The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  The governor frowned. “That’s not quite—”

  Mark put up a hand. “Rita?”

  “Dunno. Not going to change. Maybe change. Will it stop me coming here?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Alright then. I’ll change. Won’t steal Ash again.”

  “Again, Rita, that’s not what I mean.”

  “Oh.” Rita closed her eyes and slumped onto the gurney, unconscious.

  The governor stepped forwards, eyeing the orderlies. “Let’s get everybody out of here. Take the patient away.”

  Mark stepped back and the two orderlies who had brought Rita in wheeled her out again. The women followed, quietly this time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Morning.”

  Rita sat up abruptly, banging her head on the ceiling. She put a hand to it, wincing. Her brain felt thick and her vision was blurred.

  “Aah,” she groaned.

  She forced her eyes open. She was back in her room, in her bed. She lifted the sheet and fumbled her hands down her body. She was wearing pyjamas, the regulation blue. Had she undressed herself?

  “Do you want to know how you did?”

  “Huh?” She let the room come into focus. Someone was sitting at the end of her bed, facing her. A man, tall and dark haired, with pale skin. He swam into focus. It was Dr Clarke, her counsellor.

  She pulled the sheet up higher.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve not been here long. One of the orderlies put you to bed. A woman.”

  “How many people?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Were there two of them?” She knew enough about safeguarding from her training at school to know that if you were undressing a pupil there should be two people present. “Undressing me?”

  He shrugged. “I guess so.”

  She grunted. That would have to do. “How long have I been asleep?” She tried to remember the previous day, but it was foggy. She remembered breakfast, and being brought back up to her room. Then her memory jumped to a room, and her counsellor threatening her. She’d tried to attack him, hadn’t she?

  After that, the day descended into a grey mist. Had they sedated her, after she attacked him?

  “A day and a half,” he replied.

  She stared at him. “You mean a day. You put me out yesterday morning.”

  He shook his head. “No. The day before. We decided it was best to keep you calm yesterday. You were screaming blue murder at me.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. She had a mental image of his face close to hers, of him asking her questions. She couldn’t remember what they were.

  “What did you do to me?”

  He stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. His suit looked freshly cleaned. “Don’t worry, Rita. We just asked you some questions. You had Celebration. You won’t remember it.”

  So he’d been poking around in her head. “I hate you,” she told him.

  He laughed. “Not lost any of your spunk then.”

  “You’re not going to do that to me again.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. For now, I suggest you keep your head down. Think about what you’ve done. Or haven’t done. Maybe try a different tactic.”

  “Tactic?”

  “Your policy of noncooperation. It’s not working.”

  She felt herself deflate. The memories were becoming sharper now; a sea of faces behind his. A large woman in a brightly coloured jacket. But she couldn’t remember any questions.

  “Who was watching?”

  “You’re remembering, then.”

  “Who was watching?”

  “Everyone. It’s how Celebration works. I’m sure you’ll get the chance to spectate yourself.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about. Whose were those faces? Who was the woman she remembered talking to him, clapping her hands together? The more she tried to picture it, the more her head hurt.

  He stood up. “Anyway, you won’t be surprised to know that you failed. No release for you, I’m afraid.”

  She shook her head. “What about my rights?”

  “Oh, Rita.” He ran a hand through his hair. A tuft stayed up, poking up at the back. “Give up on that, now. The British Values Act applies to your crime. The sentence is to be brought here, and to undergo a rehabilitation programme. The six step programme. Once you get through the programme, you’re free to go.”

  “Alright. So how do I get through this programme, then?”

  He smiled. “That’s better.”

  He tossed a small booklet onto the bed. She squinted at it: British Values Programme.

  “Read that,” he told her. “We’ll be working through it together. In your one-to-one sessions, and your group.”

  She looked up. “My group?”

  “Yes. The women you met four days ago. They’re going to help you. You’re going to help them. Get through the programme, and you get another Celebration. Another crack at the whip.”

  “Alright.” There had to be a way around this, a way to manoeuvre herself into another Celebration. She’d pass next time. She wouldn’t attack him.

  “Only one more go, mind.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You get two chances. After that, it’s a mandatory sentence.”

  “How long?”

  He smiled. “Ah, you don’t need to worry about that, do you? You’ll help me out, and you’ll pass. Next time.”

  She picked up the booklet and pretended to read it, ignoring him. He stood up.

  “Now, time for breakfast. Get dressed, and go downstairs.”

  He clattered out of the room, squeezing through the half open door. She tossed the booklet onto the bed, trying not to cry.

  She pushed herself up from the bed, pausing to gain control of her quivering legs, and grabbed her clothes from where they’d been piled into the bedside cabinet, the only other piece of furniture that would fit in this room. She dressed carefully, easing her sore muscles into the tight fitting clothes. When she was ready, she pushed the door open to find an orderly outside. Roy.

  She stared at him. “I can do this myself.”

  He shrugged. “Sure you can. But he told me to keep an eye on you.”

