The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “They’re the Tories, Jen. They’ll survive. Like woodlice, they are.”

  She thought back to her own rebellion, the way it had made things not better, but worse. Catherine would be considering that too.

  “There’s a chance they could replace him with someone even worse.”

  Yusuf snorted. “No such thing.” He sighed. “We have to believe that they’ll improve. That they’ll roll back some of the harsher legislation. You know how many sharks Trask has got snapping at his heels. And that plenty of them think he’s gone too far.”

  She sat down, feeling tired. Could she do this, again? “I know.”

  There was a crashing sound at the other end of the line followed by shouts. “I’ve got to go,” Yusuf said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hassan. He’s playing up. Missing Samir.”

  “Give him a kiss from me, will you?” Jennifer wrapped her arms around herself, missing her family. She needed the feel of Yusuf’s hands on her skin, the smell of Hassan’s hair after a bath.

  “He’ll turn up,” Yusuf said. She wondered what he was going through, so far away. “Try not to worry too much. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Her phone pinged and she pulled it away from her ear: Catherine. She switched calls, feeling her stomach clench. “Catherine?”

  There was silence. Jennifer gripped her phone, waiting.

  “Catherine? Are you there?” She took a final look along the street and drew back from the window, sliding onto the sofa. The flat was cold.

  “Sorry. Yes. I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yes?” She tried to keep her voice level; Catherine was going to refuse her, of course.

  “You’re right, I know you are. I’ve been doing some research, checking some files.”

  Jennifer felt her chest slacken. “What did you find?”

  “He’s not alone.” A pause. Jennifer waited. “There are dozens like him. Maybe hundreds.”

  “What do you mean, like him?”

  “Kids who haven’t done anything wrong – not anything substantive. But they’re under suspicion.”

  Jennifer pursed her lips and let out a whistling breath. They had to stop this.

  “So you agree with me that we have to do something about it? This isn’t right.”

  She could hear Catherine’s breath; it was stilted.

  “Catherine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You’ve just spent the evening digging into this, risking your job, but you still don’t know?”

  “Please, Jennifer. Don’t talk like that. Not on the phone.”

  There was another pause.

  “OK,” Catherine said. “I’ll do it.”

  The line went dead.

  Jennifer looked out of the window, wondering again if Samir was watching. Maybe if she went out, he’d come back. She’d walk over Westminster Bridge, then back across Waterloo Bridge. Some fresh air would clear her head.

  She looked around the flat as she opened the front door, wishing she knew where Samir was.

  Jennifer’s head spun as she walked. She rolled words around in her head; things Catherine had told her and things that she would say tomorrow, in the House. Things that they would both say.

  Catherine had been doing more digging than she’d originally admitted to. She’d found files on eighty-six children between the ages of twelve and fifteen, all in the same situation as Samir. None of them had done anything wrong, but all of them were associated with people who had. She thought of the day she’d spotted him outside her constituency office, bunking off school. Could he be with those kids now? Could he be in danger?

  One case had brought her up short. A twelve-year-old girl in Birmingham, just miles from her own constituency. She’d joined a chat room and got involved in conversations she shouldn’t have. It made her think of Hassan. Did she police his computer activity adequately? Did Yusuf keep an eye on him when she wasn’t there? And if he found himself in the midst of subversive conversations, would he have the presence of mind to leave quickly, or would he say something that could get him into trouble? He was twelve, and had the naivety and eagerness to jump to conclusions that you’d expect from someone that age. Catherine had seen a photo of the girl; she looked about ten, she said, with pigtails. Hardly a terrorist.

  And these were the kind of people Leonard Trask and his party were happy to criminalise, to lock up or deport, along with their families. She shivered, and not just from the cold air as she crossed the Thames, heading back for her flat. When had this started? Was it with Trask’s election, with Michael’s misplaced zeal, or was it earlier than that? The bombs, the riots?

  She switched her thoughts to the next day, and the speech she was going to have to sit up all night and write. This would need to be good, but not as good as Catherine’s. And before either of them had their chance, she would have to tell John.

  Damn. She’d promised to speak to him tonight. She looked at her watch as she rounded the corner to her street. It was nearly midnight. He’d still be up, either in his office in the House of Commons or his flat on the other side of the river. Should she call him now, or wait until daylight?

  She pulled out her phone and flicked through the contacts. As she reached the front door to her building, she held her thumb over John’s name.

  Best to wait until she was inside. She clattered up the stairs, mulling over what she was going to tell John; there was so much. She pushed into her own flat, finally breathing again as she closed the door behind her.

  She flung her coat onto the peg, not stopping to pick it up from the floor after missing. She grabbed her phone and pulled up the contacts again; John’s name was waiting for her. She bumped into the coffee table and winced, cursing her lack of attention.

  She looked down. The bag of groceries had been disturbed again. The noodles had been taken out, and the bag was on the floor next to her feet. On the coffee table where the bag had been was a plate, smeared with the remains of the noodles. Next to that was a half drunk glass of milk.

