The Division Bell Trilogy Page 7

  She nodded, still focused on what Yusuf had been telling her about Samir’s school report. All they talked about now was the boys. Weekends were spent in tense silences broken only when one of them went out to work, which was often. He hadn’t even discussed his council campaign with her, and her only involvement had been professional – knocking on doors, standing behind him at the count when his victory was declared.

  By contrast, in the past six months she’d established an easy rapport with John, a sense of comrades-in-arms struggling against a common enemy. The restrictions on demonstrations had worked so far, with the protests grinding to a halt. But with the heat came the threat of renewed unrest. Scattered pockets of violence had broken out over the last few nights; Manchester, Leeds, East London. Not Birmingham yet; the stabbing Jennifer had witnessed still cast a shadow. This gave John a wild, haunted look whenever he spoke of it. He was under pressure from Michael: Jennifer sensed that he feared for his job. She went along with this new friendship, knowing it might help John and that it could only benefit her career. And she secretly liked the fact that with John, there were no arguments.

  “Was that Yusuf?” he asked, throwing his jacket onto a chair and slumping on top of it. Jennifer winced.

  “Yes. Samir just had his school report.”

  “School report? But he’s only twelve, isn’t he?”

  She smiled. “Fifteen now. GCSEs next year.” She pictured Samir in his school uniform, scowling at his dad as he drifted off to school in it every morning.

  “Oh.” John smiled to himself. “I remember my first school report. Eleven and just started at grammar school.”

  He gave her a suspicious look. “You didn’t think I’d have gone to grammar school, did you?”

  She shrugged. “Now what would make you think that, John?”

  “Anyway, I had some old battleaxe for a teacher. Miss Humphreys her name was. Seventy if she was a day, and obviously no one had seen fit to marry her in all that time. She said I was a bad influence on the other kids. Me! Can you believe it?”

  She smiled. “Maybe.”

  “It was them who were the bad influence on me. Was it my fault the other boys encouraged me to steal the caretaker’s bike and ride it round the playground? Was it my fault when they cheered me on as I melted stationery equipment in the Bunsen burners?”

  Jennifer laughed, relieved to see John so relaxed. Her stomach gurgled and she put a hand to it. Not again.

  A shudder jolted through her. She placed a steadying hand on her desk and looked at John.

  “You OK?” he asked, colour draining from his face.

  She gave a tight nod, lips clamped together.

  “You’re not going to throw up, are you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  She was contradicted by a wave of nausea.

  “John,” she whispered as it subsided. “I need to be alone.”

  He headed for the door. “No problem.”

  Another jolt went through her. John turned, holding the doorframe.

  “Was that you?” he asked.

  “What? I don’t think so.” The room was swimming, but she was sure she hadn’t moved.

  “I felt something.” He looked unsettled. He approached her, putting his hand on the cracked leather of her chair.

  There was a loud noise from behind her, a bang followed by a deep, slow rumble. She turned to see grey smoke obscure the window, filling the courtyard outside. John pushed past her. He leaned over as far as he could against the sealed casement, trying to get a better vantage point. She pushed herself up to hover behind him. All she could hear was shouts and the peal of a distant alarm. As John pressed his face closer to the glass it shattered, propelling him onto the floor.

  There was a thick, eerie silence. Jennifer stood over John, mesmerised by the glittering shroud of glass covering his prone body. A sharp, acrid smell burned her nostrils, making her gag. Blood started to seep from a cut above John’s right eye.

  Frozen, she clutched at her stomach, trying to calm her nerves. She pulled her hand away and saw blood on it. She moved it across her abdomen; when she reached her hip, she felt something sharp against her fingertips. She pulled at it and lifted it to her face; a shard of glass, no more than an inch long, tipped with blood.

  Almost immediately, there was a security guard in the room. She stared at Jennifer, her eyes flashing. “Get downstairs, in the basement, now! There’s been a bomb.”

