“Is this where you believe you saw this other counsellor?”
“This is where I saw her.”
He grunted. “Could you be imagining it, perhaps?”
She frowned. Could he be right? Could she be hallucinating? Had she dreamed the other woman, or imagined her? Maybe there were drugs in the food.
She looked at him. She hadn’t seen him before today. She knew it.
“No,” she said. “I’m not imagining things.”
“In that case you must be lying.”
“No. You’re lying.”
He grabbed her arm. His fingers were thicker than she would expect from his wiry frame. They dug into her flesh. “No, Rita. You don’t accuse your counsellor of lying.” He brought his head down so his mouth was level with her ear, just centimetres away. “You accept the help of your counsellor, or you will be punished.”
Chapter Ten
The sitting room had seen better days. Jennifer was sure she had been in here before, had looked out on that view from the large bay window. In front of it there had been a pair of blue sofas, the perfect spot to take a break and chat to colleagues. She hadn’t paid much attention to the view then, so absorbed had she been by her work.
Now the window was fronted by a row of mismatched armchairs that made her think of an old people’s home. Two of them were soft and threadbare, with floral covers pockmarked by patches of dirt that could be years old. Three more were high backed with wooden arms. And between those were two of the orange plastic and metal chairs, their seats floating incongruously above those of their neighbours.
Jennifer paused at the door to the room and took it in. Outside the window, the sun shone on the vast lawns that led downhill from the back of the house. Frost had formed overnight and the ground glistened invitingly. She walked to the window and looked out. Two women strolled across the grass. Another was making her way along a path, an orderly holding her arm. It felt more like a clinic or a convalescent home than a prison.
Behind her someone coughed. She span round to see two occupants in the chairs against the wall; Paula and Mandy. Paula glared at her, as if warning her to get out. Mandy looked down at her knees, whispering something.
Jennifer put on her brightest smile. “Mind if I sit here?”
Paula scowled. There was a moment’s silence while she decided on a response. Two orderlies passed in the corridor outside, chatting. Mandy let out a squeal and then closed her eyes, slumping into sleep.
Paula looked at her friend, her eyes full of a tenderness Jennifer certainly hadn’t seen in the group session. “Alright,” she whispered. “But keep quiet.”
Jennifer nodded. She was desperate to talk to someone. She turned back to the window and chose one of the brown high-backed chairs. She sat and shuffled into place, wincing as the scratchy fabric attacked her skin.
She had a book in her hand, something Mark had given her at the end of her group session. A reward. It was battered and some of the pages were missing, and it was a romance, not her usual choice. But it would fill the time. She picked it up and licked her finger, turning over the first page.
“It’s not as easy as you think, you know.”
Paula was kneeling on the floor between them. Behind her, Mandy was still asleep.
Jennifer put her book down, glad of the interruption. Romances still weren’t her thing.
“Sorry?”
Paula gave her a condescending look. “The programme. You think you’ll pass with flying colours, don’t you?”
“I don’t know.” She didn’t want to reveal her plan to this woman, to prompt a conversation about why she was so desperate to get out. But then, she supposed, they all were.
Paula raised an eyebrow. “You’re lying to him. It won’t work.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“OK. Let’s say you’re not lying. So you’re going to repent everything that you did? Become a good little girl? Just like that, no questions asked.”
Jennifer dug her fingernail into her palm. “Yes. I did some stupid things. I want to put them behind me.”
A barked laugh. “We know that.”
“Do you?”
She was answered with an unfriendly smile. “Everyone here knows about the disgraced MP whose son got her sent here.”
“It’s not like—”
Paula waved a hand. “Spare me. Your son’s innocent, of course he is. He’s your son.”
“I thought you’d be sympathetic. It was people like you who helped us.”
Paula glanced at Mandy, snoring loudly now, and pushed herself up from the floor. “Yes, but one of the people like you gave me away. Nice little Muslim woman, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. I let her and her husband hide in my cellar. Just two nights. Then a week later I got the knock on my door.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Jennifer didn’t know what she was supposed to say. Surely Paula didn’t blame her for her arrest? She decided not to address it.
“So,” she sniffed, pulling her shoulders back in an attempt at bravado. “How do I get out of here? What is the best way to get through the programme?”
“Well done. You’re thinking now.”
Jennifer nodded.
“But I don’t think I can help you.”
“Oh.” Jennifer was disappointed, but not surprised. “Why not?”
“You’ve got to work it out for yourself. The words have got to come from in here.” She thumped her chest. “Otherwise you’ll never get through Celebration.”
“Celebration? What’s that?”
A smile. “You’ll find out.”
“Tell me, please. There’s nothing about any celebration in the—”
“Sinclair!”
She turned to see an orderly glaring at her from the doorway.
“You’re late. Dr Clarke’s office. Now.”