  She dropped her phone, her heart pounding.

  There was a sound behind her, the thunk of the fridge door closing. She held very still, listening. Another noise, shuffling this time.

  Forcing herself to breathe, she turned slowly.

  A figure emerged from the shadows of the unlit kitchen. It was tall and skinny, with lank hair hanging over a dirt-streaked face. She took a step back.

  “Mum?”

  47

  September 2021. London

  He looked pale and his hair was in dire need of a wash.

  He stared at her, his eyes pools of blackness.

  After a moment’s silence she rushed to him. He stepped back. Her arms fell by her sides and she blinked back a tear.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  He nodded, saying nothing. There was the usual fire in his eyes but it was tinged with something that reminded him of the little boy she’d comforted after a tumble so many years ago. She itched to hold him.

  “How are you? Where have you been?”

  She knew he’d hate her firing questions at him. But he’d disappeared without a word, and he’d been breaking into her flat. Surely he owed her an explanation?

  He still wasn’t speaking. She looked him up and down. He was wearing his favourite jeans and an imitation leather jacket. Beneath it, a T-shirt. Not enough to keep him warm on the streets. Had she seen a bag or rucksack, on her way in? She tried to remember which one he’d taken from the house, but her mind was a blur.

  “Thank you for coming here,” she said finally. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  He shrugged and grabbed her arm. She reached out to touch his other shoulder with her hand but he pulled back again. He motioned towards the bedroom and pulled her towards it. She frowned at him but followed.

  Inside, he closed the door and leaned against it, staring at her. His face was dirty, dark shadows orbiting his eyes.
He looked older and younger at the same time.

  He put a finger to his lips and crossed to her bedside table, where he fumbled with the alarm clock. The radio came on and he turned the volume up. She frowned.

  “What are you doing?”

  He shook his head and approached her. “Your flat’ll be bugged.”

  “Bugged?”

  He nodded.

  “Why the hell would they bug my flat?”

  He gave her one of his exasperated looks and took a step towards her. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek; he stank. “Don’t be naive, Mum,” he muttered.

  “I’m not being naive.” She hated having her own son insult her like this.

  “You’re the Shadow Home Secretary. Your son is suspected of being a terrorist. Of cour—”

  “You’re not suspected of being a terrorist.”

  He pursed his lips. “No?”

  “No.” She ran her hand through her hair. “Jesus, Samir, how much did you overhear?”

  “Of you and Dad whispering about me? All of it.”

  She ran over the conversation in her head; the rushed account of what Catherine had told her, the speculation about what he had actually been doing.

  “I don’t believe it, you know,” she said, fixing him with her gaze. “What they’re accusing you of. I know you’re not like that.”

  He shrugged. “You don’t know me.”

  It was like a bullet. “Of course I know you. I’m your mum.”

  “Did you know I was playing truant, before you caught me?”

  “No one knows that sort of thing until they—”

  She considered. How much did she really know him? He spent so many hours shut up in his room, doing homework and chatting with his friends online. When he was out of the house, he was either at school or with Yusuf.

  “I’m sorry, love,” she said. “I’ve been a crap mum.”

  His body slackened. “No, you haven’t.”

  She looked towards the bedroom door. Had she locked the front door? Could they be coming up the stairs now, about to arrest him?

  She turned back to him and brought the back of her hand up to brush his cheek. He flinched but didn’t stop her. Her hand rested on a red mark on his forehead. “You’re bruised,” she said. He nodded. “How?”

  He shrugged. “Tried to nick some food.”

  Her heart felt so full of pity, and love, and remorse, that she thought she would burst. “That’s when you decided to come here?”

  He nodded. “I had a key.”

  “Dad’s. I know. Were you always planning to come here?”

  He shook his head. “Backup plan.” He grinned, showing his white teeth, still bright.

  She breathed out, thanking the heavens that he’d taken Yusuf’s key.

  “I need to tell Dad you’re here,” she said. “Tell him you’re safe.”

  He frowned. “I’m not safe, am I?”

  “You will be. I’m working on it.”

  “Oh shit, Mum. That never works.”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “You think you’re doing the right thing. You always do. But you don’t get it. They hate us, Mum. I’ll never be safe, and nor will any Muslim.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is. I have to leave the country. I’ve bought a ferry ticket…”

  He fished into his back pocket and brought out a slip of paper. She stared at it. “You haven’t got your passport,” she said, hating herself.

  “It’s in my rucksack.”

  He’d thought of everything. The rucksack must be in the living room somewhere. She wondered if he’d stolen anything other than food. She looked around the room; the duvet was crumpled and there was dirty underwear on the floor. At least he hadn’t been sleeping rough, not all of the time.

  “Samir, please. Give me a couple of days. I promise you that I’ll make things better. I’ve got a plan. And don’t take that ferry. They’ll check your passport. They’ll arrest you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “At least let me call Dad.” Perhaps Yusuf could convince him. She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket.

  He threw his hand out to grab it. “No.”

  “What?”

