“Maybe we should tell Meena and Rita they need to find somewhere else,” said Jennifer. “Hassan needs a bit of normality.”
“Let’s see how he reacts, eh? You never know, it might reduce the impact of you being back.”
She swallowed. “He’s coming back to me. Slowly.”
“That’s good.”
She joined him at the window. The garden was bathed in low sunshine and the lawn was damp from a shower.
“How were the Taylors?” she asked.
“Not good. Celeste is a state. Her husband’s angry.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“She’s had a warning. Seditious behaviour. They’ve got no idea what she’s supposed to have done, or who informed on her.”
Jennifer closed her eyes.
“They’re putting an extra camera up,” said Yusuf. “Outside their house.”
“Can’t the council object, refuse to let them use the lamp posts? It’s Home Office, isn’t it?”
“We tried that already. They ignored it.”
She felt her body sag. “How has it come to this?”
“It’s like a lobster in a pot of boiling water. And the bomb attacks gave them ammunition.”
She shook her head and felt for his hand. He took a shaky breath.
“So,” he said.
“So.” She stroked the dark brown hairs on the top of his hand.
“Catherine,” he said. “Who are you going to tell?”
She dropped his hand.
“She’s not going to get him out.”
“It feels so disloyal. She did it to help us.”
“She’s not helping us now.” His voice was hard.
The water stopped running upstairs and the house fell silent. Jennifer took a deep breath.
“I’m going to call Lucy Snape.”
“Good.”
She pursed her lips. “I’ll go to our room. Get some privacy.”
She headed upstairs. She could hear Rita moving around in the bathroom, trying on the clothes Jennifer had found for her. Samir’s door was closed and no sound came from beyond it. It was as if he’d never gone.
She went into her bedroom and clicked the door shut. She sat on the bed and took a few sharp breaths. She pulled her mobile from her pocket.
She pushed out a breath and dialled.
“Guardian news desk, Lucy Snape speaking.”
“Lucy, it’s Jennifer Sinclair.”
There was silence at the other end.
“Hello?” said Jennifer.
“Shit. Sorry, I thought you were a prank call. Are you calling from prison?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ve been released.”
“Blimey. They kept that quiet.”
Jennifer heard rustling as Lucy put her hand over the receiver. Talking to a colleague, no doubt.
“Are you recording this?”
“No. Only the government can tap calls now. So how long have you been out? You just been released?”
“Not long. Days, just over a week.”
“Shit. I can’t believe they didn’t announce it. At least John Hunter—”
“No. Anyway, can we get to the point?”
“Go on then. What have you got for me?”
Jennifer’s phone felt hot next to her ear.
“I want to tell you a few things about my arrest and imprisonment. The circumstances.”
“That’s a bit woolly. Tell me where they held you. Why they released you.”
Jennifer heard footsteps outside the door. She pushed the phone closer to her mouth.
“I was arrested because I hid my son. He was suspected of being a terrorist sympathiser.”
“I know that. Have you got anything new for me?”
“Bear with me.”
Lucy said nothing. Jennifer could hear her breathing at the other end of the line. She sounded breathy, like she’d taken up smoking.
“So,” Jennifer continued. “Do you know where people who are arrested under those laws are taken?”
“Prison, of course. Or a detention centre.”
“No.”
Jennifer looked at the door, hoping Yusuf wasn’t listening.
“Where, then?”
“A facility called a British Values Centre.”
“A British Values Centre?”
“That’s right.”
Jennifer heard muttering. She wondered who else was listening in.
“What’s that?” asked Lucy.
“It’s like a cross between a prison and an old-fashioned mental asylum. Mine was at Burcot Park, in Oxfordshire. They put us through this program, gave us drugs.”
“Hang on, I know about this. There was that woman who sold her story to the Sun.”
“Yes.”
“She made it up. For the cash.”
“No. It’s all true.”
“So how come I haven’t had other inmates coming to me after they get out?”
“Hardly anyone gets out. They don’t allow visitors.”
“How did you get out?”
“There’s something called Celebration. They gather all the inmates, or patients, and they take one woman and make her go through the six steps of the program, in public. If she passes, she gets out.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Surely you tell them what they want to hear.”
“They give you a drug. Sodium thiopental. It’s a truth drug.”
“A truth drug?”
“It works. I was given it. It makes it impossible to lie.”
“Jennifer, are you OK? This sounds like something out of George Orwell.”
“It’s real.”
“OK. I’m going to have to find another source. To corroborate it.”
“I’ve got someone you can talk to. She went through the program and passed. They gave her a job as a counsellor. She was there at the same at time as me.”
“Give me her details.”
“Her name’s Meena Ashgar. I can get her for you if you call me again later.”
Jennifer heard the doorbell ring downstairs.
“I’ve got to go. But Lucy, look. It happened. There are hundreds of women still there. There are other centres, for men too. My counsellor was taken to one.”