She looked at the old-fashioned clock on the wall, then realised it wasn’t working. They’d taken her watch off her in prison. How was she supposed to know when it was time for her session?
Best not to argue, she thought.
“Sorry.”
She shot Paula a look to tell her the conversation wasn’t over, then darted out of the room and towards the end of the corridor and the stairs to the basement. It made no sense for the offices to be hidden down there, when all these grand rooms were available upstairs. But nothing made sense about this place.
She ran along the dim corridor and skidded to a halt outside Mark’s door. She paused to rearrange herself – sweater smooth, hair tucked behind her ears – and raised a hand to knock.
“Come in.”
She hadn’t touched the door. She looked around. A red light winked at her from high on the wall; more cameras. She shrugged, making a mental note to check the sitting room for them later, and pushed the door open.
Inside, Mark was perched on his desk, arms folded in front of him. “Where have you been?”
She held his gaze. “Sorry. The clock was—”
“Never mind that.” He pushed the empty chair out with his foot. “Sit down.”
She approached the chair, uncomfortable that he was so close to it. But as she sat, he moved away, pacing the room.
“Have you been reading the booklet?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. You did well in Group.”
“Thanks.”
“I did make it easy for you though.”
She frowned; how had specificity, and not good enough made it easier for her?
He pushed his tongue between his lips. “Don’t think so? This bit is easy, Jennifer. You can do Step One, and you know it.”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “So. Let’s take it one more time, you and me. From the top.” He smiled to himself.
She cleared her throat. “Can I have the booklet please?”
“Not brought your copy?”
She pictured it sitting on the chair next to her in the sitting roo
m, under her book.
“Sorry.”
He sighed. “Very well.” He pulled a drawer open next to her and pulled out a booklet, placing it in her hand. “Borrow it, for this session. But bring your own next time, please.”
She flicked through the opening pages. Let’s get this over with, she thought.
“I confess that I have been disloyal to the British state.”
“Good. Tell me what you did, please.” He was pacing again, moving from side to side in front of the window. The dim light filtering through was enough to silhouette his face so she couldn’t see his expression.
“I hid my son who was suspected of membership of a proscribed organisation.”
She paused, waiting for him to pick up on the suspected.
Instead he clapped his hands together. “Good! Now for Step Two, why not?”
She turned the page, scanning the words. She’d gone over this already. After the first group session she’d realised that she was expected to come up with something better than she’d planned on her first night. She hadn’t wasted any time.
“OK. I accept the sovereignty of the British state. I understand that it has my best interests at heart.”
He leaned over her, narrowing his eyes. “Do you?” He was so close she could see the grey roots in his hair. His tone was friendly though, inquisitive.
“I do. Of course I do. I’ve spent most of my life serving the state.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
She frowned. This wasn’t in the handbook. “Yes. Of course.”
“It hasn’t occurred to you that some of the things you’ve done might have – let’s say – damaged the British state?”
She stared back into his eyes. What was he getting at? She thought of John, then of Michael and that vote of confidence.
“Is that what you want me to confess to? Should I go back to Step One?”
“That would be a little unorthodox, I think. No, let’s stick with it. You know what your crimes are. You heard them in court, and you’ve just confessed to them. What I need you to do now is accept the love of the state.”
“The love?”
“Yes.” He put his fist on his chest. “You need to feel it. Accept it.”
“The love?”
She thought of Leonard Trask, sneering at her in the corridors of Westminster. There was no love there. Then she remembered Catherine, his minister. Her friend.
“Alright.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Good. This isn’t so hard, is it?”
She said nothing. Think of Catherine, she told herself. Focus on her friendship. On what she risked. Think of John Hunter, her old boss, and everything he did for her. She had to ignore what had come after that.
Mark sat in his chair, and scratched his forehead. “Stand up, please.”
She pushed her chair back and stood, her hands on the worn wood of the desk.
“Move to the middle of the room.”
She gave him a puzzled look then did as she was told.
He leaned back, raising his hands and interlacing his fingers. “Go for it. Tell me again.”
“Sorry?”
“Step Two.”
“Oh. Right.” She dug into herself, working through words she could use. Words that wouldn’t sound insincere. She knew that telling ninety per cent of the truth was the best way of letting the ten per cent lie slip through undetected.
She sniffed and looked up at the wall, over Mark’s head. The photos were still there, and a diploma. She resolved to read that when she had the chance, to find out what his qualifications were.
“I accept the sovereignty and love of the British state.” She thought of John. “I know that it cares about me and has my best interests at heart.”
Mark was beaming. “Good. Now what does that mean, for you?”
She went over the booklet in her head. Understand that it is in your interest to be loyal, it said.
“I understand that it is in my interest to be loyal to the state.”
“Oh, come on.”
She could feel herself tensing. “What’s wrong?”
“You can’t just parrot the words in the booklet. It has to come from inside you. You have to mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
“Show me then.”
