The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

“Yes. But other colleagues – quite a few of them – are counsellors. Not medical practitioners. I’m the only one, in fact.”

  “Which is why the governor here relies on you so much.”

  “I wouldn’t say—” interrupted Yonda.

  “Carry on,” said the minister. “Tell me about Celebration. Can I call you Mark?”

  He nodded. I bet I can’t call you Catherine, he thought. “We bring all of the women together, all of our patients. Those ready for Celebration are given the opportunity to show everyone their progress. Their commitment. It’s very motivational.”

  “And the drugs. You use the recommended dose?”

  “Of course.”

  “They work? They achieve the desired effect?”

  He thought about Rita, the way she had told him exactly what she thought of him, lying on that gurney. “They do.”

  “Good.” She swept her hand across the table as if wiping off dust, then peered at her fingers.

  “Can I ask a question?” he asked.

  She looked up. “Of course.”

  Yonda frowned at him. He swallowed. “One of our patients is a former parliamentary colleague of yours.”

  The minister’s eyes sharpened. Yonda’s grip on the chair arm closest to him tightened.

  “Indeed,” said the minister. “In fact, Ms Hughes here let me speak to her. Alone. I thought it would encourage her.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Does that mean that our instructions have changed?”

  The minister’s gaze was hard. “How do you mean, changed?”

  “Well,” he said. “My understanding was that she was to stay here for some time. Fully understand the nature of her crimes. I’ve been ensuring she doesn’t progress as quickly through the programme as she’d like to.”

  There was silence while they stared at each other. Mark wished his chair was higher.

  “Was that the right thing to do?” he asked.

  She stood up, brushing her fingers across the desk again. Her coat fell to the floor and she looked at it as if about to pick it up. Then she moved away from it, leaving it next to the desk.

  She rounded the desk and perched on it, pushing the dog further towards its edge. Yonda coughed.

  The minister stood up, brushing her skirt as if she’d got it dirty. “Oh I’m so sorry,” she said. “You probably don’t want me sitting on your desk.”

  Yonda stood up. “No, that’s fine, of course. Make yourself at home.” Mark could see her eyes flitting to her chair; she longed to sit in it, to regain control of the room.

  “Right,” said the minister. “Where were we?”

  “Jennifer Sinclair,” said Mark.

  “Of course. Going back to Celebration. A patient gets two cracks at it, right?”

  He nodded. You don’t need me to tell you this, he thought. Then it occurred to him; she’d been Home Secretary for a matter of days, at a time when terror threats were an almost constant fact of life and the prison population was rising exponentially. She might not have read the relevant files yet.

  In which case the reason she was here wasn’t for a formal visit, but to see her old friend.

  “Will we be releasing her?” he blurted.

  “Who?”

  “Mark, please,” muttered Yonda.

  Mark stood up, not happy with being the only one sitting down. Now they were all at the same level, in the centre of the room. Yonda scratched the back of her head.

  The minister turned to him. “Here’s what I want you to do. I believe that Jennifer Sinclair has seen the error of her ways. I’ve spoken to her, and she’s ready.”

  “Ready?” he asked.

  The minister cocked her head. “For her Celebration.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The noise was unbearable. All around them, people were stamping their feet, clapping their hands, whistling through their fingers. Rita put her hands to her ears, deafened.

  Maryam leaned towards her. “Horrible, isn’t it?” she shouted.

  Rita nodded. “Was it like this when I had mine?”

  “Yes. Just the same. It always is.”

  “Why?”

  Maryam shrugged. “Gives us a chance to let off some steam, I suppose. Break in the tension. They like to control it, stop us from releasing it when we shouldn’t. At who we shouldn’t.”

  “But the poor woman. The victim.”

  Maryam arched an eyebrow. “Is that how you see it?”

  “It was for me. I didn’t want to be there.” She sniffed, looking at the empty space in front of them. There was a bed in the centre of it, empty and waiting. She didn’t remember being transferred to a bed.

  “Will they move her onto that?” she asked, nodding towards it.

  “No. She’ll walk in.”

  “That’s not what happened to me.”

  “You were resisting.”

  “And Jennifer isn’t?”

  “What do you think? She’s been gunning for this since day one.”

  Rita nodded. Jennifer had been kind to her, after her own Celebration, and she’d reacted with angry hostility.

  The door opened and the noise abated. It started again when the women realised that it was only two counsellors, hurrying to take their places at the front. One of them was Meena. She scanned the crowd and then nodded when her gaze hit Rita. Rita glared at her.

  “Who’s that?” asked Maryam.

  “She was my counsellor. When I got here. She’s an idiot.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rita turned to face Maryam, puzzled. Maryam pulled her closer and whispered into her ear. “Only she was an inmate, when I got here.”

  Rita stiffened. So she hadn’t been imagining things. They really had given a job to a woman who’d gone through the programme and come out the other side. Well, she wouldn’t be accepting any job, however cushy.

  “Were you at her Celebration?”

  Maryam nodded.

  “What was it like?”

  “Textbook. They loved her.”

  “Who was her counsellor?”

  “Dr Clarke, of course.”