“Can you get him to talk to me? That would help.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
A pause. “Is there anyone else who can corroborate this, apart from this Meena?”
Jennifer thought of Rita, next door in Hassan’s room. “No.”
A sigh. “OK. I’ll talk to my boss, see what he thinks. Can I get you on this number?”
“Yes. Text me first. I don’t want my kids disturbed.”
“Right.”
She put her phone down on the bed, relieved to take its heat away from her face. She thought of the cameras at Burcot Park, the only tech she came into contact with. Could Meena get access to them? There couldn’t be any better evidence.
She stumbled out of the room. Meena was at the top of the stairs, listening. Her hands gripped the bannister.
“What is it?” whispered Jennifer. She could hear voices downstairs; Yusuf, and a man she didn’t recognise.
Meena shrugged.
She squeezed Meena’s shoulder. “Be right back. Got something to ask you.”
She headed downstairs, feeling a sense of purpose for the first time in days. Exposing the British Values Centres would show Catherine she meant business.
Yusuf looked back at her.
“Hello.”
She slipped in next to him and took his hand. There was a man standing on the threshold, dressed in a dark blue suit; CID, she guessed.
“We can’t help you, I’m afraid,” she said. “We don’t know the Taylor family very well.”
“It’s not about that,” muttered Yusuf.
“What, then?” she hissed.
“Ms Sinclair,” the man said. “I believe you have Meena Ashgar on the premise
s. We’ve come to take her back.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said Jennifer.
Yusuf gave her a look.
The man’s face was impassive. “She’s been captured on camera entering this house. She hasn’t been seen leaving.”
“Who are you?” she asked. “Where are you from?”
“I work for the Home Office, British Values division.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Am I right to believe your name is Jennifer Sinclair, and that until recently you were a patient at a British Values Centre?”
She met his gaze. “Prisoner.”
“That’s not how we think of it.” He looked from her to Yusuf. “And your son is Samir Hussain, currently under detention under the Prevention of Terrorism Act?”
“Yes,” Yusuf replied. “You still haven’t told us who you are.”
“I can give you a name, if you’d like.”
“Will it be your real one?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Yusuf looked at Jennifer. Did he blame her for bringing this to their door?
Jennifer gave him a sorry look and glanced up the stairs. All was quiet. She wondered what the two women were doing up there. If they’d spoken to each other.
The man pulled something else from his pocket; a leather wallet. He took out a sheet of paper, folded in four. “I have a warrant to search the house if needs be.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Meena was at the top of the stairs. Her expression was calm and her eyes steady. “I’ll come with you.”
Jennifer shook her head. “No. They can’t just—”
“They can.” Meena gave Jennifer and Yusuf a smile, like a guest leaving after a weekend stay. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me stay here.”
Jennifer’s throat felt dry. Having Meena up there in Samir’s room felt like a connection to her son. She’d liked it, the prospect of getting him back which Meena brought.
Meena scanned Jennifer’s face. “Don’t forget what we talked about. It’s important.”
Jennifer nodded. Meena would want them to continue the search for Samir. She felt a maternal urge to hug her.
“We will. Don’t worry.”
Yusuf slipped in beside Jennifer and put his arm around her. “It was good to meet you. I hope we see you again soon.”
Meena gave him a tight smile. She turned to the man.
“Where will you be taking me?” Her voice was brusque and her posture straight. She was no longer Samir’s girlfriend, but a professional again. A counsellor.
“A British Values Centre.”
“Burcot Park?”
“Not Burcot Park, no.”
Jennifer squeezed Meena’s hand. It was dry and cool.
There was a sound from upstairs; the toilet flushing. Jennifer stiffened.
“Is there anyone else here?” asked the man.
Jennifer gave him her most convincing smile. “My son. Our younger son. He’s not very well.”
The man shot a look upstairs. Jennifer resisted the urge to turn around. Stay where you are, Rita, she thought. Why weren’t they asking for her, too?
The man took Meena’s arm. He guided her outside.
Jennifer and Yusuf followed.
“They’re all watching,” muttered Yusuf.
Jennifer looked up. Sure enough, curtains had been pulled aside, the neighbours all spectating. Terry next door had stood up, trowel in hand, openly staring.
“Morning,” she said to him.
“Morning.” He disappeared behind the hedge, back to his gardening. And eavesdropping.
She sighed. This wasn’t just about her own family. Did Catherine watch all this, cocooned in Downing Street? Did she care that neighbour was pitted against neighbour?
The man guided Meena into the back seat of the car. A woman waited in the driver’s seat. Meena gave a small wave. She looked small, childlike. Jennifer waved back.
She watched until the car had turned out of the road before going back into the house. The optimism she’d felt after her conversation with Lucy had left her. She wanted to curl up in a corner and give in.
