“Morning everyone,” she breezed. “Welcome to this beautiful sunny Wednesday morning.”
The children said nothing. A few coughs. The sound of a pencil case being unzipped.
She pushed at the smile again, willing her face to hide the longing to be back in bed. She shouldn’t have gone to the pub last night. Shouldn’t have let Ash stay over.
“So,” she said. “Maths books out.”
The class did nothing.
“Please.”
A hand crept up in the front row.
“Yes, Saskia,” she asked, steeling herself.
“Um, Miss Gurumurthy, haven’t you – haven’t we missed something?”
Rita blinked, holding onto the smile.
“No, Saskia. It’s definitely Maths first.” She looked up. “Every day, in fact.”
There were a couple of polite laughs. Half of the class were looking up at the camera, trying not to let their gaze stay on it for too long. They knew better than to break the fourth wall.
Saskia’s hand was still raised, although not as high as it had been. “But the oath, Miss?”
“Now, Saskia. Miss Gurumurthy is my name.”
“Sorry, Miss Gurumurthy. But surely—”
Rita took a deep breath. “Don’t worry, Saskia. We’re going straight into Maths today.”
The girl blushed and lowered her hand. Rita heard a muttered again.
She lifted her head and frowned. “Who was that?”
Silence. The rows of eyes were off the camera now and directed at the desks.
She turned back to the screen and gave it a swipe. She loved the way it responded to her touch, quick and lively like a lover.
There was a knock at the door. Rita looked up to see the headteacher, Mrs Toft, peering in through the glass. Two dark figures lurked behind her. Not another school governor visit, Rita thought.
Rita turned back to the class, knowing she was expected to carry on as normal.
The class lifted books out of desks. The door squeaked open. Rita felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise but didn’t turn. She willed herself to relax, her stomach to be calm.
“Good morning, Miss Gurumurthy.”
The head’s voice was heavier than usual. Rita waited for the habitual don’t mind us to follow, but there was nothing. She felt her heart accelerate.
Rita turned, plastering her smile on again. It disintegrated as she took in the two men in dark suits standing behind Mrs Toft.
Rita raced through the possibilities. Citizenship classes? Security checks? Darius Williams?
She swallowed. “Good morning, Mrs Toft.”
The children behind her were silent. She could picture their open mouths.
The head looked at her hands, which twisted together in front of her. The knuckles were pale and the skin rough.
Rita waited.
“These gentlemen need you to come with them, Miss Gurumurthy.”
The headteacher retreated as the policemen stepped forward. One of them unclipped handcuffs from his belt.
A wave rose through Rita’s chest. She felt cold sweat break out on her face. Behind her, the children were silent as the grave.
One of the men grabbed her hand. She tensed, pulling away, but he was stronger than her. She looked at the class. Best not to protest, for their sakes.
She felt her bones turn from steel to jelly as the man clamped the handcuff shut and pulled her towards the door.
“Miss Gurumurthy!” a boy shouted. She blinked and turned, her eyes pricking. Gavin McLeish was standing up at the back, leaning over his desk. He looked like he might cry. He opened his mouth to speak again but was silenced by a look from Mrs Toft.
Rita turned to the headteacher.
“Why is this— Did you—?”
But the Head stared up at the wall behind Rita, standing to attention like a good citizen. She stayed there, blinking, as the men led Rita out of the classroom.
Chapter Two
The prison governor was plump with soft pink features and wispy blonde hair that was grey at the roots. She was holding a file, which Jennifer presumed to be hers.
She smiled. “Hello again.”
Jennifer closed her eyes. She’d met this woman before. She remembered the hurried trip to the prison, the anxious meeting in the governor’s office. An inmate – Hayley Price – had committed suicide, and there had been an outcry. Jennifer’s job as prisons minister had been on the line, and so had that of the woman opposite her. Jennifer had saved them both.
She looked at the woman’s name badge on the lapel of her pale grey jacket. The jacket needed dry cleaning.
Ms Phipps, it said. Prison Governor.
Call me Sandra, she’d said on their first meeting, to which Jennifer had replied call me Jennifer. She hadn’t though. It was Minister all the way.
Things would be different now.
Jennifer considered for a moment.
“Sandra,” she said. “Good to see you again.”
The governor frowned, her eyes hooded, her cheeks darkening. “Ms Phipps, I think.”
Jennifer sighed. “Ms Phipps.”
Philips, the guard who’d brought Jennifer here from her cell, stood behind her, hovering at the door. The governor nodded at her.
“Thank you, Philips. You can leave us now.”
Jennifer heard Philips mutter agreement then pull the door closed behind her. For once she didn’t slam it.
The governor gestured towards the chairs in front of her desk. “Please, sit down.”
Four chairs were lined up against the wall behind Jennifer. She hesitated and chose one of the middle two. Sitting on it made her feel low and distant from the governor, shielded behind her desk. She stood again, pulled it closer to the desk and sat down. She wasn’t playing any power games.
