The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Yes.”

  “So did he.”

  “Did he? Why?”

  “How can I know that?” he asked, his tone harried.

  Samir had run away from their house in her Birmingham constituency before the police turned up. He had come to her flat in London and she’d let him hide there. By the time Yusuf arrived, he was gone. And as far as the outside world was concerned, Yusuf had never known that his son was under suspicion, not until he was arrested. Only three people knew the truth about that: Yusuf, and her. And Catherine Moore, her friend in the Home Office.

  “Samir. Are they going to deport him? When? His MP can help with that. He has rights.” A pause. “Who is his MP now, anyway? Have they had the by-election?”

  Mark shook his head. “You know more than me about that, I’m sure. All I know is that he’s in a detention centre. Sorry.”

  She plunged her fingernail into the skin of her thumb, willing herself to breathe.

  “What about Hassan?”

  He frowned at her, saying nothing. She could sense him working through something, as if coming to a decision.

  “Do you know where he is?” she urged.

  He looked down. “He’s fine,” he said. “He’s with your mum.”

  She felt her chest lighten. Thank God. “Not with social services?”

  He shook his head. She gave him a tight smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  She tried to imagine Hassan dealing with the disappearance of his parents and older brother. He wasn’t close to her mum; she lived fifty miles away, and was an infrequent visitor. She’d been a distant mother to Jennifer, too busy scratching out a living after her father left. What would she be like with her grandson?

  “Why couldn’t Yusuf’s parents have him?”

  Mark pursed his lips. “They’re Muslim.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Sorry. Just the way things are. Look, Jennifer, this is bigger than you. I know you want to know about your family, but you need to trust me, trust the system. I’ve got other things to worry about, besides your desperation to get out of here.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like— Like everything.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “That’s OK.”

  “No,” she replied. “I really am. Not for you – you’re doing alright out of this, with your cushy job – but to everyone. All the women here. Yusuf. Samir. Hassan, even. It’s all my fault.”

  “It’s really not.”

  She stood up. Her head wasn’t far from the low ceiling and she towered over him. He shifted in his seat.

  “Sit down, please,” he said.

  She shook her head and walked to the window, looking up through the smeared glass. Outside she could see car tyres, and a shock of daffodils drooping under the weight of recent rain. She wished she could be allowed outside.

  “I don’t think you realise how much you should be blaming the others,” he said.

  “What others?” she asked, not turning from the window. She was feeling relaxed now, different from when she’d first arrived. She could work on this man, develop his trust until finally he let her prove she was ready to be released.

  “Well, Michael Stuart for one.”

  She laughed. “Yeah. Him I can blame.”

  “If he hadn’t introduced that bill you’d never have rebelled against him. They forced you to do it.”

  “You think so?”

  “Maybe.”

  She thought about the look on his face in the Commons Chamber when she’d beaten him, more than two years ago now. The sneering triumph on Leonard Trask’s face as she passed through the same voting lobby as him. If she hadn’t stood up to Michael, he would still be Prime Minister. Trask wouldn’t be. And there’d be no British Values Act. Probably.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Mark.

  She turned round. “Really?”

  “You’re blaming Trask. That’s stupid.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you always knew what he was. He could be relied upon to do what he did. You should be blaming the people closer to you. People who should have stopped you.”

  “Like who?” Did he mean Yusuf? She thought of all those arguments they’d had, all the tense silences. All the doors Samir had slammed. Yusuf had been even angrier than her; he’d only encouraged her.

  “Like John Hunter.”

  She snorted. “If only you knew.” John, her old boss and now the Shadow Home Secretary, had secretly agreed with her. Not that he’d had the guts to tell Michael. Yes, John could share some of the blame.

  “And Catherine Moore.”

  She approached him. “Shouldn’t you be careful, talking about her?”

  He shrugged. “Free country.”

  “Is it? Really?”

  “Yes. And just because she’s the Home Secretary now doesn’t mean I can’t say what I think of her.”

  “Home Secretary?” This was news. Last time Jennifer had seen Catherine, she’d been a junior minister in the Home Office.

  “Yes. Reshuffle.”

  “Right.” She thought about what Catherine would know, in her new role. What would she make of this place? “She’s your boss. Indirectly. How many rungs above Yonda is she?”

  He blushed. “It doesn’t work like that. She probably doesn’t even know about this place.”

  “Oh, she does.”

  “Do you know that?”

  “No. But I know Catherine. Eye for detail.”

  “Yeah well, maybe with all that detail she could have warned you. Told you to back off.”

  She frowned at him. Did he know what Catherine had done? That she’d broken the Official Secrets Act to tell her that Samir was under suspicion?

  No. If he did, she wouldn’t be Home Secretary. She shook her head. “It’s not as simple as that. It wasn’t her fault.”

  He shrugged.

  There was a knock at the door and they both looked at it, startled. Jennifer shrank back towards the window. There was a clock on Mark’s wall; it wasn’t an hour yet, not time for the next woman to arrive.

