The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Hi.”

  “What did she say?”

  Jennifer looked up and down the street. On the other side of the road a man was walking in the same direction as her, matching her pace.

  “Can I call you back in five minutes?” she whispered. “I’m almost at the flat.”

  “OK. Is there nothing you can tell me now?”

  She cupped the phone with her hand. “I just saw her. She’s confirmed what she told me last time.” She looked at the man again; he had picked up pace. She was being paranoid. “I’ll fill you in when I get back.”

  “OK. Take care.” Yusuf didn’t like her walking to her flat at night; this wasn’t the most salubrious part of London and the thought of her making her way home alone brought out his protective nature. But now they needed to divert that to Samir.

  At last she reached her front door. Her keys were ready in her hand and she slipped inside, watching the man recede down the street as she closed the door.

  She took the stairs two at a time and had the door to her flat open just as quickly. She flicked on a light switch and threw her coat onto the sofa.

  She froze.

  On the coffee table was an empty glass of milk.

  She cast about wildly, turning towards the hallway.

  “Hello?” she called, tentatively.

  She looked back at the coffee table. The empty glass sat alone on its surface, the unmistakeable film of milk coating its inside. She never drank milk like that. And she’d loaded the dishwasher before leaving for work two days ago, last time she’d been here.

  Somebody had been here.

  She threw open the door to her bedroom. The bed was untouched and the lights were out. Her heart was pounding now. She went back through the living room into the kitchen and started opening cupboards.

  A packet of biscuits had been opened, one she kept for the boys’s visits. And a Pot Noodle had gone. She pictured her kitchen at home, the same items placed where Samir could find them.

  She clenched her fists.

  “Samir?” she called, her voice shaking. There was no response.

  She ran to the bathroom – empty – then flung open the cupboard in the hallway. It was empty except for her Hoover, some jackets and the kids’ sleeping bags. She closed the door and leaned against it. She slid down to the floor, resting her feet against the wall opposite.

  How long ago had he been here? And where was he now? She staggered upright and ran to the front window in the living room, pulling the curtains aside. The street was empty save for a couple walking away from her, wrapped tightly around each other. She squinted at them then shook her head.

  She turned back to the room, picked the glass up and sniffed it. It smelt fresh. She took it to the kitchen and opened the fridge again. The litre carton of milk she’d bought two days ago was almost empty. Some pizza she’d kept from a takeaway had gone.

  She opened the bin lid. The box from the pizza was inside, and some tissues.

  Her phone rang and she almost jumped across the room.

  “Yusuf?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to call. Everything OK?”

  “Yusuf, can you check something for me?”

  He hesitated. “Of course.”

  “Your key to the flat. Is it there?”

  “Why?”

  “Just check, please.”

  The line went quiet and she heard movement at the other end of the line as Yusuf went to the jug on the hall table. She listened to him rattling through the assorted keys that they kept in there.

  “They’re gone. Did you take them?”

  She brought her hand up to her mouth, her body feeling as if she’d been scooped out. “He’s here. He’s in London.”

  “What? Samir?”

  She nodded. “He’s been in my flat. Recently, I think.”

  There was a long sigh at the end of the line. “Thank god for that.”

  “Seriously.”

  “At least we know where he is.”

  “London is no place for a sixteen year old on his own.” She pictured the young people she passed every night between Westminster and the flat; huddled against walls, perched on the pavement, hands out, begging for the means to live. She always muttered a brief apology, believing that she was helping them more by donating to homeless charities.

  She gasped. Was Samir out there now, sitting in a doorway somewhere? Or was he roaming the streets, waiting until she left her flat again?

  “Hang on a minute.” She pocketed her phone and rushed back to the window, leaning against the glass to see the street better. A man stood outside a house opposite, looking up at the first floor windows, calling to the occupant. Further along, two women hurried away from her, heels audible through the glass. There was no one else.

  She picked up her phone again. “Sorry. It just occurred to me he could be watching the flat.”

  “Do you think he is?”

  “I’ve got no idea.” She dropped onto the sofa, scratching at its fabric with her free hand. “Where is he, love?”

  She heard muttering on the other end. “You OK?” she asked, anxious.

  “Yes. Sorry.” He sounded impatient. “Hassan needs me.”

  “Of course.” She swallowed. “How is he?”

  “He’s OK. Asks after Samir every ten minutes but I’ve managed to appease him with the story we agreed.”

  She nodded. Before she’d left, they’d told Hassan that Samir was staying with a friend for a few days, catching up on his studies. It was unlikely but not impossible, and had elicited some scowls from his younger brother. Hopefully he would be home before they had to tell him the truth.

  “Jen, what did Catherine say? Is he under suspicion?”

  She recounted the details of her conversation in the unfamiliar pub. It felt like hours ago if not days. While she spoke, she paced the flat, checking every square inch again and again. Repeatedly she returned to the window and checked outside, making sure the lights were off behind her so he wouldn’t see.

  “Sit tight, Jen. He’ll appear. Soon.”

