The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  Mark put his hand on her shoulder as if sensing what she was thinking. The touch was gentle, but sent a tremor through her. She thought of Jennifer and Maryam, sitting in breakfast, discussing her Celebration with her. Trying to help her. Would they be missing her? Or would they just have assumed she’d been released, or sent to a different centre?

  She had to get back to them. The only way was to convince her captors that she’d changed heart, that she was loyal. But how?

  She closed her eyes, drilling into her mind.

  She opened her eyes again, to find Yonda closer to her. She could smell the woman’s heavy perfume, mixed with a faint layer of sweat.

  “I will go back to my school. I will talk to the children about the oath, and why it’s important. I will apologise to them.”

  Yonda shrugged. “Sounds convincing. But will it convince us if you repeat it at Celebration?”

  Rita didn’t move. She suspected Yonda knew the answer to that as well as she did.

  Mark took his hand off her shoulder. “Let’s try Step Six, eh? Your pledge.”

  “My pledge? The oath, you mean?” She wasn’t even sure if she could remember that, the way her head was pounding now. She felt like she was going to be sick.

  At least she could aim for Yonda’s expensive heels. She allowed herself a smile.

  Yonda slapped Rita’s knee with the flat of her hand. “Behave yourself.”

  Rita stifled a moan. “Sorry.”

  “Do it, then. Give us your pledge.”

  Rita tried to remember; had she heard any of the other women do this? There had only been Jennifer, in Celebration. What had she said? It was a blur. She had been so focused on her realisation of what was in that glass, that she’d barely listened. She closed her eyes. Focus. Concentrate.

  She had it. Something about spreading a message. Encouraging others.

  “When I leave this place, I’ll spread the message.” She paused, begging her screaming muscles to calm down, and her mind to stay sharp. “I will encourage people to love this country as much as I do.”

  “What message, Rita?” asked Yonda. “What’s this message you’re so keen on spreading?”

  Rita felt herself slump in the chair. This wasn’t working. Try again.

  “The message of… of loyalty. Of love for the state. Of not being rebellious. Or difficult.”

  “Ha!” Yonda’s laugh was surprisingly sonorous. “I’m not buying it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re lying. Of course you are. You want to go back to your friends. But this isn’t you, and we both know it.”

  Mark shuffled towards Yonda. “Maybe if we try again—”

  Yonda waved a dismissive hand at him. “There’s no point. Take her back.”

  “No! Please!” Rita almost fell off her chair, trying to clutch Yonda’s hand as she headed for the door. “Don’t take me back there. I’ll be good. I’ll do the programme. I promise.”

  Yonda looked back, shaking her head. “Oh, Rita. Stop lying to me. It won’t get you anywhere.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Mark opened the door to his office and gazed at the empty space. It had felt so full just ten minutes earlier, with both Rita and Yonda in there. This was the first time Yonda had been here, and her presence threw the dim, damp space into harsh relief. Not to mention the way she’d treated Rita.

  He knew what this place was – he wasn’t naive – and he’d supported it. He was a fervent loyalist, a believer in the benevolence of the state. For him it went along with his socialism, his belief in big government. There would be no health service without it. And the rise of extremist groups at both ends of the political spectrum – especially the far right – had convinced him that places like this were justified. That helping these women to understand how they’d gone wrong and to help them see sense was a noble thing. It was certainly better than prison, if that was the alternative.

  But that had been when he’d believed the centre to be humane. The hippocratic oath was just as vivid for him now as it had been on the day he’d qualified, and he knew he was violating it. He’d managed to convince himself that he was acting in the cause of a greater good, that sacrifices had to be made, tough decisions taken. He grimaced. I sound like a politician, he thought, wondering how many times thoughts just like these had gone through Jennifer’s mind. But then, she was the woman who’d made the truly tough decision, who’d chosen her conscience over her government. She wasn’t to know what it would lead to. And he secretly admired her for it.

  Rita had sobbed all the way back to her cell – he refused to think of it as anything other than that, now he’d seen her reaction to it. She’d walked next to him, her head low and her greasy hair hanging in front of her face. Her hand had repeatedly gone up to her eyes, to wipe away tears or catch a sniffle. But once they’d rounded the first corner, she’d given up on the pretence. She openly wept as she walked back to that awful, stinking room. As he took her back to it.

  He’d let her in and watched her shuffle to the bed and lie down on it, curling up into a ball. She looked small and vulnerable, like Olivier when he had hurt his head as a toddler.

  He shook his head. He mustn’t compare his son to these women, mustn’t even think of him in the same context as his work here. He was tempted to throw in this job, to catch the next plane to Canada and seek out his ex-wife and son. But Canada was vast, and he needed stable employment if he was ever to regain custody. Something that would be lost to him, now and in the future, if he resigned this post. Yonda had her claws in too many pies for that.

  He closed the door and ran through the day’s schedule. Sally was next for her one-to-one. He despised Sally and knew she felt the same way about him. But his professionalism had to overshadow his decency. Somehow he had to support her, to help her find her own way through this system. Maybe if he tried hard, she really would repent, would change her outlook. But she was showing no sign of it.

