorists. They can’t really be surprised when someone hits back, can they?”
“Samir! I’ll thank you not to use that kind of language!”
He shrugged. “True, though.”
She stood up. “No Samir, it is not true. I don’t agree with what they’re doing any more than you do. But no one deserves to die because of this.”
He looked down, avoiding her gaze. “I’m not so sure.”
“Not so sure about what?” She tried to keep her voice even. This wasn’t work, after all. This was her son.
“You disagreeing. You haven’t done much to stop Trask, have you? And now you’re cosying up to that woman who works for him.”
She paused to take three slow breaths, feeling a tremor in her chest. Cosying up wasn’t exactly the phrase to describe what John had asked her to do. A wave of guilt crept over her.
“I’ve done everything I can to stop Trask, you should know that. It’s not easy in opposition. Not when Trask is so good at convincing the media and the general public that he’s right.”
He shrugged again. She wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him. Instead she knelt in front of him in a vain attempt to meet his eye.
“Samir, you have to understand that I hate what Trask and his government are doing, that I’m doing everything I can to stop them. I risked everything to stop Michael when he was doing this, and now—”
“OK Mum. Calm down. I’ve had enough of this.”
He stomped up the stairs, leaving her staring up at his retreating back. The TV was still blaring
but she was oblivious. When Yusuf came in she was fighting back tears.
“Jen? What is it? What’s happened?”
He rushed towards her, looking over at the TV. She shook her head, sniffing.
“It isn’t Catherine. It’s Samir.”
Yusuf knelt in front of her, hands on her upper arms. He stared into her face, puzzled. “Samir? What about him?”
She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Where would she start? And how had her son become so bitter?
Yusuf stood up. “I’ll talk to him.”
Jennifer shook her head. “No. I need to deal with this.”
“Sure?”
“Sure. Let me straighten my face up first.”
She shuffled to the downstairs toilet, where she examined herself in the mirror. Her skin was blotchy, wrinkles creasing her forehead. When had the crows’ feet become so deep? She splashed water on her face and then buried it in a towel. The house was quiet, the only sound the dim buzz of the TV in the living room.
She pulled the towel away and reached for the door, taking shallow breaths.
The quiet was disturbed by the slam of the front door. She rushed into the hall. Yusuf had his back to her, facing the door.
“Samir?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She darted past him and opened the door, scanning the street. Samir was halfway down it, running.
33
May 2021. Birmingham
Her chest stiffened. She opened her mouth to call after him but he wasn’t going to hear her.
She turned back to Yusuf who pushed past her to look out himself.
Hassan came bowling down the stairs, slamming into them to join the hug.
“Mum, Dad! Let’s go out,” he urged. Jennifer prepared herself to tell him what had happened, but Yusuf put a finger on her lips.
“OK, Hassan. Maybe that’s a good idea,” he said. “Jennifer, why don’t you take Hassan out for a bit, get some fresh air.” He gave her a look that said trust me. He was better than her at calming Samir, and they both knew it.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 16
