The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he breathed.

  “I just didn’t get the chance, what with Samir and everything.”

  Behind her, the ladder clattered against the window. She hoped it was being lowered. She pictured the press pack down there on the lawn. The neighbours peering round their curtains, wondering what she’d brought to their quiet street. She heard another vehicle pull up outside, louder than the cars she’d heard earlier. Then there was laughter.

  “Did you see the headline?” she asked Yusuf.

  He nodded.

  She sighed. “You know it’s not true.”

  He squeezed her knee. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  She smiled. “I wonder if they’re on Catherine’s doorstep too.”

  “Hmm.”

  She frowned and stood up, pulling on her fingers to stretch out the tension. She fetched her phone from their bedroom and came back into Hassan’s room, leaning on the doorframe. Yusuf was still on the floor.

  She selected Catherine from her contacts, then paused, staring at the screen. Was this wise?

  She hit dial.

  No answer. She decided not to leave a message, and hung up.

  Yusuf raised his eyebrows. She shrugged.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Another shrug.

  Yusuf stood up and wrapped his arms around her. She closed her eyes, sinking into the embrace.

  “What are you going to do about it?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  He stiffened. “Come on, this isn’t like you. Take a battle head-on, that’s what you do. They’re all out there, and they’re not going anywhere till you make them.”

  She turned to him in exasperation. How can you be so positive?

  “So how do you suggest I do that, exactly?”

  He stroked her cheek. “I don’t know. But I know you, you’ll think of something. Look at how great you were when you were challenging Michael Stuart – you always found the right thing to say, to the press and in Parliament.”

  “Yes, and look where that got me. Do you realise that if I hadn’t done all that, they wouldn’t be out there now?”

  Yusuf sighed, looking as distressed as Jennifer felt.

  “Don’t think like that. None of this is your fault. It’s John’s just as much as it’s yours.”

  She leaned on him, staring ahead. There were no sounds from the window now; the ladder must have gone. She hoped.

  The peace was shattered by a megaphone-enhanced voice from outside.

  “Ms Sinclair!” it boomed. “Do you have a statement to make?”

  Her heart was racing. Her palms were becoming wet and her face hot.

  “You’re going to have to do something,” Yusuf said.

  “I know.”

  She went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. Then she changed into a clean blouse, trying to select something that would look effortless but appropriate. She put on makeup, not wanting her harassed face to appear in front of millions without some improvement, and ran a comb through her hair.

  She went downstairs, staring at the door. Yusuf had closed the curtains in the living room, which was plunged into darkness.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No. Too Mellorish. Respectable MP flanked by her loving family. That’s not me. I got into this mess, and I’ll get out of it.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Good luck. I’ll make a gap in the curtains, watch you,” he said.

  “Don’t let them see you.”

  “Of course not.”

  As she reached the door he was tweaking the curtain.

  “Hang on a minute,” she said. “Are there cameras out there?”

  He twisted for a better view. “Yes. BBC and Sky.”

  “Well, don’t look out the window like that. Watch it on TV.”

  He switched on the TV. It cast a surreal blue glow on the dark walls. Sure enough, a Sky reporter stood in front of their house, talking to camera, filling time until Jennifer emerged.

  “Press reports this morning allege that Ms Sinclair and Miss Moore have been engaging in clandestine meetings in hotel rooms,” he said. “We’ve got sources that verify that it’s true.” He smiled: what a story. “We can only speculate as to how their party leaders will react to this.”

  “Right, I’m going,” Jennifer said.

  39

  September 2021. Birmingham

  Jennifer opened the door quickly in a display of confidence, but with her free hand clenched behind her back.

  A sea of faces turned in her direction. She gulped and smiled as steadily as she could. Somewhere in the tangle of thoughts, she felt relief that they’d tidied the garden the previous weekend.

  She pulled the door shut behind her. A closed door would make a better backdrop than an open entrance, and she didn’t want them looking inside.

  She was blinded by a succession of flashbulbs. She waited for them to subside, taking the opportunity to catch her breath. Someone shouted something unintelligible from the back of the crowd.

  She raised a hand and a hush descended. She risked a glance past them into the street. There were faces at the windows opposite and a man had stopped on the pavement, his dog tugging at its lead.

  “Good evening, everyone,” she said, projecting her voice. “I’d like to make a short statement. I won’t be taking questions.”

  She looked around the expectant faces, wishing now that she’d written something down. But she was better when thinking on her feet and would rather maintain eye contact.

  “I am aware of the allegations that have been made about myself and Catherine Moore in today’s press.” She paused to lick her lips. “And I am categorically denying them.”

  Flashes started bursting in her eyes again, and the crowd surged forwards. She tried to ignore it.

  “It’s true that Catherine and I have been meeting. We’ve been friends since she was first elected. Our constituencies are near each other and we’ve often travelled to and from London together.”

  Another barrage of flashbulbs. She forced herself not to flinch. She closed her eyes then forced them open again.

