“Yeah, well. Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
Sonia turned back to the windscreen. She blipped a foot on the brake as the car ahead slowed and muttered something indecipherable.
“She’s gone into hiding,” she said.
“Who?”
Sonia turned to Rita. “Layla. My girlfriend. I haven’t seen her for more than a year.”
Rita caught a red light from the corner of her eye. “Watch out!”
Sonia turned back to the front, but not quickly enough. The brake lights of the car in front, bright and scarlet, were almost in their faces.
“Shit!” Sonia cried. She pulled the steering wheel to one side and slammed on the brakes. The car veered to the right and sent Rita crashing into the passenger door.
“Jesus!” Sonia pounded the horn as the car careered out of control into the next carriageway. The outside lane.
Rita felt something thump into her back and was thrown forwards. She expected to continue into the windscreen and out the other side but something stopped her. Something that appeared in front of her out of nowhere.
She buried her head in the airbag, breathing heavily. Her heart was pounding and her trousers were damp. Her head hurt, and there was a growing ache at the base of her spine. She groaned and shifted her weight. It got worse.
She turned her head slowly, carefully, to look at Sonia. Her airbag hadn’t deployed. Her legs were next to Rita, draped over the steering wheel. Her torso had gone through the windscreen. Rita looked down to see tiny specks of light where the shattered glass had landed.
She pushed herself up, ignoring the pain in her back. She eased her head from side to side and brought her fingers up to inspect her skin. There was no blood. Just a sharp pain in her right eye like the world’s worst migraine.
She swallowed, then nearly gagged at the metallic taste. She wiped her lips and drew her hand in front of her eyes to find it smeared with blood. She shifted her head sideways again, clearing the airbag, and spat. A thick puddle of blood landed on the handbrake next to her, and a single tooth. She felt her head lighten and the car seem to dip below her.
Don’t faint, she told herself. She pushed at the airbag, struggling to release herself from its grip, and looked at Sonia again. She wasn’t moving.
Rita blew out a long slow breath to gather her strength then pushed herself up and through the space where the windscreen had been. She took care to keep her bare wrists away from the fragments of glass and was glad she was wearing a thick prison-issue hoody over her T-shirt.
She made it to the bonnet, kicking against the seats to heave herself up. Sonia was lying across it, facing her. There was a gash on her forehead that looked deep and her blue shirt had a growing bloodstain on the shoulder.
She blinked, making Sonia jump.
“Are you OK?” she asked. Stupid question.
Sonia nodded, then yelped. Rita bent towards her.
“Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll get help.”
She turned over and looked up at the sky. It was impossibly white, the glare assaulting her eyes. Movement flashed at the edge of her vision.
She managed to sit up. Sweat was pouring into her eyes. She wiped them and focused on the scene around her.
Behind the van was a black car. It looked grotesquely small, its front completely caved in right up to the place where the back seats would be. Beyond that, the traffic had stopped and people were getting out of their cars, approaching her. A man hovered beyond Sonia, shouting into a mobile phone.
She felt a hand on her wrist and pulled it away, startled.
“Are you alright, miss?”
She turned to see an elderly man looking at her. His eyes were wide and his skin damp; he looked as if he was hyperventilating.
She nodded. “Yes. Thanks.”
She looked back at Sonia. She was muttering something. Rita looked down toward her legs. One of them was mangled, twisted between the front of the car and the steering wheel. The other flopped down into the interior of the car in a way that made Rita gag.
Sonia whispered again. Rita bent towards her. The silence that had been enveloping her suddenly broke, the air rent with sirens, and cries, and shouts.
She got as close to Sonia’s face as she could.
“There’s an ambulance coming,” she said. “Everything’s going to be OK.”
Sonia shook her head and whispered again. Rita twisted to bring her ear closer to the policewoman’s mouth.
“Go,” she croaked. “Run.”
Chapter Thirteen
It felt odd to be sitting here in St Stephen’s lobby, waiting for a Member to come and greet her, instead of being the MP doing the greeting. The space felt larger now, colder. This must be what it felt like for constituents who’d come here to visit her.
Jennifer looked at her watch. Ten thirty. She was late. Jennifer wasn’t surprised; she was a busy woman after all.
At last a door opened and her old friend stepped out. She was dressed as flamboyantly as ever, in a green trouser suit and large yellow earrings that looked as if they might be made from seashells. She had a few grey hairs showing in between the red but otherwise was unchanged from the woman Jennifer had sat next to on the backbenches over two years ago. The woman who had helped her defeat their own Prime Minister, Michael Stuart, in a confidence vote. The woman who had celebrated despite this meaning the demise of their own government.
Jennifer stood up and held out her hand. “Maggie. Thanks for agreeing to this.”
Maggie Reilly, fourth term MP for Hull, had a familiar glint in her eyes, like a fox about to take down a henhouse. Jennifer had worried that she’d refuse to meet – their friendship had waned when Jennifer had joined John Hunter’s shadow cabinet. But now she realised that Maggie could smell a fight brewing.
