The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Including Yusuf?”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes. Look, I admire him for taking a stand. But we can’t give him special treatment. Maybe if he helps the police, gives them information—”

  She snorted. “What sort of information?”

  He continued, talking over her. “We need to stop this happening again. In a year or so things will have calmed down. You have to understand the imperative here. It’s for people’s safety.”

  “Imperative?” Now she understood. That wasn’t his language; it was someone else’s. “You’ve been talking to Michael.”

  “Of course I bloody have.”

  “Was this your idea, or his?”

  A blush rose up his neck. “His.”

  Jennifer nodded. “Yusuf won’t go along with it. And I’m not sure I want to.” She shook out her shoulders, feeling tense. “Anyway, it’s not my department.”

  John rose from his chair, looking out of the window at a rainy Whitehall. Street sounds floated up: taxis, delivery vans, messengers, chatter, the regularity of Westminster life. He dug his hands in his pockets and continued.

  “This is going to be a difficult one to sell to a lot of people. A large chunk of the bleedin’ heart party membership, for starters. But there could be backlash in Muslim communities. We need to make it understood that this isn’t scapegoating. It’s prevention.”

  He turned and came to her side of the table, leaning on the armrest of her chair. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin and when she looked up at him, she could see the network of broken veins in his cheeks.

  “The stabbing you witnessed didn’t help. Only one death during the riots, and it was a Muslim kid stabbing a white kid. Do you know how that plays out in white working class communities?”

  “That’s a bit of a gen—”

  He thumped the table. “No, Jennifer. Wake up. These restrictions were the only thing we could think of that didn’t directly target Muslims.”

  “What?”

  “You should have seen the alternatives. Restrictions to mosques, amongst others. I talked Michael down from that one.”

  “Good.” She unclenched her fist; she’d been squeezing her thumb so tightly it hurt.

  He sat back behind the desk, fixing her in place with a stare. “Things have calmed down now. We’ve managed to put the fascists back in their box, and the community leaders want to demonstrate they’re peaceful. But no one’s happy. We need to show that we’re doing something, that we won’t let it happen again.”

  “So you remove the fundamental right to protest.”

  “No. Not if the protest is notified to the police a week in advance.”

  “It’s the principle, John.”

  He pulled back. “I wouldn’t even be considering it if we had any choice. Look, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

  “So what is it you’re asking me to do?”

  “You’ve got connections. You’ve got the respect of the Muslim community, and not just because of Yusuf; the work you’ve done in Birmingham hasn’t gone unnoticed. And people in the party don’t see you as a poodle. We need you to help sell it for us. And we need you to keep Yusuf in his box.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  He smiled. “Well, I’d rather think about what will happen if you accept. Obviously helping us out would be good for your ministerial career.”

  He had her achilles heel. She was ambitious. But she knew what Yusuf would say.

  “I’m going to have to think about this.”

  “I’d rather you agreed sooner rather than later, but if you have to discuss it with Yusuf, then that’s fine with me.”

  She looked up at the mention of Yusuf. “It’s not up to him.”

  He shrugged. “How did you feel about him being at that protest?”

  “We’ve talked it through. It’s fine.”

  “Hmm. Anyway, I’m giving you until Monday. After that, the ship sails, with or without you on board. There are plenty of other people who can be of use.”

  11

  January 2020. Birmingham

  On Thursday night, she got home from a two-hour train journey to find the house in darkness.

  She crept into the living room, turning on a table lamp and shivering against the cold of the sleeping building. Shrugging her coat off and dumping it on the sofa, she slumped down and rubbed her eyes. She’d been ready to face Yusuf, had rehearsed what she would say on the train. Now she felt untethered.

  She gathered her coat up and took it into the hall, hanging it next to Hassan’s bright yellow soft-shell. She glanced up the stairs. She’d been so eager to confront Yusuf when she got home. It hadn’t occurred to her he’d be in bed by eleven pm.

  She headed upstairs. Passing Samir’s closed door, she rested her head against it, longing to disturb him, to find out how his week had been. She sighed and crossed to Hassan’s room. The door was ajar and a dim light shone next to his bed. She knelt on the floor and bent over him, smiling.

  There was a movement by his feet. She turned to ruffle the fur between the cat’s ears then gave Hassan a light kiss on the cheek and left.

  She paused at the door to her and Yusuf’s room. She burned to talk to him and felt guilty about her reticence on the phone the previous night, the way she’d shrugged off his queries about her day with a mumbled it was fine.

  Yusuf was asleep, a book dangling from his hand. She felt her shoulders slump; all that adrenaline, wasted. She leaned over to shut off his bedside light. The book fell from his hand and she caught it before it hit the floor.

  Pulling in a deep breath, she crept to her own side of the bed and quietly undressed, easing herself in next to him. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, the crack that snaked across its blank expanse.