  Mark cleared his throat. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Yonda Hughes appeared. She was smiling, simpering even.

  “Ah, hello,” she said. “Thought I’d find you here.”

  Catherine stared at her. The governor only ever ventured out of her office for Celebration, as far as Jennifer could tell. And what was this about finding them here?

  Mark stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs off his jacket. “Hello, Governor.”

  Yonda nodded at him then looked at Jennifer through narrowed eyes. “I need you to come with me.”

  Jennifer gave Mark a startled look. She looked up at the camera; in her agitation, she’d forgotten it was there. Had Yonda been listening in? Mark had turned pale.

  Jennifer pulled on a smile. At least she had the governor’s attention. “With pleasure.”

  She followed the other woman along the dim corridor towards the stairs. Yonda’s bulk and flamboyancy filled the space, throwing its grimness into stark relief. Jennifer wondered how often she came here; she seemed to be picking her way along the scuffed concrete floor as if repulsed by it.

  Finally they arrived at the narrow staircase and Yonda stood back to let Jennifer go in front. She was smiling, but there was worry in her eyes. What was going on?

  She made her way up, hearing Yonda’s heels clipping behind her. By the time she reached the top she was six steps ahead; this staircase wasn’t designed for those shoes. She waited patiently, listening to her own heightened breathing.

  Yonda gave her another smile as she passed. “Walk with me, Jennifer.”

  Jennifer fell into step next to the governor, waiting for her to speak first. They passed a group of women heading to their group meeting. The women stared after them, open-mouthed. Jennifer tried to ignore them, and Yonda was oblivious.

  “So, Jennifer. How are you getting on here?”
Yonda asked finally.

  She licked her lips. Small talk, really? “Very well, thank you.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m making fast progress through the programme. In fact, I believe I should be fast-tracked. Like Rita.”

  The governor smiled. “Of course you do.”

  They arrived at her office at the back of the building, in its centre. Yonda opened the door and beckoned Jennifer inside, not saying anything. Jennifer looked at her, frustrated, and passed through.

  The office was large, almost as large as the room they’d used for her group season and the Celebration ceremony. At one end was a bay window that made her think of the Oval Office. It had bright red drapes, made out of a smooth material that absorbed the light. There was a rug on the floor, modern and abstract. It looked wrong on the rich wooden floor, surrounded by heavy antique furniture. The walls were empty except for a solitary painting, an Impressionist. Tasteful. Plundered from elsewhere in the house, no doubt.

  Yonda sat behind her desk, gesturing towards a low wooden chair in front of it. “Please, take a seat.”

  Jennifer sat. She could barely see the other woman over the desk now, so hauled herself upright. “What’s this about?”

  “The direct approach. I like it. I’m sure you know that you aren’t our normal run of the mill patient.”

  Patient. Prisoner, more like. “Yes.” She ran over her conversation with Mark in her head; had she said anything indiscreet?

  “We feel honoured to have you here.”

  Jennifer could have laughed. “Why have you brought me here? Are you going to release me? Am I special enough for you to do that?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Yonda raised a finger and fumbled in the pocket of her jacket, which was short and tight. She brought out a buzzing mobile phone and held it to her ear, closing her eyes.

  “Yes. Yes. Fine.”

  There was a pause while the person at the other end spoke at length.

  “Are you sure?” said Yonda. “I really don’t think—”

  Another pause. Yonda was trembling. What was going on?

  “Alright.” She slid the phone back into her pocket and looked at Jennifer, brightening her expression. “You stay here, please. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Jennifer watched the door for a few moments. There were no sounds from outside; the wood was too thick. She wondered if the governor was in the hallway, talking to someone. Should she go and check?

  Finally she stood up and walked round the desk to the window. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, throwing the lawns into relief. They were edged by herbaceous borders, their low, brown shapes not yet woken by spring.

  A solitary figure walked along a path towards the house. She watched, envious. It was an orderly, the short white clinical jacket unmistakable. For the first time she wondered where the staff came from, whether they lived here. They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. She wondered how they had found themselves here, and what they thought of it. Did those orderlies come from the Department of Health, or the Home Office? She shuddered.

  Behind her, there was a creak as the door opened. She turned, waiting for Yonda to scold her for getting out of her seat.

  It wasn’t Yonda.

  She stared, mesmerised.

  “Catherine?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rita had grown to hate her room. The ceiling pressed down on her. She had to stand on her bed to see anything other than the sky, which made her feel more confined than if there’d been no window in here at all.

  Worst of all, the door was never locked. Day and night, anyone could come in here. Even as she slept, her body was on alert, like a cat twitching its ears in slumber when someone passed.

  She hadn’t bothered to record the passing of the days again; they could rub her marks off at any time. Besides, the charcoal had disappeared.

  She heard a faint bell hum along the corridor and raised her wrist, despite knowing there was no watch on it. Only the bells for mealtime ruled her internal clock here. That, and the orderlies reminding her to go to a group session, or a one-to-one with her counsellor.

