The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  Rita licked her lips and stood still, waiting. Yonda looked at Tim and beckoned. He followed Rita inside, looking nervous.

  “Sit down,” Yonda told him. “This won’t take long.”

  He glanced back at Roy, who was hovering by the door. Yonda nodded and he stepped out, closing it.

  Tim lowered himself into one of easy chairs, smoothing his hands on his trousers. He looked huge in the low seat, his pale, heavy bulk incongruous in this space.

  Yonda ignored him and leaned back in her chair, surveying her prey. “You clean up nicely,” she said.

  Rita ignored the compliment. “Are you letting me out?”

  Yonda shook her head. “You do like your questions, don’t you? Just speak when I ask you to, please.”

  Rita said nothing. Yonda raised her eyebrows, clearly unsure whether this was an act of obedience or rebellion.

  “Hmm,” she said. “Look, Rita. I respect you. Really I do. I understand what motivates you, why you’re clinging to your principles. But because of that respect, I want to help you.”

  She leaned over the desk, looking up at Rita. Rita’s bare feet squirmed on the soft rug. She gritted her teeth, pushing down the impulse to speak.

  “I don’t believe that this is the best place for you,” she continued. “I think you would prosper more in a different setting.”

  Rita balled her fists. Setting. What was this, a pupil progress meeting? This was a prison, not a setting. She held her jaw firm and said nothing.

  “But first I want you to see something.”

  “Something?”

  Yonda chuckled. “Please, resist your constant urge to talk. We don’t have long.” She let out a theatrical sigh. “I do regret that you weren’t able to convince me you’d changed the other day. It would have made life so much easier for both of us.”

  The other day. “What day is it? How long have I been in that cell?”

  Yonda gave her an admonishing look. “It’s not a cell, Rita. We don’t have cells here. This is a psychiatric facility, designed to help people get better.”

  Rita felt as if a thousand ants were crawling up her spine. This place was as far from being a medical facility as she could imagine. She wondered how much people knew about these centres, about what happened here.

  “But I don’t want to be cruel,” Yonda continued. “You’ve been away from us for four days now. It was only yesterday that we met in your counsellor’s office.”

  Rita nodded; that made sense. So the lighting had been in sync with the time, at least to some extent.

  “Anyway,” said Yonda. “I brought you here to bid you farewell. You won’t be seeing me again. Or your counsellor. You’re going to watch your friend’s Celebration, and then you’ll be leaving us.”

  “Whose Celebration? Where? Where are you taking me?”

  Were there worse places than this, higher security places for ‘difficult’ prisoners like her? She closed her eyes, wishing she’d been able to find it in herself to be more cooperative. She wanted to see her group.

  “Will I see my group again?”

  “You’ll see them at Celebration.”

  Rita smiled, relief washing over her. She felt her legs weaken.

  “But you won’t be able to talk to them.”

  She almost collapsed in frustration. “What’s the point then!” she cried.

  “Please. That isn’t going to help. I want to help you, honestly.” Yonda glanced up at the ceiling. Rita followed her gaze. What was up there? A camera?

  Yonda shuffled, her jacket rustling against the scarlet blouse beneath. She stood and rounded her desk, approaching Rita. Her eyes were only inches away and her musky perfume overwhelmed Rita’s senses. Rita leaned back, her nostrils flaring. Behind them, Tim shifted in his chair. She could hear him breathing through his mouth.

  “This isn’t my decision,” Yonda muttered, her eyes wide. “I’ve been told to move you.”

  Rita shrugged. Even if she did believe her, what difference did it make? She said nothing, but stared back at the governor, defiant still.

  Yonda glanced over her shoulder towards Tim then leaned in to embrace Rita. Rita stiffened, horrified. Was this an opportunity for Yonda to say something more? Were they being watched? And if not by the governor of this place, then who by?

  Yonda pulled away and gave Rita a smile. The crows’ feet that flanked her heavily but skilfully made-up eyes deepened.

