The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  Meena frowned but slipped out and brought Tim back with her. She looked uncomfortable. But she was clearly his superior.

  Meena pointed at the window. “Open it, please. She needs fresh air.”

  “But—”

  Meena raised an eyebrow and the orderly shrugged. “It gets closed when you leave.”

  “Of course.”

  He drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and leaned over the bed. He brought one of them up to the window and pushed it open with ease. Rita cursed herself.

  She stood to push her face into the gap, breathing in the damp air. The angle of the window kept her dry but the occasional raindrop rebounded against the roof below and onto her chin. It felt wonderful.

  “Come down, please,” said Meena. “It isn’t safe.”

  Rita let herself drop to the bed. Meena was sitting at the end of it now, wiping her damp hands on a tissue.

  “Why are you here, again?” asked Rita.

  “I told you. Dr Clarke.”

  “I don’t get it. He wanted me to think I’d imagined you. Why does he send you up here now, when I’m being kept away from everyone?”

  Meena shrugged. Sounds came from above Rita’s head, through the window. The crunch of car tyres on gravel, followed by voices. She sprang up, ignoring Meena’s restraining hand on her leg.

  Pushing herself up to see over the lip of the roof, she could make out the driveway below. Her room was at the front of the house and so she had a view of the lawns that swept up from the road, and the gravelled area where she’d waited while the police had tried to bring her in by the wrong entrance.

  Four cars were parked below, gleaming black in the wet. They were large and official-looking. She frowned.

  “What’s going on down there?” she asked, not taking her face away from the window.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those cars.”

  Meena put her hand on Rita’s calf. “Get down, please. It’s not safe. There’s nothing going on.”

  Rita turned towards her, banging her head on the window. “Ouch.” Meena winced.

  She sat down to face her old counsellor. “Have they banished you up here too?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “They have, haven’t they?”

  Meena’s expression hardened. “No, Rita. You’re being paranoid.”

  “I’m not. You’re just as bad as me, in their eyes. That’s why you’re up here with me.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not. All the other counsellors are white. Does anyone outside this place know that they gave you a job, after you passed?”

  Meena frowned. “Of course they do. Now stop it. I need you to behave yourself.”

  “You’re being naive.”

  “No, Rita. You’re being naive.” She stood up, and called Tim back. “Shut that window please.”

  Tim did so, grinning at Rita. Meena thanked him and turned back to Rita. “They don’t hate you for the colour of your skin, Rita. They don’t hate me because I wear a veil. It’s what you did that’s the problem. What I did. Whoever you are, if you can show them that you’re willing to make amends, that you can be loyal, they’ll forgive you. They’ll let you go.”

  Rita snorted. “If only it were that simple.” She thought of Ash, the angry music he would listen to condemning white supremacy. She hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but he was right. And Meena had been brainwashed.

  “You’ll see,” she said, as Meena retired. “I’ll prove you wrong.”

  Meena gave her a withering look and closed the door. Rita rose to pull the door open and tumbled into the corridor. Meena was retreating, heading towards Tim at the top of the stairs.

  “They hate you!” Rita cried. “They hate us all!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Catherine looked even more demure and professional than she had last time Jennifer had seen her. This wasn’t the nervous, clumsily dressed woman who had emptied her bag onto the table in their train carriage when they had first met.

  She gave Jennifer a smile that dripped with aloofness.

  “Jennifer. How are you?”

  “I’m coping.”

  Catherine’s smile deepened but there was a vacant look in her eyes, as if her mind was elsewhere. She pushed the door closed behind her and approached Jennifer. She put her hands on Jennifer’s shoulders and held her out to look at her. Catherine’s heels were high, which meant they were at the same height. Jennifer glanced down at her feet; neat blue designer heels, with sensible tan tights and a straight blue skirt in the exact same colour. Over it she wore a long grey coat that looked like cashmere. A white scarf was knotted at her neck, and in her pale ears were small pearls. Her makeup was still subtle, but very slightly heavier than in the past, with a pink blush brightening her cheeks and brown eyeshadow making her eyes look darker.

  Jennifer looked at her, wondering. Was this the Catherine who’d risked everything to warn her about Samir? Or the Catherine who’d betrayed her in the Commons Chamber?

  “Your hair’s grown,” Catherine said.

  Jennifer allowed herself a laugh. She had to believe that Catherine was here as a friend. “That’s just the half of it. What about you?”

  Catherine shrugged and looked down at herself. “Goes with the territory.” She looked back, into Jennifer’s face. Her eyes were dancing now, and had lost that abstracted look. “I’m Home Secretary. Did they tell you?”

  Jennifer nodded. “Yes. Since when?”

  “Last week.” Catherine gave a shy smile. Jennifer imagined what it would have been like with the two of them on opposing sides, trading barbs across the chamber. Then she remembered that debate, the day of her arrest. She pulled away.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To see you, of course. Oh, and a sort of social visit. At least, that’s what I told Ms Hughes.” She leaned in. “What does she think she looks like, a parrot?”

  Jennifer stared at her. Sure, she didn’t have a lot of time for Yonda, but when she was a minister she never would have talked about her staff like that.