  She pushed herself up from the bed, rubbing her eyes, and made for the door. Outside, the corridor was filling up, women making their way down for lunch. She held her head down, not wanting to attract attention. None of the women from her group were on this floor and she didn’t want to make new friends.

  As she reached the staircase, pulling back to let a pair of women pass who were engrossed in sharing a joke, an orderly stepped in front of her. She looked up to see it was Tim. Her heart sank.

  “Hello again,” she said, then regretted it. His face was hard.

  “Not you,” he said. A woman pushed past her and stared at the two of them, wondering what was going on. Rita pulled into herself, humiliated again.

  “Why not?” she asked him. But he said nothing, instead watching the women file past in silence. At last they were gone and she was alone with him. She could hear branches knocking on the roof above their heads and the distant sound of the wind. But even on a windy day, it could get close up here when the sun shone. The orderly was sweating, an ugly kind of sweat that filled his white coat with grey dampness and poured off his forehead. He wiped his chin and sniffed at her.

  “Can I go now?” she asked, pushing against his hand with her chest.

  “No. You have to stay here.”

  “But I need to eat.” She willed herself to stay calm. A few days ago, she would have railed at the injustice, insisted that he was violating her rights. Now, she knew there was no point.

  “Later,” he said. He looked from the empty stairwell back to her. “You’ll get your chance.”

  This felt ominous. Was it something to do with her failed Celebration? She thought she’d been punished for that already. Mark believed she was going to try harder next time, didn’t he?

  He grabbed her arm. She tugged it away and he whistled.

  “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not going back there.”

  “Fair enough. You can go back to your room or you can sit out here on the floor. With me.”

  Which was worse, the confines of her room, or the company of this man?

  “Alright.” She turned back towards her room and shuffled along the corridor, her arms brushing the walls. These would have been servants’ bedrooms once. She wondered if they had been treated better than her.

  “Good. Sensible girl.” She wrinkled up her nose, but didn’t turn to let him see.

  Back in her room, she stood on her bed and pushed at the roof window with all her strength. It had a catch which she had been able to pry open, but try as she might she couldn’t push the window up. She needed air. She reached up both hands and stooped to put her back into the effort, pushing as hard as she can.

  There was a sound behind her as the door banged into her bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  She turned. “Nothing. I want some air, that’s all.”

  “Are you trying to escape?”

  “No.” She was three floors up here; the roof of this house would be uneven and might lead down to the lower levels, but going up that way was too risky. Especially feeling as weak as she did.

  He rounded the door and took a step in, reaching out to grab her wrist. He yanked her down and onto the bed. Her arm twisted beneath her.

  “Ow!” she cried. “You’re hurting me.”

  She thought of the day of her failed Celebration, the lengths he would go to. She shrugged him off, rubbing her arm.

  “Sorry,” she said. She sighed. What had happened to her? “I’ll stop.”

  “Good.”

  “At least get me a glass of water.”

  “Jesus Christ, what do you think this is? A hotel?”

  “No. But I’m thirsty, and you’ve stopped me from going down to the dining room. The least you can do is get me something to drink.”

 
He smirked. “Too big for your boots, you are.”

  He turned and closed the door. She yanked it open again. He was walking away from her, his boots echoing along the corridor.

  “What about that drink?”

  He didn’t break stride but instead lifted his right hand, giving her the finger. She scowled and drew back into her room.

  She looked at the window, considering whether she would be able to open it. She was feeling shrunken somehow, and having difficulty breathing. It felt as if there was a hand around her throat.

  “Help me!” she croaked. “I need help.” Her heart was thumping now, and her limbs aching. She felt like she was about to be sick.

  She slumped onto the bed, not hearing the door open again. A hand was on her back. She bucked violently, shaking it off.

  “Rita? What’s wrong?”

  She turned on the bed to see Miss Ashgar standing over her. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Was she imagining things again?

  “Miss Ashgar?”

  The counsellor nodded. “Call me Meena. Are you OK?”

  She shook her head violently and brought her hand to her neck. “Can’t breathe.”

  “One moment.” Miss Ashgar left the room. There was the sound of raised voices and then she reappeared with a glass of water.

  “Sit up. Drink this.”

  She sat next to Rita on the bed and supported her with her arm, raising the glass to her lips. Rita drank, only some of it dribbling down her chin.

  “Thank you,” she gasped. “They’ve imprisoned me up here.”

  Meena shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Have you come to take me downstairs?”

  “Not yet. Sorry.”

  Rita looked at the counsellor. She looked even younger than she had before. “Are you real?”

  Meena put a hand on Rita’s cheek. It was cool. “Does this feel real?”

  Rita nodded. “Why are you here? What made you come up here?”

  A shrug. “I was asked to check up on you.”

  “Oh.” Rita reached out for the glass and Meena handed it to her. She drank eagerly, then wiped her lips. “Who by?”

  Meena’s expression didn’t change. “Dr Clarke. Your counsellor.”

  “He’s still my counsellor? Not you?” Her throat felt dry, despite the water. “Can you get him to open the window? I need air.”