The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Who were those boys? I didn’t recognise them.”

  “Just mates.”

  “Mates who play truant?”

  A shrug.

  “What happened to your old friends?”

  “They’re still my friends.”

  “Good.”

  He said nothing. She dragged a hand through her hair.

  “Is there a reason for this, Samir?” She thought back to that conversation in the headteacher’s office. To the fight. She’d written that letter to the school but it had achieved nothing; they had evidence that Samir had been caught fighting, and he’d already been punished. “Are you having problems at school? Have you been fighting again?”

  He threw her an angry look. “No.”

  She shifted her weight, moving towards him. He retreated, pushing himself into the wall at the head of the bed.

  “Samir, you can tell me. Have there been any more fights? Any racism?”

  He looked up from his fingers, which he’d been picking at, and stared at her. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “They don’t want us there, you know.”

  Again she thought of the headteacher, her calm rejection of Jennifer’s appeal for sympathy. You might want to consider moving Samir.

  She heard a car pull up outside. Samir looked at the window, then strode over to it and pulled the curtains closed. She watched him, wondering who this young man was who’d taken possession of her little boy.

  “Have they said that to you?” she asked.

  He stood over her, his face tight. “No. But I know that’s what they think.” He narrowed his eyes. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  She ran a hand through her hair. She nodded.

  “Why aren’t you more angry, Mum? They’re vilifying Muslims, singling us out. They hate us.”

  She looked at him, remembering the little boy who used to reach out his arms for a hug when she got home from Westminster. Then she thought of the conversations she’d been having with John and Catherine, about the government’s plans.

  “I am angry, love. And I can understand why you are. But you can’t play truant. I think maybe—”

  “Truant? Mum, who gives a damn about school when they’re deporting Muslims? Who cares about that when there are guys at school whose families are being torn apart?”

  The door opened with a high creak. They turned to it as one. She panicked, hoping Hassan hadn’t been listening, then relaxed. Yusuf.

  He looked between the two of them, not moving from his position at the doorway.

  “Is it true, Samir?” he said. “Have you been playing truant?”

  Samir blushed. “Once.”

  Yusuf raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  A shrug. “Twice.”

  “How long am I going to have to stand here before you tell me how many times?”

  Samir looked up at him. “You don’t get it! You, of all people, should understand. School is irrelevant! They don’t want us there, anyway.”

  Yusuf shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. You’ve seen it.”

  Yusuf sighed. “He’s got a point, Jennifer,” he said. “I don’t think you know how bad it is.”

  She stood up. “I’ll say it’s bad. I don’t like him playing truant. I don’t like him being so angry.”

  Yusuf put his hands on his hips, glancing at Samir. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Mum,” Samir said, looking at Yusuf. “This is more important. I’ve been helping Dad at the weekends, cleaning up racist graffiti. I want to know what’s going on. We should all know, so we can resist them, fight back.”

  “But don’t you see? That’s exactly what I’m worried about!” Jennifer cried, not caring if Hassan heard now. “Talking like this could get you into trouble! You go out there and start resisting, as you say, and you’ll very likely end up arrested or worse.”

  “In every struggle there are martyrs,” Samir said, his voice low and level.

  “Martyrs! Don’t give me that! Who told you that?”

  He blushed. “No one.”

  “Look, Samir, all I want to do is protect you. I’m not saying you shouldn’t help people. I’m proud that you want to do that. Your dad is too.” She looked hopefully at Yusuf who nodded agreement. “But I don’t want you putting yourself in danger. I want you to promise us you won’t do anything stupid, won’t break the law. I want you to stay away from those boys. And I want you to be at school, all day every day. You don’t want to give them an excuse to expel you.”

  Samir opened his mouth but then clamped it shut after a look from Yusuf. He pushed his hands behind his back and stared at his phone on the floor.

  “OK,” he muttered. “I’ll be careful.”

  “And you’ll go to school. Every day. Or do we have to take you in ourselves?”

  “No. No, I’ll go.”

  Jennifer relaxed. “That’s all I ask of you. You’re only sixteen. It’s great that you want to help Dad, but just the weekends. He’s going to keep an eye out, make sure no one encourages you to do anything stupid.”

  “I—” interrupted Yusuf. Jennifer looked at him.

  “Won’t you, love?”

  Yusuf sighed. “I suppose so. I don’t want him getting into trouble any more than you do. But Jennifer?”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s angry. He’s scared. So am I. You should be too.”

  She grabbed his hand, relieved when he didn’t pull away. “I know. I do, honest. And I’m scared too, scared of losing my family. We need to pull together.”

  Yusuf nodded but Samir grunted and headed for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Jennifer leaned against the wall, her heart pounding.

  37

  June-September 2021. London and Birmingham

  Catherine had already arrived this time, and was in the hotel lobby when Jennifer entered. Jennifer looked at her watch, flustered; she was five minutes early.

  She stared at Catherine, waiting by the lifts. Should she say hello, or not?

