The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Do you have evidence of that?”

  She stared at him. A bead of sweat ran into her collar.

  “Let’s get back to the regime,” she said. “To get through the six steps, prisoners have one-to-one sessions with a counsellor. They then have group sessions with other inmates. These are brainwashing sessions, designed to change the way that inmates think.”

  “The governor of Burcot Park has just told us that the purpose of the centre is counselling. Not brainwashing.”

  Jennifer swallowed. Yonda Hughes would be watching this, sitting in her vast office maybe, wearing one of her trademark suits. “She’s lying.”

  “Ms Sinclair, with all due respect. Are you simply trying to discredit the government?”

  “In this instance, no. But I do have further information that I believe would discredit the government. Would put it to shame, in fact.”

  The interviewer’s voice rose. “Yes?”

  Jennifer patted her suit pocket.

  “You’ll be aware of the circumstances of my arrest,” she said. “Of my son’s arrest.” She blinked, hating to mention Samir.

  “You hid him, knowing that there was a warrant for his arrest.”

  “Of course I did.” She frowned. “Any mother would. But I knew he was under suspicion, a few days earlier. That’s why he left our house, and came to my flat. This was before any formal notification from the police.”

  “Are you telling me that you had inside information in your role as Shadow Home Secretary at the time? Did John Hunter tell you?”

  Jennifer remembered her meeting with John in his office. The day Catherine had sent her the note. He’d known something, but hadn’t told her what it was.

  “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

  The interview put his hand to his ear and frowned. Jennifer took another breath and opened her mouth to speak. Ask me where I got the information, she thought.

  The interviewer squared his shoulders. He looked puzzled.

  “I apologise Ms Sinclair, but we need to interrupt this interview to go live to Downing Street.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  “Name?”

  Rita looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of Jennifer’s trainers. Too big, they’d given her blisters.

  “I need you to give me your name.”

  She looked up at the custody sergeant. He swayed in front of her.

  “Um. Meena. Meena Gandhi.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  She nodded. Her head throbbed and her legs felt numb from all the walking. But the pain was nothing to the fear of being recognised and taken back.

  “Only my colleague says you gave your name as Maryam Gandhi.”

  “Meena’s my nickname.”

  “Seriously? Your name is Maryam but your nickname is Meena?”

  She flashed him a grin. “Yes.”

  He shook his head. He was short and fat, with wispy ginger hair that came not just from his head but from his ears and nostrils. Rita wondered if he’d ever thought about buying a pair of tweezers.

  He sighed. “Very well.” He picked up a cheap biro and used it to tap at the keys of a computer. In between strokes, he chewed its end.

  “Address.”

  “What?”

  “I need your address.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  He looked over the monitor. “You don’t look homeless.”

  “I got some clean clothes. From the shelter. A shower, too.”

  “Which shelter?”

  She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to get into trouble. “St Barnaby’s.”

  “No such place.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I said, there’s no such place as the St Barnaby’s shelter. Not in Birmingham, at least. Are you from Birmingham?”

  “No. Er… Derby. I’m from Derby.”

  “Derby.” He turned back to the screen. “And do you have an address there?”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. “No.”

  “Alright. I’m going to put you down at the nearest shelter, in that case. HomePoint.”

  “No.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Nothing. It’s OK.”

  He dropped the pen and walked round the desk. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “Some kids stole my rucksack. Ha— my rucksack.”

  “No. You stole it. You’ve been charged with theft.”

  “You’ve got it wrong. They took it from me. I was getting it back.”

  He put a hand on the desk next to her balled fists. She shivered, not wanting him to touch her.

  “So you – a homeless woman, from Derby – are walking around Birmingham with a Pokémon bag, and some kids steal it. Instead of alerting us, you decide to steal it back.”

  “Not steal.”

  “Anyway, it’s not my job to worry about what you say you did or didn’t do. You’ll be interviewed in the morning. I suggest you think about your story.”

  “It isn’t a story.”

  He laughed. “They all say that. Come on, time to go to your cosy cell.”

  She shuddered, remembering her cell at Burcot Park. She said nothing. How long could she keep up this pretence of being Maryam Gandhi from Derby? How long before someone recognised her?

  She followed him to her cell, matching his pace. He stopped at a metal door, picked out a key from the chain on his belt, and opened it.

  “In you go.”

  She shuffled past him, holding her breath. Expecting the stink of urine and sweat. But instead, the cell smelled of bleach.

  “Sit tight. See you in the morning.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Jennifer stared at the camera. The light had gone off and she’d been abandoned.

  Rosie Pink appeared, rounding the camera to speak to her. Jennifer wondered if she’d been in the room all along or if she’d been watching via a screen somewhere.

  “Sorry about the interruption. They’ll be back with you soon.”

  “Did I hear him say they were going to Downing Street?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Was that planned?”

  A shrug. Rosie looked down at a clipboard. “Don’t think so. D’you want to watch?”