  His mobile rang in his trouser pocket. He fumbled for it, frowning. He didn’t feel like being disturbed.

  It was Yonda.

  He lifted it to his ear and stretched his face into a smile. “Yonda. What can I do for you?”

  “Come to my office, please.”

  She hung up. He glared at the phone, almost hurling it across the room, then regained control of himself. He had to take it easy. Rita would never get out of here under her own steam. She wouldn’t get anywhere by being difficult, as she’d already learned. And now she was learning, as had Jennifer, that lies wouldn’t work either.

  Her only hope was Jennifer. If he could help Jennifer get out of here, then she had the influence to help her friend. She’d do something, surely.

  He paused. It wasn’t just up to Jennifer. If she got out of here, he had to help her. He had to give up this job and work with her.

  He shuddered, thinking about Olivier, about the custody hearing and the terms that had been laid down. A man without a job would stand no chance. But maybe if he did go to Canada, once things had boiled over…

  His phone pinged. Where are you?

  He pulled a face at the phone and plunged it back into his pocket, heading for the door.

  Outside Yonda’s office, he paused. He had passed three orderlies on the way, all of whom had given him respectful glances. He wondered what they thought about what happened here. Was it just Tim and Roy who meted out physical punishment, or were there others? And how did he not know the answer to that question? Why hadn’t he asked?

  He smoothed his hair down with a hand and put the other one to the dark wood of Yonda’s door, hesitating before knocking twice.

  “Come in!”

  He pushed open the door, half expecting to see Catherine Moore again. But Yonda was alone, all but obscured by that tank-like desk.

  “Hello, Yonda,” he said, and walked towards the desk, ignoring the low chairs. He stood opposite her, his hands fingering the wood. Her laptop was closed on the desk, and the porcelain
dog had been joined by another, almost identical.

  She gave him an insincere smile. “Hello. Take a seat, please.”

  He smiled, remembering her response to the same invitation in his own office. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Would she pull rank and insist that he sat? It seemed not. She frowned but let it pass.

  “You’re being too soft on them,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your group. The troublemakers. They need a firm hand. The way you treated Rita this morning—”

  “That’s not true. With all due respect, Yonda, I’m an experienced clinical psychologist. I know the best way to proceed with women like these.”

  She narrowed her eyes and leaned forwards, raising herself up a little. It looked uncomfortable. “And I’m experienced with criminals and I understand that they need a firm hand.”

  He shook his head. “This is different.” His heart was thumping. He had to stop letting her walk all over him.

  Yonda rose slowly, patting down her bright pink blouse which had ridden up around her neck. “Tell me. If I hadn’t been there, what would have been the outcome of that cosy little session you had going on with Rita?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really? None at all?”

  “No. Who’s to say how a clinical session will pan out?”

  “I think you’re being naive.”

  She turned her back on him, meandering towards the window. She paused at the curtains and pulled one further aside, taking in the view. It was sunny today, but chilly. He wondered if any of the women in the infirmary had been allowed out.

  “I don’t agree,” he said, trying to project confidence. He had to be careful. He hated the idea of Yonda belittling him, of her challenging everything he knew as a psychologist. But he couldn’t afford to anger her. “In my experience, working with women as disturbed and confused as Rita can rarely have predefined outcomes.”

  She waved a hand. “Predefined outcomes. Don’t talk shit. If I hadn’t been there, you’d have fudged it. She’d be sitting pretty up there in her cosy bedroom, thumbing her nose at us.”

  “I hardly think her room is—”

  She span round. “Do you think I give a shit what their rooms are like? My job is to rehabilitate these women. To ensure that they believe in the goodness of the state, body and soul. To make them repent their crimes and promise to make retribution. Your job is to assist in that.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Understand?”

  “Absolutely. That’s what I want to achieve too.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Lately, I haven’t been so sure.”

  “That’s unfair. I’ve been faced with particularly trying circumstances in recent weeks. Two failed Celebrations, and Rita’s behaviour—”

  “You say you’ve been faced with all this. Have you considered it could be your fault?”

  He clenched his teeth. “Absolutely not. Do you think Rita would be any further forward if she still had Meena as her counsellor?”

  He looked down, ashamed of himself. Yonda gave him a satisfied smile. “Criticising your colleagues. Not all that professional.”

  “Sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

  She approached the desk again, sighing. “Look. Rita is trouble. Women like her are bad for our statistics. She’s gone beyond anything you can do for her.”

  His mind raced. “What do you mean?”

  “Not your concern. Let me worry about Rita. Now, I need to talk to you about another member of your lovely little group.”

  “Who?”

  He knew the answer. “Jennifer Sinclair.”

  He nodded. “What about her?”

  “She has to fail another Celebration.”

  “What? Another one? But no-one’s—”

  “I know, I know. But Jennifer will be an exception.”

  “That won’t look very good for your statistics.”

