The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  Her personal assistant Donna looked up as she passed. Jennifer smiled at her. “Sorry,” she said. “John took longer than usual. Too many questions. I know you need me to get those papers signed.”

  Donna shook her head. “That’s not the problem.”

  Jennifer ground to a halt. “Oh?”

  Donna paled. “There’s been… an incident… in your constituency.”

  Jennifer’s shoulders dropped. “Oh.” She didn’t ask any more; as a civil servant, Donna’s job was confined to government matters, not constituency ones.

  “Thanks,” she said, and hurried into her office. She tapped at her keyboard and opened the BBC website. It was streaming live footage from Spaghetti Junction.

  The phone on her desk buzzed.

  “Sorry, Minister. You might want to turn on the news.”

  “I have already. What is it?”

  There was a pause. Jennifer frowned and replaced the handset. She would have to see for herself.

  She fell into her chair. In the background was the familiar sight of the diggers and cranes, with not much changed since she was last there. In the foreground, a crowd of people. Or rather two crowds, separated by the police.

  Jennifer pinched her nose and stared at the screen. On one side was a group of a dozen or so white men, fists jabbing at the police in the centre and placards clutched in tattooed and scarred fists. Immigrants go home. Stop terrorism. England for the English. And worse.

  On the right of the screen, facing them down, was a smaller but more mixed group; white, brown and black skin, young and old. There was one placard at the front: Hope Not Hate. And another behind it: Socialist Workers. Jennifer sighed. The Socialist Workers’ Party always found their way to these things.

  She turned up the volume. There was no commentary; just the sound of angry confrontation.

  Then she spotted him. She frowned and leaned into the screen, her throat dry.

  His face was indistinct, turned sideways from the camera. He was shouting something. A policeman approached him, putting a hand up between them. He shook his head and turned back into the crowd, becoming hidden from her.

  She picked up her mobile. It rang out four times and then voicemail kicked in.

  “This is Yusuf Hussain. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.”

  She tightened her lips and hung up, turning back to the screen.

  The crowd was parting now, more police coming between the two groups. Someone threw a bottle and there was a moment of calm followed by a surge as both groups pushed towards each other.

  She put a finger to the screen. There he was again.

  Could she zoom in, on a live feed? She tried pinching her fingers on the trackpad but nothing happened. She bit her lip, impatient. Yusuf, what are you doing?

  Words were tracking across the bottom of the screen. Violent demonstration – right-wing groups – local community – Spaghetti Junction. None of it made any sense. Had he been there before this had started, or had he gone after seeing it on the news, like she was now? They only lived a few streets away.

  The camera zoomed in on the anti-racist protestors, finding its mark. The commentator paused for a moment, as if listening to someone. Then he spoke, haltingly.

  “We believe that the husband of the Prisons Minister Jennifer Sinclair is in the crowd.”

  Yusuf, what have you done? Why didn’t you talk to me first?

  Then she remembered that he had. And she’d defended Michael.

  He turned towards the camera, spotting it on him. He frowned and looked away, muttering to a woman standing behind him. Then he turned back again.

  It was as if he could see her, watching him. Yusuf stared at the lens, at her. It was like a challenge.

  9

  December 2019. Birmingham

  Jennifer drove through the darkened streets, picking her way home from a meeting with the Assistant Chief Constable. She’d spoken at a press conference with him, trying to calm the situation. Mohamed Yazami, MP for the city centre constituency where the protests had spread from Spaghetti Junction, was there too, offering solidarity. But the violence had started to spread north, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever get home.

  Every now and then she would hit a road that had been cordoned off, turning what should have been a ten-minute drive into an ordeal. It was going to be at least an hour until she was home.

  Her phone had been buzzing constantly, but she didn’t dare pick it up; the streets were too unpredictable. Cars had been left at odd angles, abandoned by their owners, and people darted into the road with no warning. She gripped the steering wheel, peering ahead like a learner on her driving test. As her phone hummed for possibly the tenth time, two shapes appeared in her headlights and she slammed on the brakes. Two men, hoods up, turned to her. She felt her heart accelerate and glanced down at her phone; would help come, if she were to call? Or were the emergency services too busy?

  Almost as quickly as they’d appeared, the two shapes vanished into the darkness and her headlights fell on nothing but the road ahead. It was strewn with debris. An upturned shopping trolley lay in the gutter, and the tarmac was littered with broken glass, bricks and pieces of wood that got under her wheels. She took a deep breath, checked the door locks once again, and eased her foot onto the accelerator.

  She’d been forced to take an unfamiliar street, one she’d only ever seen in daytime while out canvassing. It was quiet, but to her right she could hear the sounds of sirens accompanied by the hum of raised voices pierced by the occasional splintering sound. She shivered.

  The press conference had gone smoothly enough, without too many questions about Yusuf. But the kids out on the streets tonight wouldn’t be watching TV. Instead, their parents would have been watching, sitting in terrified silence and wondering when and if their kids were coming home. So far there’d been fifteen serious injuries and twelve arrests in Birmingham alone. More arrests would come later, in the cold light of morning.

