The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  She backed out of the room, wiping her cheeks, and went to the cupboard in the hallway. The sleeping bags reminded her of the times Samir and Hassan had slept on the floor here when they were younger. She thought of the night before Hassan’s tenth birthday. The night before the Waterloo and Spaghetti Junction bombs, when everything had changed.

  She spread the sleeping bag on the sofa and arranged the pillows as best she could. She slipped off her shoes and skirt and got into the sleeping bag, knowing that she wouldn’t sleep much.

  She was woken by Samir’s hand jostling her shoulder.

  “Wake up, Mum. It’s eight o’clock.”

  She put a hand up to her face. The room was in darkness, the curtains still closed. Samir had showered and put on clean clothes. She smiled; even on the run, he was still Samir.

  There was a mug of coffee on the table next to her. Samir nodded towards it. “I wasn’t sure if you took sugar.”

  She shook her head. Had her sixteen year old son never made her a cup of coffee? “Thanks.”

  She drank it greedily, glad that it had cooled a little, then sat up, the sleeping bag still wrapped around her. She was aware that she had no skirt on.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced. “I’ve got nothing on below the waist except my pants.”

  “Eww, Mum.” He turned away and shuffled into the kitchen, tidying up the mess from last night. She watched him for a moment, relieved that he seemed to have come to his senses. Then a ping from her phone jolted her back to life and she leapt up. She needed to hurry.

  When she returned he was sitting in front of kids’ TV with a full bowl of cereal.

  She watched him. Leaving him here like this, when he was threatening to get that ferry, scared her. But if her plan worked, if things came together today, he’d be able to come home. He wouldn’t have to hide.

  “I’ve got to go to work, love,” she said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Sit tight and wait for me.”

  He put the bowl down and turned. “Just for today.”

  “Yes. Then you can go back home.”

  He stood up. “No, Mum. Don’t you get it? I need to get away. If they arrest me they’ll deport us all.”

  “No, they won’t. They don’t do—”

  “How do you know what they do?”

  “Samir, I’m the Shadow Home Secretary. I know.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Please,” she said. “It’ll all be different after today. We can go home. You can talk to Dad.”

  “It won’t make any difference.”

  She’d run out of answers. If she left now, would he wait? She couldn’t stay here, not today.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “They’ll deport me to Pakistan. Because of Granny and Grandad.”

  “But they don’t live—”

  “That doesn’t matter. They were born there.” His forehead creased. “What do you think will happen to me there, Mum? Will I be welcomed into the bosom of some distant relatives, or will I be a target for other groups? People you really don’t want me ending up with.”

  His voice was trembling; this was the first time she’d seen how scared he was. Last night he had been edgy, and determined, if more responsive to her than he had in years. But today he was a frightened child. He looked towards the window and she followed his gaze.

  “It won’t come to that,” she said.

  He sniffed. “You think that. But I don’t believe you. I need to get away. My ticket is for tomorrow.”

  She put a hand on the back of the sofa for balance. He couldn’t use that ticket. Even if he wasn’t stopped as soon as he tried to leave Britain, how would she ever find him again? “Just wait here. Today. Wait for me.”

  He said nothing.

  “I have to go, Samir. Please, wait for me. Watch the news, this afternoon. Then you’ll understand.”

  He shrugged. Her phone pinged again. Fear mixing with anticipation, she went to the door and opened it. She could still see him in the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, love,” she said.

  He turned. “Me too.”

  She reached for the spare keys in their bowl; Yusuf’s keys, the ones Samir had stolen. She closed the door quietly then turned the key to the deadbolt. She hated herself for imprisoning her own son. But she had to keep him safe. She crept down the stairs, hoping he wouldn’t try to leave.

  48

  September 2021. London

  At three o’clock it was time for the debate. Jennifer had spent the morning trying to make contact with John; calling his office, even hanging about outside it. But he was nowhere to be found, and his PA was cagey.

  She had to warn him. She decided to get to the Chamber early, and take him to one side. She arrived at two thirty and stationed herself in the corridor behind the Speaker’s chair after poking her head around the door to the Chamber and checking he wasn’t there already.

  MPs filed past her, some chatting, others more serious. Maggie passed with two other women, both known rebels.

  She let Maggie cover her in a hug.

  “Hi Maggie.”

  “Hiya. How’s things?”

  Maggie gripped her shoulder, her long fingernails digging in. Jennifer shrugged, wondering what Maggie would think of what she was about to do.

  Maggie searched her face for a few moments then, seeing no response, squeezed her shoulder and carried on towards the Chamber. Jennifer watched her, envying her clarity of conscience.

  John was with two other members of the Shadow Cabinet when he arrived. She caught his eye and waited, shifting from foot to foot. She glanced at her watch. Come on.

  Finally he was free of them. He approached her, a friendly frown on his face. “Everything OK?”

  She shook her head. “I need to talk to you.”