  “Use a phone box.”

  “What?” He was behaving as if they were in a spy movie.

  “OK,” she muttered. “But you stay here while I call him. Right?”

  He said nothing.

  “Please, Samir. If you leave now and they’re watching, they’ll see you.”

  He narrowed his eyes. She hated herself, manipulating his paranoia like this.

  “I’ll be ten minutes,” she said.

  Jennifer closed the front door to the street and paused, catching her breath. Her palms were clammy and her legs felt like jelly. She resisted the temptation to look up at her own front window and instead scanned the street.

  It was quiet, just one group of people walking away from her about a hundred yards off, and a few cars passing.

  She squinted and refocused, looking into the shadows; the gaps between buildings, the recessed doorways where someone might be watching her. No one.

  Then she looked up at the houses opposite, the lamp posts in front of them. Two of them had CCTV cameras. A jolt ran down her body. How long did she have before they came for him?

  She checked her watch – one minute already. At the end of the street was a phone box. She hurried towards it, anxious not to run.

  She yanked the door open, wondering how she would pay for the call. It had been years, maybe decades since she’d done this, shoving coins in while calling her mum from University. Surely she wouldn’t need the correct change?

  She looked into the phone box. There was no phone. It was a wifi hotspot, nothing else. She cursed under her breath. All phone boxes in central London had been converted to hotspots years ago, and painted black instead of the iconic red. Did none of them have phones anymore?

  She threw herself back out to the street and headed for Waterloo. There had to be phones at the station.

  Sure enough, there were. The station was quiet at this time of night, the occasional person hurrying home after a late night working or weaving their drunken way through the space. She rubbed her arms, wishing she’d stopped to put on a coat.

  Bingo. There was a pay-phone against a wall. She hurried towards it, feeling in her bag for her purse.

  Yusuf answered on the first ring. She didn’t pause for greetings, letting the words tumble out of her.

  “He’s here, he’s in my flat. I’m at a phone box, he thinks my phone’s tapped and the flat’s bugged. He wants to leave the country.”

  She stopped, panting. She looked around the station concourse. Two women passed, clutching each other’s arms and laughing together. They didn’t look at her.

  Yusuf’s voice was full of concern. “Is he safe? Is he hurt?”

  “He’s got a bit of a bruise on his forehead, but he’s OK. I can’t talk long, I’m worried he’ll disappear.”

  “Is he with you?”

  “No. At the flat.”

  She leaned her forehead against the plastic dome that surrounded the payphone, felling its cold against her skin.

  “He’s a state, love. Completely paranoid. I don’t know how to get him to calm down. We can’t let him leave the country.”

  “Maybe he’s right.”

  “Right? About buggering off to France?”

  “No. About being watched. Think about who you are. Who he is.”

  He was right. How long did she have, before Samir was arrested and she was forced to resign in disgrace? Long enough to do what she needed to?

  “I’m coming down,” Yusuf said.

  “No. Hassan needs you. Tell him Samir’s with me. Make something up. A visit, a school trip or something. I don’t know.”

  “I want to talk to him. He’ll listen to me.”

  She bristled at the implied accusation. “That’s what I thought, too, but how
? He’s right about not using his mobile. I don’t even know if he’s got it anymore.” Two station staff walked past, one pushing a cleaning cart. The other tipped her a greeting. She nodded back, then turned towards the phone and cupped the receiver with her hand. “Please. I’m going to sort it out,” she whispered.

  “You think you can trust Catherine? Even if she does what she promised, I don’t see how that will help Samir. And she’s Catherine.”

  Jennifer ignored the veiled insult. “It will. I promise. Look at the news. Tomorrow’s debate. Watch it.”

  She checked her watch. Twelve minutes since she left. “I’ve got to get back to him.”

  “OK. Call me, in the morning. I still want to come down.”

  “I’ll try. Please, give me until tomorrow. Then I’ll try to bring him home. Kiss Hassan for me.”

  Anxious to get back to Samir, she hung up and half ran back to the flat, not pausing to see if she was followed. This plan had to work.

  She let herself into the flat quietly, terrified that he would have gone. But his rucksack was still on the floor by the front door. She bent down to grab it, then decided to allow him his privacy.

  There was no sign of him in the living room or kitchen. She opened the door to the bedroom, which was still in darkness. He was slumped on the bed, his feet still on the floor. Asleep.

  She put her hand to her chest. She crept towards him and lifted his legs onto the bed, slipping off his trainers. They were worn and dirty. She pulled the other half of the duvet over him, kissed her fingers and placed them gently on his forehead. He stirred but didn’t wake. She pulled back and leaned against the wall, watching him. He mumbled in his sleep, occasionally throwing an arm out. She held her breath.

  Silent tears tracked down her cheeks as she watched her son sleep for the first time in years. All the times she’d watched over him rolled through her head, the childhood illnesses, the holidays where they’d all had to share a room. He was a heavy sleeper, difficult to wake and grumpy in the mornings. Hopefully he would sleep well beneath her soft duvet.