  Jennifer looked down at John, still unconscious on the floor. “But…?”

  “Don’t worry about him. I need you downstairs quick.”

  Jennifer moved towards the door, swallowing hard.

  The guard stared at her. “You OK?”

  There was a shout from further down the corridor and the guard rushed away before Jennifer could tell her about the blood. She put her hand on her hip again, her eyes widening. She took a deep breath and followed, heading for the lift as fast as she could. Barring her way was another security guard.

  “You’ll need to use the stairs. It’s for your own safety.”

  “But I’ve—”

  He turned away, shepherding more people towards the staircase.

  Jennifer joined the growing crowd jostling its way to the broad staircase that snaked down the centre of the building. Worried about losing her balance, she clung to the railing as she fumbled her way down. She held out an arm in front of herself in an effort to avoid being elbowed by the people pushing past.

  Finally, they arrived in the gloom of the basement. She was ushered to an office by yet another guard. This one couldn’t take his eyes off her bloodied hands.

  “Have you been injured?”

  She looked down. “I think so.” The room was blurred and she felt like she might lose her footing.

  “Here. Sit down. I’ll get an ambulance. Have you got anything you can hold against it?”

  She shook her head, feeling the room sway.

  The office was spartan, furnished with an empty desk and a couple of low chairs. Two of her ministerial colleagues were already there, standing below the high window. The view up to the street above their heads was obscured by a cloud of smoke and dust. She blinked at them, unable to remember their names.

  Jennifer let the guard usher her into a chair. By now she was having to focus hard on keeping conscious. She slumped into the chair, sweat beading on her face.

  “Jennifer! Are you OK? My God, you look terrible.” One of the ministers, a woman with dark curly hair, sank to Jennifer’s eye level, her eyes wide with panic.

  “I’ve been injured.”

  Moments later, a wheelchair appeared and the same security guard who had ushered Jennifer down to the basement was wheeling her along unfamiliar grey corridors. She was too busy battling the nausea and faintness to ask where they were going. She couldn’t feel any pain; there was just a chill in her hip, as if she’d stabbed herself with an icicle. A paramedic met them and took the chair, then shoehorned it out of a narrow door leading to the courtyard below Jennifer’s office.

  “We’ll be at the ambulance in a moment,” he said. “But I need you to hold this to your wound.”

  Jennifer blinked and saw a white object in front of her. She fumbled for it and let him guide her hand to her hip, pressing on it as best she could. The iciness subsided and the faintness eased. But now there was pain. Hard, sharp pain. She gulped down air, not sure whether to fight it or let it consume her.

  As they started to move again, she put up her other hand to block the sun from her eyes. Clouds of dust swirled and settled, making it difficult to see. To one side, two paramedics were crouched over a whimpering woman. Blood covered the woman’s face. Jennifer recoiled, panting now, pushing her breath in and out. A man Jennifer recognised but couldn’t place limped past, nodding when he spotted her. Something she preferred not to identify was sticking out of his leg and another paramedic was hurrying behind him, begging him to slow down. In a corner, hoses arced into the open windows
of downstairs offices. The windows glowed orange through the dust and spray.

  The air was full of shouting – injured people crying out, emergency workers calling to each other – punctuated by the rising wail of approaching sirens. She turned in the wheelchair, craning her neck to find people she knew, but a stab of pain flung her back. Finally she was pushed through an archway and cried with relief as the paramedic wheeled her into one of the waiting ambulances.

  14

  July-September 2020. London

  “It’s my turn!”

  “You’ve already had five minutes. Dad said—”

  “Boys. Shush. Mum’s awake.”

  Jennifer opened her eyes. Yusuf was next to her, his eyes wide. Samir and Hassan were on the other side of the bed, squabbling over Samir’s phone.

  She was groggy but managed to piece together the events of the previous day.

  “Yusuf!” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have brought them down here – after what happened—”

  “Don’t worry. I had no choice; they wouldn’t let me come without them. They wanted to know you were OK.”