  “I am truly sorry we haven’t been able to help you, Rita. I hope you can get better at your next placement.”

  Placement? She wasn’t a supply teacher, being shifted between schools. Rita clenched her fists, feeling sweat drip down from her wrists.

  “Please,” she croaked. “I’ll cooperate. I’ll do better this time. Just take me back to my group.”

  She thought of the other women. Jennifer and her insistence that lying would get them out; Maryam and her protectiveness towards her group-mates, her shock on seeing Rita in the corridor. Even Sally would be a welcome relief. She wondered if Maryam had found the others, if they were discussing her now.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  Yonda put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I wish you luck.”

  Rita blinked back tears as Tim approached her, the smell of his sweat joining that of Yonda’s perfume. She sniffed and drew herself up, determined not to let them see the effect they were having on her. She looked past the governor, towards the window. Then she remembered the other thing Yonda had told her.

  “Whose Celebration is it?”

  Yonda smiled. “Good question. It’s Jennifer’s.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Jennifer had been here before.

  She sat in the room where prisoners were prepared for Celebration, her mind racing. She was no closer to being the person they wanted her to be last time, to saying what they wanted her to say and meaning it.

  This room was cramped, like a smaller version of the room Mark had dragged her into yesterday. There was the same smell of dust and neglect and the same two chairs near the window, both covered with drapes. One chair had been uncovered this time and moved to the centre of the space. She waited here. Again she wondered why they didn’t make use of these rooms; this was larger than Mark’s office downstairs and would have been far preferable for one-to-one sessions.

  Maybe the view, or the promise of it behind those drapes, distracted the prisoners, kept them from focusing on what they had to do to work their way out of here.

  She so wanted to believe what Mark had told her yesterday, hidden in that dusty store room, but wasn’t confident. He’d lied to her about Yusuf. He’d taken Rita away from them. Maryam had spotted her during breakfast, flanked by two orderlies. She’d been pale and drawn, Maryam said, like a woman starved of food and light. It had been four days since they’d carried her out of the group session, screaming at the orderlies. And everything Mark had told her, or rather the gaps where he’d refused to answer her questions, informed her that she was being mistreated. That she was in danger.

  The door opened and her breath caught in her throat. Would Mark run through it again? Would he give her the details of what he was going to do, how he would cheat Celebration for her?

  She lifted up from her seat, ready with questions. But it wasn’t Mark. Instead, a petite woman wearing a bright purple headscarf edged her way into the room, blinking nervously.

  Jennifer frowned at her. “Hello,” she ventured, feeling cold run down her back.

  The woman brushed an invisible speck off her cheek. “Hello.”

  “Who are you?”

  A tentative smile. “I’m your counsellor.”

  “No you’re not. Mark’s my counsellor. Mark Clarke.”

  The woman blushed so hard that Jennifer thought she would start to steam. “I’m sorry. He’s indisposed.”

  Without Mark, she would fail.

  “You’ve got it wrong,” she said. “I’m waiting for my counsellor. Mark. He needs t
o take me into Celebration.” She paused, eyeing the woman. The image of that photo flashed in front of her eyes. She ground her thumbnail into her palm. Stay calm.

  The woman took a deep breath, the colour in her cheeks dissipating. “Mark can’t be here today.” She shrugged. “You’ve got me instead.”

  Jennifer shook her head and stepped towards the woman, who drew back. “No. That’s wrong. No.”

  She squeezed her fists, digging her nails into her flesh. Breathe, she told herself. Think. Ignore who she is. Don’t let on that you know her.

  She stepped back, lowering herself into the chair. “It’s OK,” she said. “I think if you go and fetch Mark, then everything will be OK. I need my counsellor with me for Celebration.” She struggled for an argument to strengthen her case. “Step Three,” she said, relieved. “In Step Three I accepted the support of my counsellor and my group. That’s why the celebrant’s group sits at the front. For support. That’s why you can only do Celebration with your own counsellor.”