  “I’m not so sure. He clearly got out before I came home.”

  “It could be a coincidence. Maybe he wants your help.

  She shook her head. “He probably thinks he’s safer in London, more anonymous. But this is a bolthole for him, somewhere he knows he can find food and shelter.” She walked back to the door and rested her hand on it. “I don’t think he’ll come back if he knows I’m here.”

  “You’re wrong. He needs you.”

  “Maybe. But he doesn’t know that. Maybe I should clear out. Then at least he’ll have somewhere safe.”

  “I don’t like that idea.”

  She sat on the hall floor again. The flat was in darkness now and she could hear noises from the flats around her. Somewhere, music was playing; loud rap. Beyond the wall she could hear her neighbours arguing. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Alright,” she said. “I’ll stay here. God, I hope you’re right Yusuf.”

  “What time is it?”

  She’d been woken by her phone: Yusuf.

  “Is he there now?”

  “I’d have called you if he was.”

  “Please, don’t take it out on me.”

  “Sorry.” She dug her thumbnail into her palm. Her legs felt heavy. She made her way into the living room and lowered herself to the arm of the sofa. She perched there, staring towards the window. If he was out there, he wasn’t going to let her see him.

  “I think I should come down,” Yusuf said.

  “No. I don’t think that’ll help. Hassan needs you there right now. Besides, where would they go while you were dashing down here?”

  “To my mum’s.”

  She nodded her head. Hassan loved going to Granny’s, and adored playing with her little dog, an elderly but friendly Yorkshire Terrier. “I know. But I don’t think it would help. If we’re mob handed we could just scare him away.”

  “What do you suggest?”


  “I’ll try coming back at a time he doesn’t expect me. Meanwhile I need to do more to help him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I haven’t been thinking straight, love. I’m the bloody Shadow Home Secretary. I can stop this.”

  “I’m not so—”

  “Yusuf, if all the hard work I’ve put in to get here doesn’t mean I can help my son when he needs me, what’s the point?”

  “You know that’s not why—”

  “I know. But I have to help him. Even if we get him back, he’s still under suspicion. He could be arrested any day.”

  “I know that. So does he.”

  She sighed. “That’s why I’m so scared.”

  She stood up and moved to the window, staring along the street towards Waterloo.

  “Yusuf, I’ll call you back later.”

  “What?”

  “Later. I promise.”

  She hung up, not waiting for his reply, and headed for the front door.

  Jennifer didn’t go as far as the Houses of Parliament. Instead she stopped at the hotel that faced it across the river. She made her way up the escalator to the first floor lobby inside, looking around her as surreptitiously as she could. On a Thursday afternoon, this place was full of tourists, oblivious to her.

  She found a table in the far corner of the bar and sat down to wait. She pulled her phone out of her bag and tried to read through her emails – twenty had arrived since she’d left the flat – but couldn’t concentrate.

  At last she heard footsteps approaching and looked up. She smiled. “Catherine.”

  “I don’t understand what’s so urgent.” Catherine glanced around them, but the surrounding tourists were oblivious to them. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Jennifer licked her lips. “I’m sorry. But this couldn’t wait.”

  Catherine nodded and sat down, looking at her watch. Jennifer leaned in towards her.

  “I appreciate the fact that you told me about Samir,” she muttered.

  Catherine nodded but said nothing.

  “I know what you’re risking. What it means.”

  Catherine nodded again, her face tight. She’d broken the Official Secrets Act to tell Jennifer about Samir, and they both knew it.

  “He’s in London,” she whispered.

  Catherine’s eyes widened. “Where?”

  “He’s been to my flat.”

  “Why?”

  Jennifer swallowed. “He ran away from home. In Birmingham. After he heard me telling Yusuf about your note. We didn’t know where he was for three days.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “No. He’s been letting himself in while I’m out.”

  Catherine let out a long breath. “You really shouldn’t be telling me this.”

  “I know.” Jennifer smoothed her palms on her skirt; they were clammy. “But I need your help.”

  “No. I need to stay out of this.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  Catherine leaned back, looking annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a minister in the Home Office. I’ve already been stupid to tell you what I have. Besides, I don’t have the power to stop this.”

  “I believe you do.”

  Catherine frowned. “That’s madness, Jennifer. I can’t possibly stop a police operation that’s—”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Well, what do you mean?” Catherine looked at her watch again.

  “You told me he was under suspicion. You know what that meant. You’re involved in this, like it or not.”

  Catherine frowned. She looked back towards the escalators then pulled her chair closer to Jennifer’s. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. Of course not. But you cared enough to warn me. You can help me fix this. And not just for Samir.”

  “How, exactly? I can’t just make a phone call and change—”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  A sigh. “What, then?”

  Jennifer pursed her lips. “The meetings we were having. Before all this.”

  “Ye-es.”

  “What we were trying to do. Our plan.”

  “Your plan, you mean.”

