The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  Beside her, John was quiet.

  She waited for the noise to subside. It didn’t.

  “Order!” the Speaker cried, reddening.

  The shouts were replaced by whispers. She took another breath and glanced at her notes. She didn’t need them.

  She pulled back her shoulders. Time to perform.

  “I have a statement to make about recent events at Bronzefield Prison,” she began.

  The noise started up again.

  “This House is aware of the unfortunate and tragic death of Hayley Price, one of Bronzefield’s inmates.”

  More shouting. What must we look like to the outside world? she thought. This was nothing to get excited about. A woman was dead.

  Hayley had been just nineteen years old, arrested for stealing from a pharmacy. She’d wanted the drugs to abort an unwanted pregnancy. On remand at Bronzefield, she’d somehow got hold of a coat hanger. The results – Jennifer had seen the photos – hadn’t been pretty.

  Poor girl. Only five years older than Samir. She wondered what Hayley’s mother was going through.

  She looked at the Speaker, who was calling for order. When the noise calmed, she kept her voice low.

  “Thank you, Mr Speaker. I would like to ask my honourable friends to join me in showing respect for Hayley’s memory and sympathy for her family at what must be a dreadful time for them.

  “Hayley Price was a vulnerable young woman imprisoned when she should have been helped.”

  Muttering from behind her. She lifted her chin higher.

  “At nineteen years of age, Hayley found herself pregnant.” She paused to look around her colleagues. John was still, staring ahead. She sniffed and raised her voice, aware of the impact of her words. “She tried to end that pregnancy, but found herself on the wrong side of the law. Which is how she ended up at Bronzefield.”

  Just out of her line of vision, she sensed John turn towards her. She licked her lips.

  They want me to apologise, she thought. They want me to make excuses.

  That wasn’t going to happen. She continued.

  “Hayley tried again to end her pregnancy, but instead she died. In the most brutal, bleak and lonely circumstances we can imagine any young person dying in.” She paused, allowing the words to sink in. “We must never allow that to happen again. As a civilised society, we have a duty to protect all of our citizens. Even those who break the law. And especially those who are most vulnerable.”

  She looked around her colleagues. I’m not going anywhere, she thought. “I will work to ensure that our prisons are not only places of security but places of safety too. Where offenders will receive the sentence they have been handed down, but no more.”

  She looked up and across the chamber. Her hands were still together but loosely now. No-one was shouting, or jeering, or even muttering. The chamber was quiet.

  None of the MPs surrounding her had the slightest idea what it would be like to be Hayley Price. Raised by a mother who’d never held down a job, pregnant at nineteen, a criminal.

  Jennifer knew more about it than most of them. Left alone with her mother at six years old, after her father had walked out. She still didn’t know why. If she hadn’t found Yusuf, who knows where she might have ended up?

  She looked at the Speaker. “Mr Speaker, if you would permit me an indulgence on Hayley’s behalf.”

  He nodded.

  “I would like the House to join me in a minute’s silence so we can remember Hayley and consider how we can prevent another tragic death like hers.”

  There was rustling as people looked around, then bowed their heads or placed their hands in their laps. Jennifer stayed standing for the minute, listing to the faint tick of her wristwatch. At last the Speaker coughed.

  “Thank you,” she said, and sat down. She felt John’s hand on her shoulder and turned to see him nod.

  She arrived in the Members’ Dining Room at a quarter past twelve.

  As she passed between the tables, she sensed a hush descend over the MPs. A few people got up to congratulate her. She thanked them as graciously as she could, but felt awkward and undeserving. She’d rescued her career, but it hadn’t helped Hayley.

  John was late. After choosing some fish and salad from the buffet, she chose a quiet corner table and took the seat facing the room. Then she bent to her bag and grabbed her phone.

  She soon exhausted her inbox and picked up a fork, looking around the room. Her gaze rested on a white-haired man sitting at a window table with three expensively suited companions. As his companions talked, his gaze was fixed on the room. His eyes flickered around, registering each of the other diners as they arrived or departed, taking them in with a curled lip. The white hair framed a copper-coloured face, the forehead a touch too smooth and shiny. Botox, she suspected. His bright blue eyes and the thin line of his lips were barely visible against his perma-tanned skin. Looking at him always made Jennifer think of cheap American soap operas.

  The man was Leonard Trask, Leader of the Opposition. On TV, that smirk looked like a smile, and the tan became a healthy glow. But in person, the effect was different.

  Jennifer stared at him despite herself, regretting it when his eye caught hers. He smiled. She held his gaze for a moment, then pretended to be answering a call.

  She kept her head down until John arrived, scrolling through Twitter as she ate. She was trending.

  John hurried in, exchanging greetings and pausing for brief conversations. He threw her a nod before helping himself to a salad and making his way to their table.

  Jennifer looked at his plate and raised an eyebrow. John laughed. “Surprised? Got to do something about this, eh?” He rubbed his belly. A hard-won belly, acquired through years of socialising in the dining rooms and bars of this place.

  Jennifer settled into her chair, waiting. John leaned back and surveyed her.

  “Well done,” he said.