  Was this true? She had only witnessed one Celebration, Rita’s, and that had been far from ordinary. Her own first one was a haze of jumbled memories. Maybe it wasn’t normally done like that?

  The woman smiled. “It’s implicit that you accept the help of everyone here. All of the staff and all of the women.”

  “All of the staff?” Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “Even those thugs of orderlies?”

  The woman blushed again. “Please,” she said. Her voice was gentle, and betrayed her youth. How old was she? Twenty, maybe? Young enough to be Jennifer’s daughter. “Please don’t make a fuss. I can help you get through this. I know it’s hard. I really do.”

  Jennifer shrugged. No you don’t, she thought, remembering her last Celebration, the way she had felt when she woke up knowing she had failed. It was all about to happen again.

  “In that case, I’d like to delay it,” she replied.

  “Delay it?”

  “Yes. I can do it some other time, when Mark’s here.” Her heart was pounding still. A second failure would mean prison, and no Yusuf. “Please.”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. They’re ready for you in there.”

  Jennifer glanced at the door. Would one of the orderlies be outside, ready to pounce if she put up a struggle? Would they sedate her, wheel her in on a trolley like they had Rita?

  “Mark understands me,” she said. “We’ve worked through this together. I don’t think I should do it without him.”

  The woman approached her, glancing back at the door. When she was standing right in front of Jennnifer’s chair, she bent over her.

  “Do you know who I am?” she whispered.

  Jennifer met her gaze, not betraying the emotions that whirled in her head. “Are you a prisoner?” She looked at the woman’s hijab and thought of Maryam winding her uncovered hair round and round her neck whenever Mark was present.

  The woman smiled. “My name is Meena Ashgar. I hoped you’d recognise me.”

  Jennifer sighed. “I know who you are. I know what you did to my son. I don’t know how you’ve got the nerve to come in—”

  “I loved him. I still do. I’ve been looking for him.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened, taking in this young woman, not more than a girl. She was pretty, with large, dark eyes and soft lips. She could tell what Samir had seen in her.

  “I don’t believe you,” she hissed. “If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t have been arrested. Did you think of that, when you – when you seduced him?”

  She raised a hand, then thought better of it and drew it back down to her side. Her breath was coming in short sharp bursts. She had to stay calm, for her Celebration. But there was so much she wanted to say to this girl – this woman.

  Meena glanced at the door. “Shush,” she said. “Please. I don’t think they know the connection.”

  “Why on earth wouldn’t they?”

  Meena paled. “No-one’s said anything.”

  Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “Of course they know. That’s why I haven’t seen you before.”

  “But you have. At Rita’s celebration.”

  She thought back to Rita’s Celebration. Rita, poor Rita, failing so spectacularly. She’d called out Meena’s name as she was wheeled into the room. Had Rita known about Meena and Samir?

  “Why are you here?” she growled. “Why are you pretending to be a counsellor?” She hesitated. “Did Mark send you?”

  Meena frowned. “Why would he do that?”

  Jennifer said nothing, calculating what this woman might know about her, what she might be expecting. Was there a possibility she was in on it with Mark, that he’d sent her as a way of removing suspicion from himself?

  Or was this something bigger than what Mark was up to, something else?

  She shook her head. She wasn’t ready to trust this woman. She stood up, towering over Meena by almost a foot. “Where is Samir?”

  Meena paled. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find out myself. I’m really sorry, Mrs Hussain.”

  “I’m not Mrs Hussain. I’m Ms Sinclair. But how come you’re a counsellor? Were you working for the government?” She took a step forward. “Did you entrap my son?”

  Meena shuffled backwards. “No. Honestly. I came here as a prisoner, like you. Some months before you. They arrested me long before Samir. I went through the programme. I had my own Celebration.” Her voice grew low. “I passed.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. You should have been released.”