  She turned away from Yusuf, careful not to disturb the duvet. She gazed at the light around the curtains, listening to the plunk of the pipes, catching fragments of conversation as people passed in the street outside. The curtains were thin and the orange mist of a streetlamp suffused the room. Tree branches moved across it from time to time in the wind, casting shadows across the room.

  Yusuf turned over, making the bed shudder. He made a small, distressed noise: a bad dream. Unable to lie still, she slid from the bed, taking care to leave the duvet over him, and made her way to the bathroom. Its soft carpet welcomed her cold feet and muffled their sound.

  She sat on the toilet lid for at least half an hour, playing the anticipated scene with Yusuf over and over in her head. She heard a sound from Samir’s room and froze, waiting for him to open the bathroom door. How would she explain sitting here in the middle of the night?

  No-one appeared. After a few moments holding her breath, she headed back to her room.

  Yusuf was sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He turned on his bedside lamp and yawned.

  “Jen? What time is it?”

  “Almost midnight. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

  “I’m awake now,” he grumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and heading for the bathroom. After a couple of minutes the toilet flushed and he shuffled downstairs to the kitchen. Jennifer listened to the thrum of the pipes and considered what to do. She grabbed her dressing gown and followed him downstairs, casting a glance at the boys’ doors as she passed.

  He was standing at the sink, gripping a mug of water and scratching his chin. He flinched as she appeared, as if he’d forgotten she was home. He pulled his dressing gown tight around him and sat at the kitchen table, looking at her between sips.

  “What’s up?” he said. “You look like death.”

  She nodded. Now or never.

  “I’m not sure you want to hear this, but I have to tell you about something that happened at work.”

  He looked at her, his expression flat. She took a seat opposite him.

  She told him about her conversation with John – about how they wanted to restrict demos, giving the police powers to break up gatherings. How they wanted
to stop a backlash. He listened in silence, and when she had finished, explaining that she had to give her decision in four days’ time, he drained the last of his coffee and headed back to the sink. She watched him, trembling.

  “Yusuf. Please talk to me.”

  “You’ve got a nerve, Jennifer.”

  “Uh?” She wasn’t expecting this.

  “Telling me this in the middle of the night, with the kids asleep upstairs. You know damn well that I can’t react, or I’ll wake them. So what do you expect me to do?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t expect you to do anything. I just have to decide what I’m going to do, and I wanted to discuss it with you first. Like we always do. I know you hate this; I hate it too. But it’s going to happen anyway, and people are going to get pissed off about it. We could do something to try to stop that.”

  “Jennifer, I don’t want to talk about this now. You seem to have made up your mind, and I can’t see how what I think has anything to do with it. Let me go back to bed.”

  This was the only way to deal with him. Let him retreat into himself, sort out his own feelings, and then approach him when he was ready. As long as he was ready in the next couple of days.

  “OK. I’m sorry, love. I didn’t want all this to happen any more than you did. I love you.”

  She kissed him before he was able to move away, feeling his lips tight against hers. She squeezed his hand, receiving nothing in response, and watched him retreat towards the stairs.

  For the next two hours they lay awake, each with their back to the other. From time to time the bed moved, and Jennifer heard him sighing. She fought the urge to turn and try to explain herself.

  Jennifer was relieved when at long last the alarm buzzed. She dressed and left as soon as she had her make-up on, giving Hassan a gentle kiss while he slept and casting Yusuf what she hoped was a conciliatory look before leaving. She grabbed breakfast on the way to work, but was unable to eat it. After a late meeting with the local victim support programme manager, at seven pm she made it back to the house.

  Which was empty.

  She panicked. By this time they should all be at home, with Hassan being nagged into bed and Samir a zombie in front of YouTube. But the house was heavy with silence. Frantic, she jabbed at her phone to dial Yusuf.

  Voicemail.

  She threw her phone onto the hall table, cursing herself under her breath. Where are they? She rattled into the kitchen, tossing her bag onto the table and attempting to calm herself with a cup of tea, spilling hot water on her hand in the process.

  As she turned away from the sink she spotted a folded up piece of notepaper on the floor with her name on. She grabbed it. Taken the boys for pizza.

  She slumped against the fridge door, her heart slowing. This had happened before, when Samir was small. They’d argued about her campaign tactics and Yusuf had disappeared with Samir, taking him to a funfair. And then two years ago, when Samir was a protesting twelve year old and Hassan a puzzled eight, he’d taken them all the way to Derby, driving forty miles before reconsidering and turning back.

  She stood up, clenching and unclenching her fists, and was about to grab her phone when it rang. It was Yusuf.

  “Yusuf? Where the hell are you?”

  “Calm down. We’ll be home later.”

  “You could have told me. I was scared stiff.” Her breathing was shallow. She put a hand to her chest and willed her heart to slow.

  “Sorry. But you owe me an apology too. Telling me that in the middle of the night.” He was whispering. She wondered if the boys were with him, or if he’d found a moment alone, sent them off to the toilet maybe.

  “I didn’t mean to. You gave me no choice,” she replied.

  “Whatever. I don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.”

  “And I know I can’t stop you from doing what you want.”

