The Division Bell Trilogy

by Rachel McLean

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

  She frowned, feeling her flesh go cold. Then she regained her footing and managed to get into the room without falling. He peered out of the door again and closed it. He leaned against it, breathing heavily.

  She looked around the room. It was large, but not as large as the grand space they used for group meetings and Celebration, and not as impressive as Yonda’s office. On the far side was a window, draped in heavy curtains that blocked the light and trailed on the floor. She could see dust in the folds of fabric. In front of those was what looked like a painting draped in a sheet. Next to that, two chairs, also covered with sheets, and a low mahogany table.

  “What’s this?” she asked, her pulse rising. “Why have you brought me here?”

  He unbent himself, pulling his palms off his thighs, and swept a hand through his thick hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I need to talk to you.”

  She gritted her teeth. “What’s wrong with your office?”

  “You know what’s wrong with my office.”

  He took his eyes off her and started to examine the walls. She joined him, scanning for cameras. There was no sign of one. This room was unused, she guessed. It would have made a far more suitable office for him than that dingy space below ground.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. Surely she’d made herself clear last time; she didn’t trust him, and wasn’t about to let him attempt to fix Celebration for her.

  He gulped down a few heavy breaths, gaining control of himself. She wondered what he’d been doing before he came for her. Surely their bungled rush along the hall hadn’t made him like this?

  “I asked you what’s going on,” she repeated, her teeth gritted. She pushed past him and put a hand on the door. It was solid and heavy, with woodworm trails running across it.

  He put a hand on her arm. “Don’t. Please.”

  She yanked her hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m your counsellor, Jennifer. You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

  She said nothing.

  “OK,” he breathed. He looked at his watch then grimaced. “I’ve got Sally in ten minutes. We need to be quick.”

  “Quick with what?”

  He stepped towards the draped chairs, throwing himself into one. Dust billowed up around him and he coughed. Then he looked up at her, his face red. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry. We’re only supposed to tell you what you need to know to help you get through the programme. We’re certainly not supposed to share details of what’s happening to one patient with another.”

  She tapped her foot and folded her arms across her chest. He wasn’t guarding the door now; she could easily leave. She decided to give him ten minutes.

  He breathed in. “Rita’s in solitary confinement. In the basement.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened. “I knew you were hurting her. What have you done to her? How is she?”

  “Don’t worry.” He paled. “She’s going to be OK.”

  He drew his hand through his hair again and closed his eyes. “No. I’m lying again. She’s not going to be OK. Tim and Roy – the orderlies. The ones who took her out of group.”

  Jennifer nodded.

  “They’ve been pretty rough on her.”

  “In what way?”

  He wiped an eye, blinking. The dust was still settling around him. “Use your imagination.”

  She approached him, clenching and unclenching her fists, digging her thumbnail into her palm. “What have you done to her?”

  He shook his head. “Not me. The orderlies.”

  “Don’t give me that. You’re their superior. They wouldn’t do it without your say-so.”

  He opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it. “I’m sorry.”

  The sound of voices approached behind the door, two women, their tone lightening as they approached. Jennifer stiffened and stared at Mark, whose hand went to the arm of his chair. Which of them would be in the most trouble, if they were found here?

  They waited in silence, Mark’s breathing ragged in the quiet and Jennifer’s heart thumping. At last the voices receded.

  Jennifer approached him. “Where is she now? Is she still there? Are you going to get her out?”

  “I can’t.” He stood and met her gaze. His face was pale and blotchy. He looked genuinely worried. But what for: Rita’s welfare, or his job? Was he supposed to order beatings of inmates, or had he stepped over a line?

  “Of course you can, you shit,” she said.

  He closed his eyes. “I’m not what you think I am.”

  “Course you bloody well are. Look, I don’t give a damn about you. What about Rita? Where is she? Can I get to her?”

  “No. You already know that. The orderlies guard her. Their office is before you get to her – her cell.”

  She shivered, thinking of prison. At least the cells there had been above ground. At least people had known where they were.

  “Jennifer,” he muttered. “I need to be quick. Sally—”

  “Yes, yes. Spit it out then.”

  “I need your help. I think you’re the only person who can help Rita now.”

  “And how do you propose I do that? You’ve already told me I can’t get to her cell.”

  “No. Celebration. If you get out of here, you can tell people what’s happening here. She shouldn’t be treated like this. It’s not in the legislation. Yonda has over—”

  “Don’t blame your boss. This is your doing.”

  “I know. And I want to help you.”

  “You’ve already told me that. You want to help me get through Celebration.”

  “Not just that.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Afterwards,” he said. “Once you’re out. I’ll join you. I’ll back you up.”

  “And how can I know you’ll do that? You’ve lied to me plenty of times.”

  He grabbed her hand. She stiffened but didn’t pull it away. His hand was hot, fiery around her own.

  “I’ll resign,” he said. ‘I’ll quit my job and help you expose Yonda.”

  “I’ve already told you—”

  “I’ll own up to what I’ve done too.”

  She shook her head. “No. That would be counterproductive.”

  He smiled. “So you’re considering it?”

