The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  They weren’t here.

  She leaned against the doorframe. She realised she was shaking.

  Stop, she told herself. Calm down. This might not mean anything.

  She dragged herself back downstairs. Yusuf had a small desk in a corner of the kitchen, normally piled with paperwork and reminders to call constituents. It looked much as it ever did, if a little tidier.

  She sat at the kitchen table, leaning her head on her arms. She’d spent the entire journey from Oxfordshire to New Street imagining their surprise at seeing her, and playing over what she would tell them. Especially Hassan. They’d lied to him about Samir’s disappearance, something she would always regret. What would Yusuf have told him after she’d been arrested? What did he know about Samir, and his whereabouts? Come to think of it, what did Yusuf know?

  She had to find them. Her mobile was in her bag. She knew where the charger would be.

  She took the stairs two at a time and made for her bedroom. She switched on the light. The bed was made and the curtains open. On her bedside table was a book she’d been reading months ago, her reading glasses on top of it. There was an empty glass there, as if waiting for her to come home.

  On Yusuf’s side, there was a small pile of books and a pencil case. He liked to read council reports in bed and annotate them with pencil. But the usual pile of paperwork was missing. By this time of day, he would have emptied his work bag and placed everything he needed there, ready for bedtime. Yusuf was a creature of habit.

  She told herself to stop worrying – if he was late home, he wouldn’t have been able to empty his bag yet – and opened her bedside drawer. Sitting in it was her spare phone charger. The other would be in her London flat.

  She stood up. What had happened to her flat? Had her office kept it going, still paid the rent? Was Penny, her old agent, even working there anymore? Maybe they’d shut it up, or transferred it to her successor. If she was going to get to John and Catherine, use their influence to get Samir back, she’d need a London base. She’d need to find a way to get into the House of Commons, now that she didn’t have a pass.

  That would have to wait for another day. Now she needed to track her family down, or at least the rest of them. She plugged the charger into the socket and then her phone and placed it on the table, checking to see that it was taking the charge. Then she sat down on the bed, letting her mind go blank.

  Chapter Three

  This was nothing like the group room at Burcot Park.

  It was smaller for a start, not much bigger than Rita’s old attic bedroom. It had no windows and was lit by a single fluorescent tube that flickered constantly. And where there should be a door, there were bars, and a guard standing outside.

  It did have one thing in common with that room: the cameras. Two of them in the corners, peering down at the inmates from above. Rita’s place was diagonal to the doorway, directly facing one of the cameras. She tried not to look at it.

  There were just three other women in her with her, and the counsellor. The counsellor was a slight, middle-aged woman who looked ready for retirement. Her skin was grey in the artificial light and her eyes were ringed with dark shadows. In different circumstances, Rita might have been sympathetic.

  The chairs were different too. Instead of being made of orange plastic, they were metal. Rita had been told that if she didn’t behave, an electric shock would run through the chair. Just a light one, designed to give her a fright. But an electric shock nonetheless.

  So far, Rita had behaved herself.

  This was her third session. There were no one-to-ones as far as she could tell. Instead she’d been brought here to sit with different companions each time. And have the same questions asked of her.

  Each time, the whole program was required of them. All six steps. If they got that far without being reprimanded. No one she’d seen had transgressed sufficiently to get a shock, but the threat was always there. It gave the room a heaviness, like a cloak draped over them. It felt like an eternity since she’d left Burcot Park. Since she’d spotted Jennifer standing by the road, hailing a cab.

  So Jennifer had got out. She’d passed her Celebration. Had she done it by the rules, or had she found a way to cheat the system, like she’d planned? Dr Clarke would help her, she’d said. Rita doubted it.

  They were working round the group of four, one step at a time. In the first session Rita had tried to remember the women she’d been placed with, expecting to see them again. But the group had been different each time, so she’d given up. There was one woman in the group she’d seen before. But with so many faces swimming in front of her, and her mind foggy, she couldn’t be sure.

  “No,” snapped the counsellor. “Try again.”

  The woman next to her – a tall, white, well-built woman in her early forties – sucked in a breath and tried again.

  “I distributed leaflets that told lies about the government.”

  “And?”

  “I printed them. I wrote some.”

  “Better. And who did you harm, via this activity?”

  “The people who I gave the leaflets to.”

  “How?”

  The woman had her eyes closed. Rita wondered about the content of those leaflets; would she ever have seen one? Ash used to bring them to the pub sometimes. Leaflets and flyers about what the government was really doing to stop terrorism. Whole families deported, including grandparents and toddlers. Sympathetic public officials being dismissed for no reason. Dawn raids that hit entire districts of Muslim homes. Some of it got into the news, but not all. And she couldn’t be sure what was truth, and what propaganda. Enough to make her doubt.

  The woman continued. “I told them lies. It would have changed their opinion about things.”

  “In what way?”

  The woman looked tired. She had a bruise above her right eye and her wrists were red. Had she been beaten, too? Rita hadn’t suffered at the hands of the guards here – not yet – but at Burcot Park they’d locked her in a basement bathroom and beaten her for noncompliance.

  “They might have joined a group. Become terrorist sympathisers.” The woman’s voice was dull, as if she was reciting the words by rote.