  She looked around then pulled him into the Chamber and the small space behind the Speaker’s chair. This was where MPs came when they wanted to talk outside the earshot of colleagues during debates, or they didn’t want to be picked up by the cameras. He frowned at her, puzzled.

  “It’ll be quick,” she said.

  Colleagues thronged past them, hurrying to grab a decent seat. The chamber would be as crowded as for PMQs or Budget day. They were going to get a show, she thought to herself.

  She leaned in towards John. “I need to tell you something.”

  He looked at his watch. “If this is about your son—”

  She fell back, winded. “What do you know about Samir?”

  He cocked his head. “I didn’t say which son.”

  “Please. Tell me what you know about Samir.”

  John’s face turned grey. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s nothing. Nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing, if you’re asking me about it. What do you know?”

  Colin Hayes ran past them, slamming into Jennifer. “Sorry!” he muttered. He turned to give them a curious look before he headed further into the Chamber.

  She turned back to John.

  “This can wait,” he said. “We need to get into the Chamber.”

  She stared at him. He was right; there would be nothing he could tell her that Catherine hadn’t already. Not that he knew that.

  “I already know,” she said.

  “What? What do you know?”

  “He’s under suspicion. Association with a proscribed organisation.”

  “You know? Has he been arrested, then?”

  “No.” She thought of Samir, sitting in her flat. Watching TV. She hoped. “Someone told me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  She tightened her jaw. “I can’t tell you.”

  He wiped his forehead, which was damp. “Hell. Sorry, Jennifer.” He looked back towards the Chamber. “We need to get in there.”

  “I still need to tell you something.”

  “What? Make it quick.”

  “This debate. There’s going to be a surprise.”

  John’s
eyes widened. “What kind of surprise?”

  She glanced around, and lowered her voice further. “Catherine Moore is going to make a speech. Putting the knife in to Trask.”

  “What? But she’s a poodle.”

  “Not today.”

  “You think she’s going to do a— do a— a you?”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. There’s no way she’ll do that. I know she’s your friend, but…”

  He hesitated, looking at her. He’d realised who’d told her about Samir. But he said nothing.

  “You just need to be prepared,” she said. “This could be big.”

  He snorted. “We’ll believe that when we see it. Let’s just bloody well get in there, eh?”

  The Chamber was humming. MPs thronged the space between the opposing benches, conversation rising to the ornate ceiling. John worked his way through the crowd, answering questions, shaking hands, slapping backs. Jennifer pulled on her bravest face and tried to emulate him. Maybe it would distract her.

  He made it to the front bench before her, sitting down and looking up at Deborah Mills, Shadow Education Secretary, who was laughing at something he had said. Jennifer threw her a quick hello and she moved aside, allowing Jennifer to slip in next to their boss. This was a Home Office debate, after all.

  Deborah touched her on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

  Jennifer thanked her, pushing away the notion that she knew what was coming. This was just a friendly encouragement, that was all. She smiled and thanked her again. She needed all the support she could get.

  She shuffled into her seat – it was tight – and delved into her bag for a notebook. She’d written notes for this debate a week ago, planned the main points she would be making. But that was before Catherine had told her about Samir. Before Samir had run away. And before Catherine had agreed to help her. She jotted some hasty notes in the margins, crossing out most of her original plans. Could she wing this? Thinking on her feet was her forte, but she was tired and couldn’t stop thinking about Samir back in the flat. It would be getting dark soon and he wouldn’t want to turn the lights on. She imagined him, the blue light from the TV flickering in his eyes as he watched her. She felt hollow.

  She pulled her shoulders back and leaned forwards to stretch her arms, grasping her fingers together behind her back. She shook her head from side to side as surreptitiously as she could.

  John gave her a sideways glance. “You OK?”

  She nodded. He looked down at the scribbled notes in her hand.

  “Have you got a speech prepared?” He sounded worried.

  She looked at him then smiled. “Of course. Just some last minute edits, that’s all.”

  He squinted down at the notebook in her lap. She pulled it towards her.

  “This is a Home Office debate, Jennifer. I’m relying on you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Her heart had picked up pace. He had to trust her.

  He grabbed the notebook from her and she swiped at it.

  “This is crap,” he said, rifling through the pages.

  She snatched it back. “Don’t. It’ll be fine.”

  He leaned in, bringing his head closer to hers. “Are you sure? First you tell me Samir’s under suspicion, then this nonsense about Catherine Moore, and now you haven’t prepared.”

  She dug her fingernails into her palm. They needed clipping. “I’ll be fine.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m benching you.”

  “What?”

  “If somebody’s got to wing this, it’ll be me. I’ll respond to the Government.”

  She looked around them. Who was listening? “You can’t—”

  “I can. And I am. If you want to put your hand up and see if you get called, then fine. But I’m speaking for the Opposition.”

  “John. You owe this to me.”

  He turned to face her, his eyes flashing. “When it comes to Parliamentary debate, I don’t owe you anything. You’re a member of my shadow front bench, and I expect certain standards.”

  “Look. I’ve got these notes, at least. That’s more than you’ve got.”

