The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “We rehabilitate our women. Make them ready to be part of society again.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “They’re rebels, these women. Terrorist sympathisers. Subversives. Our education programme is designed to help them understand British values. Democracy, the rule of law, that kind of thing.”

  “What!” cried Jennifer.

  “We help them understand the benefits of being a citizen of this country. Help them see their place in society. We want to help them learn, not just keep them locked up.”

  “And are they locked up? I don’t see any perimeter fences.”

  “We find we don’t need them. Our women don’t try to escape.”

  Jennifer flashed Rita a look. Rita raised her eyebrows.

  “Thank you, Ms Hughes.” He turned to the camera. “Earlier today, we were given access to the inside of this centre. Here’s the footage we captured.”

  Rita leaned further forwards. Would they have been given access to the one-to-ones, the group sessions? To a Celebration?

  On the sofa, Jennifer was holding Yusuf’s hand, biting her lip.

  The shot switched to the dining room. Paula and Maryam were sitting at a table just behind the reporter. Not their usual spot. Rita locked eyes with Jennifer again.

  “This is the dining room, where the inmates take their meals. We have two women here who we’ve been allowed to talk to.”

  He approached Paula and Maryam. Rita held her breath.

  Jennifer’s mouth was open. She was squeezing Yusuf’s hand.

  Maryam was wearing a hijab. Rita had never seen her in one before. It made her look older, and thinner.

  The reporter sat at an empty chair, pulling it in to the table.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Maryam and Paula muttered in response.

  “The governor has said we can talk to you about your experience here.”

  They nodded.

  “Can you tell us what it’s like? Maybe if we could start with you, Maryam Jalil.”

  Text appeared at the bottom of the screen: Maryam Jalil. Terrorist Sympathiser.

  “Is that true?” asked Yusuf. “She’s a terrorist sympathiser?”

  “No,” replied Jennifer, her eyes on the screen. “She hid her neighbour’s son. He was going to be deported.”

  Yusuf nodded and glanced towards the door. The interviewer continued.

  “Can you describe a normal day here for me?”

  Maryam cleared her throat. She looked at the camera then back at the interviewer. “We have sessions with our counsellor. Or group. We eat. We fill the time.”

  “Can you give me more detail? The sessions with your counsellors? What do you talk about?”

  Maryam’s face darkened.

  “It’s educational. They help us to learn to be…” She frowned. “To be more productive members of society.”

  “Why is she saying that?” asked Rita.

  “They’ve threatened her,” replied Jennifer. “Yonda. They must have.”

  The camera turned to Paula. Maryam had always been nervous, playing with her loose hair during group sessions. Maybe Paula would be bolder.

  “Can you tell us about your group, please?”

  Paula nodded. “We have groups of six. We help each other.”

  “In what way?”

  There was movement off-screen. Paula glanced to her right, at something or someone Rita couldn’t see. Then she stiffened.

  “Can you tell us in what way you help each other?” the interviewer asked.

  “We support each other, through the program.”

  Off-screen, someone coughed. The interviewer glanced towards the camera then back at Paula.

  “That’s your educational program,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Now we have one of the counsellors to speak to.”

  The camera panned out to reveal a fourth person sitting at the table. Rita put a hand on her chest. Jennifer sprang up from the sofa. She kneeled in front of the TV, her mouth open.

  Text appeared again at the bottom of the screen. Meena Ashgar. Counsellor.

  Rita’s throat felt tight. Was she back there as a prisoner, or had she really been given her job back? She’d listened to Meena being taken away and had spent the two days since terrified of the knock coming for her.

  Meena gave the interviewer a tight smile.

  “You’re a counsellor here?”

  She nodded. Her eyes were bloodshot and her headscarf crooked. Jennifer looked back at Yusuf, who beckoned her onto the sofa.

  “I am.”

  “What is your role with the prisoners?”

  “I deliver the education program.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s designed to help them understand what they’ve done wrong. To see their place in society, so they can integrate when they get out.”

  “And does it affect recidivism rates? Are the women less likely to offend, because of this program?”

  “That’s not my area. I don’t know.”

  “She does know,” said Jennifer. “She told me that she’d only seen two women get out before me. They’ve threatened her too.”

  She looked at Rita who nodded. “Not a surprise, really.”

  Jennifer’s face fell.

  “Sorry,” said Rita. “It was never going to work. They’re in charge. They can make it look how they want.”

  Yusuf kept giving Jennifer wary glances, as if steeling himself for something.

  “I don’t get it,” said Jennifer. “How did the BBC get hold of it?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t them,” said Yusuf. “Maybe it was the government. If your Lucy Snape went snooping, they’ll have set this up in response.”

  Jennifer nodded. “Yeah.”

  The TV had switched to a studio. The anchor-man, Matthew Kumar, was talking to camera. Rita remembered watching him before her arrest, having a bit of a crush on him. He stood in front of a wall of graphics.

  She looked at Jennifer. Her plan had just made things worse.

  She had days, if not hours, before they came for her.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said. She stood up.

  “Hang on.” Jennifer had a hand out, and was staring at the TV.

