He pulled the door open and tossed his bags into the back seat, making papers spill onto the floor. He muttered under his breath then stood back for Jennifer to get in. He closed the door after her and rounded the car to open the driver’s door and ease himself in.
She watched him fold himself into the car, his seat pushed back almost as far as it would go. Why he drove such a small car was beyond her. Still, they would only be crammed in here together for five minutes.
He started the ignition and pulled out into the traffic.
“You’re here about your son,” he said, not looking at her.
“Er, yes.” So there were to be no pleasantries. She wasn’t surprised Dan had retired; he was a man who could spend a whole morning asking how you were. “How much do you know?”
He tapped his nose. “He’s at Woodhurst detention centre. He’s under threat of deportation. You want me to stop it.”
Jennifer breathed in and out slowly. She’d been expecting time to make her case, to work up towards what she was asking him to do. Still, directness meant no wasted time.
“Can you?” she asked.
“Shit, should have gone then. Sorry. Can I what?”
“Can you help? I want to get his deportation delayed, give us time to appeal.”
“Hasn’t he already had an appeal?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t been told anything.” She flinched as he narrowly avoided hitting a bus as he squeezed past it. “I thought you might know more. Seeing as he’s your constituent.”
He laughed. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“Why not?”
He glanced at her, then looked back at the road, swerving to avoid a man who’d stepped in front of the Mini. “Crikey, old man! Look where you’re going. Idiot. I don’t know anything more than what I’ve just told you. And even if I did, I couldn’t help you.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, don’t be.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean, I beg your pardon? You can’t help me?”
“No. Sorry. More than my life’s worth.”
Jennifer put her hand on the dashboard, her pulse rising; they’d just taken a corner at speed and two mums with pushchairs were running out of the road to avoid them.
“Slow down, please,” she said. “You’ll hit someone.”
“Oh don’t be daft. Never hit anything yet.”
She frowned at him. Ignore the driving, she told herself. Think about Samir.
“Why can’t you help me? Why is it more than your life’s worth?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“You’re persona non grata. Not just round here, but nationally too. We’ve all been told to steer clear of you.”
“What?”
“You’re very lucky I agreed to see you today. But you’re my constituent. I think there’s rules saying I have to see you. Can’t help, though.”
“Why? Why have you been told not to help me?”
He slammed on the brakes, coming to an abrupt halt outside the community hall where Jennifer remembered holding her own advice surgeries. He turned to her, twisting in the cramped space.
“Because of your friendship with the Prime Minister. No one’s sure which side you’re on these days.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Ask John.”
“John Hunter?”
“Of course. He says you’re toxic.”
“He what?”
Another shrug. “Leader of the Opposition. Changes things.”
She blew out a long, hot breath. One of her old friends was Prime Minister, the other Leader of the Opposition. Neither wanted anything to do with her.
She looked back at Tim. He was twisting to grab his messenger bag from the back seat.
“Tom, I need you to act for yourself. Don’t just do everything the leadership tells you to.”
“What, like you did?”
“That’s got nothing to do with it.”
“You knifed Michael Stuart in the back. Put us out of power for fuck knows how long. And you think I’m going to piss off the party leader to help you?”
She stared at him. What had he been doing when she’d been prisons minister? When she’d resigned? Had he even been involved in politics? He had no idea what it had been like.
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“Nothing ever is. But I’m a first term MP with a tiny majority. I need to watch my back. Now, I’ll need to let you out here.”
She looked out of the window. They were a couple of miles away from the constituency office, maybe three miles from her home. She took a deep breath.
“Will Paula pick me up?”
“Paula?”
“You said she’d come and give me a lift.”
“Oh, that. No, sorry, can’t spare her. Too much going on back at base.” He licked his lips, avoiding eye contact. “Got to get your priorities right.”
He leaned across to open her door.
She climbed out of the car, her chest feeling hot and her stomach knotted. He pulled the door shut and waved as he turned into the community centre’s car park, nearly hitting a woman on his way in.
Chapter Thirty
It was still cold when Rita woke. She’d found an alcove another mile along the canal, tucked between a thicket of brambles and a discarded wheelie bin. The thorns hadn’t made for a comfortable nap, but at least no one disturbed her. She’d finally slept as the sky was becoming fully light; she couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour.
She groaned and stretched her arms, longing for the comfort of a bed. Once again she wondered if she’d done the right thing. In prison she would at least have a mattress and blanket. Then she remembered Tim, the sound of his footsteps, the sudden light attacking her eyes. Followed by the feel of his hand on her face, or her arms. He’d told her that she’d be attractive if she didn’t smell so vile, making her determined not to attempt to wash in the sink with its dripping tap.
She couldn’t go back there.
She heaved herself upright and got her bearings. She was surrounded by brick buildings, warehouses and factories. In front of her, the canal was dull and grey. A single beer can bobbed past, glinting in the silvery light. The dull roar of the motorway was above and ahead of her, interspersed with birdsong, loud and incongruous.