  She pushed past him and made her way to the stairs as fast as she could. Occasionally she had to put a hand out to the wall to steady herself.

  The dining room was full. She joined the queue at the serving hatch, eyes on the ground. The women in front turned to look at her, sharing whispers. She ignored them. When she emerged with her tray she scanned the tables, trying to find a secluded spot. There were none.

  She scanned the room again. Her group were huddled round a corner table, all of them except Sally. She steeled herself. It would be easier without her.

  She weaved her way between the tables, catching the pauses in conversation as she passed. Her eyes were on her tray and the floor immediately beyond it. As she approached the table, Jennifer stood up.

  Their eyes met; Jennifer’s were full of pity. Rita was torn between anger and tears. What had they all witnessed? What had she done, in front of all these women? What had she said?

  Jennifer pulled out a chair. “Hi Rita,” she said. “Good to see you. Sit down.”

  Rita sat. Paula was on one side of her, with an unfamiliar woman sharing her chair. On the other side was Maryam, who looked as if she might cry herself. She shuffled her chair in and focused on her bowl of cornflakes. They tasted like dry cardboard.

  “How are you?” asked Maryam.

  Rita shrugged. “OK.”

  She could sense the women at the neighbouring tables watching them, talking about them. Paula stood up, making the woman sharing her chair almost topple to the floor.

  “Nothing to see here, girls,” she said. “Get on with your breakfast.”

  Rita smiled, wondering if Paula had worked in the police.

  “Thanks,” she muttered.

  “It’s fine.” Paula sat down again, and the woman sharing her chair
grabbed her hand. “This is Mandy, by the way.”

  Rita looked up and nodded at Mandy. Mandy nodded back. She had a thin, ruddy face topped by a shock of short ginger hair. She was skinny, her elbows sharp on the table. Paula, on the other hand, was short and plump, with rolls of fat protruding from her collar. It was a tight squeeze on that chair.

  Rita looked down at her food, hoping the women would go back to their conversation, that they’d ignore her.

  No such luck.

  “How much can you remember?” asked Jennifer.

  She looked up. None of your business, she thought. She shrugged.

  Jennifer nodded. “Would you like us to fill you in?”

  Did she want to know what she’d said, in front of all those people? Or was she happier with it being a blur?

  “No. Please, just let me eat my breakfast.”

  “Oh, of course. I’m sorry. You won’t have eaten since—”

  She looked up. Had they been watching for her, waiting for her to return? She wondered if she’d been fed, up in her room. Had she been conscious at all yesterday?

  “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

  Jennifer looked at Maryam and then Paula. She cleared her throat.

  “OK. I don’t know much, as it’s the first time I’ve seen a Celebration. But they brought you in on a trolley. I think they sedated you. Then Mark asked you some questions.”

  “Mark?”

  Jennifer blushed. “Our counsellor.”

  Paula leaned in. “He took you through the six steps. You gave him hell.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Paula chuckled. “You were just as difficult as you were in group.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Paula licked her lips. ‘OK. Let me see. You told him you’d accept our support – thanks, by the way – but not his. He didn’t like that.”

  Maryam was opposite her. “You said you’d only talk to one of the other counsellors. You seemed quite shocked to see her.”

  Rita frowned at her. “She was my counsellor when I got here. He told me I’d imagined her.”

  Silence.

  “So I didn’t imagine her?”

  “No. She was there, yesterday.” A deep flush covered Jennifer’s cheeks and neck, and she was holding herself very still. “Who is she?”

  “Just a counsellor. What else did I say?”

  Jennifer opened her mouth to speak but Paula interrupted. “You kept talking about someone called Ash.”

  Rita felt herself melt. “My boyfriend.”

  “Was he arrested too?”

  Shock jolted through her. Could Ash be in one of these places? “No. No, it was nothing to do with him. They arrested me ’cos of my school. I wouldn’t say the oath.”

  Paula nodded. “That’s what you said, in Celebration.”

  “What else?”

  Jennifer leaned across the table. “Did they tell you if you passed?”

  “I failed.”

  Jennifer nodded. “Can I ask you something?”

  Rita nodded.

  “I mean, I know this is difficult, with it being so soon, but… why didn’t you go along with it?”

  Rita lifted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you’d lied. Told them what they wanted to hear. Then you’d be out of here by now.”

  The other women shifted in their seats.

  “It’s not as easy as that,” whispered Maryam, scraping her fingers through her hair. Jennifer’s blush returned.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do?” asked Rita. Her energy had returned, and she was angry. This was none of Jennifer’s business.

  Jennifer put her hands up. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “She doesn’t know,” said Paula. “It was her first.”

  “It was my first too,” said Rita. She looked at Jennifer. “Tell me what I said. Why you think I was such an idiot.”

  “I didn’t say you were an idiot.”

  “You implied it.”

  Jennifer slumped back, saying nothing.

  “Go easy on her, Rita,” said Maryam. “It’s hard on all of us.”