  Meena shrugged. “They rewarded me by giving me a job. I guess I’m a nice token for them. Nice Muslim girl in a hijab. A success story.”

  “Why do you put up with it?”

  “That’s none of your business. I needed a job.”

  There was a knock at the door. They both jumped and glared at it.

  “We can’t stay here,” said Meena. “I want to help you. I’ll go easy on you, in the Celebration. I won’t push too hard. But you’ll be OK, won’t you? Mark wouldn’t have put you forward for a second Celebration so soon if you weren’t.”

  Jennifer frowned. “So you’ll be giving me the truth drug?”

  “Yes.”

  Jennifer closed her eyes. Maybe Mark had already switched it. Maybe not.

  “I’m not ready,” she said. “If you do want to help me, then tell them to put this off.”

  There was another knock at the door. This time, the knuckle stayed resting against the obscured glass window, the skin pale.

  “I can’t do that,” said Meena. She blinked. “I don’t have the authority.”

  They stared at each other for a few moments. Jennifer tried to imagine what had gone through Samir’s head when he had looked at this girl, how his feelings for her had made him risk so much. She pinched her lip, focusing on her breathing.

  “Do you need me to fetch an orderly?” said Meena, her voice hardening. “If you don’t cooperate we’ll need to sedate you.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened. “No.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The room was empty except for Rita, Tim and about a hundred chairs arranged in semi circular rows facing the door.

  Tim led Rita to a seat at the end of the front row and pushed her lightly on the chest. She sat down.

  “Wait there,” he said, and crossed to the door, peering out. She looked around the room, so familiar yet so alien after four days. The curtains were open. She could see heavy clouds outside plunging the world into shadow. She was at the far end of the room so the gardens were invisible, sloping downhill from the window. But she could imagine the lawns sunk into gloom, the trees looking sinister.

  “Take this.” Tim had returned with Roy, who was holding out a small plastic cup. In it was single white tablet. Rita stared at it, her chest hollowing out.

  In his other hand was a glass of water. He gestured at her with it, slopping water onto the floor between them. “I said t
ake it.”

  She reached out for the cup and played with the pill for a moment, pushing it around with the tip of her finger.

  Tim sighed and moved to stand facing her at the end of the row. His knees touched her chair. He drew himself up to his full height; she resisted the urge to look up at him.

  “Take it,” he said. “Or we’ll have to force it down you.”

  She screwed up her eyes and tossed the pill into her mouth, tipping her head back to swig down the water. It went down first time. Only once it was gone did she think to hide it under her tongue.

  “Stick your tongue out,” said Roy. She did. He pulled a pen from his lapel pocket and lifted her tongue with it. It was sharp, pushing at her skin.

  “Good,” he said, then wiped the pen on his sleeve and replaced it. “Now sit there and wait. You keep quiet for the whole thing, OK?”

  She nodded.

  The two orderlies walked away from her, pacing around the furniture that had been arranged at the front; two chairs and a low table with a tray, ready for the syringe. Rita wondered what had happened to Jennifer, to make her ready so quickly. Surely she hadn’t changed so much in four days. But then she had said something about a plan.

  Tim and Roy were becoming blurred shapes across the room, diminishing in intensity. She blinked a few times then felt her pulse. It had slowed. She felt a sharp pain in her chest. What had they given her?

  She groaned. What would happen if she fell ill here, if she collapsed? They’d just drag her out and take her back to that cell. Or to her room? She couldn’t remember.

  She balled her fists and drilled them into her thighs, trying to pull herself back into wakefulness. The room had stabilised now, the blurriness equivalent to about three pints of beer. She could cope with this, as long as she didn’t stand up too quickly.

  “What have you given me?” she shouted. Her voice was husky.

  She flinched to find Tim back at her side. How had he got here?

  “I told you to be quiet.” He sighed. “Alright, then.”