The Panopticon

by Jenni Fagan

‘No, that’s all wrong!’

  He’s looking up at me, he drops his spoon. It’s empty now anyway. His gear’s in the needle.

  ‘Noh, really, noh, I’m sorry, it’s not your fault; noh, dinnae get upset now, just wait a minute,’ he says.

  He’s tightening the elastic around his arm, takes his shot, then he’s away. I’ll take the bag when he wakes, or I could leave him a note … Taken bag … but I just feel like dancing.

  The man nods and I powwow-wow, and Chief taps out a beat. A while later insect-oid-us-smack-a-dick-tus comes to again. I keep doing my powwow-wow and Chief is beginning tae get freaked out. Mr Locust puts his lighter down.

  ‘You are unbelievably fuckable,’ he says.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. You’re so fucking … wasted, look at you! I think I love you.’

  ‘D’ye know what I love?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The clouds, and the stars, and the grass – it sounds silly, ay. But I do. I fucking love them.’

  I do, I love them, I love this feeling. He pads out of the room, then he comes back in and holds out a jellyfish. No, it’s not a jellyfish, it’s a bikini with polka-dots on it.

  ‘Try this.’

  ‘I dinnae like polka-dots.’

  ‘Aye, but there’s a cool skull and crossbones, right there,’ he says.

  There is as well, just there, a skull and crossbones right on the arse. Just a wee one. It’s cute. I change in the kitchen and start my dance again in bare feet.

  ‘That’s better!’ He grins.

  ‘Tell Chief tae stop watching.’

  ‘He’s not watching, honest. Best keep at it, though!’ he says solemnly and so I do.

  He goes in the kitchen at one point and grabs my shoes. He opens the window and lobs them out, then he throws away my shorts, my vest. Chief edges away from him. Powwow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow. A clock on the wall spins time, and in the other world an ice-cream van tinkles and children shout and the sun is clearly furious, but we dinnae pay it any attention.

  Roo takes his cock out, it’s got red marks, all up and down it. He puts a needle down and swoons.

  The windows are so bare. There’s a high-rise across the way and there’s three down the hill and they all point at the sky. Look at that ice-cream van – seventeen floors below, d’ye think they can see me from down there? Me. Up here. Arms raised, doing an Indian war cry. Whoop, whoop, whoop!

  He won’t wake, I kick him, but he doesnae move.

  Me and Chief stare each other out, we circle around slowly in the age-old voodoo way, and when I get to the door for the fifteenth time I escape. The hallway’s dark and smells like pish. Pick a door. Any door. Bathroom, okay.

  Pull the light, there’s no knob on the end of the string, just a knot someone tied. Dirty knot, dirty string.

  Must find fire.

  I kneel down on the dirty lino, and it’s sticky, so I shove a damp towel under my legs. Must find fire. Quick. Must find fire, must find fire. Find fire. Fire, fire, fire. The word sounds weird, how weird does it sound? Shit! My reflection is in a round cracked mirror by the toilet. Stiff nipples, dirty skin, strange neck, see-through veins. There is a large bruise on my thigh and thunder in the hallway, huge claps of it. It sounds like a storm that shouts.

  I use a teaspoon to unscrew the front from the radiator cabinet. I lift bits out and yank bits away and I’m almost there, inside, where the fire will be, when the door is flung open. A man in black stares. I push my headdress back up on my forehead and the feathers wilt tae the left.

  ‘What?’

  He looks at me. Maybe he’s here for Chief, or maybe he’s having a party? Pick up the bag of Es and offer him one, but he reaches a long arm out and takes them all.

  ‘That’s fucking greedy,’ I tell him.

  ‘What’s your name, love?’

  ‘Cloud.’

  The plebeian is clearly impolite, but it’s better to let it go, for that is the shaman way. He doesnae know I was born in a trance witnessed only by an Indian chief and his daughters, but I was. I am above greed.

  The man stuffs the bag of pills in his pocket, then he shouts in thunder to somebody else. Somebody else appears with Chief in a cat basket. Chief grins at me.

  ‘What is going on here then?’

  The man holding Chief seems to be asking me. What does he mean by here? Here as in where?

  They both keep gazing at me and I blink. They are definitely expecting me to say something. What? What are the plebeians expecting? Perhaps they are awed by my shaman aura – probably they are.