Jennifer had spent the last two weeks trying to get hold of Catherine Moore. But her mobile phone had been disconnected, replaced no doubt by a more secure one carried by an aide instead of its owner. Staff in her constituency office had been cold and evasive. And trying to contact her via the Number Ten switchboard – that was a futile exercise from the outset.
So now she was here, in the House of Commons, putting Plan B into place.
Maggie started walking. Her shoes were lower and better fitting than Jennifer’s and it was a struggle to keep up. They hurried along corridors, their footsteps echoing.
Jennifer felt a pang of homesickness tinged by the discomfort of not belonging. They passed a group of Conservative MPs who turned to stare. Jennifer kept her eyes down.
She wondered if John was in the building, if she might bump into him. Two party leaders was too much to hope for in one day. She needed to focus on her quarry.
They stopped at the bottom of a flight of stone stairs, Jennifer nearly crashing into Maggie in her distraction.
“She won’t be in place yet,” said Maggie. “Come to my office and wait. We should lie low.”
She flashed Jennifer a grin and hurried up the stairs. Trust Maggie to treat this like a military operation. Jennifer smiled, glad she’d taken the decision to call her. Yusuf had thought it a waste of time, having no idea how she could get to the Conservative Prime Minister via a Labour backbencher, and a rebellious one at that. But what Yusuf had failed to take into account was that Maggie could get her access to the House of Commons. And today was a Wednesday.
They arrived on the second floor and Maggie’s office. It was a mid-sized one; Maggie may not be a minister or shadow, but that meant nothing when it came to allocating offices. Maggie was a senior MP, with nearly four terms under her belt. She’d earned this.
Maggie slumped into a chair and gestured to another for Jennifer. She grinned.
Jennifer smiled back. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m great. Never better.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup. For a loony leftie like me, Opposition is meat and drink. Even in Government, I was against everything. So why not do it properly
, eh?”
She winked. Jennifer let herself relax, taking her mind off the reason she was here. Maggie’s ebullience felt like fresh air flowing through this old building, after the British Values Centre and its secrecy and double standards.
“So where have you been?” asked Maggie. “You disappeared off the radar.”
Jennifer considered. If she’d found out about the British Values Centre as a minister, she’d have been subject to the Official Secrets Act. Maybe even as a shadow minister. But there were no such restrictions for inmates. Which was one of the reasons so few were released.
“They had me in something called a British Values Centre.”
“I’ve heard about those. There was a Muslim woman who got out of one a few months ago, sold her story to the press.” Maggie’s face clouded. “No one took her seriously.”
“They should have. It’s all true. All of it, and more.”
“Go on then.”
Jennifer started to tell Maggie her story. How she’d been given the choice of leaving prison and being sent to a low security unit in the Oxfordshire countryside. Her one-to-ones with Mark Clarke, the counsellor. The group sessions, with a small band of women who had grown to become her friends. Rita – poor, missing Rita – and her failed Celebration, her humiliation in group. Jennifer’s own Celebration, her second, and the way she’d found a form of words to convince them she’d repented despite being under the influence of a truth drug. She still didn’t know why Mark hadn’t been there, whether he’d been caught for planning to help her cheat.
Maggie sat back and listened, making appropriate sounds and facial gestures as the story progressed. When Jennifer finished, she looked like she’d been hit with a baseball bat.
“Shit,” she breathed. “It’s all true. The bastards.”
Jennifer gripped the arm of her chair. She felt dizzy from the relief of telling her story.
A bead of sweat ran into her collar. She needed to focus.
“You’re not wrong there,” she said.
“I’m going to stop this,” said Maggie.
Jennifer felt tired. She knew she had to do something about the centres, to work for Rita’s release. But she had Samir to think about. She should work on the two problems together.
“Who’s her MP?” asked Maggie, pulling open a desk drawer.
“Whose?”
“Rita’s. Your friend, the one who’s missing. Her MP can follow it up.”
Why hadn’t Jennifer thought of that? “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“Where she lived. Lives. Who her MP is. We didn’t have a chance to—”
Maggie held up a nicotine-stained finger. “We can find out. What’s her full name?”
“Rita Gurumurthy.”
“And she was a teacher?”
“Yes.”
“Well there you go then. There can’t be too many Rita Gurumurthys teaching primary school.”
“But you don’t have access to official records.”
“I don’t bloody need access to official records. I’ve got Google, haven’t I? I’ll find her. I’ll speak to her MP. Hopefully it’s one of ours.” She drummed her lips with a purple fingernail. “On the other hand, sometimes it’s easier if it’s one of theirs. Anyway, leave it with me. You worry about your son.”
Jennifer smiled. “Thanks, Maggie. I appreciate it. I really do.”
Maggie waved a dismissive hand. “Least I could do. Now, let’s get you to that bitch of a Prime Minister.”
Chapter Fourteen
Rita stared at Sonia, not sure if she heard her correctly.
“What?” she breathed.
Sonia lifted her head then groaned and let it fall back.
“Go. Now.”
Rita swallowed. Her throat was dry and tight. She looked up, past Sonia. People were advancing on her, witnesses. They looked wary. Was it her they were wary of? Did she look like a prisoner?
