The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  She coughed and bent over to spit out some phlegm. Her chest had been hurting for the last few hours. Her breath had become heavy. She hoped it was just a cold.

  She trudged towards the main road, wondering if she should just lie down under a hedge and let the fates take her. It would be easier.

  Then she saw the road sign. She bit her lip. An idea. That was it. She knew where she would get help. If she could reach it.

  Determination giving her renewed energy, she started walking again, ignoring the light rain that darkened the shoulders of her hoody.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Yusuf stepped forward and put out a hand, as if he wanted to shake Meena’s shoulder, drag the words out of her. Jennifer could hear his breathing; shallow, like hers.

  “You found him? You’ve seen him?” he said, his voice strangled. Jennifer felt something shift inside her, like a tin full of ball bearings turning over in her stomach.

  Meena shook her head. “I haven’t seen him. But I know where he is.”

  Jennifer looked up at Yusuf to see her own anxiety mirrored in his face.

  “Where?” she breathed.

  Meena took a breath. “A detention centre. New one, called Woodhurst. It’s the other side of Banbury.”

  Blood whooshed in Jennifer’s ears. Banbury was between here and Burcot Park. She’d passed through it on her way home. Could the train have passed it?

  “But that’s just an hour away,” said Yusuf. “All this time, and he’s been so close.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Hassan appeared in the doorway again. “What’s that about Samir?”

  “I told you to go upstairs,” said Yusuf.

  “I did.”

  “I didn’t tell you to listen in.”

  “Sorry. But what is it about Samir? Has she found him?”

  Jennifer sighed. “Come here.”

  Hassan looked at Yusuf, who moved to the table and sat at one end. He looked worried, as if expecting to be in trouble. He said nothing.

  Jennifer smiled at him. “Did Samir tell you he had a girlfriend?”

  Hassan’s eyes widened but he didn’t answer.

  “You’re not in trouble, sweetie.”

  He gave her a look.

  “Promise,” she said.

  Yusuf was staring at Meena, his brow creased. Had Samir confided in him at all?

  Jennifer looked back at Hassan. “This is Meena. She was Samir’s girlfriend. They arrested her too, and I met her while I was in the centre.”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “She says she knows where Samir is.”

  Hassan looked at Meena. “Bring him back, then.”

  Meena put her hand on the table and held it a few inches from Hassan’s. “That’s what I want to do. But it isn’t all that easy.”

  “Why not? If you’re here, why isn’t he?”

  “I know it seems odd that I—”

  Hassan stood up. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Hassan—” said Jennifer.

  “No. If they were both arrested, and she’s here and he isn’t, then why? It makes no sense, Mum.”

  “Please. Hear me out,” said Meena.

  Jennifer looked at her. Hassan was right; her story didn’t make sense. “How do we know you weren’t sent here by the authorities?”

  Meena paled. “I thought you believed me.”

  Yusuf sat down. “Just tell us how this helps, Meena. Can you help us get him back, or not?”

  “I want to, I really do.” She looked between them. “I loved your son. Still do. He was worried you’d be angry that he was going out with an older girl. He didn’t want to tell you.”

  “I can’t blame him,” said Yusuf.

  “Please. I’m a Muslim, like you. I’m not one of them. I want to help.” She stood up. “But if you want me to leave, I understand.”

  Jennifer thought of the Muslim women she’d encountered since her arrest: Maryam, robbed of her headscarf, Bel, hardly aware of where she was. Meena, fast-tracked to passing the program and rewarded with a counsellor’s job. Then the woman at New Street Station, spat at for nothing more than wearing a hijab.

  No one would have spat on that woman, before. How could she possibly hope for mercy for her son, in these conditions?

  She motioned for Meena to sit and the younger woman slid into her chair, looking uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be.”

  Meena shrugged and ran her finger around the edge of her hijab, a tic that Jennifer remembered from the centre.