  ‘Fire.’

  Gesture at the radiator and pull off another bit of metal. The slow people are just standing there. Maybe they are humbled, yet confused by meeting the daughter of a shaman and a forest nymph, here, in this bathroom. It’s most likely. I must be kind tae the simple mortals, for that is the shaman way.

  ‘D’ye have fire?’

  I ask it politely but they dinnae answer – fucking tosspots. Chief rolls his reptilian eyes, his nails tip-tap loudly on the plastic cat basket as he turns himself around, then grins at me again.

  ‘Skin up then?’ I say.

  I hold my hand out for an E, cos shamans should be happy, everyone knows that. The people dinnae seem tae get it, though. They pick me up off the floor and walk me out to the lift, draping a big black jacket around me. I’m shaking. It’s cold. I cannae quite remember why I’m wearing a bikini.

  One of the men goes back into the flat, then he comes out with the guy’s trainers.

  ‘Put these on, I cannae find yours and there’s broken glass in that lift. Put them on!’

  I shove the trainers on, they are twice as big as my feet. In the lift I do a powwow dance, but the trainers have given me big clown feet. I try one more powwow-wow, but it’s horrible and klutzy and the trainers trip over each other. I’m sad now. Really fucking sad.

  When we get downstairs, Roo is being taken away on a stretcher.

  ‘Where’s Mr Locust going?’

  ‘He isnae well. D’ye know him?’

  ‘Nope.’

  As we walk through the car park one of the guys tries tae take my headdress off.

  ‘What the fuck d’ye think you’re doing?’

  ‘You need tae take it off and get in the car!’

  ‘Dinnae touch the fucking headdress!’

  I scream so loud that windows open as far up as the eighteenth floor. I scream harder. Curtains twitch. Lights go on. People look down and point until the men just shove me in the back seat with my headdress on. We drive out of the estate in silence. Chief’s in his cat basket next to me. The slow people have a blue light. They’re fucking odd ravers.

  ‘Can you put the radio on?’ I ask.

  ‘No. We cannae. Are you gonnae tell us what you’ve been up to today then?’

  ‘It’s my birthday.’

  ‘Having a party, were you?’

  I grin at them, cuffed, in my bikini, headdress squint, watching spirals of light dance across the sky. I cannae quite remember where they are taking me but fuck it, ay – maybe it’s a better party where we’re going, hopefully there will be fire there.

  When we get there, there’s nae music. Just a drunk woman sat on a plastic chair in a room with a bright light. She’s pished herself.

  ‘We are booking you with possession and intent tae supply – do you have anything tae say?’

  ‘This party’s pish.’

  4

  IF YOU STARE at the watchtower long enough it looks like a bug. Especially if the sun is reflected in it, like wee golden irises. Or if the moon is in it, like last night. Then it has white eyes that follow you around. All the floors and bedroom doors are reflected in the window. Even me, I am in it too, looking up at myself.

  I’m sitting on the third-floor landing – in the lotus position, throwing up a rubber ball and catching it. I took it off the curly-haired laddie; his name’s Brian and he’s a freak. I have thrown the ball one hundred and seve
nty times without dropping it. If I drop it – the pig will die.

  If the pig dies, I’m getting put into a secure unit until I’m eighteen. Then jail. Except I won’t make it, I won’t make sixteen – I’ll be dead. Then it’ll be me and the pig, and Teresa, and Jake from the last home with the noose around his neck. All of us sad bastards sitting playing poker in the last cell before Sheol. Jake in the last home was a fucking arse. He’s better off dead. It’s sick, but true – some people take living out on anyone who’ll let them.

  The thud when I catch the ball is a perfect rhythm. The bug-eyes are watching. That watchtower wants its face smashed in. It wants a smile drawn on it and a petrol bomb up its arse.

  Throw, catch, throw, catch. It’s the only sound.

  Everyone is at school apart from Brian, cos he gets collected by a taxi and taken to a special school cos he has special needs. Translate that as – cannot be trusted with civilians.

  There’s a cute guy downstairs in the breakfast area, he’s eating toast and staring at a wall. He keeps scratching his balls through his trackie bottoms and he’s wearing Adidas two-stripe trainers; they look like an original design, but they urnay, they’re just a retro reissue. Jay used tae wear the exact same style.

