The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Lucy?”

  “Er, no. Is this Jennifer Sinclair?”

  She grabbed a towel and wrapped it round her, tucking the phone under her chin.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Tom Hingle from the BBC. We’d like to bring you in for an interview.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Rita spent most of the day trying to find somewhere quiet to hide. She began at the station, managing to sneak an hour on a bench in a quiet corner. She had to move when a woman pointed her out to a member of staff. She sniffed at the woman, with her beige coat and expensive handbag, then sloped away, walking the streets on the shadier side of the station. She walked round in circles, passing the same row of Chinese restaurants three times. The smell of cooking wafted out at her, making the one remaining bag of crisps in her rucksack feel very paltry indeed.

  Could she beg for some money, get a takeaway? No, she hadn’t stooped that low yet.

  She dragged her feet through the station again, watching for the man who’d moved her on. He was nowhere to be seen, probably finished his shift. Could she risk staying here again?

  There were cameras everywhere. She’d soon be recognised. She’d spotted her own photo on the cover of a newspaper in the station branch of WHSmith. She’d had to lean against a wall for support before she got her breath back. But it was just a tiny mugshot. It wouldn’t draw attention to her, she hoped.

  She walked through to the other side of the station and out the double doors. People passed her; some strolling, others rushing for trains. She kept her head down. She needed to find somewhere quiet.

  She walked up a hill, past shops and cafes, keeping her eyes ahead. She’d pulled her hair down so it partly covered her face. She needed to work out where she was going. Maybe risk asking for directions.

  She stopped in the middle of the pavement. A man glared at her, annoyed that she’d got in his way. He swerved around her, muttering under his breath. As he marched off down the hill she turned and stuck her tongue out at him. She sniggered at herself.

  At the top of the hill was a cathedral, surrounded by grass. She found a shady corner and slumped down on the grass. She could pretend to be just another office worker, enjoying the fresh air.

  “That’s my patch.”

  She looked up to see a woman standing over her. Her hair was black and matted and her mouth had more gaps than there were teeth. When she opened it, a smell of decay gusted out.

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re in my spot. I live ’ere.”

  Rita looked down at the grass. How could anyone live here?

  She looked at the woman again. She’d dropped three bulging carrier bags on the grass. Her feet were swollen and puffed out of her worn black shoes. Her legs were veined and blotchy.

  If this was home to this woman, Rita wasn’t about to deprive her of it. She stood up.

  “Sorry.” She gestured at the spot. “All yours.”

  The woman grunted thanks and kicked one of the bags towards the hedge.

  Rita started to walk away. The thought of spending another few hours walking the streets, hoping she’d strike lucky, was exhausting. Then she had a thought.

  She turned back to the woman. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not sharing.”

  “No. That’s not what I mean. Look, do you know where HomePoint is? The shelter?”

  “That place. Full of muggers.”

  Rita sniffed. It wasn’t the clientele she was interested in. Yusuf would help her, she knew it. The shelter would be an easier place to hide than the house.

  “But do you know where it is?”

  “’Course I do. Just over there, on Lionel Street.”

  She gestured towards the far end of the square surrounding the cathedral. Now Rita had an address. She’d be fine.

  She thanked the woman and headed across the grass. The shelter wouldn’t be open yet but it didn’t hurt to take a look. And there might be a queue. She had no idea how this worked.

  She was about to step onto the path when she felt a sharp tug at her back. She spun round.

  “Hey! What are you—?”

  Two kids were running away from her. Boys – teenagers, by the looks of it. They had her rucksack. Hassan’s rucksack.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Mark didn’t dare go back to that flat. The police were sure to be there, waiting for him.

  Instead, he’d wandered the city, glad of the cash Yonda had given him, the decision he’d taken to eke it out. He found a greasy spoon in a back street and bought egg and chips, allowing himself to forget his predicament as he enjoyed the feel of it sinking into his stomach.

  Yonda had mentioned a shelter, where Jennifer’s husband worked. Would he be able to get a bed there?

  But he didn’t know where it was. And even if he did find it, it was a link, somewhere Yonda might send them to look for him.

  The station was anonymous enough. He found a cafe outside its back entrance, where the streets were grimy and filled with traffic and roadworks, rather than swept and filled with pedestrians and shiny new trams, like on the other side. He ordered a pot of tea with a couple of slices of toast and sat down, trying to figure out his next step.

  He still had a flat in Oxford, not far from Burcot Park. He hadn’t used it much lately; it had been easier to live in at the centre, easier than the reality of his lonely flat every night. He hadn’t even unpacked half the boxes he’d brought from his family home in Manchester. But they would be watching it.

  He sat back in his chair, trying to look like a professional taking a break before work despite the stains on his suit. He’d managed to find a youth hostel for the last two nights. It was cheap, but his money was fast running out. It wouldn’t be long before he’d need that shelter where Jennifer’s husband worked.

