Mark coughed. “Not just yet.”
She looked back at him. She’d done what the others had. What else did he need?
He was pale, the crows’ feet around his eyes visible against his skin. Did he enjoy this?
“Well done, Jennifer.”
Mark’s eyes flicked to Sally, who had just spoken. “Shh,” he said, frowning. She shuffled in her chair and muttered an apology.
“Do we get to congratulate her?” asked Paula.
“Not yet,” replied Mark. “Be quiet, everybody.”
Bel stopped rocking and shoved a knuckle into her mouth. Jennifer stared at Mark, challenging him. Get on with it, she thought.
He had a copy of the booklet in his hand. He held it out to her. “Turn to page six.”
She took it from him and did as she was told. The opening pages were preamble: the oath first, the one recited in schools and workplaces now. She was surprised she hadn’t been asked to recite it. Maybe that came later. Or maybe they didn’t want to push their luck.
Page six was devoted to the first step in the programme; the easiest step as far as she was concerned.
“Read the second section,” he said.
She folded the page back and brought the page up closer to her face, aware of the women listening.
“‘This is your opportunity to understand what you did wrong,’” she read. She looked up at him.
“Go on.”
“‘By describing your transgressions in a way that is personal to you, you can begin to accept why you need to change, and how you can atone.’”
“Thank you.” Mark took the booklet from her. He looked around the women. “What does this mean?”
Silence. Sally was fidgeting in her seat, trying to come up with the perfect answer, no doubt.
“What one word did I give you to help you with this step?” Mark asked, his voice rough.
“Oh! I know.” Sally sprang up and Paula rolled her eyes. “Specific.”
Mark smiled at her, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Specificity. Sit down.”
She grinned nervously and fell back into her chair.
Mark stepped away from Jennifer and started to pace. He circled the chairs, pausing to place a hand on the back of each one as he passed it. His voice echoed in the bare space.
“Specificity. You need to understand the specifics of what you did. For example, Paula here. She ran a network of locations where dissidents and terrorists were allowed to hide. A kind of underground railroad, to give it a romantic name.”
Paula flinched and looked ahead of her, past Jennifer’s shoulder. Jennifer thought of the constituents that she and Yusuf had directed to networks like hers. Had people she knew passed through Paula’s hands? Were they safe, because of her?
Mark moved on, stopping behind Bel.
“Bel was a lawyer. She defended people like the rest of you. But that isn’t all she did. She had fake papers created for her clients so they could flee the country. We caught up with her in Scotland, in hiding. Her husband had taken a gun with him, and we had to use force. It wasn’t pretty.”
Jennifer’s eyes widened. Wasn’t pretty, what did that mean? And did it explain Bel’s state of mind?
Then she stopped up short. If Samir had access to a forged passport, he would never have stopped in London, never have taken refuge in her flat. Would he have been better off?
Mark passed Jennifer and approached Sally. She straightened her back, as if relishing this opportunity to hear what she had done. Mark pursed his lips as he looked at her.
“And Sally,” he said, not taking his eyes off her, “used social media to spread hate speech. She shared and retweeted racist and homophobic messages.”
Jennifer wasn’t expecting this. It hadn’t occurred to her that people would be in here because of far right activity. How long would hate speech remain a crime, when it was being spouted by government ministers?
Sally was returning Mark’s gaze, her cheeks flushed. She nodded. Jennifer wondered how the others could bear to be in a group with her.
She waited for Mark to move on to Maryam, but instead he continued to Jennifer. She heard the chair behind her scrape on the floor as he put his hand on its back.
“So,” he said. “Your turn, Jennifer. Tell the group what you did, specifically. Not what the courts told you you did. What you actually did.”
She licked her lips. Could she lie? Was there any point?
Best to be honest.
“My son was suspected of involvement with a proscribed organisation. He ran away from home. I let him hide in my flat. In London.”
Her heart was thudding against her rib cage. This shouldn’t be hard, certainly no tougher than facing down Michael Stuart and Leonard Trask. Two Prime Ministers. She’d picked the wrong one to ruin.
“More specific,” said Mark, his voice clipped.
“I don’t know any more,” she said. She thought of Samir’s arrest, when she’d been busy pursuing her political agenda in the House of Commons. She should have stayed with him, stopped him from running.
“You do, Jennifer. Was it your idea to hide your son?”
She shook her head. His arrival in her flat had been a surprise. But she’d bought supplies, kept the fridge stocked for the times he sneaked in, while she was out. She’d encouraged him. What mother wouldn’t, when the alternative was arrest?
“It wasn’t entirely my idea.”
Mark smiled. “Go on.”
“My son, Sa—”
He nodded. “Go on. Tell me about your son. Samir Hussain.”
Sally sniffed and Maryam looked up. Suddenly she was a different person in their eyes.
She looked at Mark. She imagined him as a TV interviewer, shrouded by spotlights.
He sighed. “Your husband. Was it his idea?”
“No. It was Samir’s. But I bought food for him, in the hope he’d come back. When I was there.”