Ms Phipps placed the file on the desk. “We’ll dispense with the pleasantries, I think. You were convicted of harbouring a suspected terrorist.” It wasn’t a question. But there was still the word suspected, at least.
“Yes.”
“And you are aware of the current law in this area?”
Jennifer nodded.
The governor smiled again. “Don’t worry, Jennifer. This is a good thing, for you.”
Jennifer said nothing, unable to imagine how this could be good. She thought of Cindy, waiting for her; would she be back at their cell, or waiting on the landing?
“You may be interested in a development that results from the new laws.”
Jennifer pulled herself upright. “Please. Tell me what’s happened to my son.”
“Why would I tell you that?”
Jennifer frowned.
“Your solicitor is the person you should be asking about that.”
“Exactly. I’ve been promised a visit—”
The governor raised her hand to stop her. “I’ve got a message to relay to you. I need you to listen.”
“What sort of message?”
“That’s better. So, going back to the anti-terror laws. They’ve been very effective. But it’s had an impact on the prison population, as you may have noticed. We were already overstretched and this is more than we can cope with.”
Jennifer stared at her. What did this have to do with her? “Look, I don’t care about prison overcrowding. I’m not exactly prisons minister anymore.” Jennifer cocked her head. The governor blushed again and looked down at Jennifer’s file. She licked her lips then looked up again.
“I believe you should care even more now you’re a prisoner. Anyway, back to what I was saying. A new type of institution has been set up. One which, shall we say, provides a punishment to fit the crime. While also being of benefit to society at large.”
Jennifer knew nothing of any new institutions, or of what they might have to do with her. The governor was lying. She’d been an MP only two weeks ago, for heaven’s sake. Shadow Home Secretary. She would know about this.
Then she realised. “Please. Let me know when I’m going to
see my lawyer. And I still don’t know the outcome of my son’s trial.”
The governor sighed. “Oh, do stop worrying about your son and listen to me.”
Jennifer pursed her lips.
“How are you finding it here? On the other side?”
Jennifer shrugged.
“Women accepting you? See you as one of them?”
Jennifer said nothing. For many of her fellow inmates, the last time they’d seen her would have been on a ministerial visit. Many of them would have known Hayley.
The governor didn’t need to know about the welcome she’d had. The bruises she could feel on the backs of her legs. The invitation by Cindy, her cellmate, to be her pet.
Ms Phipps looked down at another file on her desk. “The legislation allows for people convicted of crimes like yours to be detained in a new facility. No cells, all the latest technology. Almost a hotel, in fact.” She looked up, smiling.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No, of course you don’t. This hasn’t exactly been publicised. Am I not making myself clear?”
The governor leaned forwards. Her tiny eyes were like grey pinpricks in her cushiony face. “What I’m trying to tell you is that you’ve got a choice. You can be transferred to one of these centres. If you choose.”
“I have a choice?”
“Yes. You can either stay here, or be transferred to the new centre. No cells, beautiful grounds, very low security, all high tech.” She laughed. “Sounds wonderful to me. You may want to consider it.”
“Tell me what’s happened to my family.”
“You need to make a decision, Jennifer. Do you want this transfer, or not?”
This made no sense. Jennifer had never in all her career heard of a prisoner being given the choice of where they were to be incarcerated. In the US she knew that some states gave death row convicts the choice of how they would be executed, but a choice of prison? In the UK? Never.
“Why do you need me to decide? Surely you can just put me wherever you want.”
“I wish it were that simple. A technicality. You were arrested in the Palace of Westminster. It’s exempt from the new laws, so we can’t just send you there. But you can choose.”
Jennifer heard a movement outside, in the corridor. Philips was back. Or she’d been out there all along. She’d seen Philips with Cindy at breakfast, whispering.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “I’d know about any new law.”
“There was no new law. This is covered by existing legislation.”
Jennifer shook her head. “I have to speak to my solicitor first.”
The governor rounded her desk. “There isn’t time.”
“Sorry?”
“We’re making you this offer now. You won’t get it again. There’s a van heading to the centre tonight, and you could be on it. If you want.”
“So when do I get to speak to Edward?”
“Edward?”
“My solicitor.”
The governor waved a hand. “You can worry about that tomorrow.” She paused. “You’ll like this place. All the creature comforts you’re used to. Big old house. In the Oxfordshire countryside. Burcot Park, it used to be called.”
Jennifer had visited Burcot Park, attended a function there as a minister. It was beautiful. Why was it being used as a prison?
The governor looked at her watch. “Of course we could just send you back to your cell. It’s early still, time for you to catch up with your fellow inmates. A reunion with your friends down there on the landing.” She looked up.
Jennifer shuddered, remembering Cindy’s voice in her ear. Come back here, when she’s done with you.