  Rita turned back to it.

  “We’re going live to the Prime Minister, who we’re hoping will tell us why this program has been kept secret for so long.”

  Rita shrugged. “Night.”

  A dark-haired woman appeared on screen, a green lampshade and a curtained window behind her. Jennifer looked up at Rita.

  “That’s Catherine,” she said. “My old friend Catherine Moore. She’s the Prime Minister.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Catherine looked as she had that Sunday. Her hair was dark and bobbed, her suit a different colour – pale blue, this time – but equally immaculate. Her makeup was subtle, her lips giving off the faintest pink sheen under the lights.

  “Thank you for speaking to us, Prime Minister.”

  “Pleasure to be here, Matthew.”

  “Hang on,” said Rita. “Is she the one who came to see you? That visit, at the centre?”

  Jennifer nodded. Her heart was fluttering. She’d hoped that the next time she saw Catherine on TV, she’d be under attack, maybe on the verge of resigning.

  Yusuf put a hand on her back. She shrugged it off and looked back at him. His skin was sallow and his eyes bloodshot.

  Rita sat down.

  “Prime Minister, as you know we’ve just learned about the British Values Centres that the government has established. Tell me, why have they been kept secret for so long?”

  Catherine smiled. “It hasn’t been a secret, Matthew.”

  “But the centres have been open for six months now, is that correct?”

  “Seven months, in the case of Burcot Park.”

  “Burcot Park is the site we just visited. So if it’s been up and running for seven months, why has there been no gov
ernment announcement?”

  “We don’t announce everything we do. If we did, you’d accuse us of media overload.”

  “But don’t you think, Prime Minister, that an initiative like this is something people should be aware of?”

  Catherine leaned forward. She glanced off camera then leaned back again. She looked calm and confident. Jennifer mirrored her, leaning forwards, hardly daring to breathe.

  “This particular centre is part of a pilot scheme. I’m sure you’ll be well aware that the government often pilots new initiatives before rolling them out more widely. If they work, we announce their rollout.”

  “So if this had failed, it would have remained a secret.”

  Catherine shook her head, smiling. “Nothing is being kept secret here. Have you, or any of your colleagues, asked me about this before?”

  “No, but—”

  “Have you taken the trouble to ask me what regime we are pursuing for the prisoners interned under anti-terror laws?”

  “No. Prime Minister, with all due respect, please answer the question. Why is it that it’s only now that we learn about these centres?”

  Another shake of the head. “We’ve repeatedly released figures showing that the prison population is growing because of the growing number of terror suspects we’ve successfully tracked down. The prison system is unable to cope. These new centres provide an alternative. I’m sure if you ask any of those women, they’d prefer to be in a low security installation like Burcot Park, rather than a traditional prison.”

  “Is Burcot Park the only one, the only part of the pilot?”

  “There are two. Burcot Park, and a separate facility for male prisoners. That one’s larger, as you can imagine. Just as pleasant though.”

  “Where is that?”

  Rita pointed at the screen. “She’s lying.”

  “What?” Jennifer had missed Catherine’s answer. Would she have revealed where they’d taken Mark?

  “That isn’t the only one. For women. They took me to another place. High security, locked down twenty-four hours a day.” She slumped into her chair.

  “Where was it?” asked Yusuf.

  “I don’t know.” She paused. “Somewhere near Swindon, I think.”

  “Hedge Hill,” said Jennifer. “It’s a women’s prison. Built when I was prisons minister. It’s modern, high security.”

  Rita nodded and looked back at the screen. Jennifer thought of the note, hiding in her bag.

  “Yes,” said Catherine. “I can confirm that we’ll be instituting four more of these facilities. Three will be converted from existing buildings owned by the state, and one will be a new building project. We’ve been very pleased with the outcomes of the pilot.”

  “So do you have data to back that up?” asked the interviewer. “Recidivism rates, prisoner numbers?”

  “It’s early days, Matthew. I can’t share anything just yet. But I’m sure we’ll have good news to share with you very soon.”

  Jennifer stood and crossed to the TV. She switched it off.

  “I can’t listen to any more of this.”

  Rita looked at her. None of this made sense.

  Jennifer turned to Yusuf. “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. “It’s alright.”

  “No. It’s not. I trusted her, and all she’s done is lie to us. And now on live TV. I’m calling Lucy.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Rita didn’t know what to think anymore. They’d exposed the centres, but now the Prime Minister was on TV, showing the world what wonderful places they were. The same Prime Minister who was happy to lock up her own friends.

  She watched Jennifer and Yusuf arguing over what to tell the journalist. In the centre, Jennifer had just been one of many women. Maybe she was too pally with Dr Clarke, but she sat with them, plotted with them, and went through the same humiliations as them. Out here, in the real world, she was different. Her friends were journalists, and prime ministers.

  Did that make her part of the system? Was she more interested in changing it from the inside than she was in exposing it to the light?

  Yusuf was saying something about the BBC, suggesting they might have got the story from Jennifer’s contact. Rita didn’t really care. She was tired. Her stomach hurt from the days without food.