  “Yes. Yes I do.”

  “No problem.”

  Rosie picked up a remote control and pointed it in the direction of the screen Jennifer had been watching, the one showing her interviewer.

  Another screen next to it came to life.

  There was Catherine, sitting in a floral armchair. She wore a green jacket that complemented her dark hair and glowing cheeks. She wouldn’t have had time for extra makeup, not unless she’d been planning this.

  She was smiling, waiting for the interviewer to stop speaking. He was announcing the switch to Downing Street. He looked perturbed, staring just past the camera from time to time as he listened to his audio feed. So this wasn’t planned.

  Jennifer gripped her knees and leaned forward. What lies was Catherine going to come up with this time?

  “Prime Minister, this is an unexpected surprise.”

  “Oh I don’t think so, Jeremy.”

  “We weren’t expecting to hear from you this evening.”

  “Well, thank you for giving me the opportunity to speak.”

  “Am I right in thinking that you want to rebut some of Jennifer Sinclair’s claims about the British Values Centres?”

  Catherine paused for a moment, her mind seemingly elsewhere.

  “Yes. That and to make an announcement.”

  “An announcement?” The interviewer was struggling to keep the tension out of his voice.

  “Yes. But let me deal first with Jennifer’s claims.”

  Behind the camera, Rosie waved to get Jennifer’s attention. Jennifer frowned at her, then realised she was telling her she’d be back on air shortly. She looked at the camera. The red light came back on.

  She rearranged her features, trying not
to show her surprise at Catherine’s intervention. Her anger that she’d been hijacked.

  The interviewer was still questioning Catherine. “You’re refuting them?”

  Jennifer opened her mouth to speak, wondering how this was being shown to viewers. Were she and Catherine being broadcast next to each other, in two simultaneous feeds? Or was she invisible while Catherine spoke? She had to assume she was being watched.

  “I am. You’ve seen from the earlier reports that the British Values Centres are nothing like she describes. We set them up to provide an appropriate environment for giving prisoners the support they need to understand the gravity of their crimes and to reduce recidivism rates.”

  “But you still haven’t provided any hard figures on that.”

  “Jennifer gave some examples of women she claims to have met, and that she claims did not deserve to be there. While I won’t be so crass as to name individuals, I would like to say that as an inmate, she won’t have had access to the full facts of each of these women’s crimes. All she’ll have had is their own story. Their own protestations of innocence.”

  “Is it true that one of these women was a teacher who simply failed to recite the oath with her class?”

  “Well, seeing as you’re dealing with specifics, let me do so too. The woman you refer to is Rita Gurumurthy. She recently escaped custody while being transported to another facility. There is a nationwide police hunt going on for her as we speak. We believe she could be dangerous. She threatened a family not long after escaping. A family with a baby.”

  “So what do you say to Jennifer Sinclair’s accusations that the purpose of the British Values Centres is a form of brainwashing?”

  Catherine laughed. “I say she needs to read less science fiction. Don’t forget this is the woman who hid a suspected terrorist. She was in a position of trust as an MP and member of the shadow cabinet, and she betrayed that trust.”

  Jennifer put a hand to her chest. She needed to interrupt, to reclaim the debate. But how did she respond to that, without coming across as self-serving?

  “The suspected terrorist was her son,” the interviewer pointed out. “She claims that—”

  “But don’t you see,” replied Catherine. “That only makes it worse. What kind of mother, what kind of public servant, allows the situation in her own home to get so bad that her son becomes an extremist?”

  A flush had blossomed on Catherine’s neck, something Jennifer hadn’t seen since she was a backbench MP. And her voice was becoming strident, not the smooth tones she’d worked so hard to hone.

  Jennifer cleared her throat. “If I may interject?”

  The interviewer nodded. “By all means.”

  “Before the sudden jump to Downing Street, I was talking about the fact that I knew my son was under suspicion. That I knew he would be arrested.”

  Catherine wrinkled her nose. “Jennifer. Good to speak to you again.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Can I just remind you of your position here?”

  “Go on.”

  “You were recently released from Burcot Park. Your son is currently in detention because of his crimes.”

  “Hang on—”

  Catherine raised a hand. “Crimes that I’m sure viewers will agree were shocking for the son of an MP.”

  Jennifer fished in her pocket.

  “I don’t want to talk about that this evening. What I do want to do is tell people that you—”

  “Wait,” interrupted Catherine. “Jeremy?”

  “Yes,” replied the interviewer. He’d been watching with pleasure, his eyes dancing in the knowledge that he was presiding over an interview – a spat – that was surely going viral already.

  “I mentioned to you that I had an announcement.”

  “Wait,” said Jennifer. “Let me—”

  “Go on,” said the interviewer. “Your announcement, Prime Minister.”