  Rita watched Meena talking to the other counsellors. The two men looked awkward in her company, tripping over themselves to be polite but with a wariness in their eyes.

  The door opened again and a large black woman in an emerald green suit walked in. Piled on her head was a floral headscarf.

  “Who’s that?”

  Maryam screwed up her nose. “Yonda Hughes. Governor. She’s in charge of all the counsellors.”

  The governor raised her arms, beaming. The noise abated, orderlies picking their way into the crowd to hush those who were slow on the uptake. It reminded Rita of school assemblies, Mrs Toft glaring at children who didn’t sit quietly, legs folded and arms crossed. She almost expected the governor to put a finger to her lips.

  After a moment’s quiet she moved towards the women, pacing in front of them. Rita and Maryam were in the front row with the rest of their group and Rita could hear the swishing of the governor’s tights as she passed.

  “Good morning, everybody,” she exclaimed. Rita closed her eyes, half expecting a singsong Good Morning, Mrs Hughes.

  The governor gestured towards the window behind them. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? Perfect for a Celebration.”

  She beckoned one of the orderlies over and muttered in his ear. He crossed to the window and pulled the curtains shut while one of his colleagues flicked a light switch.

  As the governor passed in front of them again Rita remembered something from her own Celebration – a canary, she’d imagined it to be. Was it this woman, in her bright plumage?

  She leaned in towards Maryam, her eyes on the governor, who was looking over their heads.

  “The sedative they gave me, for Celebration.”

  Maryam nodded. “Shh.”

  “You got one too, right?”

  “Shh.”

  Yonda’s gaze moved to them. Rita pulled back and adopted her most innoce
nt smile, wondering if the governor remembered her from last time.

  She raised her arms again. “Come on ladies, let’s show our lucky celebrant our appreciation!”

  Rita took the opportunity to turn to Maryam, her mouth close to the other woman’s ear.

  “Maryam, did you need a sedative?”

  Maryam shook her head.

  “So did you get drugs?”

  Maryam shrugged. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t aware of any, but I didn’t feel… right. You know?”

  Rita looked across at the bed, the small table next to it. There was a jug, a glass and an unmarked box.

  “Did they make you drink first?”

  Maryam frowned. “I’m not sure.”

  “They made me drink a glass of water. It tasted odd, I assumed that was because of the sedative.”

  The doors opened and the room descended into hush. Behind them, a woman coughed. Another giggled and an orderly muttered something.

  There were dim figures beyond the door; two people, walking. Unlike her. She looked back at the table, the box. What was it for?

  “Maryam,” she hissed. “How did you feel? Was it like you were drunk?”

  Maryam stiffened.

  “Sorry. Was it, I don’t know, was it like—”

  “It reminded me of the time I took sleeping tablets. After my mum died.”

  Rita blushed.

  Yonda was talking now, facing the door where the two figures lurked.

  Maryam continued. “I felt woozy, light-headed. Delirious, almost.”

  Rita nodded. She remembered it, now.

  “And you know what else?” Maryam said, as if only remembering it herself for the first time. “I felt an overwhelming desire to tell the truth.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The noise enveloped her before they even opened the doors. She thought of Rita. Wheeled in here, the things she’d said to Mark. Poor Rita.

  This would be different.

  She squared her shoulders, looking between the two orderlies standing either side of the double doors. The corridor was in darkness, the only light coming through the window in the centre of each door. They were stained glass, and in need of a clean. All she could make out beyond were dim shadows.

  There was a hush and then she heard Yonda Hughes’ voice, sharp and echoing in the high space. Jennifer swallowed. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined she was standing outside the Commons chamber, waiting to enter those double doors. Preparing for a big speech. A frisson of excitement ran through her. This time tomorrow, she would be out of here. Home, with Yusuf. She clenched her fists and pushed back a smile.

  The light through the windows dimmed and the doors were opened. She glanced at Mark, standing next to her. He nodded her through. She hesitated. Yonda was still talking, her voice clear. She wondered if Rita had heard any of this, or if she’d been sedated, lying out there on that gurney. She couldn’t remember.

  “Many of you will have seen today’s celebrant in the news,” Yonda said. Jennifer hardened her jaw; was she going to use her notoriety against her?

  “Forget about that,” the governor continued. Jennifer relaxed. “Today she is one of you, one of us. Today she needs your support. Now show us how excited you are!”

  The frenzy rose again. This time, Jennifer could see the faces in the dim room, and pick out her own group in the front row. Rita and Maryam were whispering to each other, their eyes on the governor, who was pacing back and forth in front of the assembled prisoners, revelling in it all.

  When I get out of here, thought Jennifer, I’ll get this place closed down.

  Mark gave her a light push in the small of the back and she ventured through the doors.

  She kept her head high, waiting for the roar to subside. It didn’t. She looked at Rita and Maryam in the front row, wearing worried expressions. She broadened her smile, encouraging them to join her. This was a celebration, wasn’t it? She was going to get out of here, and then she was going to help them. They should be pleased.

  Maryam shook her head. Rita mouthed something at Jennifer, her lips distorted. Jennifer shrugged and Rita pulled a hand up to her face, wiping her eyes. What was wrong?