  “Sorry. I’ve made my decision.”

  She slumped against the wooden bench, staring ahead. The Government benches opposite were a blur of movement and noise.

  “Jennifer? Are you OK?”

  Deborah was standing in front of her. Jennifer widened her eyes. “I’m fine.” She straightened up, glancing at John, who was ignoring her. “Sorry. Just thinking. I’m fine.”

  Deborah nodded and took her place again beyond John. Jennifer blinked, focusing on the Government front bench. She looked for Catherine. Where was she? Had she got a seat at the front? Surely as a Home Office minister, she would be there, alongside Trask and Peter Hillman, the Home Secretary. But the benches were full, and there was no sign of her.

  Jennifer’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, hesitant.

  It was a text from Samir. She flicked it open, forcing herself to breathe.

  Mum. I’m sorry. S.

  49

  September 2021. London

  She stared at the message, trying to work out what it meant. Was he apologising for what he had already done, or something he was about to do? Was this just a reiteration of the conversation they had had earlier?

  John was looking over her shoulder. “Everything OK?”

  “Yes. Just Samir.”

  “Apologising.”

  She pulled her phone to her chest, irritated. “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  She stiffened. “At school. On his way home. I guess.” She could hear John’s breathing next to her ear. She should trust him with the truth; he’d known Samir since he was a baby. But he was her boss. And he had responsibilities.

  Her phone buzzed: Samir again.

  Love you.

  She frowned. He’d never told her he loved her in a text; he hardly ever said it in the flesh anymore. Something wasn’t right.

  She looked at her watch. The Government would be making a statement first, then John, and then it was the turn of backbenchers and junior ministers. But if she left and came back again, the Speaker wouldn’t call her. She had to be here from the beginning.

  “If he’s saying he’s sorry, that’s good isn’t it?” John said.

  John’s children – two girls, delightful and little trouble to him as far as she could tell – had long since grown up. Did he have any idea what she was going through, or had his wife dealt with all of this?

  “Yes,” she muttered, looking up and past her phone. Catherine was opposite her, picking her way across the second bench back. She murmured apologies to people who stood to let her through, smiling graciously and shaking the occasional hand. She was wearing a pale grey skirt suit and looked composed and professional. Jennifer pictured how she looked herself. Her eyes, she knew, were puffy and red from lack of sleep, and she was hunched from the effect of sleeping on the sofa. She looked ten years older than Catherine, not three.

  Catherine sat down and scanned the Opposition benches. Her gaze flicked quickly over Jennifer, not making contact. Jennifer frowned.

  Her phone, loose in her hand, buzzed again. John shifted in his seat and she turned it away from him, bringing it up to her face.

  It was Yusuf. I know you wanted me to stay home but I felt so helpless. I’m at Euston. On my way to the flat. H is with my mum.

  She screwed up her face and gripped the phone. Anger at his impetuousness fought with relief that he was here. Samir would listen to Yusuf, she was sure.

  She tapped her feet on the floor, trying to decide on her response. As she raised her finger to the screen, the Speaker stood and called for order.

  The noise died down, MPs falling into their seats and wriggling to fit into the tight space. There were people standing at the end of the Chamber, by the doors. She looked up at the Strangers’ Gallery; it was full. She smiled.

  The
Speaker raised an arm and called for order again, and a hush fell over the benches.

  The Speaker cleared his throat. “The Right Honourable Member for Yeovil has a statement for the House.”

  Opposite her and next to Trask, the Home Secretary stood up and bustled to the dispatch box. He was a short, rotund man who gave the impression of a life of rich food and too much wine. His cheeks glowed red under the spotlights and his bald head gleamed.

  He arranged his papers in front of him then leaned back, clasping his hands in front of him and looking around the Chamber.

  “My Honourable Friends will be aware that there is a significant threat to the security of this country, despite the measures taken by this Government to counter it.”

  Behind her, the muttering started, rising to a grumble. She thought of Michael Stuart, now no longer an MP. If he was still here, would he have crossed the floor by now?

  Jennifer pulled at her shirt; it was sticking to her skin, making her stomach itch.

  “What’s up with you?” John whispered.

  “Nothing. Just hot.”

  John’s skin was coated in sweat and dark patches had appeared on his shirt. When the Chamber was full like this, it was a furnace.

  “I need you to focus,” he grunted.

  She eyed him. He was ignoring her now, watching Hillman with his arms folded across his chest, a patronising smirk playing on his lips. She grimaced and looked back down at her phone, glad now that Yusuf was working with her, helping their son. They would sort this out, between them. And from now on, she would be a better parent. As good a parent as Yusuf.

  Hillman continued. He was announcing measures to increase powers of citizen’s arrest, to strengthen Trask’s civilian army. It was a measure that horrified everyone on her own benches, and a fair few on the Government side too. But Trask had the majority, and his Whips were notorious bullies, worse even than Michael’s.

  She closed her eyes and tried to focus. She needed to speak straight after Catherine, to back her up. Maybe that would work better than her going first.