  She felt her shoulders slump.

  “Your family,” he whispered. “Think of how happy Yusuf will be to have you back.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t use that tactic on me. My family is my concern. Alright?”

  “Sorry.”

  She considered what he had told her. He was right about Rita; Jennifer was most likely her only hope. And if she delayed, things could only get worse for her friend. But how could she trust Mark to deliver on his promise? If she failed Celebration again…

  “What happens if I fail Celebration twice?”

  “You won’t.”

  “Just tell me what happens.”

  He blushed and let go of her hand. “You’d go back to prison. I think. No-one’s ever—”

  She screwed up her eyes. Could she face prison again? Was the chance of being with Yusuf again, of helping Rita, worth that risk?

  “How will you do it? How will you get me through Celebration?”

  He shrugged. “I’m your counsellor. I’ll be right there with you. I’m the one who gives you the drug. I’ll just switch it for something else.”

  She imagined Rita, alone in the basement, in some windowless room. Of Tim, large and cruel, being allowed free rein on her. Rita was young, and slight. Her health had been deteriorating since she’d joined the group. It could kill her.

  She opened her eyes again. “Alright.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The light had been on for a few hours now. At least it felt like a few hours.

  Rita had almost wept with relief when it blinked out the previous n
ight – if it had been night. She hoped they were being kinder, but they could be doing the opposite. Despite her horror of the darkness before, the light had become an attacker, slicing into her eyes with its harsh yellow glow.

  In the dark, she didn’t have to see this room. The mould climbing up the wall next to the sink. The droppings of some unseen creature in the corner behind the toilet. And the toilet itself, its brown-green stains and cracked seat.

  In the dark, her imagination filled it all in. Twice she had woken, certain she could hear a scurrying sound near her left ear. She batted it away, jerking up from the bed. The mattress had groaned under the weight of the movement. She closed her eyes, trying not to think of the mattress stains. One of them was large and rusty, creeping across a corner of the bed towards the metal frame.

  But at least she had slept. It felt like three or four hours maybe; enough to get some refreshment, sufficient to keep her mind from feeling as if it was about to tear in two.

  She had attempted to wash herself at the sink. The tap was faulty, dripping incessantly, refusing to give her a proper flow of water. She’d pulled at it as hard as she could in her weakened state, gritting her teeth. But all she’d got was those drips. She attempted to gather them in her palm and wipe her face, her lips. Her mouth felt furry and acrid, her lips dry and her teeth as if they were coated in bacteria. Her body felt wrong under the clean clothes, slimy. She tried to ignore the itching that had broken out on her feet.

  She was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall opposite, tracing a crack in the tiles with her eyes. Counting the tiles gave her something to do. She had scanned the room for some kind of writing implement, something she could use to track time. But then she remembered what had happened to the marks behind the bed in her attic room, and gave up. Instead, she stared at the wall, her vision blurred.

  She heard noises outside and turned to the door, her breath shallow. She swallowed and stared at it, hoping it would be Mark.

  It wasn’t.

  Tim shoved the door open, letting it slam into the wall, and grinned at her.

  “We’ve got a treat for you.”

  A wave of cold sickness rose up from her stomach. She stared at him, transfixed.

  “Come on, then. Get up.”

  She couldn’t move. Her hands felt as if they were stuck to the mattress and her neck was fixed in place, stiff.

  He heaved his bulk towards her and grabbed her wrist. She looked down at it. How had he moved it? It wouldn’t move. If she couldn’t move it, how could he?

  She watched his face as he yanked her upwards, knowing he wouldn’t be able to move her. Her body was like marble. Her mind felt cold and still.

  But she was wrong. He dragged her towards the door, her feet skittering on the cold floor. She summoned all her willpower and managed to regain control of her feet, placing them instead of letting them be dragged.

  “Where are you taking me?” she whispered.

  “You’ll see. Now shut up and come with me.”

  Roy was outside. She stared at him, uncomprehending. Normally they would come in together and close the door. Any beatings were done quietly, professionally. They had stuffed a dusty rag into her mouth so no-one would hear her scream. If she did, they would just hurt her more.

  Where could they be taking her? Back to her room?

  She felt her muscles relax, and was horrified to realise that she’d wet herself.

  Roy sniffed the air. “Jesus Christ, woman. That’s disgusting.”

  She blushed but said nothing. Your fault, she thought, staring at the back of his neck. There was a mole in the centre of it, with one long coarse hair sprouting from it. His skin was taut and ruddy, unlike the folds of skin that adorned the back of Tim’s neck. She could see the sweat between them, pale and viscous. It made her stomach turn.

  At the end of the corridor they pushed her into another room. An office, with a desk and two chairs but no other adornments. Like Meena’s office from her arrival here. Or had she imagined that? This one had no window, and the furniture was thrown into stark relief by the single flush light in the centre of the ceiling.

  In a neat pile on one of the chairs were more clean clothes. Next to them, on the floor, was a bucket. She baulked. Was this going to be her cell now? At least that had a functioning toilet.