  Jennifer ignored that. “We can pick it up again. We can speed things up.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Jennifer eyed her. “Do you want my son to be deported?”

  Catherine shook her head.

  “Well then. Just listen to what I have to say.”

  46

  September 2021. London

  Jennifer hurried back to her flat, anxious to surprise Samir if she could. But the flat was empty and there were no changes from earlier.

  She stared at the empty living room, her chest deflating. After a few moments standing in silence, she turned on her heel and made for the shop on the corner of her street. She kept her head down as she picked out items; instant noodles, junky breakfast cereals, Samir’s favourite biscuits. She dashed back to the flat, checking her watch and cursing under her breath as she picked up pace. She dumped the groceries on the coffee table, hopeful.

  There was a debate in the Chamber that she couldn’t miss; a minor amendment to the Prevention of Terrorism Act. The topic was related to the next day’s debate, and would serve to take the temperature of MPs. John was already in his seat when she slipped in, listening to her own Tory opposite number speaking. He frowned as she slid into the spot next to him.

  “Where have you been?” he hissed.

  “Sorry.” She hesitated. Could she tell him about Samir? If she’d entrusted her family’s secrets to Catherine, surely she could trust John. She looked at him, shaking his head furiously at the opposite benches, and decided it could wait.

  She forced herself to concentrate, rifling through the speech she’d prepared with her advisor the day before. Normally she would have gone over it that morning, practised in front of the full length mirror in her bedroom. She’d have to make do without.

  When the time came, she hauled herself up, squaring her shoulders. Catherine was directly opposite, avoiding her eye. She was two places along from Trask, who was looking bored more than anything. She kept glancing at him, her expression a mix of wariness and determination. Jennifer wondered what she was thinking. Without her help, Jennifer’s plan was empty. Trask would prevail, the government would go from strength to strength, and her family— her family would be torn apart.

  Jennifer picked her way through her statement, giving a competent if uninspiring performance. She tried to push more feeling into the words, to clear her head as she spoke. But she was too preoccupied with Samir.

  As she sat down, John gave her a curt nod; she’d performed adequately. She’d have to raise her game tomorrow. And so would Catherine. She’d avoided Jennifer’s eye throughout her speech; did she have the strength to do to her leader what Jennifer had done to her own, or was she finding a way to say no?

  At last the debate ended with the predicted aye vote. The Chamber would be busier tomorrow, packed to its oak-panelled capacity. She needed to prepare.

  She made her apologies to John, resolving to call him later and arrange a drink in the bar so she could confide in him. Instead of heading to her office, she made straight for the flat.

  She hurried under the tunnel to Portcullis House and out of the turnstiles, brushing past colleagues, visitors and tourists. She crossed Westminster Bridge and picked up her pace, heading for Waterloo and her flat beyond. She’d considered getting a taxi but then decided she could be stealthier – and probably quicker – on foot.

  As she approached her street she slowed, considering the best route. She slid around the corner, staying close to the buildings, and then walked along her side, being careful to stay in the shadow of the houses, tucked in so she couldn’t be seen from an upstairs window. She had to be careful not to arouse suspicion, so did her best to walk normally, and not to fall over her own feet in her desperation to find her son.

  She opened
the front door as quietly as she could, easing it shut behind her. She slid up the stairs, staying close to the wall. Her heart felt like it would pound its way out of her chest.

  Outside her flat she paused to regain control of her breathing. If he was in there he would see her through the spy hole. But he had no other way of leaving. She looked at the door and pulled on a smile, just in case.

  She turned her key and pushed the door open as naturally as she could.

  “Samir?” she called, trying to sound as if she was arriving at the house in Birmingham, as if it was just another day and she was greeting her family as she always did.

  The bag on the coffee table had been opened, and the packet of biscuits was missing. The cereal had been opened too, half of its contents gone. A dirty bowl sat in the sink. She tried to imagine Samir arriving here, finding the food and feeding himself. Where was he now?

  She picked up her phone. Yusuf answered within two rings.

  “He’s been here again,” she breathed. She was standing at the window, easing the curtain aside to watch the street. It was dark now and the street was quiet, with only a taxi drawing up outside the house opposite. She eyed it, hoping Samir might be inside.

  “When?”

  “While I was at the House. I can’t work out his routine, love. He seems to know when I’m out, but I haven’t seen him watching.”

  “Can you come home at a different time, catch him?”

  “I’ve been trying to.” She felt her voice catch.

  “At least he’s eating.”

  She nodded, wiping her nose. She sniffed. “Yes.”

  “That’s good. Hold onto it.”

  “I spoke to Catherine.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “I asked her to pick things up again. It’s our only hope.”

  A pause. “What did she say?”

  She sniffed. “She’s going along with it. So far. I’m meeting her again later. Her last chance to back down.”

  “You really think she’ll stab him in the back?”

  “I have to believe she will. She told me a few things about him, about the way he treats his ministers.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But that won’t be enough. She has to believe that what she’s doing is right. She also has to believe that it won’t destabilise her party.”