The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  He smiled at her and she nodded back. She looked nervous.

  Steve wafted in, waving them to sit. The woman lowered herself to the sofa next to Mark.

  “I see you’ve met Joy,” Steve said. He flashed her a grin.

  “Not really, no,” said Mark. “Hello, Joy.”

  “Hello,” she replied, her voice low.

  “Is Joy going to be my counsellor?” he asked.

  Steve was going through a briefcase that he’d placed on the desk. He looked up.

  “What? Oh no, no. Joy’s my assistant. Get us a coffee will you, Joy?”

  Joy headed out. She returned with a single mug of coffee for Steve; the us was figurative, then.

  “Why am I here?” asked Mark.

  Steve closed his briefcase. “Thanks, Joy. Great coffee, as ever.”

  She twisted her lips into a kind of frown. Mark imagined being her and wondered what Meena, his fellow – junior – counsellor, was doing.

  Joy took her place again and placed a pad on her lap. Mark looked round the room; sure enough, there was a camera over the door. Why she needed to take notes was beyond him.

  “Where were we?” asked Steve. He slurped his coffee and rocked in his chair.

  “I asked why I’m here.”

  “Hmm? What d’you mean?”

  “Why am I here?”

  “No. Sorry, mate. D’you mean why are you at the centre or why are you in my office? Because if it’s the first, then…”

  “I know why I’m at the centre. I’m puzzled about being brought to meet the governor twice in three days.”

  Steve would know about Mark’s past. His clinical experience; his transgression not long after Burcot Park opened. Yonda would have told him. Or she might not; she’d covered it up, after all. Turned him into her poodle.

  Or maybe Mark was just another inmate to him, another subversive to be processed and spat out via the Celebration ceremony. He tried but failed to imagine the inmates here stamping their feet and cheering at Celebration.

  Steve stood and rounded the desk. Mark expected him to perch on it, like Yonda had done in her huge office. But instead, Steve lowered himself to the floor until he was sitting next to Mark.

  Mark glanced at Joy; she didn’t look surprised. Next thing, they’d be bringing out a beanbag, he thought. Maybe a hot-desking area.

  “Why do you think you’re here?” Steve asked. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Mark sighed. “No idea. That’s why I asked you.”

  “Like that, is it? Alright then. I’ll start and you chip in when you’ve got the gist of it.”

  He paused. Mark focused on hiding his irritation. He sensed Joy doing much the same thing.

  “OK. Well, I know you came from Burcot Park. You’re clinical, not like most of the counsellors.”

  Mark nodded.

  “Nice place. Countryside, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Soft on the prisoners, yes?”

  Mark thought of Rita. He’d locked her in that basement cell, desperate to protect himself, to keep Yonda happy. Tim and Roy had beaten her in there, and he’d done nothing about it.

  He deserved to be here, but not for the reasons Steve thought.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied.

  “Hmm. Not what I’ve heard.” Steve gave him a nudge. “I heard you’d been allowed to get quite close to some of them.”

  Mark stared ahead, refusing to make eye contact.

  “We were encouraged to bond with the patients, yes. To help them with the program.”

  “Patients. So Yonda’s still calling them that.”

  “I’m a clinical psychologist. I was employed to cure the women. They’re my patients.”

  “Are they, indeed.”

  Mark said nothing.

  Steve stood up. Joy shifted in her chair, tucking her skirt beneath her knees. Her pad was full of scrawled text; Mark hadn’t noticed her writing.

  “It’s a bit different here, you’ll find.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Ah. That obvious, eh? Well, I run a tight ship here. Management have got nothing to worry about with me in charge.”

  Mark shrugged, ignoring the veiled insult to his old centre. He felt an unfamiliar pang of loyalty to Yonda.

  “So,” said Steve.

  “So.”

  “The reason you’re here.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to do me a favour. Seeing as you’re one of us – well, kind of one of us.”

  “What kind of favour?”

  Mark had been in this situation before, in Yonda’s office. That time, it had been about saving his job. What would he be saving now? Did he even want to help this man out?

  “I want you to keep an eye on some of the prisoners for me. Report back.”

  “Haven’t you already got them doing that in their one-to-ones? In group sessions?”

  “Ah, Mark. And there was me thinking you were the perceptive sort.”

  Another silence. Joy turned the page of her notebook.

  “No? Don’t know what I’m on about? Maybe I misjudged you.”

  Still Mark said nothing. Inmate or no, he wasn’t responding to insults.

  “Shit, mate. Can’t take a joke?” Steve shook his head and gave Joy a conspiratorial look that wasn’t returned. “Right. Anyway, if you do this, I can help you out.”

  “Help me out how?”

  “It’ll be worth your while. Trust me.”

  “Why do you need me to inform on the other inmates when you’ve got cameras everywhere?”

  “That’s not such a bad question. Did you ever look at the footage the cameras caught at your old place?”

  Mark frowned. “No.”

  Steve approached and lowered himself again. This time, he squatted on his heels, bringing his face level with Mark’s. He looked into Mark’s eyes. His expression had switched from one of a man constantly bullshitting everyone to a man who was worried.

  Mark drew back but not too far. He was intrigued.