  “Interesting. So do you see how you harmed more people? Not just the people who read your leaflets?”

  The woman looked up. “No.”

  The counsellor’s look of encouragement left her face. “No?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  The woman looked wary. She pulled her handcuffed wrists as far from the chair arms as she could, shifting in her chair.

  “Don’t shock me, please. I’ll say what you want me to. Tell me what you need me to say.”

  The counsellor stood up and leaned over the woman. “That’s not the point, Jenkins.”

  “Sorry?”

  The other three inmates, Rita included, were staring at the counsellor, at the tiny, grey-haired woman intimidating the imposing woman many years her junior. They all knew they would be next.

  Jenkins sniffed and lifted her hand as if to wipe her nose. Then she remembered it was attached to the chair arm.

  “Please. I don’t understand the question.”

  The counsellor shook her head, looking around the group. “This isn’t good enough. You have to mean it.” She thumped her chest with a clenched fist; Rita thought she might bring on a heart attack. “It has to come from the heart. From you. You’ve all been in low security facilities. Cushy hotels. Hedge Hill isn’t like that. Learn that, if you want to pass.”

  Jenkins was leaning back in her chair now, beads of sweat running down her face. Rita bit her tongue, hating herself for being glad it wasn’t her going through this.

  A buzzer sounded, then a clicking from the doorway. The counsellor looked at her watch. There were no clocks here and Rita couldn’t be sure if it was day or night. Her cell had no windows and she’d only glimpsed daylight a few times when being led along the corridors to the group room.

  Did the outsi
de world know about this place? Was it legal?

  The counsellor exchanged some muttered words with the guard outside who pulled the barred door open. Rita guessed that click had been the sound of the lock being released. So the guards didn’t have control over the locks. That meant the people in charge didn’t trust them. Could Rita use this to her advantage?

  “Move. Back to your cells.” The counsellor, who hadn’t given her name as far as Rita could remember, picked up a wooden stick and prodded each of the prisoners with it, herding them out of the room. Cattle, Rita thought, thinking of the way cows were treated in her parents’ childhood home of Delhi. So sacred that you weren’t allowed to move them on if they took up residence in the middle of a busy road junction. It often caused gridlock. What would her parents think of her now, just one of so many hated British cattle?

  Chapter Four

  Jennifer woke to find herself twisted on top of the bed, her phone in her hand. She shrugged her shoulders to release the tension and yawned as she checked her watch.

  Nine o’clock. Two hours had passed.

  She went to the doorway, listening in case they had come home while she slept. The house was still silent. There was a chance Yusuf had put the kids to bed and then crept back downstairs, oblivious to her return.

  In the kitchen, her bag was still on the table. Nothing else had changed. The living room was empty. She pulled her tired limbs upstairs and pulled the charging lead out of her phone. Miraculously, it had come to life.

  Who to ring? Yusuf’s mobile first.

  She found it in her contacts and hit dial. She put the phone to her ear.

  There was silence. Not a ringtone. Her phone was dead. No signal.

  She jabbed at it a few times, turned it off and on and then held it to her ear again.

  Nothing.

  It had been cut off. The bill was paid through her parliamentary office. Which no longer existed.

  She’d wasted two hours, and made herself groggy and bad tempered in the process. She considered the landline, but they’d cancelled it only a year ago, realising that they didn’t use it.

  She sat back on the bed. Maybe she should just go back to sleep and wait until morning. If Yusuf was at his mum’s, he would soon be back.

  She let herself slump to the bed again and pulled the duvet up over her legs. Then she stood up. She wasn’t in prison now; she should at least get undressed.

  She took off her watch and placed it on the bedside table. She crossed to the window to close the curtains, pausing to look across the street. There was no movement opposite now; the Danburys’ curtains glowed orange in the dark.

  Maybe Susan would help her? If she had a landline, she might let Jennifer use it.

  She grabbed her watch and slipped it onto her wrist. Susan worked at the local hospital, as an administrator. Her son – she realised she didn’t know what her neighbour’s son did. Or even what his name was. How bad was that?

  Hopefully nine pm on a Tuesday night wouldn’t be too much of an intrusion.

  She slipped her shoes on, grimacing at the leather pinching her toes. She slipped downstairs and opened the front door.

  Outside, the night air was bright and fresh. The Expressway hummed in the background, lights visible over the rooftops at the bottom of the street, furthest away from the main road. It was a constant presence here, and a reminder of the terrorist bomb that had devastated the city two years ago. She thought about what the policeman had told her, the bomb at New Street. She would have to investigate that once she’d fund Yusuf. People might need her help.

  She hurried across the road, glancing at the lit windows of the houses on either side of her destination. Above her, there was a CCTV camera on a lamp post, currently pointing at her own house. She didn’t remember it. Was the state watching her family?

  The camera whirred quietly and shifted direction, peering at the house next door to hers. No wonder all those curtains were closed.

  She hurried up Susan’s drive, relieved to see two cars parked. She rang the bell. Would Susan be surprised to see her, or had she already been spotted?

  The door opened and her neighbour smiled. She didn’t look surprised.