  His tea long since finished, he’d done all the people-watching he could stomach. He glanced at the man behind the counter to find him watching him. He was middle aged, with olive skin and a protruding stomach that spoke of eating too much of his own wares. Mark nodded and gave him a curt smile.

  “You going to order anything else?”

  Mark felt in his pocket. He had just fifteen pounds left. He fished out his money. Fifteen pounds and twenty seven pence.

  “Sorry. Mind if I just sit here for a while? I haven’t got anywhere to go.”

  The man frowned and retreated through a swing door. Mark cursed himself.

  He’d be calling the police. Getting the vagrant in his cafe moved on.

  He stood up. His money was still on the table. If he left a tip, would the man be less likely to call the authorities? Or was it too late?

  A few pennies weren’t going to make much difference. He picked up the notes – three fivers – and pulled his jacket tight around himself. The top button had come off.

  He pushed out of the door to the cafe and looked back to where the man had disappeared. Maybe he was just talking to someone in there, a colleague. Maybe he was taking a break, reading a newspaper or watching TV.

  He shouldn’t be so paranoid. All he’d done was sit in a cafe for too long. Something he’d done plenty of times as a junior doctor. But then he’d been armed with clean clothes, the money to buy regular cups of coffee, and a laptop.

  He dragged his feet up the steps to the station. It was early still, commuters rushing past him, distracted, phones shoved up against ears or held out in front of them.

  “Watch it!”

  He’d slammed into someone.

  “Sorry.”

  The woman gave him a condescending look then turned to her companion. She wore a beige coat that looked expensive. Her lipstick gave her the air of a pantomime villain. He thought of Yonda then shook the image away.

  The station was only narrowly warmer than the street outside. He spotted a row of seats in a corner, away from the platforms and the crowds. He could rest there for a while, maybe work out if his cash would get him back to Oxford. He couldn’t wander t
he streets of Birmingham forever.

  He sat down and looked round. There was a woman leaning against a wall a little way away, with her back to him. She had a Pokémon rucksack on her back, and her clothes looked loose. He looked for a child, the owner of the rucksack, but there was none.

  The woman raised her head and pushed her dark hair back. He stopped breathing.

  She sniffed and walked away from him out of the station. Her face was blotched red and her eyes darted from side to side like an animal nervous of an imagined predator. She looked tired and scared.

  What was Rita Gurumurthy doing here?

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Rita ran after the boys.

  “Give that back!”

  They darted down an alleyway. One turned to laugh at her. “Pokémon!” he shouted. She gritted her teeth and sped after them.

  The alleyway was tall, lined with featureless office blocks. The boys had disappeared round a corner. She picked up pace.

  She turned a bend and saw them slowing as they reached the end of the alleyway. Beyond was the main pedestrian route down to the station. It was busy and the boys had to stop to pick their way through.

  The alleyway spat her out and she crashed into a man walking past.

  “Sorry!”

  She put a hand on his arm by way of apology and carried on running. The boys had disappeared into the station. She didn’t pause but dove straight in after them.

  As she entered the station, she braked to avoid a family coming towards her. She swerved past them, scanning the crowd for the boys. Then she spotted a flash of a familiar logo. She picked up speed again.

  They’d stopped moving now. She slowed and found a vantage point behind a pillar. They were in front of the departures boards. One was leaning over, his hands on his thighs, and the other was laughing. He held the rucksack in his hand, dangling by the hand strap.

  They thought they’d got away from her.

  She darted to another pillar. She could come at them from behind while their attention was diverted. But she had to be quick.

  She ran to another pillar. They had their backs to her now. The laughing one had slung the rucksack over his shoulder.

  She darted out and grabbed it. The boy spun round.

  “Help!” he cried. “Help me! Thief!”

  She pulled back, her heart slowing.

  Around them, people turned to stare. She looked at the boys. The one not holding the rucksack had stood up, and was staring at her. He was Asian, with wavy dark hair and a green t-shirt that seemed to glow under the lights of the station. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

  His friend clutched the rucksack and started to cry. He was white; his skin turned red and blotchy.

  She glared at him. I’m a teacher, she thought. I can spot a faker.

  But the people surrounding them were taken in. A woman rushed to the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder and asking if he was hurt. And a man – large, wearing a grey suit that was a size too small – advanced on Rita.

  “What kind of person steals off a child?”

  A woman edged in next to him. “She’s probably going to use it to put a bomb in.”

  Rita stepped back. She backed into someone.

  “What’s going on?”

  She turned, readying herself to dart round this person and run out of the station. Could she make it?

  But she’d backed into a policeman.

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do I recognise you?”

  “No. Those boys stole—”

  “That’s not true.” The man in the tight suit was behind her. “I saw it all. She ran out from behind that pillar and tried to steal his bag. Lucky I was there to stop her.”

  The policeman frowned. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” replied the man. “Bloody Muslims. All the same.”

  Rita turned to him. “I’m not a Muslim, you twat! And I didn’t steal that rucksack. It’s mine.”

