The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  He unbent, bringing himself up to eye level. He glanced over her shoulder. “Of course I’ve offered you my help,” he said loudly. “I’m your counsellor. That’s my job. And the help and support of your group is important too. You will all be reunited very soon, I promise you. Please, give us time to get Rita ready.”

  She gritted her teeth. She’d get nowhere with that camera upon them. Was he imagining Yonda Hughes in her office, watching them now?

  “What do you mean, ready?”

  He shook his head. “I mean better. That’s what I mean, and you know it.”

  “She’s not in the infirmary, is she?”

  He frowned, and flicked his gaze up to the camera then back to her. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I looked.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Nope. I searched the building, found it. She’s not there.”

  He glared at her. “We have more than one infirmary.”

  “So where’s the other one, then?” It certainly wasn’t on any of the above ground floors; she’d searched them all. She tried to remember the outside of the house from when she’d arrived. Was there a separate annex, beyond the hedges to its right?

  “Is it outside? In that other building?”

  He smiled. “Well done, Jennifer. That’s exactly where it is. It’s a quiet, peaceful spot away from the noise of the main house. Perfect for convalescing. She’s being well looked after there.”

  He grabbed her wrist and sat down, pulling her down with him. She landed heavily on her chair, tugging at her arm and scowling at him. He let go but pinned her to the chair with his eyes.

  He leaned in and lowered his voice.

  “You want to get out of here. You told me you were desperate to be reunited with your family. Surely by getting out of here you can help Rita more?”

  “I’ve thought about that. How public is this place? What do people know about it?”

  He shrugged.

  “You see,” she continued. “I think that as soon as I said anything I’d be leaned on, encouraged to keep quiet. I’m not an MP anymore.”

  “I know that. But I encourage you to consider it.”

  It was tempting. By getting out of here, maybe she could find a way to influence Catherine, to expose what was happening here. There had to be something. Even as a disgraced MP, she still had a voice. And then there was Yusuf. He was at home; she could be with him.

  He watched her, tapping his chin with a smooth finger. “Your family, Jennifer. Think about your family.”

  “Stop it!” she snapped. “Stop telling me what to think.” She stood up, feeling dizzy. “You’re trying to get inside my head, and it won’t work.”

  He stood to face her. “I’m only trying to help you—”

  “No you’re not. You don’t give a damn about me, or Rita, or anyone. How can I believe that you’ll help me anyway, even if I do say yes?”

  “Please.”

  She shook her head. “No. You lied to me about Yusuf. You lied to me about Rita. I’m having none of it.”

  She threw her booklet onto his desk and stumbled to the door, throwing herself into the quiet corridor outside.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Rita didn’t know how long it was since they’d turned out the light.

  At first it was a welcome relief from the twenty four hour glare of the bare bulb. She’d finally closed her eyes to find blackness behind her eyelids instead of orangey redness. She’d even managed to sleep. But waking up to total darkness was a different matter.

  How long had she been asleep? It could be hours, it could be minutes. It was long enough for her bladder to be full. She fumbled her way out of bed, feeling for the edges of the metal bed frame, peeling paint and dents rough to her blind fingers. The sink was next to her, she knew – she’d bumped her hip on it, making her cry out in pain. And the toilet was at the end of the bed, facing it. She edged to the foot of the bed, flailing with her hands in the blackness, until her fingers landed on the cistern. She breathed with relief.

  Now she was back on the bed, which felt like the only safe place in the darkness. Sounds had become amplified. The tap over the sink was dripping, and there was a regular tap-tap sound coming from somewhere through the wall behind her. She turned to it, knocking gently then waiting for a response. Nothing.

  When the door opened it felt like an assault on her eyes. She threw an arm up to shield her face, curling into herself on the bed. The corridor outside had seemed dark and cold on her way here, shrouded in dim light from the small windows that lined the pathway outside at ground level. But thrown in relief against the pitch darkness she had been sandwiched in, it was like a searchlight on her face.

  A shadow fell over her. She looked up, blinking, trying to make out its shape. It was too slim to be Tim and didn’t smell like Roy. She let her breathing slow. At least she wasn’t due a beating.

  “Come with me,” said a voice. Her counsellor?

  He held out a hand and waited for her to take it. She hesitated, focusing. He was stooping over her, his face registering concern. Not the anger she had seen last time.

  She looked at the hand then decided anything was better than this. Or at least, she hoped it was. She slipped her own hand into it and let him take her weight as she pushed herself up from the bed. Her back screamed as she moved, and her legs were sore from the last beating. There would be bruises the size of melons on her abdomen when she was at last allowed to look.

  He smiled as she pulled herself upright, allowing her a few moments to regain her balance.

  “Good,” he said, and let go of her hand. He turned to the door.

  She shuffled after him, squinting against the light in the corridor. It was dull outside; she could hear raindrops against the glass of the high windows. But still, the light hurt.

  They turned a few corners – two or three, she wasn’t sure – and stopped at the door to his office. The corridor was empty, the only sound that of distant kitchen noises. She wondered where everyone was. But at least she knew where she was now.

