The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  The door opened behind her. She turned to see a petite woman in a hijab enter, her face expressionless. She flicked her eyes towards Rita, looking as uneasy as Rita felt.

  Rita frowned. Arrested for not reciting the oath and she had a Muslim woman questioning her? Maybe this was a test, a double bluff designed to trick her into saying things she might not to some middle-aged white man. Be careful, she told herself.

  The woman rounded the desk and sat down, all but disappearing behind it. She pulled her chair in and placed her elbows on the table, straightening her back to lean her chin on her fingertips.

  “Hello, Rita,” she said. Her voice was friendly, but that meant nothing.

  Rita said nothing.

  The woman opened a drawer and brought out a laptop. Bulky and black, it took a while to boot up. Public sector, thought Rita. That was some consolation. The two of them sat in silence while the woman watched the screen, the reflected light on her face brightening as the computer came to life.

  She tapped at the keyboard and then closed the lid.

  “You might be wondering where you are,” she said.

  Rita almost laughed. Of course she was bloody well wondering where she was. But she wasn’t about to reveal her fear. “Is this some sort of police station?”

  The woman’s mouth broke into a small smile. “It hardly looks like one, does it?” Her voice was soft and low. Rita wondered how old she was: mid twenties? Young enough to be her daughter, at a push.

  Rita leaned forwards. “When do I get a lawyer?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. You don’t.”

  This may not be a police station, but she’d been arrested by the police, and she knew her rights.

  “Who were those men who brought me here?”

  “Police officers. Of course.”

  “So why aren’t I in a police station right now?”

  The woman licked her lips. “Have you heard of the British Values Act?”

  “Yes.” It was all they ever talked about in staff training these days. Her job wasn’t to teach anymore; it was to brainwash a generation.

  “Are you aware of the provisions for people arrested under it?”

  Rita frowned. That hadn’t been covered in teacher training. She said nothing but felt sweat break out on her upper lip.

  The woman continued. “Under the Act, they – we – can keep you here instead of a police station. You’ll get a trial, of course.” She paused. “Things aren’t that bad, yet. But it won’t be the kind of trial you expect.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s a process. Appropriate to the nature of your crime.”

  The woman’s eyes flicked around the room again. Rita looked up and realised that there was a camera in the corner, watching her. She craned her neck; there was one facing her interviewer, too.

  “You’ve been accused of disloyalty to the state,” the woman continued. “Under the British Values Act. You’ll be kept here until your trial, and then – well, then we’ll see.”

  The woman gave her a wary look.

  “But what exactly am I accused of?”

  “We’ll come to that in due course, as part of your rehabilitation.”

  “Rehabilitation?”

  The woman nodded. “There’s a programme. Six steps.”

  “Six steps?”

  “Yes. Get through those, demonstrate that you’ve reformed, and you’ll be released.”

  “But what about my trial?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a part of it. You’ll have to demonstrate that you’ve reformed.”

  “What’s this programme?”

  “You’ll find out. We’ll be working through it together.”

  “We? You and me?”

  “And your group. When you’re ready.”

  Group. So there were others here. She wondered where they were; there’d been no sign of life when they’d driven through the grounds. Were they all teachers like her, or something else? She shuddered.

  This was wrong. She was just a teacher who’d omitted to recite some words with her class. She was no traitor. She stood up.

  “You’ve got it wrong. I shouldn’t be here.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m no traitor. If you think someone like me is a traitor to the state, then you’ve got a seriously skewed idea of what’s important.”

  “Have you looked at this place?”

  Rita shrugged.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

  Another shrug.

  “This is a low security institution. Be glad you’re not in a high security one. I’ve heard it’s not very nice.”

  “I don’t care. Call those police. Tell them to take me to a police station. I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “Rita, please sit down.” The woman glanced up at the camera again. She licked her lips. Was she sweating?

  “Have you noticed anything about me?” the woman asked.

  Rita stared at her. Was this a trick question? She looked the woman up and down. “No.”

  The woman gave her a look that said really? She put her hand to her hijab. “I’m Muslim,” she said.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Admit it, you were surprised to see a Muslim woman in a place like this.”

  “OK.”

  The woman smiled. “I’m a graduate. Of the programme.”

  “A what?”

  “A graduate. I was like you. Rebellious, difficult. But then I came here and went through the programme.” She took her hand off her headscarf and put it back on the desk. “I changed. I’m not like that anymore.”

  “And they still let you wear that?”

  Rita waited for the woman to register shock; she knew she was being disrespectful.

  She didn’t. “Of course. It’s not Muslims the state has a problem with. It’s dissenters. Rebels. People who don’t understand that there’s something bigger than themselves, and that they’ll be better off if they conform.”

  Rita considered. This was bullshit, she thought. A trick. “You don’t really think that.”

  Again the hand went to the hijab. “Because of this, you think I can’t be loyal to the state. Well, you’ll find out the truth. In time.”

  “No I won’t. Because you’re going to let me go.”

  The woman stood up and crossed to the door. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” She opened the door and leaned out for a moment. Then she turned back to Rita.