She puffed out a few quick breaths. Do it, she told herself. Give him what he wants. It was just words.
“I accept the love and sovereignty of the state. I understand that the state has my best interests at heart and cares about my welfare. I know that if I do my best for the state, it will do its best for me.”
He stood up. “Fabulous! Almost Kennedy-like.” He paused. “You weren’t copying Kennedy, were you? Ask not what your country can do, and all that?”
She shook her head. That speech hadn’t even occurred to her. “No. Honest.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Well done. Now I’ll need you to do that in your next group session on Thursday. Think you can manage it?”
She went over what she’d said in her head, memorising the words. “Yes.”
Chapter Eleven
“Come in.”
Rita looked up from her seat in the basement corridor. Her new counsellor’s door was open and he was looking out at her, his face blank.
She’d been wondering – hoping, maybe – that yesterday would turn out to be a mistake, that Miss Ashgar would reappear at some point. She’d hated Miss Ashgar, despised her for whatever it was she had to do to get through the programme and end up working here. But now, the younger woman was officially a figment of her imagination. That changed things.
She shuffled in to find the office unchanged from yesterday. Same desk against the wall; same two chairs placed diagonally; same photos and diplomas as decoration. The empty space in the centre of the room made it feel cold and unwelcoming.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he said.
She felt her shoulders droop. Was she being taken to another office? Was he going to lie to her, tell her she’d imagined ever being in here?
The previous night, lying in bed, she’d worked through her first day here. What was it – two, three days ago? Maybe four. She’d replayed it all, careful not to miss anything out. The two policemen; the one dominant, the other nervous, embarrassed when he’d got the wrong entrance. The broad sweep of the driveway. The crawl round the back, squeezing the car past the hedge until they stopped at the rear entrance. The orderly. He was real. Even Dr Clarke didn’t deny his existence.
Then Miss Ashgar. Her hijab, the way she’d tucked her hair inside it when irritated. The potted plant – fake, in the artificial light. The story she’d told, of how she’d gone through the programme and been rewarded with a job here. What was it she’d done? Had she said? Rita couldn’t remember.
She’d made sure she had everything she could remember in her head, and then she’d moved on to her first proper session with Miss Ashgar. The oath. The shifting feeling in her spine when she found herself close to reciting it. Her refusal. Had they fired her counsellor because she hadn’t persuaded Rita to comply? Of course not. She can’t have been the first.
If she had to rehearse those days in her head every night from now on, she would. It was important to remember, to reassure herself. Seeing the empty office yesterday had jolted her confidence, but emptying an office was easy. She wasn’t imagining things. She was sure of it.
She watched the counsellor, waiting for his next instruction. Bossy bastard. The kind who would lord it over their wives and kids, to make up for their inadequacies at work. Now he had Rita to hold dominion over. Well, she wasn’t going to let him.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because I’m taking you to your first group session. Come with me.”
He breezed past, not making eye contact. She turned to watch him sweep into the corridor. Would she follow?
There was a moment’s silence as his footsteps stopped. She heard a theatrical sigh from outside the door. He peered
round it.
“If you know what’s good for you, Rita, you’ll come with me.”
She pursed her lips. It would be good to meet some other prisoners. She’d find out more about this place, and what was going to happen to her.
“Alright.”
She followed him along the corridor and up a wide flight of stairs. Not the one she had come down; that was narrow and in a dark corner of the building. This stairway – one she’d been told not to use – ran up the centre of the house. It had a deep mahogany railing, in need of a polish, and ornate spindles coated in fading cream paint. The stairway smelt of bleach mixed with dust, underlaid by a faint tang of sweat. She could hear voices above her, on the upper floors – was someone singing?
At the top of the first flight he turned into a wider corridor, without looking back to see if she was following. The floors here were polished, with dark patches where there’d been rugs. The tall walls loomed down at her, feeding her sense of isolation. Did anyone know she was here? Even Mrs Toft would have no idea. And would Ash be looking for her? He lived in Worcester, twenty miles from her, and they weren’t due to meet for a week. He might not even know she was gone.
Suddenly she felt very alone.
They were at the front of the building now, and as each of the tall windows flashed past she grabbed a look outside. It was raining, the green of the lawns little more than a blur behind the wet glass. How far was the nearest town?
Finally he stopped at a door. It was heavy and old. He smiled at her then pushed it open and stood to one side for her to enter.
She hesitated.
“Go on,” he whispered, his hand hovering behind her back.
She pulled away then walked past him, her eyes sweeping the space.
The room was large, with a huge window at the other end flanked by pale blue curtains. There was no furniture except for a circle of familiar orange chairs in the centre. She blinked at them, counting. One – two – seven in all. Five were occupied. The chair nearest her, facing the window, was empty, and another one, two along from it. Between them sat a woman, craning her neck to see. She was short and plump, with pale grey skin and bulging eyes that made Rita’s stomach turn.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 32
