The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  Over the next week, Jennifer felt like she’d released the brakes on a runaway train. High-profile rebel MPs were appearing on TV calling for Michael Stuart’s resignation. The number of backbenchers publicly supporting her campaign grew and even a few ministers started to wobble. Michael called a special Cabinet meeting at Chequers; they were all pestered by the press for information on what was said. And John, wind in his sails, was appearing whenever and wherever he was given the opportunity to defend himself and the government. It wasn’t long before those calling for Michael’s resignation were demanding his too.

  At home, Jennifer was attracting even more attention than ever. Yusuf was being approached on the street and congratulated for his wife’s stand, and the latest party meeting had been packed out. But the attention wasn’t all positive. Walking to the House one morning, she was spat at by a man leaning out of a car window. He yelled after her, his words lost as he sped away. And a series of accusatory letters started arriving at the constituency office, ranting about how she was making the country unsafe and that if only immigrants would go home, they’d all be better off.

  The following Wednesday evening, Jennifer was walking through the division lobby for a routine vote on gas meters. Other people crowded around her, jostling. She hated the predictable chat and enforced jocularity of the division lobby, and retreated into herself.

  An elbow jabbed into her as someone pushed past.

  “Hello, John,” she said to the retreating figure. “How are you?”

  He froze.

  “It’s OK. I won’t bite.”

  He turned, casting his eyes about to check who was watching.

  “Oh, Jennifer, it’s you,” he said, failing to sound surprised. “I’m well, thanks.” He smiled but his eyes were hard. “How about you? Fighting the good fight and all that?”

  “You know it’s not like that. If things could have been different—”

  “No, but they weren’t different, were they?” He stepped closer, his breath hot on Jennifer’s face. Dark circles ringed his eyes. “You turned your back on us, and now you want to be friendly? Don’t bother.”

  Next to them, two MPs paused in their conversation to listen in. Jennifer scowled at them and lowered her voice. “Please don’t make it personal. You know it’s not—”

  “If I lose my job, it bloody well will be,” he hissed.

  Jennifer stared at him. “He won’t sack you, surely?”

  “Hmm?” He raised a spidery eyebrow. “Don’t be so sure. Michael is a man on a mission. Have you been reading the papers?”

  She rolled her eyes. The tabloids were supportive of Michael, applauding his tough stance. Photos of the carnage from the Waterloo and Spaghetti Junction bombs had been plastered across the front pages, as a reminder of what the government was trying to prevent. The broadsheets were more mixed; the Telegraph sceptical but reluctantly supportive, the Times combative and the Guardian full of indignation. The online news sites were a soup of anger, accusations and threatened violence, internet forums being closed down on an almost hourly basis. The trolls weren’t Jennifer’s concern; it was the ‘I’m not a racist but…’ types, increasingly supportive of Michael, that she had to worry about.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Then you’ll know public opinion’s behind us. People are scared, Jennifer. They want strong government.”

  She searched his face for signs of ambivalence, for the truth behind his words. But his eyes were steady on hers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Jo—”

  “Don’t. I’m not that fragile.”

  Maybe not, she thought. But she felt uneasy about betraying John, who she’d known for so many years, and respected. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t let you – him – do it. Not without a fight.”

  “Well, you got your fight all right.”

  He started to push through the people ahead of him, trying to escape. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he turned back. “And Jennifer?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t leak this conversation, will you?”

  With that he pushed even harder and was soon on the other side of two solid men, giving Jennifer no chance to defend herself.

  She looked around, wondering who might have heard, and spotted Colin Hayes. She waved him over.

  “Colin! Over here!” she hissed. It was difficult not to attract attention while attempting to be heard over the droning buzz of conversation.

  He blinked at her as if coming to a decision. Then he said something to his neighbour, who looked up at Jennifer and smiled. Colin squeezed through the crowd, muttering apologies. “Jennifer, hi. How’s things?”

  “Not brilliant. John Hunter just gave me a tongue-lashing.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him. I happen to know that he’s out of favour these days.”

  She frowned. “Do you? Who told you that?”

  He looked down at his thin, almost translucent hands, his pale face turning an unattractive blotchy pink. “Oh, no one. No one you know.”

  She sighed. “Fair enough. So, see you tomorrow night, then? We need to go over the plan for the last few days before the vote.”

  “Err… Maybe – I mean yes, of course. I’ll see you then.”

  Once again a man was fighting through the crowd to escape her. Was it something about her, or were they all up to something?

  21

  January-February 2021. London

  Jennifer was woken the next morning by her mobile ringing in the next room. Rubbing her eyes, she groped her way out of bed, stumbling over her slippers and catching a toe on the door frame. She clutched at it, falling into a chair as she grabbed the phone.

  “Yes?” she muttered, studying her crimson toe.

  “Ms Sinclair, what do you have to say about Colin Hayes’s announcement today?” It was a male voice, one she didn’t recognise.

  “Sorry, what announcement?”

  “Hasn’t he told you? He’s switched sides. Voting with the government.”

  “What!” Jennifer leapt to her feet, the pain in her toe suddenly forgotten.