  Catherine pulled back. “You look well, Jennifer. Better than I expected. I assume this place is treating you better than prison?”

  Jennifer winced. “Yes.”

  “Come. Let’s sit down.” Catherine moved towards the two easy chairs beyond Yonda’s desk, shrugging off her coat and letting it slide onto Yonda’s chair. Beneath it she wore a blue jacket in the same colour as the skirt, with a black blouse. The scarf was pulled off too and it joined the coat on the desk.

  Jennifer sat down, pulling her knees back so they wouldn’t touch Catherine’s. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Least I could do.” Catherine pulled a mirror out of her handbag – smaller than the monstrosity she’d been carrying when they first met but still roomy – and dabbed at her eyelid with a forefinger. “I thought you might need a bit of support.”

  “Well, more than that. I imagine.”

  Catherine put the mirror back in her bag. “Sorry?”

  “How’s Yusuf? I take it you know where he is? And Samir?”

  Catherine frowned. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why ever not? I’ll be seeing them soon.”

  Catherine looked into her eyes for a moment then blinked, pulling on a smile. “Yusuf is fine. He’s at your house.”

  “What?”

  A shrug. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “But wasn’t he arrested too?”

  “Briefly. But he didn’t hide your son. Samir. Your lawyer managed to produce evidence that Samir ran away before the police told Yusuf they were looking for him. So as far as the court was concerned, he had no knowledge, and so he didn’t hide him.”

  Jennifer stared at her, waiting for the nervousness to show, the recognition of the truth. Yusuf had known, of course, and because Catherine had told Jennifer. Wasn’t she going to acknowledge it?

  Catherine’s eyes roamed the room, covering every in
ch; ceilings, walls, floor. Looking for a camera.

  “Good,” said Jennifer. “That’s wonderful news. What about Samir?”

  Catherine’s head dipped. “I told you I can’t tell you.”

  “Has he had an appeal?”

  Catherine stilled. “Jennifer, you understand the seriousness of what he did, right?”

  “He did nothing. He had some friends, that was all. No-one has been able to prove anything different.”

  “No. He was associated with a prohibited group. That’s different from having friends. You saw that photo of his girlfriend.”

  Jennifer felt her neck grow hot. She thought of Miss Ashgar, of Rita shouting her name at Celebration. If it was really her, then surely Catherine would know. Unless she’d been deliberately sent here, to watch Jennifer…

  Change the subject, she thought. Don’t make things worse for Samir.

  “So. When will I be going home?”

  “Going home?”

  She nodded. “I owe you, Catherine, I really do. Now I can get them back. My family.”

  Catherine stood up. A sound came from Yonda’s desk; a mobile phone vibrating inside the green jacket draped over the back of the chair. Jennifer hoped Yonda wouldn’t come back to answer it. Where was she, anyway?

  “What makes you think you’re going home, Jennifer?”

  Her mind raced. “Not today. I understand. How it has to look. But it’ll be soon, right?”

  Catherine shook her head. “It isn’t like that.”

  Jennifer stood up. Catherine had moved to the window and had her back to her. Outside, she could hear a car starting up.

  “Do I have to go through the motions? Have one of those Celebration things? I understand.”

  Catherine was shaking her head. Jennifer stayed where she was, with the desk between them.

  “What do you need me to do, Catherine? Just tell me.”

  Catherine said nothing. Jennifer clenched her fists.

  “Say something. Tell me what’s going to happen.”

  Catherine turned. “I haven’t come here to get you released.”

  Jennifer glanced at the camera over the door. “Of course not. Just get me fast-tracked. I’ll pass Celebration and I’ll be out. Fair and square.”

  Catherine gave her a pitying look. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  The back of Jennifer’s legs hit the easy chair she’d been sitting in. She let herself drop into it. How was Catherine going to tell her what to expect, with the camera watching?

  She scanned the desk; nothing on it except that laptop and the ugly dog statue. What could she write with? She had an idea.

  She stood up and beckoned Catherine, heading back to the window. She stood close to it and breathed out, her breath fogging the glass. She moved from side to side, making circles with her face and fogging up as large an area as possible.

  “When go home?” she wrote. She turned to Catherine, smiling and pointing at the window.

  Catherine frowned. She held her finger out to the window; it was pale, and neatly manicured.

  “You won’t,” she wrote.

  Jennifer frowned. “No, rlly,” she wrote. The window was clearing now; she took a moment to fog it up again. “Understand,” she wrote. “Secret.”

  Catherine swallowed. “No secret. Stay here,” she wrote, and then lifted the sleeve of her jacket to wipe the window clean. She leaned in to inspect it, checking that all traces of their conversation were gone.

  Jennifer turned to her. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

  “You have to stay here.” Catherine’s voice was low. She wouldn’t meet Jennifer’s eyes. “You can’t leave.”

  Jennifer put a hand on her shoulder. Catherine stiffened but didn’t pull away. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought you’d help me.”

  Catherine met her gaze. “Don’t you understand?” she whispered. “I can’t help you.” She pulled back and walked towards the desk. “I’ll ask them to go easy on you. I know how hard it can be for politicians in these places. There hasn’t been any trouble, has there?”