She looked down at herself. She was dressed in a hoodie and jeans, and the handcuffs were back in the van. They had slid off her lap when she climbed up to check on Sonia. The van itself was unmarked, anonymous.
No one could know what she was. They were afraid of a fire, she realised.
She looked back at Sonia. She looked up at Rita, her eyes dull and steady. This woman had been good to her. She’d treated her like a human being. She’d released the handcuffs, offered her chocolate.
Could Rita leave her, to die maybe? To face punishment for letting her run?
She pushed herself upright, sitting on the van’s bonnet. The motorway was quiet except for the advancing wail of sirens. The traffic had stopped on both carriageways. On this side, people were getting out of their cars, leaning on open doors, staring. On the other side, the southbound side, they stayed put, rubbernecking through the windows of their vehicles.
The sirens were getting louder now. A car engine started up, then another. People were moving out of the way.
There would be ambulance. Maybe a fire engine. Definitely police. All advancing towards her from the south.
She looked across at the other carriageway again. It was close to her; the van had swerved into the fast lane and only the central barrier stood between her and a man who watched from inside the cocoon of his car, his eyes dull.
She had to run. Now.
She muttered a thank you to Sonia then jumped off the bonnet onto the tarmac. It felt rough through her flimsy shoes.
“It’ll be OK,” she said. “There’s an ambulance coming.”
A woman was advancing towards her from the central lane. She looked puzzled, and concerned. So many kind strangers today.
Rita turned away from her. She put a hand on the barrier and leaped over it. She heard a gasp behind her, and a shout of Stop! She didn’t turn to see where it had come from, but carried on running for the other edge of the tarmac.
She slammed into the side of a car and put her hand on it. It was hot. She edged around it, slipping through the gap between it and the car in front. She carried on, oblivious to the shouts behind her.
Beside her, a car door opened and someone got out: a black man in a Nike T-shirt, bulky and slow. She glanced at him and carried on running.
At last she was in the hard shoulder. She took a quick look back to see that the ambulance had arrived and was parked behind the van. Two paramedics got out. The woman who had asked if she was OK approached them, pointing towards Rita.
She felt her stomach loosen.
Run, she told herself. The police would be right behind the ambulance.
She skidded to a halt as she hit grass, adapting to the new surface, picking up speed again. There was a steep bank down, bordered by a tangled hedge. She took a deep breath and threw herself into it. The barbs scratched her skin through the hoody. Something hit her face and she raised a hand to find her cheek wet: blood.
Beyond the hedge, the noise receded. Sirens and voices were replaced by the thrum of the countryside; birds singing, the distant sound of farm machinery.
Ahead was a field, recently ploughed and rutted. Beyond that – yes! – a road. A proper, surfaced road with two carriageways. Could she hitch a lift looking like this?
She stumbled across the field, tripping twice on the rough earth. The ground was soft and threatened to swallow her up in places. She didn’t risk a look backwards, but she knew she had to get away. The police would send a car to the road, as soon as they saw the van.
She stopped by the road and felt a gust of air as a car sped past. She raised her arm and waved wildly but the driver hadn’t spotted her. She had to make a decision, fast. Hitching a lift might take time. If someone did pick her up, then they’d take her to the police or at least a hospital as soon as they saw her injuries. But if she stayed out in the open, they would soon catch up with her.
She had to keep going. She had a head start.
She ran across the road, not pausing to check for oncoming vehicles, and threw herself through a hedge on
the other side. It was tall but not as heavy as the last one.
On the other side she stopped to catch her breath. She bent over and balled her fists on her thighs, panting. She coughed twice and stooped to spit more blood onto the ground.
Her heart was going like a racehorse. Her legs ached. She’d been beaten no more than a week ago; every part of her hurt. But her desperation and her will to get away from those beatings, from the humiliation of Celebration, spurred her on.
She looked ahead. She had landed in a wood, deciduous trees tangled with rhododendron bushes and ferns. She allowed herself to breathe; she had cover.
But she had to get as far away from the motorway as she could. She took a deep breath, retched, spat again, then started to run.
Chapter Fifteen
“Jennifer.”
Surprise flicked over Catherine’s face for the briefest instant. Her expression was polite but not friendly.
Jennifer stepped forward. Catherine glanced at the aide next to her. Jennifer recognised him from Catherine’s time as a junior minister. Jennifer wondered how much he knew about his boss.
“Congratulations,” Jennifer said. “Quite an achievement.”
Catherine blushed faintly and nodded. “Thank you. What are you doing here?”
Catherine looked at Maggie, who was hanging back. Spectating.
“You didn’t answer my calls.”
“I’m Prime Minister now. I can’t reply to every random phone call that comes into the Number 10 switchboard.”
“So you know I called.”
“Yes.
“And you know I tried your mobile too, then?”
Uncertainty passed over Catherine’s face. She’d developed crow’s feet around her eyes, and there was a blemish on her chin that the make-up failed to hide. Jennifer thought of her own grey hairs and the bags under her eyes so deep at times she could have taken them to the supermarket. She hadn’t bothered to dye her hair after being released; a lack of artifice felt appropriate now, somehow.
“I don’t have that anymore,” Catherine replied. “It’s in secure storage.”
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 57