  She followed him into his office. It hadn’t changed; the same desk shoved against the wall, the same two plastic chairs, the same view of feet and car tyres from the window. The gonks. She wondered how he, as a senior member of staff, hadn’t been able to get himself a nicer office. Meena’s had been larger than this. But then, Meena’s hadn’t had a window.

  “Please, take a seat,” he said. Formal, polite. She obeyed, glad to rest her aching limbs. She looked down at herself. Her arms were patched with red marks and her feet were bleeding. The counsellor looked at her face, ignoring the injuries.

  He opened a cupboard and brought out a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. “Put these on,” he said.

  She stared at him. “Here?”

  “I’ll turn my back.”

  He walked to the window and raised his hands to the sill, intent on the limited view. She looked at him furtively then grabbed the clothes. The gown she had been wearing clung to her, blood, snot and sweat plastering the rough fabric to her skin. She peeled it off, glad to let it drop to the floor, and threw the new clothes on as fast as she could manage with her sore limbs. It hurt, but that didn’t stop her racing against the moment that he turned around.

  She sat down. “Ready.”

  He turned and smiled. “That’s better.”

  She grunted, brushing her hair behind her ear. It felt heavy and damp.

  “Are you letting me out of there?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse.

  Another smile. “That depends on you.”

  “Doesn’t it always?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t change, do you Rita? Whatever we do to you, you’re still fighting.”

  She shrugged, pulling the sweatshirt farther down over her stomach. She could feel her ribs. “Dunno.” She hesitated. “You do know what they did to me down there, don’t you?”

  He took the chair opposite her, at a diagonal. The table was empt
y today; no booklets, no files. He laid his hands on it.

  “You’ve got a chance to prove yourself,” he said. “I brought you here because I want to help you get past the problems you’ve been having.”

  “Aren’t you going to answer my question?” She narrowed her eyes. “Did you tell them to hurt me?”

  He sighed. “You were behaving violently. They just restrained you, that’s all.”

  She was about to pull her sweatshirt up, show him her bruised stomach, then thought better of it. Instead she pulled up a trouser leg. It hurt to bend down, pain attacking her hips and back.

  “What about this?” she asked, looking at the red marks on the back of her legs.

  He glanced at her legs then looked away. “Please, Rita. We need to discuss your problems.”

  “What problems?”

  “I think you know what I’m talking about. Your insubordination and uncooperativeness, for a start.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, thinking of all the chats she’d had with Darius Williams. He was a bright kid, but bored easily. They were just chats, though. The sort of treatment that was meted out here had been long since banned in schools. She wondered what he’d make of this place, then shuddered at the thought of any child in here.

  “Not saying anything, then. That’s fine.” Dr Clarke leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. Below the table his feet touched hers. She jerked them away. “I’m going to ask you to run through the programme for me. Right here, today. All six steps. If you do it correctly – and honestly – you’ll be allowed back up to your room.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve seen me try before. You were there for my Celebration. The idea of me doing the six steps, and of you believing me, is absurd.”

  “I don’t agree with you.”

  “Then you’re an idiot as well as a bully.”

  “I really don’t appreciate those sort of accusations.”

  She raised an eyebrow. How did that hurt, too?

  He sighed, leaning back towards her. “Two days ago you were desperate for my help. You told me you were being a good girl. That you were scared of the orderlies.”

  She leaned back, saying nothing.

  “Don’t you want to get out of that room? Or are you happy for me to take you back there? To call Tim?”

  She felt her heart skip a beat. She looked up at him. “Alright.”

  He smiled. “Good. OK, let’s start with step one.” He leaned back, pushing his chair away from the desk.

  He nodded for her to start. She sniffed, trying to remember. Her mind felt dull and clogged. Had they hit her on the head? She was pretty sure they hadn’t, but if they had, would she remember it?

  “I confess that I have been disloyal to the British state. I failed to recite the British Values Oath with the children in my class.”

  That was easy enough. Step One was just the facts. If it got her out of that cell, she could deal with the facts.

  “Very good,” he said. “Now, can we move on to Step Two. Do you accept the sovereignty of the British state?”

  There was a knock on the door. He leapt up from his chair, glancing at the high camera before moving towards the door. He cleared his throat, his expression uneasy. “I’m in the middle of a one-to-one. Who is it?”

  The door opened. “It’s me. I’ve come to see how you’re getting on.”

  Rita turned to see the governor standing in the doorway, filling it with her bulk. She wasn’t fat, not really exactly, more well-built. And the heels meant that the top of her immaculate hairdo scraped the top of the doorframe.

  She sensed Mark go taut next to her. “Ah, Yonda, come in.”

  The governor stepped inside, peering around the room as if she’d never been in quite such a dismal space before.

  “Thank you, Mark. Hello Rita.” She gave the camera a meaningful look. “I thought I’d come and sit in.”

  Rita looked up at the camera. Was someone else watching them? Or had Yonda been watching all this time? It hardly mattered to her now.

  “Very well,” Mark said, putting a hand on his chair. “Please, take a seat.”

  She shook her head and approached Rita. “I’m fine standing, thank you.”