  Yusuf looked at Hassan. “I want her to tell us what she knows. We’ll tell you later, once we’ve gone through it here. Can you wait upstairs please?”

  “I want to stay.”

  “I know, but this isn’t suitable for you. I think it’s best if you—”

  Hassan looked up. “No. Don’t leave me out of things. Not anymore.”

  “Alright,” said Jennifer. “You can stay. Meena, tell us what you know about Samir. Be careful of what you say, please.”

  Meena ran her finger around her hijab again. “He’s been there since January. He was in a normal prison for a few weeks and then he was transferred there.”

  “What kind of place is it?” asked Jennifer. “What’s the regime like?”

  “If you mean how do they treat the people there, I think it’s not too bad, generally. But Samir is being held in a separate wing.”

  “Separate? Why?” Yusuf placed a fist on the table.

  “The main building is for illegal immigrants, and refugees. His wing is for people arrested under the anti-terror laws.”

  Jennifer had visited those places when she’d been a minister. They were similar to open prisons; detainees were allowed to move around freely and weren’t locked into their rooms. The decor was more homely than in the prison where she’d been held, even than in the British Values Centre. People were allowed to personalise their space, to create a vestige of home. But open prisons allowed low-risk prisoners to go out on day release, to take jobs in preparation for life after release. These detention centres didn’t. Men, women and children were incarcerated in them twenty-four hours a day, sometimes for years. All they’d done wrong was travel without papers, or trust people-smugglers who’d taken everything from them.

  She hadn’t seen any separate wings, back then.

  “The separate wing,” she said, watching Hassan’s face. She hated him having to listen to this, but understood his need to be included. “What kind of people will he be with?”

  Meena gave her a concerned smile. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. But I imagine it’s low-level offenders, like Samir. The higher risk ones are deported straight after arrest now.”

  Jennifer already knew that; she’d challenged the Trask government on it, in the House. But the specifics hadn’t been in the legislation, so it had been difficult to scrutinise what was going on, to check that the rules were being applied fairly.

  “How do you know all this?” she asked. “Did Samir make contact with you?”

  “He can’t. I—” she glanced at Hassan. “I broke into Yonda’s computer. Her laptop. She had access to prisoner records, and not just for the centre.”

  Jennifer grinned. “You hacked into her laptop? Why?”

  “I wasn’t looking for Samir. I had no idea she’d have access to that. I wanted to know what had happened to Mark. Dr Clarke. And Rita.”

  Yusuf’s head shot up. “Jennifer’s talked about her. Who is she? What did she do?”

  “She was a teacher. Didn’t do the oath with her class. But that’s not the point.”

  “What is?”

  “She disappeared. She had two Celebrations then I never saw her again. I was worried. And Mark suddenly left, the day of Jennifer’s Celebration. No announcement, nothing. Yonda wouldn’t tell me where he was.”

  “Hang on,” said Yusuf. “Who’s this Yonda person?”

  Meena nodded. “Sorry. Yonda Hug
hes. Governor of the centre.”

  Jennifer allowed herself a smile. “The Canary.”

  “Why? Did she sing?”

  Jennifer snorted. She noticed Meena smiling. “No. She dressed like one. Plumage. You couldn’t miss her. And she had these dogs—”

  “Dogs? In a prison? Guard dogs?”

  “No. Sorry. This isn’t relevant.”

  She turned to Meena. Hassan was upright now, and listening intently. Yusuf looked preoccupied.

  “So where are they?” she asked. “Rita and Mark?”

  “Rita was transferred to a prison, as far as I can tell. Mark’s in another centre.”

  “Why?”

  A shrug. “No idea. There was a hint that he’d had a relationship with one of the patients.”

  Jennifer blushed. “A relationship?”

  “A while ago. Maybe he did it again.”

  “What has all this got to do with Samir?” asked Yusuf.

  “Sorry,” Jennifer said. “You’re right.”