  “Our statistics, Mark. We all bear responsibility. This one will be an exception. She won’t be included.”

  “You can’t do that.” He’d been present for their inspections, knew how closely their data was scrutinised. Admissions, Celebrations, releases. It was all monitored.

  “I can. This time.”

  He realised this would be something to do with Catherine Moore. “So why have things changed? I thought I had to make sure she didn’t have another Celebration? Can she be allowed out, now?”

  Yonda sighed. “You didn’t hear me. I said she had to fail another Celebration.”

  “But no-one has ever failed a second time.”

  “I know.”

  “So what will happen to her?”

  “I imagine she’ll go back to prison.” She shrugged. “It won’t be our concern.”

  He felt his chest fill. How could she be so callous, so uncaring? Jennifer had been traumatised in prison. She’d told him in her one-to-ones, before she’d decided not to trust him. As an MP she was the inevitable victim of prison bullying. And she wasn’t the type to handle that well.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

  Yonda raised her eyebrows. “And since when was that your call?”

  “I’m her doctor.”

  “Ha. Glorified doctor. You know what your role is.”

  He stepped towards her, feeling a momentary urge to grab her stupid pink collar and shake some sense into this woman who he’d tolerated – even enjoyed – working with for the past year. How had he not seen what she was really like?

  He paused, listening to his own breathing. If he stayed here, would he become like her?

  An idea hit him.

  “Alright,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “Alright. I’ll persuade Jennifer to apply for Celebration.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “No. I want to do it right. By the book. I’ll work on her. She’ll think she’s ready.”

  She smiled. “Good. Glad you’re seeing sense.”

  “But there’s one thing.”

  The smile dropped. “What?”

  “It has to be fair. According to the regulations.”

  “Regulations?”

  “If she fails, she goes back to prison. Or wherever they want to send her.”

  “Yes.”

  “But if she passes, she’s released. As per the regulations.”

  “Seriously? This is what you’re asking for?”

  He nodded.

  “Fine. She’s never going to pass, so what do I care.”

  He nodded again, trying not to smile.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The sitting room was busy today. Women sat in pairs, small huddles or singly, almost all the chairs taken.

  Jennifer looked past the whispering women towards the view beyond the faded chairs and sofas. Rain poured down the window, turning the lawns behind into a dim green blur. The panes rattled occasionally, drafts piercing the thick air of the room and making the hairs on her neck rise to attention.

  She surveyed the chairs, debating whether to stay here or go up to her room. But Paula and Mandy were up there, and she didn’t want to disturb them. Her resentment of their relationship and her feelings of isolation at being left alone with them had transformed into something different now that she had got to know Paula. Mandy was taciturn but friendly enough. She responded to Paula’s wordless encouragement to be sociable with muttered hellos and shy smiles. For someone like Jennifer, used to the dishonest smiles of politicians, it was enough. The calm of the friendships that grew here, the empty time that allowed them to unfold without the pressure of constant activity and changes in hierarchies and connections made it feel easier to get to know her fellow inmates than it had her former colleagues.

  But she mustn’t allow herself to get too comfortable. There was Yusuf to think about, waiting for her at home – where would he think she was? Could he have applied for a visitor’s pass at Bronzefield and been denied? She wondered too wh
at Edward had been told, why he hadn’t been allowed here. She couldn’t believe he wouldn’t have attempted it. In prison, she knew that visits from lawyers were a regular occurrence, even if she hadn’t had her own. But here, she’d seen no evidence of the women receiving visits from anyone, lawyer, friend or family. How did they deal with that?

  Maybe that was why the women became so dependent on each other. Maybe it was why so many were able to embrace the programme, to shift their thought patterns. Take them away from the outside world and all its influences, and anything seemed sensible. Even the six steps. Anything to get out.

  A woman sitting alone in a high-backed chair opposite the window stood up, heading for her one-to-one no doubt. Jennifer took her place. She settled into the chair, trying to ignore the rasp of its fabric against the back of her neck. She’d brought a book with her, needing the distraction. Anne of Green Gables. She picked it up and started to read.

  Just a few pages in, she noticed that the room had gone quiet. She glanced up to see Mark standing at the door. She looked around the women. It wasn’t her day for a one-to-one, so who was he summoning? And why hadn’t he sent an orderly?

  But he was looking at her.

  “Jennifer, can you come with me please?”

  She pointed to her chest – Me? – and then put down her book to ease herself out of her chair. She felt the eyes of the other women on her as she passed through them to the door. There would be muttering when they were safely out of earshot. She cursed him for doing this.

  As she approached, he gestured with his head and turned for the corridor. She sighed, not wanting the ordeal of a one-to-one today. She’d been looking forward to a quiet day of reading and maybe a snooze, if she could calm her mind and keep it away from her anxiety about Rita.

  She followed, expecting him to turn right, towards the basement. But instead he turned left. She frowned and followed, scurrying to keep up.

  As they came to a door she hadn’t ever seen open, he glanced up and down the hallway and then opened it, bundling her inside. She flinched, grumbling at him.