The hedge rustled and she pulled back, startled. A fox emerged, fixing her with its glassy stare. It sniffed the air then trotted off along the towpath as if out for a morning stroll. She watched it recede, occasionally looking back to check she wasn’t following.
She had to find Jennifer. She knew that her constituency had included Spaghetti Junction and that she lived nearby. Should she roam the streets, circling the area, watching for her? Or could she risk asking directions from someone?
No. And touring the area blindly was madness; what if she passed right outside Jennifer’s house but she wasn’t in, or wasn’t visible from the street? She couldn’t walk the streets peering into everyone’s front window. She’d be back in a police cell by nightfall that way.
Her mind felt fuzzy, like she had a hangover. She tried to remember when she’d last eaten. She’d found a half-eaten doughnut in a bin last night. She’d picked it out gingerly, wondering if this was what she’d come to. She’d swallowed it in two bites, relishing the sugary, fatty heft of it as it went down. Other than that, there’d been nothing since the finger of Twix Sonia had given her before the crash.
She had to eat. More importantly, she had to drink. She was in a rundown area, populated by the down-at-heel. There would be a shelter somewhere, a place she hoped wouldn’t ask questions. Maybe a soup kitchen.
She brushed her jeans down and smoothed her hair. No harm in looking as presentable as she could, even if she did smell like a cross between a hay bale and a men’s lavatory. She looked up and down the canal, sniffing the air like the fox
before her. Which direction?
She blew out a long breath, resisting the temptation to whistle. It made sense to head out of the city centre, towards Spaghetti Junction. Jennifer was that way.
By the time she reached the road heading north into Jennifer’s constituency, it was warming up a little. The rush hour was ending but traffic was still heading into the city. A bus passed her. She looked up to see a man looking down at her from the top deck. She bowed her head and hurried on.
She walked a mile or so, scanning for signs of a shelter or soup kitchen. Maybe there would be a church where they fed the homeless. She passed a sign for a Catholic church but it was hidden behind greenery and high gates. She trudged on, her stomach growling.
“Morning.”
She spun round to see a man watching her, tucked in next to a car wash. He was in an even worse state than her. His hair was long and tangled, his beard thick. He wore a grey overcoat with no buttons, which he clutched around himself.
She looked around to check if he’d been talking to someone else.
“I said morning.” He grinned at her through blackened teeth. “You look like you need some help.”
She frowned. Compared to him, she looked like she was living the life of luxury. But then she remembered the urine stains on her trousers, and imagined the blotches on her face. He was right.
“Maybe.”
He nodded. “Proud. Good for you.”
She turned away to continue walking.
“Looking for food?”
She stopped. Was he going to offer her food? She didn’t know which was more horrifying; the prospect of starving, or the idea of taking food from those filthy hands. But she was hungry.
“There’s a soup kitchen. They’ll give you something.”
She turned to face him. “Where?”
He laughed then coughed. The cough became a full-throated rasp which lasted more than a minute.
“’Scuse me. Too many fags. It’s at the Baptist church.”
“How do I find it?”
He raised his hand to point in the direction she was heading. The sleeve of his coat was torn and hung from his arm, revealing a worn shirt with pink buttons.
“Straight on, by the big roundabout.”
“Thanks.”
“Pleasure. Good luck.”
She offered him a smile and carried on, picking up her pace. The traffic was growing heavier now and the occasional pedestrian would pass her, nose wrinkled. She kept her head down, but none of them made eye contact.
At last she reached the church. It was a modern building, with large windows at the front.
Two young women passed her, both wearing hijabs. They looked bulky, as if they were dressed in every item of clothing they owned all at the same time. They glanced at her then continued their conversation. Were they volunteers, or customers?
She followed them round the back of the church. They went through a door, probably to the church hall. She shuffled in after them and almost lost her balance at the rich tang of coffee and tobacco smoke which accosted her.
Along one wall was a row of formica-topped tables, with people behind wearing aprons and thin rubber gloves. The two Muslim women who’d passed her outside shuffled along the tables, their backs to her. They each held a plastic bag which they would hold out for a volunteer to put something in it. Rita watched. There were tins of soup and baked beans, cereal bars, bread rolls, apples and a pile of sponge cake that looked like it had been thrown around. At the far end was a tea urn and a pot of coffee.
She gasped and bit her lip. She hung back, unsure if she could just barge in and expect to be served.
A young woman appeared next to her. She wore a plastic apron and had her blonde hair shoved into a net.
“Your first time?” she asked. She had a brummie accent.
Rita nodded.
“Have you got a voucher?”
“Sorry?”
“A food bank voucher?”
“Er, no.”
The woman looked her up and down. “Don’t worry. I’ll have a word with Sheila, it’ll be fine. Start on the left and work your way along. The team will give you everything you need.”
“Do I— do I have to show ID?”