  “So, we’ll see each other again tomorrow. For your first one-to-one. Roy will take you to your room. In the meantime you’ll have a chance to reflect. To prepare yourself.”

  “I’m not going through any programme.”

  “You will. You’ll understand the error of your ways, and you will.”

  Chapter Six

  “Good morning everybody.”

  The counsellor looked around the group, smiling broadly. Jennifer wondered what was going on behind that smile; did he enjoy this?

  She sat in a circle of seven chairs, two along from Mark. Between them was a slight black woman with curly grey hair and hollow cheeks. Her skin had a grey tinge to it and her lips were thin and in constant motion. She muttered something beneath her breath; a pattern of sounds within which Jennifer couldn’t distinguish any actual words. When she wasn’t muttering she was clasping her knees, pulling them up to her chin and clattering her feet on the chair. She wore thin brown sandals that looked as if they might disintegrate at any moment, and her bony feet poked out from them; they were at least two sizes too small.

  Jennifer eased her chair away from the woman, wondering if she’d been like this when she arrived here or this place had made her this way. She shuddered.

  Mark looked around the group, his eyes glistening. His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing hard; he’d been running.

  He poked his tongue between his teeth and examined each woman in turn, finally alighting on the woman opposit
e him, two seats away from Jennifer. She was young, almost young enough to be Jennifer’s daughter, and plump with rosy cheeks. She had thin blonde hair and was sitting very still, watching Mark intently. As his gaze fell on her she stiffened and straightened her back. She blinked back at him, her mouth slightly open. Her teeth were yellowing.

  “Sally.” Mark smiled at the woman. She sniffed in return and drew herself up further, her feet scraping against the legs of her chair. As Jennifer had arrived, the women had been pulling these chairs to the centre of the room to form a circle. They’d done it in silence then taken their places without discussion, not making eye contact as they sat. They’d left an empty seat; who was missing?

  The room itself was large and echoing, decorated with rectangular patches where pictures had once adorned the walls. The floor was polished wood, like the corridors on this level, pitted with scrapes and dents. The only real hint of what the house had once been were the curtains that hung over the window at one end. They were thick and heavy, made of an expensive looking blue fabric. The walls were a pale blue, a few shades lighter. She wondered what this room had been; a sitting room, maybe? It would have been a pleasant place to sit at this time of day, with the sun coming in through the tall window.

  She was jolted back to the present by Mark’s voice.

  “Why don’t you show Jennifer how it’s done?”

  Jennifer felt her face grow hot. The other women turned as one to look at her, then averted their eyes. Only the woman next to her, knees up to her chin, hadn’t looked at her. She was gazing into space, hissing something under her breath.

  Mark leaned towards her and waved his hand to gain her attention.

  “Bel. Shh.”

  She widened her eyes and fell silent.

  “Put your feet on the floor please.”

  She obeyed, sliding her feet down to the wood as if wary of something that might bite her.

  Mark turned to the blonde woman again. Sally smiled at him, blinking. She cocked her head to one side and rubbed an invisible spot under her lip.

  “Step Six?” she asked. The counsellor shook his head.

  “No. Step One, for now.”

  This was met with a scowl, quickly replaced by that smile. “I’m ready for Step Six.”

  Mark gave her a look. “Step One please. For Jennifer.”

  Sally glanced at Jennifer, her eyes narrowing. Then she looked back at Mark and widened them again.

  “Not a problem.”

  Mark nodded and Sally stood up, positioning her body square on to the psychiatrist.

  Jennifer watched, heart quickening. She thought she’d prepared herself, reading over the booklet Mark had given her till she had it all by heart. But she hadn’t been expecting a public performance.

  This is what you do, she told herself. Standing up and lying in front of a group of people. Selecting which parts of the truth to include. It was her bread and butter. She still had it, and she was going to use it to get out of here.

  She leaned back to watch Sally, eager to learn anything that would help her. The words she knew, but there might be something else; a gesture, a way of holding yourself. Maybe a salute. She shuddered. It hadn’t gone that far, surely.

  Sally cleared her throat. “I confess that I have been disloyal to the British state.”

  She pulled her shoulders back and looked ahead, like a child expecting a reward.

  “Go on,” Mark said.

  A nod. “I disseminated information which undermined the authority of the state and could have bred dissent or division.” Her voice was bright, rehearsed. Jennifer wondered how many times she’d practised this. How long all of them had been here.

  Mark motioned for her to sit. “Thank you Sally. I knew I could rely on you.” He looked around the group, deciding who to pick next.

  Sally put her hand up. Mark frowned. “We’re not in school. You can speak.”

  She smiled at him. “Sorry. Can I practise the rest of my stages? I want to prepare.”

  “No. Not just yet. We need to get our newcomer started.”

  Sally’s shoulders slumped. She looked at Jennifer again, her lip curling.

  The woman next to Jennifer started humming. Her head was down now, her eyes closed.

  “Will we all have to do this?” Jennifer asked, surprised to hear the faintness in her voice. She cleared her throat.

  Mark looked at her. “Yes. Today is special, as we have you new to the group. Today each of us will do Step One.”