  She raised her head to look down at her hip, but it was covered by a sheet. She lifted it to reveal a lump under her hospital gown: bandages.

  “Am I?”

  He smiled. “You got a surface wound. The fact that you were already ill made you feel like you’d lost more blood.” He hesitated. “Why didn’t you tell me you had food poisoning?”

  “It didn’t seem important.”

  He grabbed her hand. “It’s OK. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt. I mean, seriously hurt.” He looked uneasy, wary of her reaction.

  She twisted her hand to hold his. “Thanks. How long have you been here?”

  “Since this morning. We were brought from the station in a ministerial car, with a security guard. The boys loved it.” He smiled at her, his face soft. “I’ll take them home tomorrow.”

  She sighed, too exhausted to argue. Still, at least Yusuf seemed to have dropped everything to come to her. She wouldn’t have laid a bet on that, the way things had been.

  Yusuf patted Samir’s arm.

  “Stop arguing, you two. Here’s some change. Samir, take Hassan to the vending machine.”

  Jennifer watched them leave, her chest tightening. Yusuf hadn’t willingly been alone with her for weeks.

  “How do you feel?” he asked. “Does it hurt?”

  She sent her mind into her hip, poking about for sensation. “No. It’s numb.”

  “They gave you a painkiller. An injection.”

  She nodded, shifting in the bed. The movement brought a dull pain to the wound.

  “How’s John?” she asked.

  “He’s fine. They brought him here too. He had cuts from the broken glass, mostly his face. I saw him leaving this morning – apparently they’re superficial.”

  “But what was it? The blast?”

  “It was a car bomb. An extremist group has claimed it, a new one. A man drove it into the front of the building, killed himself. ” He tightened his grip on her hand. “And two civil servants. And there are twelve missing. The building’s a mess. One side’s collapsed. People are still trapped.”

  Jennifer closed her eyes and slumped into the pillows. She pictured the grand Queen Anne façade with a hole ripped through it, rubble strewn across the street and smoke and dust obscuring the windows. She thought of the scene in the courtyard the day before. Bile rose in her throat.

  “Are they still looking for people?”

  “Of course.” Yusuf nodded. “They’ll find them. I’m sure. I saw them pull someone out on the news before I left this morning.”

  She was shaken by the thought of this happening in the full glare of the twenty-four hour media. People she worked with – had shared arguments, and jokes, and battles with – were in there, struggling to survive. Maybe counting the minutes until the air ran out. And the media were out front, getting it all on film, making sure they didn’t miss a thing.

  She knew that the casualties were fewer this time than the last time, but this felt so much worse.

  “How are you?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “Relieved. Now I know what you went through with the Waterloo bomb, not knowing where we were. But I feel oddly delirious. I hate myself for it.”

  “Don’t. Panic does that to you.”

  Yusuf clutched Jennifer’s hand tighter, his eyes searching her face. “I’m sorry, love.”

  “What?”

  “You know. John – the protests. All that. Let’s not let politics come between us again.”

  She felt her shoulders relax. He bent to hug her and she let him take her weight. “No,” she whispered. “Let’s not.”

  The boys were soon back, brandishing their loot. Jennifer widened her smile and held out her free arm, welcoming them onto the bed. Hassan climbed up and hugged her neck. He brushed against the wound and she grimaced but didn’t tell him off. Samir only perched on the bed but put a hand on her arm.

  Jennifer gathered them to her as Yusuf pulled his phone out to grab a selfie.

  Two weeks later, she was back in Westminster. Her team had been allocated temporary offices in the Treasury. As she introduced herself to the receptionist at the imposing front desk, she felt an urge to turn and flee. She pushed it down and waited in silence while Donna came to fetch her.