The woman smiled. “Of course not.” Her voice was soft, reminding Rita of how Jennifer had become once they’d got to know each other.
“Thanks.”
Rita stepped forwards, picking up a bag. She moved along the table, nodding at the volunteers who greeted her, pointing at what she wanted. She would have asked for everything but it felt rude.
At last she picked up a steaming mug of coffee and turned to find a table.
All the tables were occupied. Most of the groups were men, some old enough to be her father. She scanned for the two Muslim women she’d seen. They were at one end of a long table near the door. She picked her way past the other groups, relieved that she was being ignored, and took a seat at their table.
One of them turned to her. “Hello. Are you new?”
She tried to smile. This felt like a club she hadn’t been invited to; did everyone know each other? Was she really welcome?
“Yes. I’m— I’m Ruth.”
“Ruth. That’s not an Asian name.”
She shrugged. “My parents were anglophiles.”
“That’s a Jewish name, isn’t it?” the other woman asked.
The first woman glared at her friend. “Aaisha, don’t.”
The woman put her hands up. “Sorry. I wasn’t being antisemitic. Honest. Just first time I’ve heard of an Indian woman with a Jewish name.”
Rita blushed, wishing she’d picked a different name. She thought about correcting herself then decided better of it.
The first woman brought up a paper serviette and wiped her mouth. “I’m Jamila.”
Rita nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Where are you from?” her friend – Aaisha – asked. Jamila gave her another look.
“Sorry for Aish. She’s so nosey.”
Aaisha laughed. “Sorry. Can’t help it. Get it from my dad.”
“It’s alright,” said Rita. She searched her memory for somewhere local, close enough to be credible but far enough away that they wouldn’t know people from it. “I’m from Tamworth.”
Aaisha shuddered. “Horrible place. Sorry, no offence.”
“None taken.”
Rita picked up her mug and started to drink. She pulled a cereal bar from her bag and wiped it open. The feel of it moving around her mouth and going down her throat felt like heaven.
“You OK?”
She looked back at Jamila, who was staring at her. “Er, yeah.”
“Only you made an odd noise.”
“Sorry. I haven’t eaten for a while.”
“You look like it. Glad you found us?”
“Very.” She carried on drinking her coffee, wishing she could slurp it all down at once, wishing she wasn’t being watched.
“So what brings you to Brum?”
Rita finished her cereal bar and started tearing chunks off her bread roll. She swallowed one; its starchy fullness was even better.
She hesitated, chewing slowly. How much could she tell them? Could she ask for directions? She eyed them. Jamila, who had spoken, was looking at her while Aaisha was blowing on her coffee and humming to herself.
These women were probably the least likely in the world to alert the authorities. They could even be here for the same reason as her.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“A friend?”
“Well…” Could she describe Jennifer as a friend? “No. Not really. Someone who helped me once.”
“OK. Try me.”
“Sorry?”
“I’ve lived round here all my life. My son goes to the local primary. I know a lot of people.”
Rita looked at the woman again, shocked that she had a son in school. Was she sleeping rough like her, or was she just poor? Her clothes looked clean i
f shabby and she definitely didn’t smell of stale urine.
“OK.” She inhaled, almost choking on a piece of bread. She bent her head and leaned in over the table. It reminded her of the dining room at the centre, the hushed conversations with the orderlies overseeing. “She’s the local MP. Jennifer Sinclair.”
Jamila frowned. “The MP is a man called something Hamilton. I know because his name was at the top of the ballot paper I scrawled all over.”
Rita smiled. She liked this woman. In another world, they could have been friends. “The ex-MP in that case.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Jennifer Sinclair.”
“The one that’s in prison?”
Rita nodded, her heart thudding against her ribs. She waited for the woman to stand up and fetch someone.
Aaisha looked up from her coffee. “I know her. Or my brother does. Did. She lived in his road.”
Rita felt her chest tighten. “Really?”
She nodded and slurped at her coffee. “Yeah. Hillaries Road. Just by Spaghetti Junction. Not far from here.”
Rita closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing. She thought of her walk here, from the canal. Could she have walked past Jennifer’s house?
“How do I find it?” she asked.
“Easy. Last but one road on the right before you get to the Aston Expressway.”
Rita curled her toes inside her battered shoes. She wanted to spring up and start running, to find Jennifer immediately. But she had to eat. And she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself.
She finished her roll, listening as the two women fell back into their own conversation. Something about which grocer’s sold the cheapest cauliflowers.
At last she finished her cake and coffee and stood up. There was a table near the door with a bin next to it. She looked back at the women before heading for it.
“Thank you.”
“Pleasure.”
Rita hurried to the table and deposited her rubbish, following the instructions on a piece of paper attached to the wall. Cups in one basket, plastic spoons in another. Wrappers in a bin. Everything recycled. She tried to remember how long it had taken to get here from the dual carriageway the woman had spoken about.
Then she thought of something. She hurried back to the table.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 63