  Jennifer felt sick. She stared at Catherine, her hand on her stomach. “Not here. Prison,” she managed to say.

  Catherine’s eyes creased. “I’m sorry. What did they do to you?”

  Jennifer shook her head, dumb. There was a moment’s silence. Yonda’s jacket vibrated again. They ignored it.

  Catherine picked up her coat from the desk and draped it over her arm. “Anyway, I have to go.”

  Jennifer glared at her. “You helped me before, Catherine. Why won’t you help me now?”

  Catherine gave her a warning look. “Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She wound the scarf around her neck.

  “I’ll get out,” said Jennifer. Her voice had come back; it was hard and even.

  Catherine shook her head. “No. You stay here. I’ll make sure you’re treated well, but you won’t be leaving. Sorry.”

  “Will you bloody stop saying you’re sorry?” She ran at Catherine, lifting up her fists. Fear crossed Catherine’s face before Jennifer stopped in her tracks.

  “I will find my own way. This programme isn’t as tough as you think it is. I’ll get through it, I’ll do the Celebration, and I’ll get out. You’ll see.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “Of course it will. It already is. My counsellor, Mark, he’s pleased with my progress. Thinks I’m doing well.” Her voice trailed off as she remembered Mark’s refusal to fast-track her. She squared her shoulders. “Once I get through the six steps, they won’t be able to refuse me.”

  Catherine shook her head. “We’re too alike, you and me.”

  “No. We really aren’t.”

  A smile. “I know what you’re doing. What you’re trying to do. I get reports. No-one’s surprised that I’m taking a special interest in the former MP. Your progress in here reflects on all of us, after all.”

  “I don’t care what you think.”

  Catherine sighed. “What do I have to say to convince you?”

  “Nothing. You’ve said enough.”

  “Alright then. I’ll show you.”

  Jennifer waited for Catherine to put her coat down, to make some sort of gesture. What was she going to show her?

  “I don’t get you,” she said.

  “Your plan,” replied Catherine. “It won’t work. You’ll see. Just wait.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mark raised a hand to the wood.

  “Come in.”

  He sniffed and pushed the door open. He was expecting this; Yonda would want to debrief after the Home Secretary’s visit. A post-mortem. He wondered if the other counsellors had already been summoned or if he’d be first in, given that the MP was in his group.

  Sitting at Yonda’s desk, in her chair, was a neat-looking woman with dark hair tucked behind her ears. She smiled and stood up.

  “Hello. You must be Mark Clarke. Catherine Moore, Home Secretary.”

  She reached across the desk and he shook her hand. She hadn’t needed to introduce herself; this woman’s sudden ascension to one of the top four political jobs in the country had been all over the news for the last week. She was only thirty-two and a first term MP. He wondered who she’d had to kill to get there.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said, slipping into his doctor persona. There’d been plenty of ministerial visits to the hospital, especially when elections were looming. They’d often skipped the psychiatric ward but on a couple of occasions he’d been graced with the ministerial presence. No cameras though; his patients weren’t suitable.

  “Take a seat, please.” She gestured towards the two low chairs. He turned to see Yonda sitting in one of them. She gave him a look that warned him not to pass comment.

  Catherine leaned back in Yonda’s chair. A coat that he presumed was hers was draped over the desk and the dog statuette had been pushed to one side. He could only imagine how Yonda felt about this.

&nbs
p; “Thanks for letting me visit,” she said.

  Yonda leaned forwards. “Not a problem, Minister. We like to demonstrate just how smoothly this centre is run.”

  Catherine nodded. “Of course.” She turned to Mark. “You’re a counsellor here?”

  Yonda interrupted. “Mark is one of my more experienced members of staff. We give him some of the most difficult patients.”

  Patients. Not a word Yonda was always accustomed to using.

  Catherine nodded impatiently. “Tell me about your – patients, Dr Clarke.”

  Yonda took a deep breath and sat back in her chair. She was gripping its arms. The seat was all wrong for her; she had to lift her knees up to accommodate those heels and it made her look intensely uncomfortable. Mark wondered how the minister had managed to steal that precious desk.

  “Well,” he said. “It’s not much different from working in a clinical setting really. I have three groups of women. Each of them has six members. I work with them, individually and as a group, to help them overcome negative thoughts. Negative emotions. The aim is to enable them to leave here as fully functioning members of society.”

  “Of course,” the minister said, bringing her fingers together. They looked like they’d been scrubbed; you could perform surgery with those hands. “And what techniques do you use?”

  He glanced at Yonda. Was some sort of accusation being made? She nodded at him and turned to the minister.

  “The programme, of course,” she said. “We work through it with them in one-to-one sessions with their counsellor. The aim is to form a bond that enables us to get through any barriers. Then they help each other to progress, in group sessions.”

  “And the Celebration ceremony? How does that work?”

  Mark frowned; surely the Home Secretary would know this? He racked his brains, remembering the manual. Was there anything they were doing differently?

  “It’s a wonderful event,” Yonda continued.

  Catherine held up a hand. “Thank you, Ms Hughes, but I was asking your doctor here. You’re here because of your background in psychiatry, right?”