  There was a moment’s awkwardness as Mark decided whether to sit again. Finally he opted for remaining upright so that the two of them flanked Rita in her chair. She stayed where she was, feeling cornered.

  Mark pulled at his shirt sleeve. It was frayed at the cuff. “We were working on the six steps. Step Two, precisely.”

  Yonda gave Rita a look that made her think of school inspectors. “I know. Go on, then.”

  Rita could remember the second step; she’d done it a few times, in group. “I accept the sovereignty of the British state.”

  Yonda rolled her eyes. “Give it some feeling, girl. From the heart.” Her voice rose on the last sentence, making Rita cower. Yonda’s cheeks were glowing and her hair was loosening.

  Rita sniffed. She could do this. “I love this country. I’m lucky to be a citizen of it.”

  She clenched her knees together. That was no lie. She did love her country. Just not the way it was being governed right now.

  Yonda laughed. “You’re not a citizen, you stupid woman. Jesus, who do they employ for teachers these days? You’re a subject. Of Her Majesty the Queen. How do you feel about that?”

  Rita shrugged. “Fine. It doesn’t make much difference.”

  She felt movement on the back of her chair and looked down to see Yonda’s hand on it. Her knuckles were pale.

  “You’re lying.”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide. “No. Honest. I love this country just as much as anyone.”

  Yonda pulled on the chair, turning it so Rita was almost facing her. “Not that bit. Try again.”

  Rita tried to remember what she’d said; why was it so hard to recall your own lies?

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  Yonda gave a satisfied nod. “Exactly. You’ll never get out of here with that attitude.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m trying my hardest—” She flung her head back towards Mark. “Please, help me try. Help me get through the steps. I can do it. I know I can.”

  Mark gave Yonda a wary look then crouched down to Rita. “I know. You just need to try a bit harder. I can’t help you unless you help yourself, can I?”

  His eyes were full of kindness but his words were no better than Yonda’s. She shrugged.

  The chair moved again, almost tipping her backwards. Yonda leaned over her, her hands on its back either side of Rita’s head. Rita drew her shoulders forward, the proximity of Yonda’s skin feeling like an insect about to bite.

  “Go on then,” Yonda said. “Show us what you can do. Step Four.”

  “What about Step Three?”

  “That one’s easy. Everyone gets that one.” She looked past Rita to Mark. “Especially when they have a counsellor like Mark. Who wouldn’t accept this man’s support?”

  Rita clenched her teeth. Did Yonda know what Mark had got his orderlies to do?

  The chair shifted again. “Go on then. We’ll take Step Three as read. Accept the support of the counsellor and the group, blah blah. Now give me Four.”

  Rita could feel her heart rate accelerating. She couldn’t remember Step Four. The only time she’d done it was in Celebration, and that was a blur.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “Can you remind me…”

  Mark answered her. “Tell us who you harmed. And how you’ll atone for what you did. Please.”

  “OK. I harmed the children in my class.”

  “How?”

  “Sorry?”

  “How exactly did you harm them?”

  “I don’t have to say that. It’s not in the programme.”

  Yonda shook her head. “Rita, if you’re to get through these steps, you have to convince us. We have to believe that it’s co
ming from your heart. That’s why we ask follow up questions.” She paused, eyeing her. “Have you ever had a job interview?”

  “Of course.” I’m a teacher, you idiot, she thought. She’d had plenty of them, moving from school to school as budgets were cut.

  “Well, think of these as the probing questions. The ones the interviewers pop in after the politically correct standard questions. The bit where they get to the meat, if you will.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “OK.”

  “So, how did you harm those children?”

  She considered. As far as she was concerned, she’d done quite the opposite. How could refusing to brainwash a class of kids bring them to harm? But she’d heard the mantra, she’d been to the teacher training sessions. She’d barely listened, but enough had gone in.

  “By not reciting the oath, those children will be more likely to commit acts of disloyalty. They’re at greater risk of radicalisation, or of taking an interest in proscribed groups and activities.”

  “Mm-hmm. All very textbook. But how do you believe you harmed those children? How you really harmed them. Tell me how it makes you feel.”

  Rita closed her eyes, turning her face towards the wall. What did they expect her to say? What would get her though this?

  “Those children deserve to become productive members of society,” she said, searching through her memory for what they’d told her at school. “They deserve to love this country as much as I do. I didn’t help them do that.”

  “I’m not buying it,” said Yonda, her voice hard. “But let’s move on. How will you make amends to those children?”

  Rita’s mind was blank. She had no idea what this question meant. Her limbs ached from the constant movement of the chair and her head felt heavy. She wanted to sleep.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Yonda kicked the chair leg, narrowly missing Rita’s shin. Rita pulled her legs in underneath her.

  “It’s not rocket science, girl. Tell us how you’ll fix what you did. Then you can go back to your room, and your lovely group.”

  Rita blushed. She was desperate to get out of that cell, to see daylight again. She let herself look up at Mark’s high window, to imagine what might be outside. If she pushed past Yonda, could she make it to the window and shout something? Would anyone hear her?