  She smiled, relieved. “Thank you.”

  “I think you saved the day.”

  She shrugged; it wouldn’t do to crow.

  “So,” he continued. “What’s happening at the prison?”

  “I’ve spoken to Sandra Phipps. The governor,” she said. “I’m going tomorrow.”

  He cocked his head. “You haven’t already been?”

  “It only happened yesterday morning.”

  “Or the night before.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “But I only found out yesterday morning.”

  “Before or after the press?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. The previous day she had been woken at six am by a call from the office. Quickly followed by a call from the Daily Telegraph.

  “That’s hardly the issue.“

  “It makes us look bloody incompetent, you know. If you hadn’t—”

  “Yes, but I did.”

  He sighed. “You’re right.” He held up his hands in defeat. “I know, I know. You did well. Michael’s pleased.”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond; she and Michael had never exactly clicked. “Good.”

  “Indeed. Anyway, let’s get these bloody salads down us and back to work.”

  She let herself relax. “Did I tell you it’s Hassan’s birthday?”

  “Hmm?”

  She smiled. “Yusuf’s brought him and Samir down to London for a couple of days. A treat.”

  “Oh. Good, good.” John knew her family; Yusuf had worked for him as a researcher in John’s first term as an MP. Back then it was Yusuf who was the ambitious one, the future MP. But fatherhood had changed him, and now he was more than content running a homeless shelter in Birmingham city centre. Jennifer admired his skill with people, the way he made those at their most desperate feel better about themselves, and the relationships he’d built locally. And he admired her ability to talk her way out of corners, like she had this morning. She’d learned to stand up for herself as a child, realising no-one else was going to do it for her.

  “They’re on the Lo
ndon Eye, this afternoon.” She frowned. “Or maybe getting a pizza, I can’t remember which was first.”

  “Nice,” John replied, glancing at his watch. He started to push himself up, but then something in the mirror behind her caught his eye. He sat down again.

  She looked over his shoulder to see a uniformed security guard weaving between the tables, heading for them. John’s eyes were trained on her face; he looked worried. What was going on?

  John stood and turned as the man reached them. There was a whispered conversation between them. John’s features clouded as he listened.

  He turned to her.

  “We’ll have to continue this later,” he said. “I’m needed. And you’ve got to go to Committee Room 14. Right now.”

  Around the dining room there was a flurry of movement: people pulling phones out of pockets, bending to retrieve them from bags and briefcases. Jennifer’s own phone buzzed on the table.

  “Why?” she asked.

  Ministers were rising from their tables. Backbench MPs watched them, confused. Jennifer saw one of the ministers shake his head at a junior colleague. Their gazes shifted to John.

  John shook his head. “Can’t tell you. Not yet. Just go.”

  He marched out of the room, looking straight ahead.

  3

  October 2019. London

  The committee room was filling up with Labour MPs by the time she arrived, the crush of bodies making the room feel damp with sweat.

  She scanned the room for clues as to why they’d been summoned here. Officials darted in and out, searching the crowd and making notes but not stopping for long enough to speak to anyone. Groups came together then broke apart, new huddles forming in a kind of dance. The room was filled with the hum of low conversation; rumours, questions, speculation. Facts?

  It was as full as a controversial meeting of the Parliamentary Labour Party, and almost as deafening. But no one was sitting on the long wooden benches: instead, they all shifted around the outer edges of the room, newcomers holding their breath to squeeze past colleagues.

  She pushed through, muttering the occasional hello. People weren’t interested in her now; she was old news. She wanted to know who was here. It didn’t take her long to realise that there wasn’t a single Cabinet member and not many of her own rank. It was mainly backbenchers.

  She had a moment of panic, then pushed it away. John had sent her here, and he knew – even if no one else did – that she hadn’t been relegated to the backbenches. Besides, after her reception in the chamber this morning, surely no one would expect…

  She leaned against the wood panelled wall. Her palms were dry and her feet ached in her stiff new shoes. A vicarious birthday present from Yusuf.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up, tensing. It was someone from the Serjeant at Arms office, the team that administered the building.

  He smiled. “Minister, would you like to take a seat? We could be here for a while.”

  She opened her mouth to ask a question. But he was gone, weaving his way through the crush and tapping the occasional junior ministerial shoulder.

  She looked at the benches. They were all but empty, with only a few elderly and one pregnant MP sitting down. Each of them sat alone, staring ahead in silence or jabbing at their phones for news.

  She fished her own phone out of her bag, scrolling through Twitter. She was still trending, although the attention was starting to dip. But there was nothing to explain what was happening here, why they’d all been summoned. No one had leaked it, yet.

  A group of men drifted towards her, pushed by the swelling crowd. She pretended to stare at her phone’s screen while she listened in to their conversation.

  “Tony from The Times says there’s a terror threat. Nothing confirmed yet.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of police vans at Waterloo.”

  Waterloo?

  She looked towards the tall windows. People were crowding towards them, maybe hearing the same rumours. She fought her way through the wall of suits, ignoring people’s muttered complaints, until she emerged beside the window.