  Donna was relieved to have her boss back. She chattered as she led the way down winding corridors and up staircases which took Jennifer back to the day of the bombing. She felt the stairs above pressing down as they ascended, and had to stop and pause for breath. Her hip was still sore and she struggled to keep up.

  Finally they were at the corridor outside her office. The admin team sat at desks in the hallway and civil servants were dotted along the corridor in pokey offices. Jennifer smiled at each of them in turn as she made her way to her own office at the end. These people had worked with her for months or years yet they felt unfamiliar here, as if she’d just met them.

  “This is you,” Donna said, pushing open a featureless door.

  Her new office was small and dark, with little natural light. The one high window looked out over air conditioning units. She swallowed and stepped inside, lowering herself to her new chair. It squeaked under her weight.

  “Sorry,” Donna muttered. “It’s not brilliant, is it?”

  Jennifer’s shoulders dropped and she forced out a smile. “We’ll cope, I’m sure.”

  “Yes,” Donna replied and backed out, closing the door.

  Jennifer sat in the stillness of this new space. Her files were still in boxes beside the desk: not unpacked yet in case of another move. She lowered herself to them, searching for something to personalise the space.

  Beneath a wad of papers was a photo of Samir and Hassan. She bit her lip and pulled it out, placing it on the empty desk. She’d need to get a new one.

  Donna opened the door. She saw Jennifer on the floor and gasped. “Oh! I’m so sorry! You don’t need to do that.”

  Jennifer looked up. “It’s OK. I’d rather.”

  Donna blushed.

  “Ease me in gently,” Jennifer continued. “You get on with your work. I’ll call you if I need anything.

  Donna picked up the phone on the desk, listened to it and then replaced the handset. “Dial 1,” she said. “If you need me.”

  “I will.”

  She waved Donna away and returned to her task, dreading the day when she would have to do this again in the Home Office.

  15

  October 2020. London

  “Come in!”

  Jennifer’s office door opened and she pulled back from her desk, unaccustomed to visitors.

  “John? What are you doing up here?”

  He pushed the door further open – it was blocked by the armchair – and ignored the question, slumping into the chair. His face had taken on a pinched look. He’d lost weight and seemed to have aged a decade too.

  She smiled. “How
are you?”

  “I’m well, how are you? Recovered?”

  “Yes. The odd twinge when I bang my hip on something but much better, thanks. Your scars are healing well.”

  He lifted a hand to his face, tracing the shadow of a scar beneath his eye. “Thanks. I wish it was all that simple.”

  Jennifer raised an eyebrow. John sighed.

  “I can’t stop thinking about the staff.”

  She nodded.

  “Five of them died,” he muttered. “Five people who worked for me. Two straight away, in the blast, and three more who we didn’t reach in time.” He paused, looking towards the window. A shiver ran through him and he turned back to her, his eyes drilling into her face. “They suffocated under the rubble,” he muttered.

  “John, you couldn’t possibly have…”

  “I know Jennifer, I know. But I feel responsible, you know? Maybe it was me who should’ve died.”

  His face was lined with worry. Dark shadows under his eyes threatened to suck Jennifer in. Where had the joker gone, the man who’d been sharing stories of his school days?

  “John, have you spoken to anyone about this?”

  He glowered. “Of course not. I don’t want Michael thinking I’m not up to the job. The recruitment’s getting worse now. We’re going to need tougher legislation. He’s relying on me.”

  “I don’t mean that. A counsellor. Someone who can help you work things out.”

  He grunted. “Ha! Oh no. No. Definitely not.”

  “But John…”

  He stood up.

  “You can’t tell anyone what I’ve just told you. Keep it to yourself, yes?” he hissed.

  But before Jennifer could say anything he’d left, his heavy footsteps hurrying towards the lift.

  “We can’t do that. It’s a racist policy.”

  John had summoned Jennifer to his office early – so early, in fact, that she’d wondered if he’d had someone watching for her arrival. He’d sat her straight down and launched into telling her the government’s latest plans, with no preamble.