  I wonder if PC Craig’s eyes were open, when they found her on Love Lane? Do they stay open if you’re in a coma? When you go into hospital – if you’re in a coma, do they shut your eyes like what they do if you’re dead?

  The polis kept asking me where I was that morning and I cannae remember. Well, I remember being in a park, and the waltzers in town. The last thing I can mind is the waltzers – then nothing. It was the ketamine that did it, Troll Mark’s fucking ketamine and four days caning it. I didnae tell the polis that. I didnae tell them I was so fucked up I couldnae even mind my own name.

  They kept on going on about a kosh. I’ve never even held a kosh. I saw mad Chrissie swinging one once – but that was years ago. Me and Chrissie were on acid in a house with black and white checks all over the walls and her bloke had just died of Aids, and there was a paedo with money following us about, cos of me. I was eleven, I know that cos it was before Teresa died. I cannae even mind how I met mad Chrissie. I cannae mind that – and I cannae mind how I got blood on my skirt.

  I keep getting wee flashes. It’ll come back, I’ll remember, you always remember something eventually, ay. The pigs dinnae give a fuck if I did it or not; they just want me locked up and that’s that, they dinnae care what it is they put me away for. It’s not just cos of the death-threats. She deserved them. They fucking know she did.

  I drop the ball. Shit!

  Pig’s dead.

  I’m dead.

  It rolls along the landing. The cook opens a hatch downstairs and the radio clicks on in the kitchen, and some tinny song plays. Thank fuck! It’s like a fucking tomb in here.

  I am not wearing any socks, my feet are a size two – my feet are quality. Nae knobbly bits. They might be my best feature, or my eyes. Or probably it’s my hair, black, long, thick and wavy. I’m gonnae bump down these stairs on my arse. Fifteen-going-on-two, I am.

  Bump.

  Bump.

  Bump.

  Cute looks up and I cross my eyes, make a mongo face at him and he grins. He’ll tell me what I need tae know. Whenever you arrive at a new unit the staff always tell you to not say what you’re in for, and it’s always the first thing you get asked. Usually one person tells you what everyone else is in for – then they go away and tell everyone else what you’re in for.

  The breakfast hatch is open and there’s a carton of milk, cold, icy-cold, perfect. Cornflakes, brilliant. Pour cereal until it’s almost spilling over the edge. Then milk up to the rim. Walk with it held out like precious treasure – do not spill!

  I sit down with the stealth of a vampire. Begin to eat. Crunch. A perfect crunch. Mm, mmm, mmmmm. The cook isnae looking at us, he rolls out pastry and listens to his radio. He’s wearing blue football socks and he’s got the aura of a man just out of jail. I lift what’s left of the fresh coffee while he’s not looking; it must have been made for a staff meeting earlier. Score. Cute watches while I pour myself a mug of black coffee, dump three sugars in and stir. I start on my cornflakes again.

  ‘Are you gonnae be in for dinner later, Anais?’

  Eric has creeped up behind me and asks this while staring at my cereal, not at me. My cereal evidently has some secret information on me, that it’s about to reveal. I didnae even know he was in. Fucking wankstain. He doesnae notice the coffee pot. Ha. Nil points to the student, one to me. No fresh coffee for your break later – fucking loser. He looks nervous and he still won’t meet my eyes; he must be reading my files.

  ‘Anais, are you in for dinner? I asked.’

  ‘Depends on what it is.’

  ‘It’s chicken.’

  ‘I dinnae eat meat.’

  I drink the rest of the milk out of my bowl, but keep my pinky tipped all posh like Teresa used to do. Teresa went to a private school when she was younger, so did Pat. Airs and graces. I slam the bowl down and Eric shites his pants. Cute laughs.

  ‘You’ll have tae eat the same meal, just without the meat then, if you have an aversion,’ Eric says sullenly.

  ‘I dinnae have an aversion.’

  ‘Are you a registered vegetarian?’

  ‘Why, d’ye need a licence?’

  ‘You need tae be registered.’

  ‘Are you a registered prick?’