  “Did your boss ever show you any of it?”

  “No. Why should she?”

  Steve glanced up at the camera then back at Mark. He threw a tense smile at Joy, who stared back at him, as if willing herself not to look round at the camera.

  “Ever see her watching it herself?”

  Mark shook his head. “Once.” He remembered the time Yonda had appeared in Rita’s one-to-one session, after he’d released her from her basement cell. He’d assumed she’d been watching them.

  Steve raised an eyebrow. “Really? You saw her watching it?”

  “Well, no. I assumed…”

  Steve winked. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

  Mark grimaced. The bullshit was back. “Yes?”

  Steve leaned in. “The cameras aren’t for the governors. They’re for management.”

  “You’re management.”

  “Not me. Further up the food chain. Bosses at Forval, our illustrious employer. Home Secretary, even.”

  Mark doubted that the Home Secretary would waste time watching what the inmates of the British Values Centres got up to. But then he remembered Catherine Moore’s visit. She’d known more than he expected about his one-to-ones with Jennifer.

  Had she been watching him?

  Steve was back behind his desk now. He was smiling, an insincere smile that reminded Mark of double glazing salesmen.

  “Going to help me then?”

  “You still haven’t said what’s in it for me.”

  “Jeez. You’re not an easy one, are you? Look, come back here tomorrow. I want something from you, mind. Information. Gossip. Anything. Then I’ll tell you what I can do for you.”

  “Why should I help you? I need to know what you’re offering.”

  Steve sniffed. He bent to open a desk drawer and raised his hand to wave Mark away.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jennif
er was woken by voices outside the window. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock: 9.30am. How long had she slept?

  She shuffled to the window, hoping it wouldn’t be Susan or Tom. They’d listened to her conversation with John. Too intently.

  She pulled the curtains back. The sun was in her eyes. There was a car parked across their drive. A car she knew.

  She thundered down the stairs, not caring that her face was creased with sleep and she was wearing just a battered T-shirt and pair of shorts.

  She threw the door open and ran out, ignoring the rough tarmac under her soles.

  Yusuf was pulling a rucksack out of the boot: red, with a Pokémon logo. Hassan’s. He looked up and gasped.

  “Jen!”

  She grinned. “Hi.”

  “You’re home!”

  He looked round at the neighbours’ houses then lowered his voice. “How? How did you get out?”

  She shook her head, advancing. “Long story. Tell you later.”

  He pulled her into a hug, lifting her off the ground. She’d lost weight, she knew. Did it make her look attractive, or just half-starved?

  They kissed. His lips were salty and cool. Jennifer felt herself hollow out a little at their touch.

  She pulled back, still smiling. “Where were you? Where’s Hassan?’

  She was answered by one of the car’s rear doors opening and Hassan getting out. He looked taller, leaner.

  He stopped moving and stared at her. She smiled and approached him.

  “How are you, my gorgeous boy? What’ve you been doing?”

  He pulled back and looked from her to Yusuf. His forehead was creased.

  “Hey, Hass. It’s only me. I’m back.”

  “No.”

  He ran past her and into the house, grabbing his rucksack from Yusuf on the way.

  Jennifer turned to Yusuf. “What was that about?”

  “I’m sorry, love. He’s a bit confused. Give him time.”

  “What does he know? What did you tell him?”

  He frowned at her. “Let’s go inside, eh?”

  She followed him in and closed the door, checking the street as she did so. The TV had been turned on and Hassan sat on the floor in front of it, staring ahead as if his life depended on it.

  “I got home yesterday,” Jennifer said. “Sorry I missed you.”

  Hassan said nothing. She turned to Yusuf.

  “I tried to call you.”

  “Sorry. The car broke down. We had to stay in a youth hostel while we waited for it to be repaired.”

  She turned to Hassan, who’d shifted closer to the TV.

  “I bet that was an adventure.”

  He shrugged. “It was cold. The bed was lumpy.” He looked at Yusuf. “You didn’t tell me she was coming back.”

  “Who’s she?” asked Jennifer. “I’m right here, you know.”

  Hassan shook his head and stood up. He gave her a look then moved towards Yusuf. Yusuf reached out and pulled their son towards him. They hugged.

  “Sorry, mate,” said Yusuf. “I didn’t know either.”

  Hassan looked at Jennifer again, his eyes hard. “I’ve got homework to do.”

  “I can help you if you—” said Jennifer, but he was already gone.

  She turned to Yusuf. “What was that about? What did you tell him?”

  “I told him the truth.”

  “About Samir?”

  “Yes. And about you. Well, what I knew anyway. Where have you been? They told me I couldn’t visit.”

  She nodded. “That’s not the worst of it.” She paused. “Do you know about the centres? What happens there? Has it been on the news?”

  “No. What centres?”

  She closed her eyes. “It was awful, Yusuf. They gave us drugs, brainwashed us. I had to lie to get out, then I couldn’t lie, then… I’m not making much sense, am I?”

  She leaned into him. He smelled of wool and petrol. His sweater was soft and familiar.

  “Is Hassan OK?” she asked. “He’s not at risk of—”

  “No. Don’t worry. He’s just confused.”