  “More recently, we have been meeting in hotel rooms, yes. I’m not denying that. The purpose of those meetings was to discuss ways in which we could work together to counteract the more extreme aspects of Leonard Trask’s government.”

  She paused again, looking ahead. The quiet was broken by the sound of someone’s phone ringing and being hastily shut off.

  “I’ve made no secret of my horror at the extreme direction the government is taking. There are Conservative MPs who are also concerned, but don’t necessarily wish to speak out. By sharing information, Catherine and I hoped that we might be able to work across parties and find some common ground.” She turned her head to face the BBC camera. Would Catherine be watching? “I still hope we can, despite this setback.”

  The pack surged forwards, and a questions were fired at her. She raised her hand.

  “That’s all I’ve got to say. Now I’d be grateful if my family – and my neighbours – could have a little peace and quiet. Thank you.”

  A man at the front shoved his microphone under her chin. “Why a hotel room? Were you sleeping together too?”

  She thought of Yusuf back in the house. Of her mum, who would probably be watching. Her chest tightened.

  “I know it looks unusual, meeting where we did. But we wanted to keep our meetings private so that we could be as open with each other as possible, and not attract the attention of our colleagues. We were not sleeping together. Now I want to get back to my family, and I’d be grateful if you could leave them and our neighbours in peace. Thank you for your time.”

  She smiled thinly and turned her back on them, slipping through the front door and shutting it behind her.

  She leaned against the door, running over what she’d just said. She hoped there’d been not
hing they could take out of context, no editing they could do to turn her words on their head. It was too late now; they would do with it as they liked.

  She opened her eyes to see Samir sitting at the bottom of the stairs, watching her. “What’s going on, Mum?”

  She felt a lump form in her throat; on top of everything else Samir hated her for right now, would this be the final straw?

  She took a deep breath.

  “Come into the living room with me and Dad, and we’ll tell you what’s happened.”

  As he shuffled after her and perched on a sofa, the phone rang. Yusuf shot Jennifer a look.

  “It’ll be for you. I’ll talk to Samir while you answer it. If that’s OK with you?”

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  Not pausing to think that it might be a journalist, she rushed to her desk in the dining room to answer the phone.

  “Yes,” she asked, breathing heavily.

  “Jennifer. It’s John.”

  She let herself relax, slumping against the desk. A friendly voice. “John. Hi.”

  “Quit the pleasantries. I just saw you on TV. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Moments passed before she could speak.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? You just appeared on live TV making some sort of hash of a statement, without even telling me what was going on. The national media knew before I did whether what the Mail is saying is true or not.”

  “What? Of course it’s not true. You know that.”

  “Why the hell did you go and talk to them, Jennifer? All you’ve done is given the story legs.”

  “But I wanted to set the record straight.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jennifer, you can be so naive sometimes.”

  “What?”

  “What you were doing was a secret. You know that.”

  She swallowed. “Sorry.”

  “You’ve set us back miles. Just how stupid are you?”

  She didn’t need this.

  “John, I didn’t pick up the phone to be insulted. Now if you don’t mind, my sons need an explanation and I have to sort out my family’s dinner. Call me tomorrow if you still need to speak to me.”

  “No, I need you to—”

  But he was gone, his voice cut off when she hung up.

  She collapsed into a chair and stared at the wall. She felt cold. The media would have it in for her over the next few days or even weeks, and she’d lost the support of John. And she had no idea what Catherine was thinking, whether her career was in jeopardy too.

  She leaned into the mirror by her desk, rubbing a spot of makeup under her eye. Is John right? Am I naive?

  She was brought back to life by Hassan running in, back from football practice. She hoped Yusuf had let him in by the back door.

  “Are we on TV? Cool!” he exclaimed, stopping when he saw the look on Jennifer’s face. He cast his eyes to the ground and shuffled out.

  “Hassan, it’s OK,” she called after him. “Just don’t go out the front, OK? Please?”

  She followed him into the living room. Yusuf and Samir had gone and Hassan was standing in the middle of the room, facing the window. The curtains were wide open and the press pack stared back at them. They grabbed their phones, desperate to catch a photo. A flash popped.

  She ran back to the hall, dropping to the floor. “Hassan!” she hissed. “Crawl back in and close the curtains. Make sure they don’t see you.”

  She watched as he crossed the room on his hands and knees. The curtains edged closed then he stood up, looking at her hopefully. She smiled and beckoned him to her for a hug and a thank you.

  Samir appeared from the kitchen. She looked at him warily, unsure of what Yusuf had told him or how he would react.

  He returned her stare with a shrug and approached her. She waited; he wasn’t in the habit of getting close these days. He stopped inches away, looking down at her; when did he get so tall? She looked at him, waiting. What had Yusuf told him?

  “They’re bastards, Mum,” he said. “Don’t let them get to you.”

  “Right. No.”