  ‘I won’t take cheek, Anais. I’ll bring this up in changeover.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Eric’s right angry. Fuck him! His casual clothing is wrong as well, somebody’s ironed his jeans so there’s a line in the middle.

  Brian is in the lounge area. He balances a school bag on his ankles and lifts, then lowers it, for weights.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Eric asks him as he heads towards the office.

  ‘Taxi.’ Brian pushes his glasses back up his nose, they are held together with silver tape on the right arm.

  A car beeps outside.

  ‘Your taxi is the next one, Brian!’ Brenda calls down the hall.

  He glances over. He wants his ball back. I roll it over the table and he looks at me out the side of his head. He’s a foetus with teeth. Brenda walks out the front door; the beep must be her lift, she must have been on sleepover last night. I need more coffee, and a fucking smoke.

  ‘So, you’re Anais Hendricks?’ Cute smiles at me.

  ‘Nope.’

  He grins wider, he’s got dimples. I smile back. I cannae help it. It’s one of they awkward ones where it seems like you like somebody that way, but actually you dinnae! You’re just smiling like that cos you’re a moron!

  ‘I’m John, pleased tae meet you.’

  He shakes my hand. That’s unnerving.

  ‘So, you’ve been in care a while, ay. How long?’ he asks.

  ‘I got taken in when I was born, moved through twenty-four placements until I was seven, got adopted, left there when I was eleven, moved another twenty-seven times in the last four years.’

  That’s that out the road. I’ve said it so many times it’s like reciting a wee bunch of words that dinnae mean anything. I could be reciting the ingredients for cornflakes. There’s some football chat programme on the radio in the kitchen. I fucking hate football – it’s the most depressing game in the world.

  ‘D’ye never meet your folks?’

  He swings back on his chair. He likes me, I can tell.

  ‘No, I didnae meet Mummy and Daddy, or anyone else like that.’

  I debate whether to have a slice of toast. I didnae eat one meal in the cells, I dinnae trust anything they give you in there.

  ‘You never got adopted again then?’ he asks, and he’s not even being that subtle about checking me out. He grins at me and, despite myself, I grin back.

  ‘Have you ever heard of an eleven-year-old being adopted?’ I say.

  ‘I suppose not, ay. Guess
you’re fucked then.’

  He’d make a stunning vampire. Wonder what he kisses like.

  ‘What’s he in for?’ I nod at Brian.

  ‘His mummy and daddy had enough of him being a naughty boy. Running away. Nicking things. They used tae bring him Tupperware tubs full of cakes, tae share with his pals, ay. Except he’s no got any pals. I think they thought we all had midnight feasts and went on adventures. They dinnae come now though, ay. They dinnae come now, Brian, your folks, ay?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You dinnae ken yet?’ John swings back on his chair.

  ‘Ken what?’

  ‘Brian’s sick.’

  ‘What, like good sick?’

  ‘Noh, no good sick; like fucking very fucking bad sick,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll try not tae faint,’ I tell him.

  ‘He raped a dog,’ John says loudly.

  ‘He fucking what?’

  ‘Last Thursday. Raped a dog – ay, Brian?’ he shouts.

  The curly-haired laddie turns away, his cheeks flaming.

  ‘Aye, the cunt kidnapped it, raped it, threw it off a wall – broke its fucking legs.’

  We both turn to stare, but the laddie’s face is blank. No emotions. Nothing. Sick as fuck. I mean I can be a cunt, but I dinnae batter someone unless they go for me first and I’d never, ever pick on a kid, or an animal, or some old person.

  I’ll pick on the polis, aye, but only when they ask for it. PC Craig went tae war with me, not the other way around. Brian rams his index finger up his nose; he knows we can see him doing it, he’s liking it cos we’re watching. He inspects the bogey and then flicks it away.

  ‘What the fuck’s he in here for then? He should be in secure,’ I say.

  John raises his eyes to the locked fourth-floor doors.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ My heart sinks.

  I’m not going up there with that. Or up north with the kiddie-killers. I’ll not make it. I’m hard, but I’m nothing like them; they urnay even hard, they’re just scum. There’s nothing good in them. Teresa used tae tell me that all the fucking time.

  Aye, hen, you cannae reason with scum, you cannae talk tae scum, you cannae associate with scum, cos if there is anything good or nice or decent in you – they’ll break it.