  “This wasn’t what I expected.”

  He wrapped his hands around hers. “Give him time. It hasn’t been easy for him either.”

  She pulled back. “Have you seen Samir?”

  His face fell. “No. I’ve tried, but it’s no good. It’s like a brick wall of silence. They won’t even tell Edward what’s happening to him.”

  Edward was the family solicitor.

  “You told me we’d get him back.”

  “We will.”

  “You don’t sound so sure.”

  He swallowed. “Well, maybe now you’re here, we’ll find a way. Two heads are better than one.”

  “Have you written to the Home Office? Spoken to our new MP?”

  “Of course I have. I’ve done everything.”

  “Sorry.”

  She squeezed his hand. He didn’t squeeze back.

  “I’ll get onto it,” she said. “I’m sure there’s someone who can help.”

  He looked at her, his gaze level. “I’ve spoken to John.”

  “And?”

  “He’s got no power to help. Even if he wanted to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Yusuf licked his lips. “He’s distanced himself from us. He wants nothing to do with it. After what happened in Parliament—”

  “Hang on. This is John we’re talking about. Are you sure he won’t help?”

  “Positive.”

  She thought back to her phone call last night. His tone had been clipped, not like the John she remembered. She’d assumed it was because he knew she had an audience.

  “OK then,” she said. “I’ll talk to Catherine.”

  Yusuf dropped her hand. “When are you going to stop expecting that woman to help us?”

  “I have to try.”

  “It’ll make things worse.”

  “How, Yusuf? We’ve got no idea where Samir is or if he’ll ever get out. We don’t even know if he’s still in the country.”

  “They’d write to us, if he was being deported. That’s the procedure.”

  “You think they would, with the way things are now?”

  There was a sound from upstairs; Hassan leaving his room to go to the toilet. She should go and talk to him, spend some time with him.

  Yusuf put a hand on her arm. “Give him some space. Just for today. You’ve been through hell. You need to process that first.”

  “We gave Samir space.”

  “They’re not the same.”

  She widened her eyes.

  “They’re not,” he said. “You know that. Just trust me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rita sat in the back of the police van, listening to the voices outside. They seemed to be arguing.

  She sat very still, focusing on the shape of the words. Something about a person called Kochinsky. From what she could tell, Kochinsky hadn’t turned up.

  The voices stopped. She held her breath and waited for the door to open.

  She deserved good news. Since Dr Clarke’s thugs had pulled her out of the group session it had been nothing but bad news. Imprisoned in the basement, beaten, forced to watch Jennifer’s Celebration. Drugged when she wasn’t quiet enough.

  She hadn’t much liked Jennifer at first. Too eager to please, too pally with the counsellor. But she’d thawed towards her at the end. Jennifer, for all her misplaced trust in the system, had tried to help her. She’d stepped up for her, at risk to herself.

  The van’s back door opened and a woman peered inside, blinking to see through the gloom. She wore what looked like a police uniform.

  “It’s just you and me,” she said. “That OK?”

  Rita didn’t see how she could object, so shrugged. So that was what they were talking about – this Kochinsky should have been in the van with them. It didn’t make much difference to Rita, shut up back here.

  The policewoman started to shut the door th
en paused. Rita heard another voice, clear this time. Giving instructions. A location. Hillfield. Rita had never heard of it.

  She heard footsteps moving away on the gravel, then a moment’s quiet. She edged towards the open door. Could she make a run for it?

  But this was a secure facility. There were at least two fences between here and the outside world, and probably as many guns. She shrank back into the gloom of the van, shivering.

  The door opened again and Rita straightened up.

  It was the same woman. “Why don’t you sit up front, with me?”

  Rita frowned at her. This was probably some sort of trick, designed to test her obedience. She said nothing.

  The door opened wider.

  “Come on then. We haven’t got all day.”

  Rita looked at the woman. She was small, about Rita’s height, with long dark hair scraped back into a bun. Her blue shirt was freshly ironed and her face looked as if it had been scrubbed. She was young; she could get away with it.

  “Last chance.”

  Rita shuffled towards the open door, waiting for it to be slammed in her face. The policewoman would laugh at her.

  But she didn’t. Instead she glanced away from the van, then beckoned.

  “Quick. Please.”

  Rita slid out of the van. The policewoman took her arm and guided her to the passenger door. She held it open for her, like a chauffeur.

  “In you get.”

  Rita did as she was told. The door closed behind her and she heard the lock slide into place. This woman may be friendly but she was taking no chances. Rita looked down at the door handle. Could she override the lock? Did she dare try?

  The woman landed in the driver’s seat with a contented sigh.

  “That’s better, eh? We’ve both got company.”

  Just a few weeks ago Rita would have argued with this woman, answered back. Challenged. She sniffed and said nothing.

  The woman started the engine and eased the van towards the first gate. Rita leaned forwards to look around. The prison was modern, with high brick walls and cameras everywhere. Steel spikes topped the walls. The gate ahead of them was made of steel mesh. It clattered open.

  The woman opened her window and passed a clipboard to the man in the guard station. She took it back and slid it into the gap between herself and Rita. Rita felt her hand drawn towards it.