The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  Her voice was lower now and she felt less sure of herself. Was there something she hadn’t paid attention to, on the news? She cursed herself for not keeping abreast of current affairs. If some law had been passed that meant she had no rights…

  “That’s not going to happen, Rita.” His voice was harder now. She pinched her lips together.

  “We’ve decided that you need to be made to understand that. To realise the reality of your situation.”

  He scratched his head. She didn’t move. On the roof above her head, there was the rattling sound of birds roosting.

  “You know that the programme has six steps, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, once you’ve worked through those, there’s a ceremony. It’s called Celebration. It’s where you show your colleagues in your group, and your counsellor, that you’re better. That you’ve been cured of your negative and unhelpful thoughts.”

  She looked up. “There’s nothing negative about my thoughts.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Look Rita, it’ll help if you cooperate. It’s been decided to fast-track you. Which means your Celebration is going to happen today. This morning.”

  “What?”

  “You and I are going to talk through the entire six steps together. There’ll be an audience. Your group.”

  She frowned.

  “And other groups,” he continued.

  She remembered breakfast. How many women had been there; twenty? Thirty?

  “There are more groups?”

  “Of course. This is a big house. Did you think there was just the six of you?”

  She stood up, almost hitting her head on the ceiling. “I’m not doing it.”

  “I thought you’d say this.”

  She faced the wall not six inches from her face. “You can’t do this to me. This is ridiculous.”

  He stood up and put a hand on her shoulder, pushing her back on to the bed. She rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t touch me.”

  He looked down at her; his cheeks were red. “I don’t like having to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  He squatted in front of her, his eyes just below hers. “Tell me, Rita, are you going to cooperate? It will be easier for you if you do.”

  She looked at him through her eyelashes. “No.”

  He stood up again. “Very well.”

  He opened the door and spoke to someone outside. She stiffened.

  He glanced back at her then slipped outside. The orderlies from earlier on came in, their bulk filling the room.

  “Stay sitting on the bed, please,” Tim said. He was well-built, almost a foot taller than her. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt today, and she could see a tattoo poking out from it.

  “Why?”

  “Because I say so.”

  She glared at him but stayed where she was. Leaving the room was impossible now, and they could easily overpower her. She wondered if the counsellor was still outside, or if he had conveniently disappeared.

  The second orderly was pulling something from a bag he had slung over this shoulder. He placed the bag on her bed and she glanced it it; it looked medical. She didn’t need any medicine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hold still, please.”

  Tim was gripping her shoulders now, pushing her down. She felt as if she was being ground into the bed, but managed to stay sitting. She looked at his colleague, Roy, and tried to stay calm.

  “You can’t do this.”

  Tim’s face was impassive. “We can. Your doctor has told us to.”

  “I don’t have a doctor.”

  “Your counsellor. He’s your doctor. Dr Clarke.”

  “Not without my consent! You can’t do this! Leave me alone!”

  She considered pushing against his grip, making a dash for it. But as soon as she shifted her weight, his grip tightened.

  “Don’t move, please.”

  She stared into his eyes and then at the object his colleague held in his hand. It was a syringe.

  “Stop it! I’ll cooperate.” She raised her voice. “Dr Clarke! Are you out there! I’ll come with you!”

  Tim smiled. “Too late for that. He’s gone. He’ll be waiting for you, downstairs.”

  Her body tensed as she realised the hopelessness of her situation. She had no idea what was in that syringe.

  “What are you injecting me with?”

  “Just a sedative. Don’t worry. The serum will come later.”

  “What serum?”

  But his response was a blur. She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder and the world started to fade in front of her eyes. Helpless, she fell onto the bed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The breakfast room was bleaker than the room they’d been in for group session. At the back of the house the ground floor had lower ceilings and a dingy, uncared-for feel. There were no patches from missing pictures on the wall and the paint was peeling in places, dusty marks betraying damp.

  Jennifer sat with the other women in her group, glad of the company. In Parliament she’d tended to keep to herself, lacking confidence in her ability to network, to trade on easy relationships the way John did. But here she felt an affinity with these women. She’d only known them for a few days yet she felt relaxed in their company, for once comfortable to be herself.

  The group wasn’t complete. Rita, the newcomer, sat alone in a far corner, staring at them from time to time like a frightened animal. And Paula was with her buddy Mandy. The two of them sat at the next table, laughing at each other’s jokes and touching each other’s arms and hands in a way that made Jennifer miss Yusuf. She wondered if relationships were allowed between the women, or if her roommates had to hide the way they felt about each other. It was fairly obvious from where Jennifer was sitting.

  Breakfast was better than it had been in prison, or at least it was fresher. She’d helped herself to a couple of slices of toast and a smear of marmalade from a catering size jar, along with two cups of strong coffee. She hadn’t slept well last night, disturbed by Paula and Mandy’s coordinated snoring and haunted by her worries for her family. She knew that she wasn’t going to get any visitors here, but was hopeful that they might allow Edward in, and that he could give her news.