Yusuf was in the living room, staring at the photo over the fireplace. Samir at thirteen. His cheeks rosy as he smiled, the last photo where he hadn’t been scowling. Even that had been an effort. Hassan, in contrast, was giggling at a joke Yusuf had told him. That was well before his tenth birthday, the day of the Waterloo bomb when she had feared for their lives. The day that had started all this.
Yusuf lowered himself to the sofa. “What did Lucy Snape say?”
Jennifer joined him, their thighs touching.
“I didn’t tell her about the note.”
He pulled away. “What? Oh hell, Jen. When are you going to understand that—”
“I told her about the centre instead. The Celebration ceremony. She knew nothing about it.”
“No one knows anything about it.”
“Well that’s about to change. She said she had to corroborate it somehow, and she’d talk to her editor.”
“Is she going to call you back?”
“Yes.”
“When? We don’t have a whole lot of time.”
“Soon. She won’t want to sit on this.”
“I hope so.”
He turned to her. He pulled his knee up and grasped it in his hands. “Do you really think this will make any difference?”
“Catherine will know where it came from. She’ll see that I’m not bluffing.”
“But you are.”
It felt like a slap. “That’s not fair.”
“Jen, you’ve got a note that proves the Prime Minister broke the Official Secrets Act. The same Prime Minister presiding over prisons where they brainwash you and deporting kids who’ve done nothing wrong. You have to expose her.”
“And who’s to say we’ll get anyone better, if she goes?”
He sighed. “This isn’t Michael Stuart.”
“It’s impossible to know the consequences if I do it again.”
“You’re not doing it again. This is different. It’s not your own party, for a start.”
“I know. But I didn’t see what would happen then and I don’t trust myself to now. It’s too big a risk.”
He pursed his lips. “Jen, that was about a principle. This is about our family. Your friends. The risk is worth it.”
“You’re right. I’m sure you are. But just let me try this, eh? Give it a week. If she doesn’t respond, I’ll go public with the note.”
“That gives us just five weeks.”
“If the Prime Minister has broken the law, things will change very quickly.”
Chapter Forty-Three
There were two faint taps on Rita’s door, then a pause before the third. Yusuf’s signature knock, something he wasn’t even aware he did.
Rita liked Yusuf. There was a straightforwardness to him, an ease. He was comfortable in his skin. When Jennifer was with him, her rough edges became smoother, and she seemed less panicked. But Rita knew that both of them were feeling anxious right now. Their son was due to be deported in less than six weeks and Jennifer still hadn’t heard back from the journalist she’d called. And no one had any idea where Meena was.
“Come in,” she replied.
Yusuf pushed his head around the door. “Come downstairs. We think you should see what’s on TV.”
“Oh hell.” She looked at Hassan, who was lying on the floor with his iPad. He didn’t react. “Sorry. Am I on Crimewatch or something?”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s the centre.”
Her eyes widened. “They’ve done it?”
He shrugged.
She slid off the bed, threw Hassan a smile and followed Yusuf downstairs. Jennifer was in the living room, hunched forwards on the sofa. Yusuf joined her and Rita took an armchair, feeling awkward.
She looked at the screen, her stomach tightening.
&n
bsp; A young reporter was talking to the camera. Behind him was Burcot Park. They were on the front driveway and she could see the spot where her own room was, up in the eaves. No window; just a roof light. The room had been cramped and cold, with the door hitting the bed every time it had opened. But it had been better than that bathroom. She was having nightmares about it, imagining the pipes bursting, being left to drown. There was another dream that ended just as Tim raised his hand to her.
“This is Burcot Park, one of the new British Values Centres which the government has established,” the reporter said.
“How do they know?” said Jennifer. “Lucy’s at the Guardian. She’d never have given this to the BBC.”
No one answered her.
The reporter continued. “We’ve been invited to see behind the facade of this centre, the flagship of a new government programme designed to reduce reoffending among low-risk prisoners detained under the anti-terror laws.”
A woman stepped into shot. Rita inhaled. “That bitch.”
Jennifer had paled.
“Who’s that?” asked Yusuf.
“Yonda Hughes. Prison governor,” said Jennifer.
“Why is she dressed like that?”
Rita snorted. “Because she’s a bloody canary.”
“Sorry love,” Jennifer said, putting her hand on Yusuf’s knee. “Prisoner joke.”
“I can see why. She looks like she’s going to make the camera explode.”
“I don’t get it,” said Rita. “Why have they been invited? That’s not what you said would happen.”
“I know,” said Jennifer. “Let’s watch it. See what they’ve been allowed to show.”
“Ms Hughes, you’re in charge of this facility,” the interviewer said.
“That’s right,” said Yonda. Rita shrank into herself, remembering the governor’s bright shape at her own and Jennifer’s Celebrations.
“Before we go inside and meet some of the inmates, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course.”
She wasn’t correcting him, wasn’t calling them patients. That wasn’t like her.
“What is the purpose of this facility?”
“It’s a kind of open prison. But focusing on a specific kind of prisoner. Our main role is education.”
“What kind of education?”
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 67