  She hoped that Yonda hadn’t jumped to the wrong conclusions. She and Mark had hidden amongst the trees, away from the house. And he’d pulled her into that storage room, the day before her Celebration. He’d said he could help her cheat. It might have looked different to an observer.

  She leaned back and sighed. She imagined Samir in the high-risk wing of a detention centre. At sixteen he would be treated as an adult by the system.

  “What else did you find out about Samir?”

  Meena looked from her to Hassan. “It’s not good.”

  Yusuf’s face darkened. “Tell us.”

  “He’s going to be deported. On April the eighteenth.”

  “What? That’s just – what – five weeks, six weeks away!” Yusuf leaned forward, his eyes drilling into Meena’s face. She shrank back. Leave her alone, thought Jennifer. It’s not her fault.

  Hassan wiped his face. Jennifer wanted to wrap her arms around him. “You OK, sweetie?”

  He nodded. His lip was trembling. “Are they going to take him?”

  “No,” said Jennifer. “We won’t let them.” She put a hand over his. It stiffened but he didn’t pull it away. “Do you trust me?”

  He looked up at her. “S’pose.”

  “Good. You should. We’re going to stop this, me and your dad. They won’t take him anywhere.”

  She looked at Meena. “D’you think you can get into her laptop again?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Meena sniffed in a breath. “Because I was caught. If I go back there, it’ll be as a patient again.”

  “What?”

  Meena looked back at Jennifer. She looked like she might cry. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. They’d never think of looking for me here.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Yusuf.

  “Go easy on her, love,” said Jennifer.

  “Why? If Samir hadn’t met her, we’d never be in this mess. You only have her word that she didn’t deliberately recruit him. Didn’t use him.” He turned to Meena. “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Three years older than our son.”

  “Closer to two.”

  “Semantics. He was sixteen. What were you thinking?”

  “I loved him. I still do.”

  “You’re going to tell me next that he loved you back.”

  Meena nodded.

  Yusuf barked out a laugh. “How can a sixteen-year-old fall in love? You intrigued him. The older woman. Bolstered his ego. That’s not love.”

  “You were twenty-nine and I was twenty when we met,” said Jennifer. “That was love.”

  “Twenty isn’t sixteen.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Meena. “I really am.”

  Jennifer moved towards Meena. She felt protective, a feeling at odds with the relationship they’d had at the centre. But Meena had made it easier for her during Celebration. If she’d had another counsellor, she might not be here now.

  “Meena’s the reason I’m here.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “The Celebration ceremony. The truth drug.”

  “You told me. You worked it out. Found words that would convince them, without lying.”

  “Yes. But it was Meena who was taking me through it. She said she’d go easy on me. Yonda spotted it. I don’t think I’d have managed it without her.”

  “That doesn’t make up for—”

  “She’s trying to do the right thing, love. She’s told us she’s sorry about Samir.” She paused to look at Meena, her eyes questioning. “I think she wants to get him out as much as we do.”

  Meena nodded. Yusuf’s eyes narrowed.

  “If you think they’re going to just pick things up again—”

  “I don’t expect anything, Mr Hussain,” said Meena. “I just want Samir to be released. I want to stop him being deported.”

  “And how do you intend to do that? You can’t hack into any more computers now.”

  Meena deflated. “You’re right. I have no idea. But I hoped you might be able to help.”

  Jennifer nodded. “We can. There are processes. Things we can do. When I was an MP I got lots of deportations delayed. Sometimes the extra time gave us a chance to track down the documentation, stop it altogether.”

  “This is different,” said Yusuf.

  “I know that. But I’m going to talk to my successor. And if that doesn’t work I’ll go back to Catherine.”

  Yusuf snorted. “Fat lot of good that’ll do.”

  “She didn’t want him to be deported. That’s why she helped me. Maybe she will again.”

  “You haven’t learned anything from your meeting with her?”