  “Come on Yusuf, you know it’s not like that.”

  “I can’t. I shouldn’t. I’ll keep quiet, I won’t rock the boat. But I’m not getting involved. I’ll see you later.”

  “OK. How are—”

  But he had hung up.

  12

  January 2020. Birmingham

  Jennifer stared into space in the living room, jumping out of her seat every time a car drove past. She’d heated a curry in the microwave; it sat on the table in front of her, cooling. She’d been tempted to let the cat have it when he’d leaped up to try his luck, but thought better of it and shooed him away distractedly.

  Finally a pair of headlights didn’t pass but instead turned to beam into the room. She smoothed her clammy palms on her skirt, wishing she’d taken the time to change out of her work clothes. She felt tight and uncomfortable in them, aware of the grime of the day settling on her skin.

  She walked towards the front door, wondering who would be through it first. A weight landed against it and she heard giggling. Hassan.

  She smiled and threw the door open, catching him as he fell. She landed a kiss on his head and tousled his hair.

  “Hello, sweetie. Nice pizza?”

  “Yeah. Daddy let me have the all-you-can-eat ice-cream.”

  That would have stretched things out. “Lovely. Now it’s late. Go upstairs and get your pyjamas on.”

  He groaned but did as he was told. Samir sidled past, giving her a curt teenage hello, and disappeared upstairs. Finally only Yusuf was left, emptying the car of the boys’ coats and school bags.

  She stood in the doorway, calming her breath. Watching him while trying not to look threatening. What mood would he be in?

  He gave her a quick kiss then pushed past and started putting things away.

  “You OK?” she asked.

  He looked up the stairs and then motioned towards the living room. She followed him in there. He shut the door and she felt ice run down her spine.

  “Hassan will be back down in a minute,” she said, her voice shaky. What did he want to say, that demanded a closed door?

  He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, his eyes on her.

  “I know. I’ll be quick.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve made a decision.”

  She put a hand to her chest, her skin tightening. “What?” Her voice was brittle.

  He licked his lips. “I’m fed up of standing on the sidelines while you and John do whatever you want to do.”

  She frowned, puzzled. “I’m sorry.”

  “Let me continue.” He looked up at the ceiling and then back down, his gaze landing on the curtains behind her. She heard a car pass outside and the sound of the boys’ voices upstairs.

  He scratched his beard. “I love what I do at the shelter.” He paused. She waited. “But it’s not enough. I can only help people so much.”

  “I think what you do makes a huge difference,” she said. “More than me, sometimes.”

  “Do you really think that? Really? Or are you just patronising me?”

  The accusation was like a barb in her chest. “I’d never patronise you, Yusuf.” She blinked.

  “Whatever,” he said, sounding more like Samir than himself. “I sometimes think you’re more interested in keeping John happy than you are me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Really? Where are your priorities, Jen?”

  His eyes were on her, his face hard. She met his gaze, trying not to tremble.

  “Here. You and the boys. You’re my priorities.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way.”

  “Yusuf, that’s not fair. We talked about what it would mean when I became an MP. We knew there’d be compromises. That’s why I’m so grateful that you—”

  “Grateful? Is that what it is?”

  She could feel her thumbnail in her palm; the nervous tic. “I don’t know what it is you need me to say. They’re going to do this without me. You know that. Maybe I can improve it, temper it a bit.”

  “You’ve already said that.”

  “I k
now. There isn’t much else to say.”

  He turned away from her, looking at the family photo over the fireplace. “Anyway, I know I can’t stop you doing what you want to at Westminster, but I can do more myself.”

  “OK.” She had no idea what he meant. Was he going to speak to John? To try to sway him somehow? She wasn’t aware they were still in touch.

  “So I’m going to stand for the city council. I can do that while still keeping up my work at the—”

  She all but collapsed in relief. “I think that’s great.”

  He frowned. “Do you?”

  “Of course. You’d make a great councillor.”

  He stared at her for a few moments. “Thanks,” he said, not sounding as if he meant it.

  The door clattered open and Hassan was in the room. “I’m hungry!” he cried.

  Jennifer turned to him. “You’ve just had pizza. How can you possibly be—”

  “I’m hungry,” he repeated, folding his arms and slumping onto the sofa. Jennifer looked at Yusuf, giving him a hopeful smile. He didn’t return it.

  13

  July 2020. London

  It was a stifling morning in July. The temperature had been nudging the thirties for at least a week and the Evening Standard was reporting record temperatures on the tube. Jennifer was on the phone to Yusuf when John came breezing into her office, throwing open the door and sending a welcome draft of air her way. She’d just recovered from a bout of food poisoning and was struggling against the heat. She had moved to one of the armchairs in her office, desperate for comfort. She’d spent the morning roaming her room like a cat in heat, searching out a cool spot. Truth be told, she probably shouldn’t be there at all.

  “Morning, John. How’s things?”

  “Oh, not brilliant. I can’t really talk to you about it – sorry.”