  She looked around. The lobby was quiet at this time of day, with just the occasional person heading for the restaurant or asking for directions at the front desk. A group of businessmen huddled in a corner, laughing conspiratorially.

  Catherine turned and spotted her, then froze. She gave her an almost imperceptible shake of the head then moved away from the lifts, heading for the Ladies’. Jennifer breathed a sigh of relief, then rushed to the reception desk, claiming the key. She scuttled to the lifts and was in the room five minutes before Catherine knocked on the door.

  “That wasn’t good,” said Catherine. Jennifer nodded then stuck her head out into the corridor. There was no one there. Stop it, she told herself. She was behaving suspiciously.

  “I’ll get here earlier next time,” she said, following Catherine to the window. Once again, Catherine was moving the furniture. This was a different room, on a higher floor, but the layout was the same, only mirrored.

  She turned her phone off and put it in her bag then settled into her chair. It had a hard curved back and she knew she’d pay for sitting in it later. But getting comfortable on the bed didn’t seem appropriate.

  Catherine was leafing through a notebook. Jennifer watched, startled. “You’re not writing any this down, are you?”

  Catherine looked up and shook her head. “No. This is from a meeting this morning.”

  “Oh.” Jennifer looked again at the notes, squinting. How she’d love to read them.

  Catherine closed the book and Jennifer pushed down her disappointment. A plane took off outside, only partly muffled by the triple glazing.

  “Does John know we’re meeting?” Catherine asked.

  Jennifer was ready for this, had discussed it with John. She shook her head. “No.” This was part of her cover, the reason she’d given for meeting with Catherine. Two rebels, finding common cause. She hoped.

  “Of cou
rse he doesn’t,” she continued, hating herself. “You know I don’t agree with everything my party does, and I know you feel the same way about yours.”

  Catherine blushed. Jennifer ignored it; Catherine needed to be more comfortable with having her own opinions.

  “It’s not as simple as that,” Catherine said.

  Jennifer could smell Catherine’s perfume, light and floral. Everything about her was a picture of the demure modern Conservative woman: dark skirt suit, subtle make-up, short pink nails. Jennifer wondered how much of it was real.

  “I know,” she said. “More than most.”

  A smile crossed Catherine’s lips. Jennifer remembered their first meeting, the admiration for her act of rebellion. Was this the real Catherine? Were they the same, the two of them?

  “Anyway,” Jennifer said. “We haven’t got long. What have you got that we can use?”

  Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “This is a two way street, I thought you said.”

  “Of course.” She paused. “I’ve got information too.”

  “OK.” She didn’t sound convinced. She opened her notebook again, skimming the pages. Her writing was small and neat, with a round, looping script. Jennifer smiled, impressed that she still made handwritten notes.

  Catherine bent the book back, leaving it open in her lap. “I’ve got something that might be helpful,” she said. “Nothing too big. Not yet.”

  Jennifer nodded. Catherine would be worried that whatever she told Jennifer would be leaked to the press, and that it would find its way back to her. “Thanks. It’s not going anywhere.”

  Catherine nodded and licked her lips. She picked up the notebook and started to read.

  The following weekend, Samir and Yusuf were in the kitchen when Jennifer got home. The air was heavy with tension.

  She looked between them. “What?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing,” said Samir.

  Yusuf frowned. “That’s not quite right, is it Samir?”

  Samir scowled at his dad. “You said you wouldn’t tell her,” he hissed.

  Jennifer felt as if he’d slapped her. “What?” she gasped, rounding on Yusuf. “What’re you keeping from me?”

  Yusuf put a hand on her wrist but she shook it away. Her body felt hot.

  “Does this happen a lot? You not telling me things?”

  Yusuf’s shoulders fell. “No,” he said. “And it’s not like that.”

  “I’m off,” snapped Samir. “You two can have your row without me.” He marched out and stamped upstairs. Jennifer grimaced; this was becoming tiring.

  She turned to Yusuf, willing herself to be calm. “What’s happened?” she repeated.

  Yusuf slumped into a chair. “It’s the school,” he said. “I was going to tell you. Well actually, Samir was. That’s what we agreed.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Yusuf leaned back, closing his eyes. “There’s been another – incident.”

  Upstairs, music boomed from Samir’s room. At least he wasn’t listening in.

  “What sort of incident? Another fight?”

  “No. An argument with a teacher.”

  “Oh hell. What about?”

  “The new stuff they’ve got to do in class. British Values lessons. He said it was racist, refused to take part.”

  She nodded slowly. Samir was right. But refusing to engage with the school wasn’t going to do him any favours. “What did the teacher say?”

  “I don’t know. He’s been suspended again. A week.”

  “A week? He gets two days for fighting and then a week for speaking his mind?”

  Yusuf nodded. “Seems that way.”

  She moved towards him, planning to sit down and discuss this, to agree how they were going to tackle it. But as she crossed the room, there were three sharp knocks at the front door. The kind of knocks the police would use.

  She jumped and turned to it. “Who’s that?”

  Yusuf stood up. “How do I know?”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s OK,” he said. “I’ll go. Probably one of my families.”