  “Any comment to make, Jennifer?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  She ended the call. The phone immediately rang again.

  “You sure you don’t have anything to say?” The same voice.

  “Who are you? Leave me alone.”

  She hung up and headed to the bathroom. As she closed the door she heard it ringing again. She went back to answer it, setting herself next to the window. Outside was damp and grey, with none of the birdsong that she’d chosen this flat for. She felt a drop of rain hit her cheek and shut the window.

  “Maggie! I’m glad it’s you.”

  “Have you heard?”

  “About Colin? Yes, I’ve heard. What the hell is he doing?”

  Maggie’s voice was brittle. “The little bastard has turned on us, that’s what he’s doing. Gone to the papers accusing us of having our own agenda. I suppose Michael’s offered him a nice job of some sort at the next reshuffle.”

  “Do you really think so? God, they are desperate. Colin wouldn’t have got a government job in a month of Sundays.”

  “Well, I’m prepared to lay money that one miraculously turns up for him. Just you wait.”

  “So what has he said?”

  “Plenty. Read your papers. And we need to meet, this morning.”

  “Right. See you at nine, here. Can you ring Javed?”

  “No problem. See you then.”

  Jennifer found her iPad and shuffled to the kitchen, flicking up news sites as she went. It was as bad as Maggie had said. Colin had sent out a press release late the previous night, too late for them to get wind of it before their meeting. He was claiming that the long-term future of the country was at stake and he didn’t want to jeopardise that by putting a Labour government at risk.

  As if.

  She turned on the radio to hear Christian Smith, her replacement a
s prisons minister, welcoming Colin back into the fold. “Colin Hayes has seen the sensible course of action, and I am confident that others will follow in his wake,” he said, adding that it was important for the government not to be complacent and that the outcome of next Tuesday’s vote was still touch and go.

  Maggie arrived half an hour later, with Jennifer still drying her hair.

  “Don’t worry, I can wait.” Maggie sat on the sofa and yanked a cigarette out of her bag. She caught Jennifer’s frown.

  “I’ll lean out the window,” she snapped.

  Jennifer nodded and headed back into her bedroom.

  “Bloody Colin Hayes,” Maggie snorted from her vantage point by the window. “Never liked him from the moment I clapped eyes on the weedy little bugger. Opportunist. Sell his own granny, he would.”

  Jennifer emerged from the bedroom, her hair still damp. She looked at her watch; where was Javed?

  Maggie yanked at the window then leaned out, taking a long drag. She ignored the rain. Jennifer sat in silence, thinking over their next move.

  When Javed appeared, Maggie had finished her cigarette. She flicked it out of the window and twisted her mouth at Javed. He sat on the sofa while Jennifer made coffee. She could hear Maggie starting on a plan to get on the phone and make contact with their supporters.

  The government was already doing the same thing. Over recent days Jennifer had noticed waverers having lunch or dinner with ministers; meetings for which they would normally have waited months.

  Javed was quiet, listening to Maggie in between jabs at his phone. Eventually, Maggie turned on him.

  “Cat got your tongue, Javed?”

  He blushed and shrank back. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. Jennifer was sure they were the same ones he’d been wearing the previous night.

  “Leave me alone, Maggie. This is getting to me. Maybe Colin did the right thing.”

  “Right thing? Bloody hell, Javed! You want them stopping immigrants from Pakistan? What would that have meant to your parents, eh?”

  Jennifer stared at Maggie.

  Javed pulled himself up, eyes blazing. His face was almost grey. “That’s out of order, Maggie. This isn’t about my family. It’s about a principle. And don’t worry, I’m not going to switch sides. I’m just under a lot of pressure from the Whips, that’s all.”

  “But surely you’re under just as much pressure from your constituents?” Jennifer asked.

  “Yes, and not just them. Can’t you see, this is tougher on me! A whole community is expecting me to deliver for them on this. It’s alright for you two, with your high-mindedness and your political correctness. This is about reality for me!”

  “Now hang on a minute, Javed,” Jennifer said. “I’m pretty close to it too.”

  “You and your bloody husband. You haven’t got a clue. Parading your relationship around like a political badge of honour. It makes me sick!”

  “Javed!” stormed Maggie. “Get out! Now!”

  “Happy to.”

  He slammed the door behind him as Jennifer and Maggie stood incredulous in his wake.

  “Where the fuck did that come from?” Maggie gasped.

  Despite Javed’s empty threats, Colin Hayes’s defection proved to be little more than that: one man changing sides. There were no throngs of rebels following in his wake; in fact, no one went with him. This strengthened the rebels’ position and calmed Maggie, even made her a little smug.

  “Always knew he was Billy-no-mates,” she beamed, sitting in Jennifer’s flat two days after his defection – and Javed’s outburst. Javed was keeping his distance but hadn’t switched sides. And he hadn’t spoken to the press, a fact which made Jennifer relieved if not Maggie, who was still unforgiving.

  On the Thursday night five days before the vote, Jennifer sat down at her desk, jotting names and numbers on a pad. She calculated that over thirty Labour MPs were planning to rebel. With the Opposition, that gave them a projected majority of eighteen. Even if some decided to abstain in the final days and hours, there was a real chance of winning.