  The room wasn’t large but they’d managed to squeeze in a number of small tables, women huddled around them and leaning over their trays. There were possibly thirty women in here, all talking amongst themselves. Most were in groups of five or six – counselling groups, she guessed. They were a mix of ages and races, with a high proportion of Asian women. Some wore headscarves, others didn’t, which made Jennifer wonder about Maryam.

  She watched Maryam eat with one hand, the other in her hair. Maryam was a Muslim name, and she looked like a woman who was missing her hijab. Why wasn’t she allowed to wear it? Was it something to do with her crimes outside, with what had brought her here, or was it punishment for some misdemeanour inside? Jennifer knew how vulnerable Maryam would feel without it, even when the male orderlies weren’t present. They may be surrounded by women, but they were strangers.

  She resisted the temptation to ask Maryam about it and instead focused on continuing the conversation they’d had two days ago, about Rita and the programme. But Maryam was wary today and reluctant to answer Jennifer’s questions. Something about Rita’s behaviour had loosened the other women’s tongues. But now they were still.

  As she was finishing her toast, the other women started to move. As one they were standing and taking their trays to the waste station, forming a quiet, orderly queue. Jennifer frowned; at previous meals this had been a slow, haphazard process, accompanied by as much noise as the meal itself.

  “Get up,” Maryam whispered. “We all need to go.”

  “Go where?”

  Maryam allowed herself a small smile. “You’ll find out.”

  Sally and Bel stood up, Sally reluctantly catching Bel’s arm as she nearly slipped and fell. The four of them headed for the waste stati
on. Paula slipped in behind, with Mandy disappearing into another group. Jennifer looked across the room for Rita. Surely she would join them. But Rita was still alone at that table, or not quite alone. Two orderlies stood in front of her, talking down at her. Her face was contorted, her cheeks flushed. Jennifer felt her heart skip a beat.

  The women filed out of the room and into the corridor along the back of the house. Orderlies flanked them, watching in silence, with the occasional frown for bad behaviour. Jennifer’s group were near the back. She could see over the heads of the women in front of her and knew that they were turning into the room where she’d had her group sessions. She looked at Maryam next to her, raising an eyebrow in question, but Maryam put a finger to her lips and glanced at the orderly closet to them.

  As they approached the room, the silence broke. Coming from inside was the sound of dozens of excited voices. Chairs scraped against the floor and there was a rumble of pounding feet. She felt herself grow cold.

  Inside, the noise was deafening. In front of her, arranged in semi circular rows, were dozens of chairs. Most were taken, women jiggling in place and craning their necks to see the front. Feet slammed against the floor and hands were clapping, the rhythm like a chant. Moving around the crowd were more orderlies, pumping their arms in encouragement. They looked sweaty, even more excited than the women.

  As they passed through the gap in the centre of the chairs, she looked at the women’s faces. Some of these women had been in the dining room with them, but other faces were new. Where had they all appeared from? She counted the rows – ten of them, with maybe ten women on each. More towards the back, where the semicircle grew bigger.

  The women’s faces glowed with sweat and emotion; some were afraid and others excited. All of them looked at the orderlies, and at the row of people standing at the front. Five people, all wearing suits. Two men and three women, one of whom wore a green hijab over her grey suit. She was the only one of them who wasn’t white. Her expression was different from the others’: she was scanning the rows of women more intently, as if looking for someone. The others next to her looked across the tops of the women’s heads, smiling nervously. She imagined they were counsellors, but where was Mark?

  An orderly ushered her group to the front row and waved his arms at them, encouraging them to make noise. Paula and Sally started thumping their feet, their faces tight. Bel shuffled her feet on the floor, her eyes wide and her head stiff. Maryam allowed herself to relax and started clapping. Jennifer followed suit.

  She leaned in towards Maryam, sitting next to her. “What’s going on?”

  “Celebration.” Maryam had to shout into her ear to be heard. She watched the nearest orderly as she spoke.

  “What’s Celebration?”

  “Final stage. Once you’ve gone through the six steps.”

  Jennifer frowned. There was nothing about this in the booklet.

  “There’s nothing in the book—”

  “They don’t want to scare you.”

  “Why would you be scared?”

  Maryam paled. “Don’t worry.”

  “What do you mean, this is the last stage? What happens after this?”

  “Pass this, and you get out.”

  She felt her eyes grow wide. “All of us?”

  Maryam turned to look at her, then quickly looked to the front again. “No, silly. Her.” She pointed towards the empty space at the front.

  “Who do you mean?”

  “They’ll bring her in in a minute. Hopefully she’ll be walking. But there’s no bed.”

  Paula leaned across Maryam. “That means they’ve had to sedate her.”

  Jennifer was feeling increasingly confused. “What do you mean? Why would you be sedated, for your release?”

  Paula smirked. “Not everyone gets out.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You don’t necessarily pass. Sometimes they like to put someone through it who’s not ready. Make an example of her.”

  Jennifer shuddered. “Do you— Have any of you done this?”

  Maryam was quiet. Paula looked at her, her expression wary.

  “Maryam?” Jennifer asked.

  Maryam nodded. “How d’you think I got this?” She pulled her hair towards Jennifer.