  She pressed the palm of her hand against the window, the mullioned lead cold to the touch. Outside, the city looked much as it ever did. Tourist boats made their way up and down the Thames, windows glinting in the sunshine. On the opposite bank, runners and idle strollers wove around each other. And beyond that, in the direction of Waterloo station and her own flat, dark buildings rose up, the skyscrapers of the City looming behind them.

  The crowd had tightened behind her; she couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. People jabbed their elbows into each other and tripped over each other’s feet in an effort to stay upright.

  A rumble came from outside and she felt the weight of the crowd as people leaned to see out. She threw out an arm to steady herself, her breathing short. Another rumble: this time the crowd stilled, staring out and across the river.

  Beyond the water, beyond the tourists and the London Eye, smoke gushed up and over the rooftops, spreading and billowing as the wind caught it. She stared as it thickened and rose. Behind her was silence, the Parliamentary Labour Party collectively holding its breath.

  The cloud cleared the rooftops and the breeze pulled it in their direction. The buildings surrounding Waterloo station disappeared from view, followed by County Hall and the pods of the London Eye.

  She felt her chest hollow out. The London Eye!

  She fell back into the crowd, clutching her throat.

  What had Yusuf told her this morning? The Eye and then a pizza. Maybe you can join us later?

  She stared at the oversized Ferris wheel. Tiny figures moved inside the highest pod, the one at the very apex of the wheel. She lost sight of it as the cloud rose to envelop it, pitching it and the other pods in a grey-brown haze.

  She stared at it for a few moments, blinking. She span round and clawed her way through the crowd. “Get out of my way!” She didn’t care whose feet she trampled, felt no concern about bodies stumbling as she pushed them aside. She had to get out of here – get to her children.

  She stumbled into the back of a bench, her knuckles grazing on the worn wood. She caught herself and managed to take a shaky breath, massaging her temples, willing the images out of her head. Images of Yusuf and the boys in that pod, staring into the dark cloud. Stay calm, she told herself. You’re no use to them like this. Samir clutching Yusuf’s hand despite his maturity and Hassan’s little fingers pulsing in his dad’s. So easy to lose their grip in the darkness and the panic…

  She shook the images from her head, gasping. She fumbled her bag open and delved inside for her phone. Trembling, she brought up her favourites and jabbed at Yusuf’s name. It took two attempts to hit the right key.

  She clutched the phone to her ear, eyes darting around the room. Even the elderly MPs had left their seats and were standing at the back of the throng, trying to see what was going on. Just Mary Boulding, eight months pregnant and barely mobile, sat alone in the centre of the room.

  The phone was silent. She pulled it from her ear and looked at the display. No service. She screwed up her face and tried again. Her breaths were shortening, becoming little more than gasps.

  A woman passed her, floral perfume wafting in her wake. Jennifer gagged.

  She bent over, willing the nausea to subside.

  When she’d regained control of her breathing and felt she could move again, she looked on the floor for her phone. There it lay, next to her foot, the white light on its side blinking.

  She grabbed it. Yusuf?

  No. It was an email from 10 Downing Street, an automated circular with details of tomorrow’s events. The wifi was still working, then.

  She opened WhatsApp and barked out a quick note to Yusuf. Are you OK? Call or message me. I’m at work. She stared at the screen, waiting for a response. She considered for a moment then forwarded it to Samir. He never picked up her messages but it was worth a try.

  She lowered herself onto
a bench, throwing her head back and her gaze up to the ceiling. Overhead, the ornate carvings stared impassively down at her. This room – this building – had seen other days like this.

  The crowd had shifted to one end of the room and was facing the raised platform at the front where committee chairs and witnesses or guest speakers normally sat. Once again she was faced with a wall of backs.

  She approached it, puzzled. Then she heard a familiar voice.

  “Good afternoon, everyone.”

  John.

  She squeezed through the crush. I’m a Home Office minister, she thought. I need to be up there.

  John coughed then took a long swig from a bottle someone passed up to him. His tie was askew and his shirt had damp patches under the arms.

  He whistled out a breath and passed the water to an advisor. There was a sheet of paper in his hand but he didn’t look at it.

  “Sorry to keep you in here, everyone.”

  Murmurs surrounded her.

  He looked around his audience, his eyes alighting on Jennifer. He allowed his gaze to rest on her face for a few beats too long, then looked away.

  He looked towards the window. The muttering stopped. “There’s been an explosion,” he said. “In Waterloo tube station.”

  Jennifer felt her legs go weak. She tried to pull her phone out of her pocket but couldn’t move her arms in the crush.

  “We don’t know the details yet,” John said, taking another swig of water. “And we couldn’t tell you all of it if we did.”

  Gasps ran through the crowd. John raised a hand to ask for quiet.

  “That’s not all,” he said, his voice turning grave. He looked at Jennifer again, his eyes searching her face. “There’s been another one. Roughly the same time.” His eyes were drilling into Jennifer now. She shifted her weight, hearing a tut as her heel spiked someone’s shoe.

  “Spaghetti Junction,” John managed to say. Jennifer stared back at him, her pulse throbbing behind her eyes.