  “This way,” Mark muttered, and she turned to follow his gaze. In the centre of the floor, facing the crowd, was a bed. An empty bed, with a small nightstand next to it. Waiting for her.

  She shuddered and looked at Mark. “But I walked in. I came willingly. I don’t need a bed. I don’t need to be strapped down.”

  Her heart rate was rising with the noise, and she could feel sweat on her brow. Why would they need to restrain her, if she was happy to do this? Why would she need to lie down? Surely she could do this sitting in a chair, or standing even? Yes, standing would be good.

  She stepped towards the crowd and opened her mouth. The noise stopped and the women froze, many with their hands mid-air. The orderlies tapped shoulders and dipped into the crowd, jostling the women.

  Yonda Hughes turned from her spot at the front, and looked at Jennifer. She frowned.

  “Get back there!” she hissed.

  Jennifer stepped towards her. “I can do it here. I’m happy to stand. I’d prefer it.”

  “Don’t be stupid, girl. Now get back there and do as your counsellor tells you.”

  Mark was standing behind the bed, watching her. He looked concerned. She curled her lip.

  “Go,” urged Yonda. Jennifer heard the sweep of her clothes as she turned to orchestrate the crowd. The noise started up again.

  Jennifer closed her eyes then opened them again, stepping towards Mark. He looked like he was miles away. Finally she was next to him. She tried not to look at the bed.

  “Why?” she asked him.

  “Procedure, Jennifer. It’s how we always do it. Please, just go along with it. For your own sake. And mine.”

  He glanced at the orderly who was standing at the opposite end of the bed. She recognised him: Tim. He’d been rough with Rita, last time. He was thickset, with a heavy blonde moustache. He gave her a smile that didn’t extend to his eyes.

  She steeled herself to look at the bed. Its top half was angled into a reclining position. There were straps at the bottom edge and the sides, for arms and legs.

  “I won’t need those.”

  “We’ll see,” muttered Mark.

  She swung round, her eyes wide. “I won’t. Don’t tie me up. Please.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Now please, sit on the bed.”

  She took in a deep breath and let it out again slowly, thinking again of the preparation she’d done for big speeches. The day she’d saved her career, despite the death at Bronzefield. The day she’d brought her own government down. The day she’d been arrested. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. Her nails had grown and they dug into her skin. The pain was good; it anchored her.

  She put her hands on the bed and heaved herself up to it, thinking of hospital beds, of the three births she’d gone through. This had to be easier.

  Perched on the bed, she looked at Mark. He looked back into her eyes. “Well done. You’ll be fine. I’ll help you. I promise.”

  She nodded at him, resentful of being patronised like this.

  “Now,” he said, “I need to tell you what’s going to happen.”

  Beyond him, Yonda waved her arms and the women started clapping; a rhythmic, regular clap that made her feel as if they were booing her. It wrapped her and Mark in a cocoon. He bent down to get closer.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions,” he said. “I suggest you drink this first.”

  He lifted a glass of water off the nightstand.

  “No thanks. I’m not thirsty.”

  He shook his head. “You need to drink. It will help you.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  He glanced at Tim. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

  She stiffened. “What’s in it?”

  She eyed the glass; there was a viscous substance d
issolving in it. She recoiled.

  “It’ll help you relax,” said Mark. “It’ll clear your mind. After about five minutes you’ll fall asleep. That’s all. But in those five minutes, we need to work through the six steps. Can you do that?”

  She felt her eyes pricking. “Yes.”

  He lifted the glass to her lips.

  “I can do it.”

  He nodded. She took the glass and drank. It tasted bitter.

  “And the rest.”

  She glanced at Tim again then finished the glass off.

  “Good. Now sit back.”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “Please. If you don’t, you could fall.”

  She frowned. “Alright.” Anything to get her out of this place. Anything to get her back to Yusuf.

  She let him ease her back and shuffled her feet. She was aware of them sticking out of the clinical gown she’d been told to wear, facing the women, and hoped she was decent. She closed her eyes and swallowed. The room was quiet now. She heard a cough echo around the space, followed by shushing.

  Mark turned to the front of the room.

  “This is Jennifer Sinclair. She has worked through the programme with me and agreed today to undergo the Celebration ceremony. I hope you’ll all support her.”

  There was a murmur of assent. Jennifer stared up at the ceiling, wondering what Maryam and Rita were doing. What Rita had been mouthing at her.

  Mark turned to her.

  Her head had begun to feel heavy, as if she’d been drinking.

  “Now, Jennifer. How do you feel?”

  She examined her body mentally, wriggling her toes and fingers. There was a lightness to her limbs. It felt nice. “Good. Thanks.”

  “Good. Now, we’re going to work through the six steps, just like we did in your group sessions, and your one-to-ones with me. OK?”

  “Okey dokey,” she said, then put her hand to her mouth.

  “It’s OK,” he whispered. She remembered Rita. Was she going to make a fool of herself, too? She realised she didn’t care.

  “Step One,” Mark said, his voice louder. “Do you accept that you’ve been disloyal to the state?”

  “I certainly have. First there was John, then Michael, and I brought my—”