  The policeman put a hand on her shoulder. “Really, a Pokémon bag?”

  She looked towards the boys. The one with the bag was sitting on the floor now, letting himself be consoled. Revelling in it. His friend looked anxious.

  “Do you have any identification in the rucksack?” asked the policeman.

  She felt her shoulders slump. “No.” There was nothing in there but a packet of crisps and some trading cards she hadn’t spotted when she’d emptied it the previous night.

  “What’s your name?”

  She said nothing.

  “Please, tell me your name.”

  “Maryam.”

  “Maryam what?”

  She couldn’t think of anything. “Maryam Gandhi.”

  “Seriously? OK then, Ms Gandhi, you’ll need to come with me.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The chance to tell your story about the British Values Centre, they’d told her. They were looking for grit. A chance to pit one former MP, arrested and disgraced, against one current Prime Minister, currently riding high in the polls.

  Jennifer had insisted on doing the interview in the Birmingham studio. She wouldn’t leave her family to go to London. Not now.

  She’d also insisted on being interviewed live. She didn’t want anyone editing her words, twisting what she had to say. Or cutting the parts of the interview where she would stray from their intended topic.

  The next available live slot was on that evening’s Newsnight. The short notice reminded her of the times she’d had to think on her feet as a minister. She’d often received a call in the afternoon telling her she would be interviewed that evening, or in the morning scheduling an interview for lunchtime.

  It had been months since she’d done it. Months in which she’d been arrested, appeared in court, been sent to prison and then subjected to the humiliation of the centre.

  Now it was time to tell the truth. Not just about the centre, but about the Prime Minister.

  She sat in the green room at the TV studios in the city centre, watching the makeup being applied. Her skin was sallow from the months of incarceration. She still hadn’t found the time to get her hair cut or her roots dyed. She looked quite different from the confident woman who’d stood on the floor of the House of Commons five months before, waiting for her friend to join her in denouncing the former Prime Minister Leonard Trask. They’d spent weeks planning together, but when Samir was arrested the plan had come to nothing. Catherine had become Prime Minister and Jennifer had been arrested.

  At last the cloth protecting her suit was whipped away and the makeup girl smiled at her in the mirror. She smiled back. Her face looked orange now, but would pale under the lights. Her hair had been combed and styled but was too long and messy. She’d have to do.

  “Ready?”

  She turned to see a production assistant waiting, the same woman who’d welcomed her when she arrived. Rosie Pink, her name was. She looked it too; strawberry blonde hair and freckles peppering pink cheeks. She was also young enough to be Jennifer’s daughter. About Meena’s age.

  She followed Rosie along corridors, thinking about her family. Yusuf had taken Hassan with him to work, unable to find a babysitter. She’s asked him if he wanted to come here with her – a TV studio, won’t that be fun? But he’d refused, backing into his dad and shaking his head as if Jennifer were a stranger offering him sweets.

  Samir, as far as she knew, was still in the detention centre. Did they have access to TV, she wondered. Would it be switched to Newsnight? Maybe, if they knew an inmate’s mother was due to appear. She only hoped she could do what she needed to, that some of his anger over her friendship with Catherine might dissipate tonight.

  At the poky studio, she was ushered into a chair, camera mere inches from her face, and told the drill. Watch the light – you’ll be counted in – eyes on the camera right there.

  She wiped her nose with a tissue and sat back, working on her composure. She
could see her face reflected in the camera lens, tiny and pale. Smile, she told herself. Or would that be a mistake?

  Through an earpiece she could hear the main studio in London. They were introducing her slot, running over what they’d covered the previous night in their film from the centre. There was more footage; more talking heads from Yonda and an interview with Sally, the woman in her group who’d been arrested for spreading right wing hate speech. Jennifer shuddered. Sally would be loving this.

  At last the signal came and she pulled on what she hoped was a serious smile.

  “So, Ms Sinclair. You spent fourteen weeks in one of these centres. Burcot Park, the one we’ve just seen.”

  “That’s correct. I accepted a transfer there from prison.”

  “Was that a voluntary transfer?”

  She knew where this was going. “It was. But if I’d known more about the regime in these centres, I might not have taken it.”

  “No? But it looks like a much easier option than prison.”

  She allowed herself a laugh. “That’s what they want you to think. It’s not the reality.”

  The interviewer’s forehead creased. “Go on.”

  “The regime in the centres consists of a six-step program. It’s a bit like Alcoholics Anonymous, but for political prisoners instead of alcoholics.”

  “Political prisoners? That’s quite a loaded term.”

  “The women I met there had committed political crimes. There was one who hid her neighbour’s son when he was suspected of involvement in a terrorist group. One was a lawyer who represented people arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. Another helped people move between hiding places, and one who distributed extremist literature. I also met a teacher who failed to recite the oath of loyalty with the children in her class.”

  “Would this be Rita Gurumurthy, the escaped convict?”

  “Rita was tortured. She was illegally held in solitary confinement.”