  The woman on Jennifer’s other side groaned.

  “Maryam?” Mark looked annoyed.

  Maryam pulled back her long dark hair, wrapping it around her neck. Then she smoothed her hands over it, working through her scalp. “I’m ready for Step Three,” she said. “I’d rather not start again.” Her voice was low, with a light Manchester accent.

  “You won’t have to start again,” Mark said. “It’s just this morning we’re all doing Step One. I want you to show Jennifer how it’s done.” He gave her an insincere smile.

  She tugged at her hair again, unwrapping it and twisting it around her neck in the opposite direction.

  “OK?” Mark asked, his tone that of an adult addressing a difficult child.

  Maryam nodded. “Yes.”

  “Take your hands off your hair, please.”

  She frowned and pulled her hands away from her head, slowly as if resisting some unseen force. She looked at them and placed them in her lap, twisting them together. They were blotched with red weals and the fingernails were ragged.

  “Why don’t you go next?” Mark asked her.

  She inhaled. “Alright.”

  Mark waited for a moment. Jennifer’s eyes flitted between him and her neighbour, wondering how long it had taken Maryam to get to this stage. She imagined Samir, doing this. Surrounded by petulant teenagers. Or worse.

  Maryam stood slowly, her chair toppling as she pushed it back. Annoyance passed over Mark’s face.

  She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “I admit that I have been disloyal to the British state.”

  Jennifer watched her, waiting for the next part.

  “I hid a suspected terrorist. I put my neighbours and the wider community in danger.”

  Jennifer’s fists clenched in her lap. Her eyes shot to Mark. Was this what she would be expected to say?

  But Mark was looking at Maryam, his gaze harder than it had been for Sally.

  “Thank you Maryam. Very good, this time. Sit down.”

  His attention moved on. The next chair was still empty. Maryam kept glancing nervously at it, as if expecting someone to take it and not wanting them to.

  Finally, next to Mark on the other side, was her roommate Paula. This was the first time in the two days that Jennifer had seen her without Mandy. Already it seemed wrong. The two of them always arrived at the room together and left together. She’d seen them sharing a table at every meal. She herself had sat alone, wary of making friends until she’d worked out the power structures. If prison had taught her anything, it was to keep her eyes and ears open.

  Mark twisted in his chair. “Paula,” he said. “Your turn.”

  She lifted her head to look at him, her eyes dull. This was a different woman from the one she’d seen with Mandy, whispering conspiratorially.

  Next to her, Sally shifted in her seat. She was smiling at Paula, encouraging her with her eyes. Paula looked back at her, twisting her face into a look of disgust. She looked at Bel, who was tapping her ear repeatedly. Mark was ignoring it, but his face twitched with each repetition.

  Paula sighed loudly. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on,” said Sally. “It’s easy.”

  This was met by a scowl. Jennifer wondered what had happened between these two women, whether she would be dragged into it. But if Sally was at Step Six, maybe she would be gone soon.

  Paula stood up, pulling at each of her fingers in turn.

  “I confess that I have been d
isloyal to the British state,” she intoned.

  “Come on Paula, put some feeling into it,” Mark snapped.

  Paula gave him a look of revulsion.

  “I confess that I have been disloyal to the British state,” she repeated, all but barking out the words. She closed her eyes. “I co-ordinated safe houses for suspected dissidents.”

  Mark shook his head. “Uh-uh. We’ve talked about this before.”

  She tightened her mouth. “I co-ordinated hiding places for suspected terrorists.” She stressed the last word, glaring at Sally as she did so.

  “From the top,” muttered Mark.

  “Really?”

  He turned to her, his eyes flashing. “Yes. Really. Do you want to earn your way out of the centre, or not?”

  She pouted. “Alright then. I confess that I have been disloyal to the British state.” Her voice was mocking. It reminded Jennifer of the way the Prime Minister Leonard Trask spoke to her. And to Catherine, sometimes.

  Mark stood and approached Paula. “Try again.”

  Paula shrank back, almost tripping over the chair behind her. “Alright, alright,” she said, her tone still sarcastic.

  There was a pause. Jennifer couldn’t see Mark’s face but she could see Paula’s eyes widening. The other women watched in silence except Bel, humming under her breath. Outside in the corridor she heard voices; someone shouting.

  Mark sat down. He looked around the group and smoothed his hands on his trousers. They were turning threadbare at the knees. “Again,” he said, not looking at Paula. His voice was hard.

  Paula looked ahead and upwards. Jennifer put her tongue between her lips, nervous for this woman who had given her no reason to feel any sympathy up to now. She wondered where Mandy was, whether they had shared this experience. Maybe the empty chair belonged to Mandy?

  Paula cleared her throat. “I confess that I have been disloyal to the British state. I co-ordinated a network of hiding places for suspected terrorists.”

  She sat down again. The words had been flat and expressionless. Garbled.

  “That’ll do,” said Mark. He looked at Bel, then shook his head. He switched his gaze to Jennifer.

  “So, Jennifer,” he said. “Think you can do it?”