  “Jennifer. Good to have you back.” There was a pause. “How are you?”

  “I’m OK thanks. Considering.”

  She stepped from foot to foot, wondering if she was going to be asked in. After a moment she realised not.

  “I know this sounds weird, but have you seen Yusuf lately?”

  Susan looked past Jennifer towards her house.

  “Hmm. Not since the weekend, I don’t think.” She turned back into her house. “Tom! Have you seen any of the Hussains lately?”

  A sound came from within and Susan shrugged. She turned back to Jennifer.

  “Sorry. I think I saw him on Saturday. Taking your little boy – Hassan, isn’t it? Not so little now. Taking him somewhere.”

  Jennifer nodded. Listening to her neighbour talk about how much Hassan had grown in her absence made her feel raw.

  “They didn’t say where they were going?”

  “Sorry. Are you back for good? I hear they’ve – they’ve elected a new MP.” She blushed and looked down at her shoes. They were scuffed.

  “Oh. Yes, back for good.”

  There was an awkward silence. Susan was a probably trying to think of the words to get rid of Jennifer.

  “Can I ask you a favour?”

  Susan frowned. “Go on.”

  “I need to use a phone. To speak to Yusuf. Let him know I’m home.”

  “Oh.”

  “And mine isn’t working.”

  “Oh.”

  “Er, could I possibly use yours?”

  “Oh. Oh, I see.” She looked into the house, then back at Jennifer. She still didn’t invite her in. Then she glanced up at the camera. It was facing away from them now, towards the top of the street and the bus stop.

  Susan lowered her voice. “Come in.” She grabbed Jennifer’s arm and pulled her inside, slamming the door shut. Her eyes were on the camera the whole time.

  Jennifer watched her, seeing the tension leave her face as the door closed. Did she have something to hide? Or was it Jennifer? Was she the thing that needed to be hidden?

  Susan sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. But it’s just that things are – well, you’ll find out. Come inside. Sit down.”

  Jennifer followed her into a brightly lit living room furnished with a large blue sofa and a battered grey armchair. A young man – Tom, presumably – sprawled across the armchair. He wore jersey shorts and his blotchy, pale pink legs dangled over the arm. It made her think of Samir, the way he had thrown his gangly body over the furniture at home. The way he would again.

  “Sit up,” his mum told him. He looked up at Jennifer and heaved himself into an upright position. Jennifer wondered if it was he who’d been watching earlier.

  “We haven’t got a landline anymore,” Susan said. “No point. But you can use my mobile. I never use my minutes anyway.”

  She pulled a phone out of the pocket of her trousers. “Do you know the number?”

  Damn. Jennifer had programmed Yusuf’s mobile into her phone years ago, and had no idea what it was.

  “No.”

  Could she remember his parents’ number? That was in her phone too. She’d left it back at the house. She didn’t want to go back, not with the way Susan had looked at that camera. She couldn’t be sure she’d let her back in.

  What numbers did she know, that she could call? Who might help her, other than Yusuf?

  The only person she could think of was Catherine. She could get her via the House of Commons switchboard.

  But she didn’t need to speak to Catherine. Maybe in a few days, when she’d considered her plan of action, yes. But not tonight. Not without knowing where her family were first. And not until she’d discussed Catherine’s visit with Yusuf, worked out what it meant.

  “I’m so sorry, Susan. Do you m
ind if I go home and get my mobile? It’s not making calls but the numbers are still stored in it.”

  “It’s not making calls? That’s not good.”

  She blushed. “No.” She wasn’t about to tell her neighbour why.

  She stood and smoothed down her trousers, realising that they were creased and sweaty. She nodded her thanks at Susan and headed for the front door.

  It had grown darker since she’d come inside and she could make out the little red light that showed the camera above was operational. Was this something that had been put here because of her or did all suburban streets have them now? In just four months?

  She darted home, ran into the kitchen and picked up her bag. Then she remembered her phone was upstairs, on the bed. She dropped the bag, listening briefly just in case, then thundered upstairs. Her next-door neighbours had a staircase on the other side of the party wall. She wondered if they were listening.

  Her phone was on the bed. She grabbed it and hurried back to Susan’s. She kept her head bent as she crossed the street.

  Susan opened the door just enough for Jennifer to get in.

  “Thanks.” Jennifer gestured towards the living room. Susan nodded.

  Tom had disappeared and the TV was blank. Susan took his place in the armchair and Jennifer perched on the sofa. Susan’s mobile phone was on the coffee table in front of her.

  “Alright if I—?” she asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  Jennifer picked up the two phones and copied Yusuf’s number into Susan’s. It shouldn’t matter that this would leave a record of Yusuf’s mobile number in her neighbour’s phone. But there was something unnerving about the way Susan hovered next to her, watching in silence. Jennifer twisted to face away from her neighbour then shifted back, feeling ungrateful. She would only be making sure she didn’t use up all her call allowance.

  To her relief, the dial tone was instant. It rang out twice and then the voicemail cut in.

  “Hello, this is Yusuf Hussain. I can’t take your call right now, so leave a message and I’ll call you back when I can.”

  She smiled. It felt good to hear his voice.