  “Wait,” interrupted Meena. “Are we talking about Catherine Moore? The Prime Minister?”

  “Yes,” replied Jennifer.

  “You can get to her?”

  “She’s a friend of mine.”

  “Used to be,” said Yusuf. Jennifer gave him a look.

  “And you think she’ll help you?” said Meena.

  “No,” said Yusuf.

  “Yes,” corrected Jennifer. “We have leverage.”

  “Which we can’t find,” said Yusuf.

  Jennifer was sick of going over this conversation. Her friendship with Catherine had been separate from her family life. Yusuf had never even met her. But now they had to collide, if she was to bring her family back together.

  A tear landed on the table in front of Hassan. Yusuf went to stand behind him. He put his hands on Hassan’s shoulders; they were shaking.

  “I think it’s time you left,” he said to Meena.

  “No,” said Jennifer.

  Yusuf stood up and pulled Hassan with him. They crossed to the door. Jennifer saw that Hassan’s pyjamas were too small, the legs flapping around his ankles.

  “Yes,” said Yusuf. “Time for Meena to leave. Hassan, go in the living room. I’ll be right with you.”

  Hassan shuffled away.

  “I’ve already said no,” Jennifer replied.

  “They’ll be looking for her. They’ll link her to you. Samir, the centre. They’re not stupid.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Meena stood up. “It’s alright. I can—”

  Jennifer held out a hand. “No. She’s got nowhere else to go. If she leaves here, if she uses public transport, she’ll be caught on camera. She’ll be arrested. And who knows what they’ll do to her? I don’t imagine you get two tries at the programme.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “She went through the program. Just like me. Passed. They gave her a job.”

  “You passed?” said Yusuf, looking at Meena. “How? You were a terrorist.”

  “No. I was a member of an organisation that sympathised with the terrorists. I was naive. I realise I was wrong now.”

  “So that hasn’t changed.”

  “No.”

  “What made you snoop around your boss’s
computer then?”

  “Just because I’m not an extremist, doesn’t mean I think the system is perfect.”

  “You’re not wrong there.” Yusuf’s face softened. “OK. You can stay here for today. But I want you to tell us everything you know. Samir, the detention centre, the values centre. Everything. I want to understand.”

  “Of course,” said Meena, throwing Jennifer a shy smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Worried what might happen to Meena if she tried to go home or to the centre, Jennifer persuaded Yusuf to let her stay longer. If they were going to get Samir back, they’d need her help. She knew things about him they didn’t. And she knew about the system.

  As well as all that, she was young, and scared, and Samir loved her. If she was to be believed. Jennifer could only hope that he’d be pleased to see her.

  Samir’s was a deportation case now, and Jennifer knew what that meant. She’d helped plenty of families with sons or fathers at risk of deportation. Each time, she’d contact the immigration minister and request a delay while the lawyers did their work. But cases like this had been getting less straightforward. She had to hope it was still possible to delay deportation for long enough to find grounds for appeal.

  She knew that Samir had slim grounds. He’d been arrested under the new anti-terror laws and had been in a detention centre for four months. But she had to try.

  Four days had passed and it was Friday. The local MP, her replacement, would be in the constituency, holding advice surgeries or attending meetings. She’d checked his website and knew he had a surgery at ten. Chances were he’d go to the office first. She had no intention of seeking his help in such a public place as the advice surgery, but the office was her territory. Her old team might even be working there still.

  Yusuf was downstairs arguing with Hassan about homework. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom, assessing herself in one of her old suits. It was loose but tailored and it made her look professional. Rational. A former MP, and not the desperate mother of a boy about to be separated from his family for ever.

  Meena was still in Samir’s room; she’d taken to hiding in there, feeling unsure of her place in this family. Jennifer imagined her coming home with Samir, being introduced properly. What would they have made of her? Would they have suspected she was an extremist? Or would they have seen the same desperation and youthful zeal that Samir had had?