  He shrugged again and pushed past her, heading up to his room with a bowl of cereal. She listened as his door closed – not a slam for once – and his music started up.

  40

  September 2021. Birmingham and London

  The next day, Jennifer had a visit to a local primary school. She arrived to find the headteacher friendly but wary, as if expecting her to bite. In the hall, contributing to an assembly on democracy, she spotted the teachers giving her sidelong glances.

  John had been on the early morning news, denying all knowledge of Jennifer and Catherine’s meetings. She’d been expecting this, but his lies still felt like an attack. I need your experience, he’d said. The fire in your belly. That fire counted for nothing now.

  At lunchtime she decided to go home. She needed the peace of the house.

  She was pulling into her street when the one o’clock news came on. There was a handful of cars parked outside her house.

  She sighed and parked before reaching them, pausing to watch the silent cars. She imagined the waiting journalists sitting inside, listening to the news along with her. Enjoying it.

  This end of the street was quiet. An elderly woman passed her car, laden down with two bulging shopping bags. A younger man in a suit slid past her. Jennifer dipped her head down as he passed, hoping he wasn’t from the press. But he carried on his way, not even breaking stride before reaching the end of the road and turning the corner. She watched him, aware of her own strangled breathing.

  The first report was about her and Catherine. John’s denial had prompted speculation about Jennifer’s future, and the reporters were relishing the opportunity to go over old ground. To remind listeners of her earlier treacheries.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat. She needed to sleep. Maybe she could just nod off here, spend the afternoon in peace. Would anyone notice?

  Of course they would. She imagined tomorrow’s front page. Not just a traitor and a slut, but someone who slept in her own car.

  The introduction ended with the announcement that an interview with Catherine was coming up. Jennifer’s eyes shot open.

  She pulled herself upright and yanked up the volume.

  “Good afternoon, Minister.” The interviewer’s tone did nothing to conceal his delight at getting the interview.

  “Afternoon,” came Catherine’s curt reply. Her voice was steady, upbeat even. Jennifer held her breath.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” continued the interviewer. Catherine made a sound: a laugh?

  “Jennifer Sinclair hasn’t denied that you and she have met a number of times in hotel rooms. What can you tell us about these meetings?”

  “Well, I’m not denying them, for a start.”

  Jennifer frowned. Where was this going?

  “Good. Can you tell us what the purpose of these meetings was? Ms Sinclair claims that you were sharing information.”

  Another laugh, this time unmistakeable. “Well, she would say that.”

  A pause while the reporter waited for Catherine to continue. Jennifer’s knuckles were white now.

  “The fact is that Jennifer Sinclair is known to be a close confidante of John Hunter’s,” Catherine continued. “If anyone was looking for information, it was me and not her.”

  “Mmm-hmm. So there wasn’t a friendship between the two of you?”

  Catherine took a breath. “There was, once. I wouldn’t say so anymore.”

  Jennifer glared at the radio.

  “And you deny that you were having an affair?”

  “Oh goodness yes. Let me get this straight. The meetings between myself and Jennifer Sinclair were an idea of the Prime Minister’s. He knew that we’d been friends, and that she had John Hunter’s ear. He also knew how prone she was to betraying her own party.”

  Jennifer gasped. A movement near her house caugh
t her eye. A woman had jumped out of one of the cars and was hurrying up her drive. She knocked the door. No-one answered.

  Jennifer turned the key in the ignition and turned the car round, making for the office.

  Her phone was ringing on the passenger seat next to her. She ignored it and ploughed on towards the office, determined to hide.

  At last she parked the car and picked it up. Three calls: two unknown numbers, and John.

  She grimaced.

  She stared at his name on the screen, considering. She’d have to speak to him sooner or later.

  She dialled, surprised when it was answered after one ring. She cleared her throat, ready to deal with his new secretary. But it was John.

  “Jennifer,” he said.

  “John.” She clenched her fists, feeling sweat glide onto her palms.

  “This isn’t looking good for you.” His voice was dull.

  “No.” She bit her tongue. Best not to tell him that it would be better for her if he’d been more supportive. Not on the phone, anyway.

  “We need to talk,” he said. “In person.”

  She nodded, relieved. With John’s help, she could weather this. What Catherine was saying didn’t matter. It was John’s friendship that counted now. She hoped it was strong enough.

  “Thanks. When?”

  “Monday, first thing. Party offices. Not the House.”

  “OK. See you then.”

  He grunted and hung up. She looked out of the car at the shoppers passing her, wondering what they thought of their MP. If indeed they cared.

  41

  September 2021. London

  Jennifer was running late. She sprinted across Parliament Square, cursing herself under her breath. She’d ripped the seam of her sleeve in the rush to get off her delayed train and hoped she’d find time to straighten herself up before confronting John.

  Weaving through the crowds, she crashed into a woman coming the other way. She bent over to rub her shin, which had caught the woman’s heel, then looked up to apologise.