  She sighed and went to her bedroom to pack for the weekend. What she needed was time with her family.

  She stood at the door to her flat and looked at her dishevelled living room, scene of so many planning meetings and arguments. On the windowsill was a loose pile of mail, unanswered while she’d been so distracted. She sighed, wondering what the return to normality would be like on Wednesday morning, once it was all over. How the result would affect her mood. Not to mention her standing in the party and the constituency.

  Too late to change anything now. She picked up her case and turned out the light. A weekend at home would recharge her batteries. But things would be just as hectic there, her mobile would be pestering her all weekend. She was due in the BBC Midlands studio tomorrow morning, to record an interview that would go out on Sunday. She hoped that whatever she said would still apply by then.

  She closed the door and clattered down the stairs, pushing away numbing fatigue and a rising sense of dread.

  22

  February 2021. Birmingham

  At home, the house was quiet. Hassan was already in bed and Samir was out with friends.

  “Which friends?” she asked Yusuf.

  He shrugged. “Not sure.”

  She frowned. “Shouldn’t we know where he is?”

  “You didn’t even know he was out till you got back. He texted me, went to a friend’s after school for homework.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. He’ll be fine.”

  Jennifer bit her lip. This wasn’t her territory to encroach on. “OK. If you say so.” She leaned towards him and squeezed his arm. He looked up from the onions he’d been chopping and smiled. Emboldened, she gave him a kiss.

  “Stop it, I’m making a curry!” he laughed.

  She tickled him under the ribs, thinking of Hassan, who loved and hated being tickled in equal measure. “Sorry,” she breathed into his ear.

  Samir slid home while they were eating, bowls perched on their laps in front of the TV. Jennifer paused, fork in mid-air, and listened to the sound of their son trying to be stealthy.

  Yusuf stood up, pushing his bowl roughly onto the arm of his chair. He walked to the door and yanked it open. Jennifer tensed, feeling cold.

  “Samir?” came Yusuf’s voice from the hall. “You’re late.”

  There was a muttered reply.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said I’m sorry!” Samir shouted, thundering up the stairs.

  Jennifer followed Yusuf. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face dark with anger.

  She put a hand on his back. “Let me speak to him,” she said, and slid past him onto the stairs.

  “I’m not sure—” he said, but she waved his doubts away and padded upstairs.

  She paused at the door to Samir’s room, then walked on the spot for a moment so he would hear her footsteps. She knocked.

  “Only me, love,” she said. Not waiting for a response, she pushed the door open.

  Samir was on his bed, reading a book. She was surprised; she hadn’t seen him doing that for a while.

  “Good book?” she asked.

  A grunt. OK, she thought. This is how it’s going to be. She approached the bed, painting a smile on her face. She could hear her own shaky breathing. Why am I so nervous?

  “Go away,” he muttered. “I’m fine.”

  She perched on the end of the bed. “I know you’re fine,” she said. “But your dad isn’t. He doesn’t like it when you shout.”

  He looked up. His eyes were blotchy and she had a sudden urge to hug him. “How would you know?” he asked.

  She felt her shoulders sag. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Samir.”

  He shrugged. “Just, you’re never here. And when you are here you don’t talk to us. Or to Dad. All you want to talk about is John Hunter and Michael Stuart.”

  He was looking at his bo
ok, but his eyes weren’t moving across the page. There was tension in his face. Had he gone too far, he was probably wondering. Well, has he?

  “That’s not true.” She thought of her weekends at home, the hours she wasn’t rushing around on constituency business or sitting in surgeries. There weren’t many of them. She blinked and scratched her nose.

  He looked up. “You know you’re lying, don’t you?” He stared at her, trembling ever so slightly. He looked down. “Typical politician.”

  She leaned in. “What?”

  “You heard.” His focus was back on his book now, and his face was pale. She heard a noise downstairs: Yusuf, clearing away their dinner.

  “I’ve never heard you talk like this before,” she said. “You know me, love. I’m not like—”

  He ran a hand down the back of his neck. “Like who?” he said. “Like that ridiculous Maggie you’ve been hanging out with, a walking joke? Like John Hunter, willing to do his master’s bidding like a good dog? Like Michael Stuart, purveyor of racist laws?”

  She frowned. These weren’t the words of a fifteen-year-old.

  “Who’ve you been talking to?” she asked.

  He shot up from the bed, letting his book fall to the floor. Accusations Against the Imperialist State. Her lip curled in an involuntary grimace. How long had he been reading this stuff? She felt her shoulders slump; she hadn’t been paying enough attention to him.

  He was standing over her now, imposing despite his leanness. “There you go again,” he shouted. “You’re laughing at me! You’re all the same.”

  He walked to the door and pulled it open. “Go away!” he shouted. “Leave me alone!”

  She stayed on the bed, smoothing her hands on the duvet. “No. We need to talk,” she said.

  “Mummy?”

  Samir’s head shot round as Hassan shuffled into the room, rubbing his eyes. Jennifer stood up. “Yes, sweetie?”

  Samir put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Go away.” The hand twisted.