  He looked tired; his skin was blotchy and grey in places, and his clothes looked unkempt. As he brushed past her she noticed that his sweater smelt musty. This wasn’t like Yusuf.

  She touched his hand. “It’s alright. I’ll go.”

  She walked to the front door and pulled it open.

  A flash popped in her eyes. She threw a hand up to shield herself.

  Two men stood on her front step. One was holding up a phone and the other had a camera.

  She squinted at them. The man with the phone grinned and pushed it at her face.

  “Jennifer,” he said. “Have you got anything to say about Catherine Moore?”

  The flash popped again. She slammed the door in their faces.

  She turned to Yusuf, leaning on the door and panting. Her mind was buzzing.

  Yusuf stared at her. “What the hell?”

  38

  September 2021. Birmingham

  Jennifer leaned against the door, breathing heavily. What had Catherine done? Had there been another bomb attack? Had she told someone about their meetings?

  Jennifer shook her head. Catherine would have just as much to lose as she did. More, in fact. She was pretty sure that Trask had no idea that the two of them were meeting, while John knew everything. Not that Catherine knew that, of course. She froze. Trask would know everything, too.

  She pushed herself away from the door and stumbled up the stairs, barging into Samir’s room.

  “Mum, I don’t want to—”

  She put a finger to her lips. “It’s not that,” she said. “I just want to look out of your window.”

  Samir returned to his book. She slipped past him to the wall next to the window, making sure she couldn’t be seen. Then she edged her face round the window frame, peering outside.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. On the street and spilling onto her lawn was a pack of reporters and photographers, maybe twelve strong. She put a hand to her chest, feeling it tremble.

  Samir was staring at her. “What’s going on? Can I have my room back?”

  She flung out a hand, beckoning to him. “Give me your phone.”

  He frowned but handed it over.

  She jabbed at the screen, googling herself, When she found the headline she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘Jennifer and Catherine: Their Secret Lesbian Affair’.

  She dropped the phone. Samir picked it up and gave her a look of disgust.

  “Eww, Mum,” he said.

  Yusuf barged into the room. “What’s happened?”

  She gestured towards the window. “There’s twelve of them out there.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  Samir handed his phone to Yusuf, who blanched. He looked at her, his expression wary.

  “It’s not true, is it?” His voice was uneven.

  She laughed. “Of course not!” She crossed to him, making sure to avoid the window. “Don’t be daft. She’s not my type.”

  He frowned.

  “I’m joking!” she said.

  “It’s not funny.”

  Yusuf was scrolling through the accompanying article on Samir’s phone, hitting links to find out more. “So why are they saying this?”

  She sighed. “Come downstairs,” she said.

  Jennifer wished she’d already told Yusuf about her meetings with Catherine. But now was as good a time as any.

  Finally she finished, telling him what she could about the latest meeting – the fourth. She stopped talking, waiting for him to speak. Behind her, beyond the front door, she could hear the faint sound of voices and cars. More of them arriving.

  Jennifer was standing in the kitchen with her back to the door and Yusuf was in a chair, his knuckles white on the table next to him. He’d been standing up when she began, facing her, but when she told him of her agreement with John to spy on Trask via Catherine, he dropped into
the chair.

  Now he was staring at her, licking his lips and saying nothing. He coughed.

  She watched his face.

  “D’you think it’ll work?” he asked.

  She smiled, then her face fell. “Not now, I guess.”

  There was a rustling sound behind her, in the hall. She flicked her head round to see that something had landed on the door mat. She glanced at Yusuf then went to the door and picked it up.

  It was a folded up piece of paper, a printout of tomorrow’s front page of the Daily Mail. Scribbled across it in blue marker pen were the words ‘Care to comment?’

  She let it drop to the floor. It landed face up.

  She looked up the stairs, startled by a sound. Yusuf looked up from his hands, still slumped in his kitchen chair.

  She stared at him, panicking. Could they have got in?

  She threw him a hopeful smile then mounted the stairs slowly, waiting to be accosted at every step. At the top, the hallway was quiet.

  Then it came again: a quiet knocking, from Hassan’s room. She breathed a sigh of relief and pushed the door open, expecting to find Hassan bouncing a ball against his wall. It was a new habit of his that drove her insane.

  There was no one there. Of course: football practice.

  She looked at the window. Something was leaning against it on the outside.

  She crossed to it to get a better look, and was met by the sight of a middle aged, balding man, level with her. He held a camera in one hand and gripped the object she’d seen in the other. It was a ladder.

  She shrieked and thumped on the window. He gasped and nearly fell backwards, only keeping his balance by letting his camera fall.

  She yelled at him and jerked the curtains closed, her breath high and wheezy.

  “What’s happened? Are you OK?” Yusuf was in the doorway, his eyes wide with panic.

  She nodded, then let herself sink to the floor in front of the window. The closed curtains brushed the back of her neck as she went down, making her shiver.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face in them. Yusuf sank to the floor and crawled to her. He put an arm round her.