“Alright,” he said. “So tell me about your son. How much did you know about his activities?”
She felt hollow. She’d suspected nothing, had barely pressed him when he’d played truant from school. Or when he’d got into a fight about racist language. Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Then she remembered that photo.
“I don’t know what my son is accused of. No-one has told me.”
“No?”
She shook her head.
“Surely you had your suspicions? Surely as a good mother you should have taken action, nipped it in the bud?”
She frowned. She thought of the photos on Mark’s wall. He knew nothing about teenagers. “No,” she replied. She took a deep breath, pinching her nose to regain control of her breathing. “I don’t understand. What do you want me to say?”
“Very well,” he said. She stared at him, unsure whether she’d passed this test. Sally pulled away from her, her chair leg scraping against the polished floor. Bel was still again, her face buried in her hands. Opposite, Maryam smiled at Jennifer through her hair, which she’d wrapped around her jaw.
Mark turned and made for his own chair. He put his booklet on the floor then sat down.
“Well done, Jennifer,” he said. “You’ve done well, considering. Now, let’s congratulate Jennifer.”
She felt her muscles tighten as the other women approached her.
Chapter Nine
Rita stood outside Miss Ashgar’s office, shifting from foot to foot. She could hear voices from upstairs, and had spotted two orderlies passing as she’d made her way here. They were the only signs of life in this place since her counsellor had abandoned her the previous day.
Roy had appeared almost immediately, beckoning her to come with him.
“Where has she gone?” Rita had asked.
But Roy had told her nothing, leading her up to her room in silence and locking the door after her. He’d appeared twice more, to bring food. She wondered if there were other orderlies in the place, other counsellors. Other inmates. Her corridor was quiet,
no sounds coming from the surrounding rooms. She’d wondered if at night she was the only person left in the building. The madwoman in the attic.
She glanced up and down the corridor, wondering if she was early or her counsellor was late. As she was about to give up and go in search of her, Roy appeared.
“This is getting to be a habit,” she said. “Where are you taking me today?”
His face was impassive. “Follow me.”
He set off along the corridor, turned a bend and opened a door, identical to Miss Ashgar’s. Rita gave him a questioning look that was ignored, and went in. She turned to see Roy nod and head back where he had come from.
This office was larger, with a ceiling level window on one wall. Instead of being in the middle of the space, the desk here was to one side, with two chairs arranged diagonally. She wondered why Miss Ashgar had been moved here. A promotion, maybe? She didn’t seem experienced enough for that.
The waiting around in this place was driving her crazy. She was used to days full of activity and noise; too much to cram into the school day for her feet to touch the floor, followed by a frantic commute home, marking, TV if she was lucky and then bed. On weekends she saw Ash, went to the cinema, the pub. When she wasn’t doing more marking. Her body had begun to develop a life of its own, twitching with boredom and irritation whenever she had to sit or stand in the same place without doing anything for more than a few minutes. Here, she was directionless and alone. Not to mention confused.
Maybe they knew that, and were using it to break her down.
She saw feet passing above, clad in heavy black boots and blue trousers that looked like part of a uniform. She wondered what their owner knew about this place, and the people held in it. Would they hear her, if she called out?
She blasted out a series of short, sharp breaths, finding a whispered tune to fill the silence, then ventured towards the window. She put her hands against it. But the feet had gone, and what little she could see of the driveway outside was empty.
She decided that she may as well get comfortable. She took the chair closest to her and leaned back, trying to relax. Her back was aching and her limbs felt heavy and tired. She forced her eyes open, blinking a few times, and looked at the desk’s contents.
If this was Miss Ashgar’s desk, she hadn’t brought anything with her. There was a pile of psychology books, a notepad – closed, unfortunately – and a small army of gonks on the corner furthest from the other chair. She picked one up; an ugly little thing, with staring, wobbling eyes and a shock of bright purple hair. Its webbed feet were thin, made of felt. She shrugged and put it back down.
Behind her the door opened. She stood hurriedly, checking that she’d left the gonk as she found it. Then she stopped herself. Who cared if she rearranged the desk? She shouldn’t have been left waiting.
“Morning.”
She spun round. Standing in the doorway, frowning at her, was a man. Tall with dark hair that curled around his ears. He was gangly, with a pale face blotched with pink. He looked like he could do with a few hearty meals.
“Who are you?” she blurted.
He passed her and pulled out the other chair.
“My name’s Dr Clarke,” he said. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
He leaned past her and fingered the toy she had picked up, shifting it into its correct place. She could feel her heart picking up pace.
“Where’s my counsellor?”
“Hmm?” He surveyed his desk, checking what else she had disturbed. He patted the pile of books into place, making the spines align, and pulled the notepad to him. She watched him open it and turn to a blank page. She could smell his aftershave; he wore too much.
Finally he looked up. “I’m your counsellor.”
She slumped back. “Oh.” She wondered what had happened to Miss Ashgar. She was intrigued by her, a woman in a hijab counselling people who’d refused to recite an oath of allegiance to an Islamophobic state. This man, on the other hand, looked as if he had nothing interesting to reveal.