  “Thank you.” Catherine leaned back and her face regained some of its colour. “I’m sure that viewers will understand when I say how horrified and appalled I am by the lies that have been hurled at this government in recent days.”

  Jennifer watched, her thumbnail drilling in to her palm. Damn you Catherine…

  The interviewer said nothing, waiting for Catherine to continue. Jennifer considered interrupting but decided against it.

  “I believe that the people of this country have the intelligence to see through the lies and accusations of people such as Jennifer Sinclair. I believe that, like me, people want to keep this country safe, and do what we can not only to prevent terrorist attacks but to deal effectively with the perpetrators of all attacks against our great nation, whether those be through violence or via subversion and lies.”

  Jennifer blinked. She thought of Michael Stuart, the prime minister she’d betrayed, standing in front of the door of Number Ten, delivering a similar speech. He’d called a confidence vote in his government, and lost.

  Was Catherine about to do something equally rash? Was she that scared?

  The interviewer opened his mouth but Catherine continued.

  “I’m also aware that I became Prime Minister after the unfortunate illness of my predecessor Leonard Trask, and that the country has not had an opportunity to support my government’s policies at the ballot box.”

  The interviewer perked up. “Prime Minister, are you saying that—”

  Jennifer held her breath.

  Catherine continued, ignoring him. “I believe that the methods my government has adopted will strike the perfect balance. Instead of looking to punish subversives and potential terrorists, we seek to cure them. To convince them of the error of their ways. The British Values Centres are at the heart of that approach. It’s a gentler approach than that of Leonard, or indeed that of Michael Stuart, who preferred to take a hammer to crack a nut, as it were.”

  “You’re wrong,” interrupted Jennifer. “The centres are the biggest hammer there is.”

  Catherine’s gaze went over the top of the camera, as if she was looking at Jennifer directly.

  “To pursue this radical approach, we need a mandate. Which is why I shall be visiting the Queen tomorrow morning in order to call an election.”

  The interviewer was nearly leaping out of his seat. He swallowed hard, his eyes bright.

  “What will the date of the election be, Prime Minister?”

  “Four weeks from now. On April the fourteenth.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Rita spent the night staring at the ceiling, waiting for daylight. She hadn’t worn a watch since arriving at the British Values Centre, where she’d developed the ability to guess the time based on the quality of light, something she was priding herself on.

  But here, the light was a constant orange glow from a streetlamp outside. All she could hear were regular comings and goings of police cars and the occasional voice.

  At last the orange began to lighten and turn to a pale blue whiteness. Daylight.

  She stood up and paced her cell – ten, twenty, a hundred times. She needed to keep her muscles awake. If she was going to be taken back to the high security centre, she’d need her wits about her. And who knows, an opportunity to run might present itself.

  The grille in the door slid open and a face appeared. Not the custody sergeant from last night but someone new; a woman. Her eyes were large and seemed friendly enough.

  “Stay where you are.”

  Rita had been sitting on the bench where she’d tried to sleep, bored of her circuits. She shrugged her shoulders and stayed put.

  The woman opened the door and came in then.

  “Come on then.”

  Rita frowned.

  “We haven’t got all day.”

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “You’re being released.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me. They’ll explain it all at the front desk.”

  She followed the woman, won
dering if this was a lie to get her out of her cell where there’d be orderlies from the centre waiting at the front desk, or another officer waiting to transfer her. There would be no Twix bars this time, no offers to sit up front.

  She clenched her fists as she walked, trying to stay calm.

  “Here you are.”

  She stopped at the desk. The atmosphere was very different today; instead of the single custody sergeant, there were people coming and going. Uniformed officers, plain clothes detectives. None gave her a second glance.

  A man she didn’t recognise was standing at the desk. He wore a brown suit that needed cleaning. He smiled at her as she approached, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Maryam Gandhi?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s your lucky day.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Someone saw you with that rucksack, earlier in the day. Turns out you didn’t steal it after all.”

  She forced herself to breathe. “Who?”

  He shrugged. “A man who was at the station. Lucky for you he saw you with it earlier, then again with the boys.”

  She wanted to shriek with relief. “So I can go?”

  “Indeed you can. And there’s someone here waiting for you.”

  She frowned. Who would know she was here? Not Jennifer, not with her using a false name.

  “Who?”

  “We rang the shelter. The one on your record as your temporary address. The manager is here for you. A Mr Yusuf Hussain.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Jennifer dropped her mobile on the kitchen table, frustrated. This was her third unsuccessful attempt to get through to Catherine.

  The surprise election announcement had pushed her story into obscurity. The red light on the camera had pinged off almost immediately. She’d been left in a darkened studio with an apologetic Rosie.

  “So sorry,” she’d said. “But this is the story now. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  She did. Of course she did. Catherine had diverted attention away from Jennifer by creating a sensation. There had been no hint of an impending election, no mutterings from the government or the media. Catherine had only been PM for a matter of months. Was she really confident she could win an election?