  She took a right turn, relieved to be back on familiar streets. The road was in semi-darkness, only half of the street lamps working. Up ahead was a crowd of people, spilling into the road. She swerved as a police van sped past. It stopped between her and the crowd, its occupants slamming doors and lifting riot shields in front of them. Sparks came from over the heads of the crowd and the noise intensified.

  She stopped the car, unsure whether to push on and take the turning between her and the rioters, which led home, or to reverse. Up ahead, the police advanced on the crowd, pushing it away from her. She decided to risk it.

  She drove slowly, debating whether to turn off her headlights. As she approached, they illuminated the backs of the police, the handcuffs on their belts catching the light. Her phone buzzed again and she looked at it. It would be good to hear Yusuf’s voice. Even if she was still angry with him for being at Spaghetti Junction when this all started.

  She stopped the car and fumbled for her phone, hitting speed dial.

  “Jen? Where are you? It’s mayhem out there.”

  “I know. I’m in the middle of it.”

  “What? No, Jen. Come home.”

  “I’m trying. I’m nearly home, just need to get past a crowd. The road’s full of people.”

  “What? OK, so turn back. Take the long way round.”

  “There isn’t a long way round.”

  Jennifer, unlike so many other MPs, had chosen to live in the heart of her constituency. She hadn’t taken the easy route with a house in the leafy suburb to the north, which was Tory anyway. As a junior minister and not a member of the Cabinet, her house had no police protection. It was right in the eye of the storm. Should she push on?

  “Jen, listen to me. Go back into town. Stay in a hotel, if you need to.”

  “No. The boys need us both there. I’ll be fine. I’m going to put you on hands-free.”

  She slid the phone into its holder and started to ease her way forward. The wall of police backs was moving
away from her, but more slowly now. She could see the turning. Once she took that she would be two minutes from home.

  “Jennifer? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. Where are the boys? Are they OK?”

  “They’re downstairs, watching TV.”

  “You’re not with them?”

  “No. I didn’t want them hearing this. I don’t like you doing this, love. Think about the—”

  “I’m at the turn. I’ll just be a couple of minutes. You go back to the boys. They shouldn’t be on their own.”

  “Jennifer, please—”

  “Love you.”

  She reached out to end the call, her eyes leaving the windscreen. When her gaze flicked back to the road ahead, there was a man standing in front of her car. He was skinny and pale, his skin almost translucent in the beams. He wore a torn T-shirt and jeans darkened by stains.

  She waved for him to move aside. He stayed right where he was, blinking at her. She stared back, transfixed, her stomach churning. She considered reaching for her phone but didn’t dare take her eyes off him. Had she locked the doors?

  There was a yell from one side and the man turned. More forms appeared out of the darkness, from the right and then from the left. The man moved towards them, his shape blurring in front of her. The crowd closed in on the car, blocking the light from the street lamps.

  She tried to edge forwards but she could feel bodies thudding against her car, hands scrabbling at the paintwork.

  Behind her, a siren sounded. The crowd shifted, jostling her car. She squeezed her eyes shut, just for a moment, wishing she hadn’t hung up the phone. Were those going to be her last words to Yusuf?

  Then the car rocked and there was a scream. Her eyes flew open and she twisted round in her seat, her breath ragged. The crowd had pulled back. She heard shouts from behind and glanced in her rear view mirror to see police running towards them.

  There was a scream.

  Had she hit someone?

  She looked at the door next to her, eyeing the handle. Going out there was madness, but she couldn’t just drive away. She threw open the car door. A wall of sound hit her – screams and shouts and over the top of them, the ever-present sound of sirens.

  She slid out. Surrounding the car was a ring of people. On the side furthest from her was a line of young Asian men, their eyes wide. And on the side nearest her was another group, larger, of white men and women, all young, all wearing hoodies. One man was gripped on either side by two women, holding him back as he lunged towards the Asian men.

  There was a groan. Between her feet and the front wheel of the car, a man was crouched on the ground, holding another man in his arms. The injured man’s face was turned away from her, cast in shadow.

  She had hit someone. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry!”

  “Not your fault.” The crouching man frowned over at the huddle on the other side of the car. He got to his feet, his face white with rage, and pointed a trembling finger.

  “You!” he shouted.

  A man emerged from the crowd. He was short and plump with black hair that curled around his ears. His green bomber jacket was covered in blood.

  There was another groan from the man on the ground. She went over to him.

  Someone in the crowd shifted and the beam of the streetlight lit up the man’s face, grey and lifeless. He was wearing a blood-soaked T-shirt. It was the man she’d caught in her headlights.

  She suppressed a cry and swallowed hard. She crouched down and put her hand on his wrist. No pulse.

  Then she spotted it. A blade, glinting. On the ground beside him was a knife.

  Behind her, a woman screamed. She felt hands on her shoulders pulling her back and out of the way. Then they were surrounded by police, working their way through the crowd, roughly grabbing hold of people and dragging them back to their van.