Maybe they’d got rid of her, decided that she wasn’t the right person to lead Rita through the programme. Maybe she’d been too lenient.
“Where’s Miss Ashgar?”
He leaned back, satisfied with the state of his desk. “I’m sorry. Who?”
She stiffened. “Miss Ashgar. My counsellor.”
“I just told you. I’m your counsellor. Surely you remember that.”
“No. Miss Ashgar is my counsellor.” Her shoulders slumped. “Or at least she was. So you’re my counsellor now?”
He shook his head, looking at her in the way Mrs Toft sometimes looked at the less able members of her class. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rita.”
She crossed and uncrossed her ankles. The seat back was digging into her shoulder blades. She wasn’t going to let him lie to her.
“I saw her just yesterday. And the day before. She told me she was going to work through some sort of programme with me. She wanted me to—”
She stopped herself. No point in telling him what had happened, in case he decided to repeat it. She clamped her mouth shut and slumped back in her chair, going over the previous two days in her head. Everything from arriving here with those two policemen, to being escorted to the office by Roy, through to arriving here.
“Roy will be able to tell you. He took me to her office, the day I got here. He brought me from there just now. He saw me with her.”
The man shook his head. “I think you’ll find that’s wrong, Rita.”
She made to stand up. He gave her a warning look and she sat down again. “It’s not,” she said. “Ask him.”
He sighed. “If you insist.”
He stood and strolled to the door, giving her a disparaging glance as he passed. She shivered. Was he right? Had she had another counsellor, or not? No, of course she had.
He opened the door and poked his head out, calling to someone outside. He drew his head back in, shutting the door.
“He’s on his way,” he said, moving back to his chair. “Now, while we wait, shall we continue with your programme?”
She frowned. Was he taking over from Miss Ashgar? She thought about the way she’d resisted her counsellor, how she’d said she could hold it in rather than do as she was told and be allowed to go to the toilet. She blushed; she was behaving like a Year Two child.
“Whatever,” she said.
“Now come on, Rita. You can do better than that.”
She met his gaze, saying nothing. He was about to speak when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he barked. Roy came in, his shoulders hunched. He gave the counsellor a wary look.
“Roy, thanks for coming in. Tell me, have you met Rita here before?”
The orderly looked at her. “Yes.”
“Can you tell me when?”
“I was here when she arrived.”
“Yes. And where did you take her, when she arrived?”
Confusion crossed the orderly’s face. “Here.” He blushed.
You’re lying, thought Rita.
“Here? To my office?”
A nod.
“And did you bring her here yesterday, too?”
Another nod.
“Thanks.” The counsellor smiled. “You can go now.”
He turned to Rita. “It seems I’ve been your counsellor all along. You must be imagining this Miss Ashgar you talk about.”
She clenched her fists. “I’m not.” She dug into her memory. “I saw her yesterday, and the day before. She had an office, along from here. She’s short, with a quiet voice. She wears a black hijab. Yesterday she had a long green dress on, and a blue cardigan over it. Her name is Meena Ashgar. She used to be a – a – a patient here, but she got through the programme and now she’s a counsellor.”
He shook his head. “Well, that’s impossible.”
“It’s not.” She willed herself not to lose her temper. “It’s the truth.”
“Stand up please, Rita.”
She stood, pushing the chair back so it would hit him. He stepped back to avoid it.
“Come with me,” he said.
He opened the door and held it for her. She passed through, scowling at him.
The corridor was empty. Thin grey light filtered through the windows opposite the counsellor’s office door. She could hear the wind outside, buffeting the old building. Finding its way through cracks in the brickwork. She wished she’d paid more attention when they brought her here, looked for an escape route.
“Which office was she in?” he asked, his tone light.
She walked to the bend in the corridor then pointed to the third door along. “That one.”
“Come on then.”
He started walking towards the door. She watched him for a moment. She knew Miss Ashgar wouldn’t be there.
He turned to her. “I told you to come with me.”
She shook her head. “There’s no point.”
He sighed. “Come with me. I want to see this Miss Ashgar you say you met.”
“No. She won’t be there. I’m not stupid.”
He raised his eyebrows. There was a mole on his chin, with a hair growing from it. Obnoxious bastard, she thought.
“Come. Now.”
She gritted her teeth and followed him, dragging her feet on the floor. Down here the floor was concrete, not the polished wood she’d seen upstairs. Her feet slapped along the hard surface, echoing in the blank corridor. She heard an engine start up outside and a door slam.
When they arrived at the door he gestured to it. “Open it.”
“There’s no point.”
“Open it.”
Her whole body felt tense. She clenched her fist as she put the other palm up to the door. She wondered what would happen if she raised that fist, if she let it slam into his face.
She pushed the door open. It was unlocked. The room, of course, was empty. The desk was there, and the two chairs, but other than that it was bare. No pens, no pile of notebooks. No plastic potted plant. And no name badge.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 31