  So that was the situation. This was the last stage of the programme. If you passed, you got out. If you failed, they punished you.

  “What did you do wrong?”

  She knew she was being nosy. But the noise here gave her a boldness she hadn’t felt in the quiet of the dining room.

  Maryam shook her head. She rubbed an eye. “I wasn’t ready.”

  Jennifer nodded and looked back to the front. The counsellors had shifted into a huddle and were talking among themselves. Then they pulled back and formed a row again. One of them – a man, thin and blond, with translucent skin and an unhealthy look about him – put up a hand. The room fell silent.

  The door opened behind them. The counsellors looked round but stayed in their line. The orderlies hustled to arrange themselves around the room, evenly spaced. Jennifer craned her neck. Behind her the women were quiet, a silence broken by the occasional shush of admonishment.

  A large black woman walked through the door. She wore a red and yellow floral blouse and a red skirt that was tight on her large thighs. Her height – she was almost as tall as Jennifer – was exaggerated by a pair of red platform heels. Her face glowed and her curly dark hair was piled on top of her head.

  The woman smiled and the room grew quieter.

  “Thank you, ladies,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to see you all here today. Celebration is my favourite time.”

  She looked around the room like a proud teacher surveying a class of well behaved six year olds. Then she took a couple of steps forward, passing the row of counsellors. They watched her, looking uncomfortable.

  The woman approached them and scanned the front row. Her gaze settled briefly on Jennifer then moved on. Jennifer shuffled in her seat, unnerved by the flash of recognition that had passed over the woman’s face.

  Finally she stepped backwards. The counsellors parted to let her stand in the middle of the row.

  “Some of you are new here.” Again her gaze flicked to Jennifer, then quickly away. “You may not know who I am.” She paused as if waiting for a response, then smiled and clasped her hands together. “My name is Ms Hughes. I’m the centre’s governor. It is me you have to thank for these wonderful counsellors who are helping you all to get better.”

  She swept her hand along the row of counsellors, who shuffled in place. The women were silent. Somewhere behind her, Jennifer heard someone mutter ‘bollocks’.

  Ms Hughes turned back to the women, pacing in front of the counsellors.

  “So,” she said. “A treat for us all. A Celebration.” She licked her lips. “Something I know you all look forward to.”

  She cocked her head as if waiting for an answer. “Don’t you?”

  Someone shouted ‘Yes!’ Ms Hughes smiled over the heads of the women. “Now that wasn’t good enough, was it. Tell me, are you looking forward to this?”

  More voices. “Yes!” Jennifer looked at the women either side of her, wishing they hadn’t been put in the front row. Ms Hughes’ eyes kept returning to her. She breathed in and cried, “Yes!” but it came too late, and rang out after the other women’s cries had stopped. Ms Hughes looked at her again, for longer this time, and gave her a patronising smile. She blushed.

  “Good,” cried the governor, her hands clasped above her head. “Now show me just how much you’re looking forward to this!”

  Jennifer was thrown into a sea of noise. Feet thumped, hands clapped, there were whistles and shrieks. Maryam joined in, standing up and clapping. Jennifer followed suit, daring a whistle. She felt ridiculous. Did these women really feel this, or were they pretending? She risked turning to look at the faces behind her. Some were bright with emotion but others were hard, not matching their owners’ gestures.

/>   “Good, that’s fantastic,” Ms Hughes exclaimed, then swept her arms to an abrupt halt. The women fell silent. “Now for the star of the show.”

  Jennifer felt herself squirm. Was this how they were referred to, as a star? She wondered how it would feel, to be the one up there at the front. Would it feel like making a speech in the Commons chamber? She doubted it.

  There was another hush. A woman panted behind her. Maryam sat down next to Jennifer, who had already slumped into her seat.

  She leaned towards her. “Where’s Mark?”

  Maryam nodded towards the door. “He’ll be with her.”

  “Who?”

  Maryam looked at her, her brow creased. “Rita, of course.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rita opened her eyes to see a high ceiling some five feet above her. This wasn’t her poky room.

  She blinked a few times, her mind working over her body. Her wrists and ankles hurt, and her neck was sore. Her head felt dull and heavy, as if she’d been asleep for hours. She realised she was moving, and fought back a wave of nausea. Next to her, looking ahead, was her counsellor. Behind her, at one end of the gurney, one of the orderlies. Beyond her feet, the other. They were wheeling her along a corridor in silence.

  She stretched the muscles in her neck and looked around as best she could. She was on the ground floor, she was sure; the blank patches on the walls, the high ceiling with ornate plasterwork at its edges.

  “Where are you taking me?” Her voice was blurred and thick.

  The movement stopped and she felt herself lurch. Dr Clarke turned to her.

  “Don’t talk. Not yet.”

  She pulled against the restraints, feeling the pain in her wrists sharpen. “Tell me why you’ve got me tied up!”

  He shook his head and nodded at the orderly beyond her feet. The movement started again.

  She fell back, her head slumping on the thin pillow. The footsteps of the orderlies echoed in the empty space. The wheels squeaked beneath her. But then she heard it, an unfamiliar sound. Coming from up ahead, and growing louder.