The governor was heading for the door, her tights rustling beneath her skirt. Philips would be outside, waiting. This choice wasn’t going to be presented again.
She swallowed.
“Yes. I’ll go.”
Chapter Three
The city had long since flown past and they were on country roads, hedges blurring outside the window. Rita squirmed in her seat, the policemen chatting in low voices in front. They’d said nothing to her since pushing her into the car outside the school, and she’d said nothing in return.
Why hadn’t they taken her to the Rose Road station, just half a mile away from school? She’d had to go there once after a fight between parents in the playground. That had been before the changes, when children – and parents – were expected to mix. When they’d only just started to decide that they preferred not to.
She thought about asking where they were taking her, but decided against it. She’d managed not to speak so far and she wasn’t about to start. She knew enough about her situation to understand that there was little she could say that wouldn’t incriminate her. Somebody had told the authorities that she’d transgressed, so that was that.
She wondered who it was. One of the children? Even Saskia wasn’t that zealous. Maybe a colleague? She was the only teacher who wasn’t white, but that didn’t seem to bother them. Only a year ago she’d been one of three; the other two women had been encouraged to transfer to the new Muslim school in Perry Barr, the other side of the city. The school felt uncomfortable about her presence but couldn’t do much about it. It wasn’t as if the Muslim school would offer her a job, not with her Hindu parents.
She pictured the headteacher, standing by the door as she was led out, refusing to look her in the eye. Had she said something? They’d had words a month or so ago, a friendly chat Mrs Toft had called it. A threat more like. Start reciting the oath every morning with the children, or else. The else was never articulated. She couldn’t think which law it was that she’d broken, but she knew that specifics weren’t always necessary. If they wanted to pin something on you, they would. Bastards. Today they were hounding Muslims and demanding unthinking loyalty, but yesterday it had been gays, or lefties like her, or whoever else was the current scapegoat.
The car slowed but didn’t stop. The man in the passenger seat pulled out a map – old-fashioned, she thought – and placed a finger on it. He looked out of the windscreen and pointed at a sign as they passed it. Burcot Park. It meant nothing to her.
She pulled herself upright and peered out of the window as they turned a bend. An imposing house appeared ahead of them, at the end of a winding gravel drive. Nice, she thought. Someone’s country pile. Or maybe not, given that she was being brought here. Some sort of police station, she figured. A lot of them had been moved from small buildings in the city centres to larger premises out of harm’s way. She never expected them to look like this.
She stretched her neck and readied herself for the solid hand that would soon be pulling her from the car. The car stopped at the end of the gravel drive, in front of a pair of ornate double doors. They were in need of a coat of paint, but their stained-glass panes looked antique.
The driver pocketed his keys and turned to her.
“Don’t move.”
She stared back at him. As if she were going to make a run for it, out here in the middle of nowhere.
He grunted and turned back to his colleague, who was gazing out at their surroundings.
“Nice place.”
So this wasn’t their normal place of work.
The driver coughed. “Yeah. We haven’t got time to goggle though, Bill.”
His colleague shrugged and elbowed his door open. Rita stiffened, waiting for him to open her door. Instead he headed away from the car and towards those double doors. He raised a fist as if to knock on them and then thought better of it, using the palm of his hand to push at the heavy wood. The door opened and he looked back at his colleague, grinning. Then he slipped inside.
Rita sighed and chewed a fingernail. These coppers were the most unprofessional pair she’d ever had the pleasure to meet. But their unfamiliarity with the house and its grounds made her nervous. If this wasn’t a police station, what was it?
The man emerged through the doors, blushing. He scuttled to the
car and yanked his door open, throwing himself into the passenger seat.
“Wrong entrance.”
“What?”
“You heard. Got a right grilling. We’re to go round the back.”
The driver muttered under his breath then turned the ignition. Rita resisted an urge to snigger. The car pulled away.
“Which way?”
The man – Bill, she thought, wondering if he had a family and if they knew what his job involved – pointed in front of them. His face was damp with sweat. “That opening, there. In the hedge.”
“How are we bloody well supposed to see that?”
“Shush.” He glanced round at Rita. She stared back, blinking. She wasn’t about to show how scared she was.
Finally they found the entrance and eased the car around the side of the building. The driveway was narrow here, clearly not designed for guests, and the car brushed against the greenery on either side, each scrape accompanied by a wince in the front.
They stopped in a courtyard at the back of the building. High brick walls surrounded them, empty flower beds at one end, the house obscured by bushes and an elderly oak tree.
The driver jumped out and was opening Rita’s door before she managed to compose herself. He reached in and grabbed her arm. His fingers were warm and fat. She grimaced.
“Come on then,” he snapped.
She shrugged off his fingers and got out of the car, pulling herself up to her full height of five foot one. The air was cold and thin, missing the familiar tang of pollution. From the grounds away from the house she could hear birdsong and the bray of a horse. Surely the police didn’t keep their horses all the way out here?
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 27