  Roy nodded towards the pile of clothes. On top was a stiff looking flannel. “Clean yourself up. Get changed,” he barked. Tim stepped back into the corridor, taking up a sentry position outside. Roy closed the door and sat on the other chair, staring at his nails. They were clean and long.

  “What, here?” she asked. “With you watching?”

  He looked up at her, his eyes betraying sympathy for a fleeting moment. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said, then returned his gaze back to his fingers.

  She took a tentative step towards the chair. She’d been leaning against the wall, where Tim had deposited her, and hardly dared trust her legs. Her body dipped as she crossed the room. Everything swayed in front of her.

  Roy looked up. “Alright?” he said, not moving from his chair. It was on the opposite side of the desk, arranged like Meena’s office, not like Mark’s where the desk had been pushed to one side. She could remember. Both offices were clear in her mind, which meant she wasn’t going mad. Didn’t it?

  She nodded, forcing her legs to behave themselves, and knelt as carefully as she could in front of the pile of clothes. It was her own clothes, the trousers and blouse she had been wearing in the classroom when they’d arrested her.

  “Am I being released?”

  Roy laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “But these clothes. They’re mine.”

  “We promised you a treat, didn’t we?” He looked at his watch. “Now hurry up. We haven’t got much time.”

  She nodded and threw off the clothes Mark had given her. Had that been yesterday, or earlier today? Or maybe two days ago?

  She picked up the blouse and sniffed it; it smelt of washing powder. Unwilling to soil it, she grabbed the flannel from where it had slid on the floor and dunked it into the bucket, starting to wash herself; face, armpits, breasts. It felt good.

  She looked at the flannel; it was a darker shade of grey now. Satisfied, she slipped on the bra that had been beneath the blouse, and then the blouse itself. It whispered over her skin, feeling luxurious. It was only a cheap thing from Top Shop but it felt like the most expensive silk.

  She stood up, examining the trousers. Tucked between their folds were her knickers. She grabbed them and the trousers and turned her back to Roy, checking that he wasn’t watching. She hunched over like an embarrassed bather in a swimming pool changing room, and slid the underwear on as fast as she could. Then she paused to drag the flannel over her bruised legs and push it inside her pants, knowing that it would make her feel damp but preferring that over the urine that was drying on her skin. She pulled on the trousers.

  She stood up, the clothes giving her the confidence to breathe deeply and hold herself upright. “Ready.”

  He looked up. “Good.”

  “Are there any shoes?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. We can’t have you using them as a weapon.”

  How could she use the flat burgundy pumps she’d been wearing as a weapon?

  He passed her and opened the door, muttering with Tim, who poked his head round the door.

  “Lovely,” he said. A shiver ran across her flesh under the thin clothes. “Now come on. We’re taking you upstairs.”

  Upstairs! Then maybe she was being let out. And at the very least she could be going back to her room. Surely the clothes meant release, though? She couldn’t see why else they would take the trouble to launder them and bring them to her.

  She nodded and followed them along a second corridor to the stairs leading to the first floor. The silence in her cell had sharpened her hearing and she could hear voices upstairs, the hubbub of the dining room. It was a mealtime. But which
?

  “I’m hungry,” she said. Her stomach growled obligingly.

  “Time for that later,” said Tim, and started up the stairs. She lifted her head high, desperate to see what was up there, to make contact with her group again.

  Upstairs, the corridor was empty. Her heart sank. She could still hear voices, but they were distant; the dining room was at the other end of this hallway. No-one passed them as they turned a corner, heading for the back of the building. She hadn’t been this way before.

  Then, suddenly, there was a woman in front of them, heading right for them. She stopped, startled. Rita stared at her. Maryam!

  Tim leaned towards Rita, his lips almost touching her ear. “Keep quiet.” She widened her eyes, desperate to communicate with her friend.

  “Rita!” Maryam cried. “Where have you been?” She looked Rita up and down, puzzled by her attire. “Where are they taking you?”

  Rita opened her mouth to speak then felt Tim’s hand on her back, his finger boring into her spine. She shook her head.

  Maryam looked at her, seeming to understand. “I’ll tell the others.”

  “Shouldn’t you be going somewhere?” snapped Roy.

  Maryam stared at him. “Er, yes. I’m on my way to breakfast.”

  Rita let out a shaking breath. It was morning.

  “Well, get a move on,” replied Tim. Maryam nodded and hurried past them. Rita didn’t look round, aware that Tim’s finger was twisting further into her spine.

  “Move,” he muttered into her ear, and pushed her forwards.

  Finally they came to a heavy wooden door. Tim paused, smoothing his shirt, then lifted his fist to knock.

  “Come in,” came a voice, before his knuckle had hit the wood. He flinched then pushed the door open.

  He held the door, gesturing for her to go in. She passed the two orderlies, torn between curiosity and dread.

  The room was generously sized, with a tall, full height window to her right and a massive desk in front of it. The desk was strewn with papers and files, all surrounding two single porcelain statuettes of dogs, the kind of thing her grandmother liked. Behind the desk, her fingers steepled in front of her chin and her face glowing with an insincere smile, was Yonda Hughes.