  Rita glared at Jennifer. “Is that what you think I should do? Roll over like a good dog? Do what they want us to? Is that what you’ll do?”

  Jennifer frowned. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought it would make more sense to say what they wanted you to. You could have passed. You could be out of here.”

  Rita shrugged. “From where I’m sitting, I’m the only one who’s lost the last two days to whatever drugs they gave me, and who had an audience watching her saying stuff I can’t remember.” She was trembling.

  Maryam smiled. “I’ve done it too.”

  “Then why are you still here?”

  “I failed, like you. They took my veil away.”

  Rita looked at her hair, wound around her neck. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “You need to let us help you.”

  Rita nodded.

  Jennifer sat up again. “Next time, maybe just lie to them.”

  “Lie to them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has it occurred to you that I couldn’t?”

  “What do you mean, couldn’t? Did they threaten you?”

  “They sedated me, before they wheeled me in. I felt like they’d given me a bottle of wine. A whole bottle. How good are you at lying, when you’ve had a whole bottle of wine?”

  Jennifer shook her head. Rita remembered where she’d seen her before and laughed.

  “Oh, of course,” she said. ‘That was your job, wasn’t it? Drinking fine wine at the taxpayer’s expense then trooping into the House of Commons and lying to us all.”

  Maryam stiffened. “That’s not fair.”

  But Jennifer was silent, returning Rita’s stare across the table. Rita hated herself, but she hated Jennifer more. Bloody politicians; the reason everyone was in this mess.

  “Forget it,” she said, and stood up, leaving her breakfast things for the others to clear away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After everything that had happened over the last few days, a one-to-one with Mark felt like a waste of time.

  He was garrulous today, pacing his office and talking to her at length about the programme, the steps she needed to take to get out of here. His dark hair caught the sunlight each time he passed the window, and she caught fragments of sound from up there, outside in the yard. Doors slamming, voices calling. It made her feel claustrophobic.

  Jennifer watched him, pulling her energy together and preparing her request. Rita’s accusations had knocked some of the wind out her sails and she was suffering a failure of confidence. Maryam had told her to ignore it but it wasn’t so easy. The idea that this place was of her making kept nagging at her, like a persistent itch. If she’d thought twice before resigning, before opposing John and Michael, where would they all be now?

  Finally Mark stopped talking and sat in the chair opposite her, rubbing his knees.

  “Anyway,” he said. “What’s morale like? Among the rest of the group.”

  “Haven’t you already seen Paula and Bel this morning?”

  “Yes, but they aren’t as talkative as you.”

  She frowned. Did she talk too much?

  He looked at her. “Oh I didn’t mean it like that. Just that, well, with your background and everything, it’s easier to talk to you. You’re a model patient. Cooperative. I wish they were all like you.”

  She felt her skin crawl. She didn’t want to be this man’s model patient. She wanted to do what was necessary to get out of here and find her family. The thought of him developing any sort of fellow feeling with her made her feel sick.

  He rubbed his nose. “Anyway. Tell me, how is the group doing? It’s not every day we get a fast-tracked Celebration. It sometimes has knock-on effects.”

  She shrugged. “You forget I haven’t been here long. I haven’t seen any other sort of Celebrat
ion.”

  “Of course. How forgetful of me.” He gave her a meaningful look. “It isn’t normally like that. Most people pass.”

  “Why didn’t she? Rita?”

  “She wasn’t ready.”

  Jennifer looked at him with disgust. Of course she wasn’t ready. “So why did you put her through that?”

  “Not my idea. The governor thought it would show her how things worked. Set an example.”

  Jennifer remembered the governor; difficult to forget her. A woman in a man’s world, dressed like a canary to avoid becoming wallpaper. It was familiar from Parliament, all those female MPs in their bright jackets and baronesses in their uniform of patterned scarves.

  She smiled. “So you did as you were told.”

  He blushed. “Of course. That’s what we’re all here for.”

  “Are we?”

  He stood up. “Yes. And here’s something I’m telling you to do.” He moved away from the desk and stood facing the window, his head silhouetted in the angled sunshine.

  “Yes?”

  “Keep away from Rita, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Why?”

  He turned, not meeting her eye. “She’s a bad influence. You don’t want people like her holding you back.”

  “Alright,” she said. “I’ll keep away from her.” Rita didn’t want anything to do with her anyway. “Anything else you need me to do?”

  He laughed. “Other than the usual, no.”

  “Talking of that.”

  “Hmm?” He was looking at his fingers. There was a pale band of skin on his ring finger. She looked up at those photos again, of the boy. One of them was torn at one edge; an ex-wife?

  “I want you to fast-track me,” she said.

  He looked at her, startled. “I’m sorry?”

  “You said I’m a model patient. I can get through the Celebration thing. Let me try. Fast-track me, like Rita.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, I could never—”

  “Why not? I can be a success story for you. Fastest ever progression through the programme. That would be a feather in your cap, wouldn’t it?”

  He chewed his lip, considering. Then he straightened his back and adopted a stern tone.