  10

  January 2020. London

  “How are you?”

  Jennifer was in John’s office, sitting opposite him at his meeting table. Normally they used the chairs near his desk, something that hadn’t been lost on her when he ushered her in.

  She shrugged. “OK, thanks. Still shocked.”

  “Nasty business. Really nasty. I’m sorry you were caught up in it.”

  She looked down and twisted her hands in her lap. She’d been having problems sleeping, and was struggling to maintain the calm façade her family needed right now.

  At least the riots were over. The weather had turned, a cold snap making going out on the streets at night less pleasant than it might have been. The night after Jennifer had seen that man get stabbed, the numbers had almost halved. The next night they were down to a trickle. And then Christmas had got in the way. But it was too late for the man, who had died the next day in hospital. He was only eighteen.

  She’d run over those moments in her mind till her head hurt. Had she seen even a glimpse of the stabbing? When exactly had it happened? She’d been so focused on getting out, she’d paid too little attention to what was happening outside. Was it her fault? If her car hadn’t been there, would things have played out differently?

  “I think we should get you police protection,” John said, dragging her out of her thoughts. “I know it’s not normal for ministers at your level, but this is different.”

  She shook her head. “No. Anyone could have been in that situation. I was just unlucky. It was nothing to do with my job.”

  “It was bloody stupid of you to drive through that area—”

  “That area is my constituency. It’s where I live. And if I get police protection, what does that say to the family of the boy who died? To the people who voted for me? It’s a safe neighbourhood, John. I don’t want people thinking otherwise.”

  “They’re not ministers. Those voters.”

  “No, John. I appreciate it, but no thanks.”

  He shrugged. “OK. But tell me if you change your mind.”

  She nodded.

  “Anyway,” he continued. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you. There’s some new legislation we’re planning. It’ll affect you.”

  “Oh?” She sank into the chair he had pulled out, as he took the one opposite. The table between them was glass-topped and cold to the touch. She had her back to the room and her view was of a wall of pristine books behind John’s head. She wondered if any of those books had ever been read.

  “Look, I’m going to be straight with you, but you can’t talk about this outside here. Not yet.” He looked up and grunted as his secretary came in with a pot of coffee. He waited for her to finish pouring and leave, closing the door behind her. “We have to stop this kind of thing happening again.”

  She shrugged. “What kind of thing?”

  “The riots. Look, sorry if this is delicate for you—”

  “No. Don’t be daft.” She took a deep breath, forcing away the panic that kept pushing at her. Maybe this conversation would exorcise it. “Go on. What have you got planned?”

  “OK. So we’ve put security around Spaghetti Junction, and Waterloo. Anywhere that could be a focus.”

  “It wasn’t just because of what happened at Spaghetti Junction—”

  “Everything’s got its source. This time, it was that demo.”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” she said. “After the bombs, people started scapegoating. They looked for someone to blame. We need to counteract that. We’ve got to put the communities back together again.”

  Her own community was still reeling. Things were calm, for now, but there was a festering undercurrent that made her nervous. The waiting rooms at her surgeries had become segregated of their own accord, and the streets were deserted after dusk. Yusuf had started taking Samir to school instead of letting him walk alone, something that hadn’t gone down well.

  “That’s just words, Jennifer. We need action.” He licked his lips. “So we’re going to be restricting demos like the one that started it all. The one Yusuf was at.”

  “Now hold on—”
Don’t drag my husband into this.

  “Sorry.” He held up his palms. “That was below the belt. Not his fault. But why the blazes did you let him go?”

  She laughed. “He’s a free man, John. Despite being married to a government minister.”

  “Hmpff. Well, I’d be grateful if you kept him in line.”

  She took a deep breath. Yusuf wasn’t a pet dog. “Tell me about this legislation.”

  “Right. So we’re introducing police powers to break up any large gathering not notified in advance.”

  “Large gathering? What does that mean?”

  John shrugged. “Difficult to define. We’re working on the language, but it’ll be less about numbers, more about intent.”

  She cocked her head. “How many demos have you been on in your time?”

  He blushed. “Too many to count.”

  “And now you’re getting too old, you want to stop other people doing it.”

  “Ouch. Never too old. But yes. And it could be temporary. We can reverse it when things have calmed down.”

  “That’s rubbish, and you know it,” she said. “Legislation like that is never reversed.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He eyed her. “When this goes public, what will Yusuf do?”

  She stiffened. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

  John leaned back, pushing a stray lock of hair into place. “Come on, Jennifer.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

  “OK, so it’s like that. Well, I’m not all that surprised at what he did. Not really.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Don’t forget I knew Yusuf when he was young. We were both gobby bastards, but we had our principles. His are coming to the fore now.”

  “And you want to abandon yours.”

  “That’s not fair. We need to be practical. Sometimes when you’re in government, you can’t afford the luxury of principles. Not when people’s lives are at stake.” He sipped his coffee, looking pensive. “And we’re going to be tracking the people who were there when this all kicked off. Including people at Spaghetti Junction.”