  She stood up. “I’m going to bed.”

  Jennifer nodded at her. “See you in the morning.”

  Yusuf threw her a smile. He had a nice smile; she could imagine him with his council constituents, doing everything he could to make their problems go away. She wished he could do it for her.

  She left the room, struggling against a seized-up calf muscle. She plodded upstairs.

  She fell onto the bed and lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She thought of Meena, taken away so suddenly. She was only a staff member who’d gone AWOL. She wasn’t an escaped convict.

  Yusuf had told her she’d been carried in by him and Jennifer, after passing out at the end of the road. It would have taken time. Plenty of time for the cameras to see her.

  She was putting them all at risk. Not just Jennifer – she could look after herself – but her family. Her boy Hassan. She couldn’t be responsible for him joining his brother in a detention centre. Being deported along with him.

  She’d come here with nothing but the foul clothes she’d been sleeping in. Jennifer had given her clean ones. She’d told her to help herself to food.

  She turned to the door. There was a rucksack hanging on its back. Pokémon. Hassan would miss it. She hoped he’d forgive her.

  She grabbed it and stuffed what few clothes she had into it.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Ring her in the morning, Jen. When your head is fresh.”

  Jennifer sighed. Yusuf was right. But what if she waited, and something happened in the meantime? Another revelation from Catherine, a knock on the door? Had they grounds for taking her back? Would they prove she cheated Celebration, now they had Meena?

  And Rita: Rita was vulnerable. She must have been picked up by those cameras. Jennifer had to act fast, before they came for her too. Before any chance she had to save Samir was gone.

  “First thing,” she said. “I’ll call her at six. I don’t care if I wake her. She’ll be less likely to lie that way.”

  She gave Yusuf a kiss and slipped upstairs. She paused outside Hassan’s room, listening. Rita must be asleep.

  She crept into her bedroom. Hassan was asleep on the floor, one hand thrown out. It twitched. She crouched and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

  Poor Hassan. What did he make of all this, all these strangers coming and going? Would he ever trust Jennifer again?

  Yusuf appeared and slid into bed. She got in next to him, blinking up at the ceiling. She longed to turn on the light, to talk.

  She turned to Yusuf. He turned his head and stared at her in the darkness.

  “What are you thinking?” she whispered.

  He wiped an eye. “Samir.”

  She reached out for Yusuf, who pulled her into his arms. They lay there, silently holding each other, until the curtains started to lighten.

  At six am, she slid out of bed, tiptoeing past Hassan’s mattress. He was curled up in a ball, snoring lightly. He’d need to be up soon, getting ready for school. The ordinariness of it felt wrong.

  Yusuf grabbed her hand as she passed his side of the bed.

  “You calling her?” he whispered.

  She nodded. He gave her hand a squeeze.

  She crept downstairs. The house was quiet, the kitchen flooded with sunshine. Her phone was where she’d left it on the kitchen table the night before. She picked it up, her hands shaking.

  “Uhh? Who is it?”

  “Lucy. It’s Jennifer. Jennifer Sinclair.”

  “What? It’s— it’s six am.”

  “I know. Sorry. I wanted to be sure I caught you.”

  “You’ve done that alright. What is it?”

  “Did you tell the BBC what
I told you?”

  “What?”

  “That piece on Newsnight last night. Was it you?”

  “No. It bloody wasn’t.”

  “Who then?”

  “How should I know?”

  Jennifer believed her. Her tone was less guarded than usual; she hadn’t put on her journalist’s mask for the day.

  “I’ve got something else to give you. Something bigger.”

  “If it’s about these centres, then my editor is—”

  “It’s not.” She took a breath, glancing up the stairs. “It’s about Catherine Moore.”

  There was a knock at the front door. Jennifer frowned and looked at the clock.

  She ignored it, waiting for Yusuf to appear.

  “Go on then,” said Lucy. Jennifer could hear noises at the other end of the line, as if Lucy was moving things around. Then she heard the tone of a laptop starting up.

  The knock came again. There was no sign of Yusuf.

  “Hang on a second, I’ve just got to answer the door.”

  “Come on—”

  She put her phone to her chest and ran to the door.

  Outside, wearing a coat over what looked like an old-fashioned nightie, was Susan. The neighbour who’d let her use the phone on her first night home.

  She pushed the phone further into her chest, to muffle any sound.

  “Morning, Susan. Everything OK?”

  “Not really.” Susan looked down at her slippered feet.

  “I’ll get Yusuf.”

  Susan stepped forwards. “No. I have to talk to you.”

  She could hear Lucy’s voice, tinny against her chest. “What about?”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s Tom.”

  “Is he OK?” she asked. “Has he been arrested?”

  “Arrested? Why on earth would you think that?”

  “Sorry. I just, what with the cameras, and Lavonia and everything…”

  Susan pulled her dressing gown tighter and drew herself up straight. “My son isn’t the type. But he has done something you need to know about.”

  She could hear Lucy’s voice now, rising in pitch. She put the phone to her ear.

  “I’ll call you back in five minutes. Don’t go anywhere. You’re going to want to hear this.”