by Jenni Fagan
‘Aye.’
‘No, she’s not, he’s in jail,’ Shortie says, then starts kissing again.
Craig leans in closer. He smells nice. He’s got a square jaw and he’s skinny, tall though, with wide shoulders and his hair’s quite long, nearly down tae his shoulders. He touches my hair, just lightly, then he pulls a strand off my face and tucks it behind my ear and the world goes quiet.
‘Can I kiss you?’ he asks.
He leans in, and his lips are soft, and his hair is soft, his neck’s warm. There’s shivers down my back as he touches my waist, runs his fingers down my side.
‘Are we fucking poaching or what?’ Ben appears right next to us and I open my eyes. Ben is holding out a hammer tae Craig, and he’s got another one at his side, and a torch.
‘What the fuck are youz gonnae do? Batter the fish tae death?’ I ask.
‘Aye,’ Ben says. ‘Exactly.’
‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’ Shortie says.
‘I suppose. I thought you weren’t the go-with-guys-you-dinnae-know type?’
‘He knows my brother. We only ever kiss, they’re a laugh, ay. Just decent guys.’
We sit up on the bonnet, listening to music and leaning back to look at the stars. The two of them are wading into the river. I’m really stoned now. I turn on my side and rest my face on the windscreen and watch them raising their hammers in the air.
Thud.
Thud.
The water’s splashing like mad, and they’re lobbing salmon up on tae the embankment.
‘Did you do it, Anais?’
‘What?’
‘The pig in the coma?’
‘Aye.’
‘You did, honestly?’
‘No, but lately it feels like it’d be easier tae say aye, though. I didnae kosh her, I dinnae think I did anyway.’
‘How can you not know?’
‘Cos I was so fucking wasted that day, I could have massacred the mob and no remembered. But, in here – you know, right in here – I just ken I didnae. I keep remembering bits of that day but not all of it. The experiment dinnae care, though.’
I feel the air go funny around us.
‘The what?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘What’s the experiment, Anais?’
‘Alright, gorgeous!’ Ben reappears holding up a dead salmon. He’s got blood on his hands and his face, and holds the torchlight up tae the salmon’s eyes.
‘That is giving me the boak,’ I tell him.
‘How?’ he asks.
‘Fuck, get in the car!’ Craig shouts and we turn. The estate’s Land Rover is motoring towards us, and the police are heading along the other way.
‘Someone must have seen us!’ Ben slams the door behind us, skidding the car down the gravel embankment, and me and Shortie duck down on the back seat. Craig drives us along by the river with the headlights still out.
‘Will they see us?’ Shortie whispers.
‘They better not, or I’m fucking lifted again, and I’m not having fucking poaching on my record!’ I hiss at her.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Ben says.
‘You shut the fuck up,’ I say back tae him.
‘Hold on, girls,’ Craig says as the police siren leaps intae light and blares. We skid around on the embankment and he plunges the car right intae the river.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Shortie screams.
Water is coming up through the floor and the engine is whirring like fuck.
‘It’s shallow enough, it’s alright.’ He grinds the stick down and the car lurches up onto the far bank. The polis car is still on the other riverbank, headlights pointed at us. The policeman is getting out and gesturing to the guy from the estate.
Craig rolls down his window.
‘Fucking tossers!’ he shouts back.
‘That was great,’ Shortie says. ‘Fucking brilliant!’
15
THE HEADLIGHTS GLOW, until the car turns left and the lights disappear. Then there is only blackness. I turn away and keep walking silently, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. Fields swish gently in the wind. It’s so cold now – my arms are all goosebumps. The lamp posts are orange orbs in the dark, and there urnay many of them. I suppose nobody normally walks along here at night.
I cannae believe Shortie decided to stay out with Ben. Craig asked me to stay, but I cannae. I’m late, but at least I’ll not get done for absconding if I go back now. I didnae mean to have sex with him – but he was … he was just nice. I dinnae want to see him again, though, I’m not into farmers.
Something flies up out from a field to my left and I shit myself. I’m still buzzy, hyper-aware. Shapes in the hedge-rows. Silhouettes in the trees. A cow watches from a field.
There are no cars out. No headlights. Not even miles away. Nothing. Just the swish, swish, swish of fields. The sound of my sneakers hitting the tarmac, me clicking a lighter round and round, a wee flash of flame in the dark.
The Panopticon’s a big looming hulk. It’s too big, like somewhere that a giant lives. I dinnae want to go back in there. Stop at the gates and I can tell the gargoyle’s been waiting to see how my night went.
‘What?’ I ask him.
It must be nearly 4 a.m. Surely it’ll get light soon? The ground’s frosty, they say it’s gonnae snow soon, but it shouldnae until November and that’s still a few days away.
I wonder if they called the police on me. They will have, I’ll be reported missing. I should stay that way. Clouds race the sky. The grass is sparkly.
Feel around the pillar at the base. It’s old and crumbly, but there are holds if you get your hand right in. I get my first foothold and grip hard, push up at the same time with my feet. I just cling on, feeling around. Hook my hand over the cat’s tail and pull myself up.
The owl swoops right in front of me, then she’s away again, over the field, hunting for mice. I sit down on Malcolm the cat’s back, put my arms around his neck and lean in, somehow he doesnae even feel cold – I close my eyes.
‘Take me tae Paris,’ I whisper.
His wings beat – once, twice, we lift up.
‘Where in Paris, m’lady?’ he asks.
‘Fly me tae a side street in the artists’ quarter, tae a room above a café where I can look out the window and see the same old man who drinks tea and has cake every day.’
‘My pleasure.’
Up, up, up towards the moon. The moon is not quite so terrible tonight; his baldness is luminescent, all his moon craters and valleys stand out. Half-close my eyes as Malcolm’s huge wings beat around me. We swoop low across the treetops – glide towards lights away in the distance.
I grip his neck, knees holding onto his body. His ears turn and my eyes snap open. The gargoyle stares across at me. He’s a demented jester, and someone has put another cigarette out in his mouth. I cuddle into the cat and rest my head on his neck.
The Panopticon windows are lit blue; the night-nurse’ll be in now. That building is not a place to live, it’s a place to grow specimens. The experiment know I’m back. They’re pissed I slipped off their radar for two seconds. They obviously cannae see girls who fly on cats. I’ll pretend I didnae go off their radar, but I know I did. If you can do it once, you can do it again, right?
Someone’s running across the fields. Fuck, who is that? I duck right down as they get closer, but they lope straight towards me and I can see they are wearing an ill-fitting flowery dress.
‘Is that you, Anais?’ John hisses.
‘John?’
‘Fuck,’ he clutches his heart, ‘I shit myself when I saw you. I didnae think anyone’d be up. Where have you been?’
‘I was out,’ I say. I dinnae want to tell him I was out with Shortie and some guys – he’d be gutted.
‘They’ll have reported you missing by this time ay day.’
‘I know.’
‘Why are you on top of Malcolm?’ he asks.
‘Aye, about that, Malcolm’s a shan name
for a flying cat.’
‘He’s not a cat, he’s a liger with wings,’ John says.
I slide off Malcolm’s back and stand on top of the pillar.
‘I thought you were gonnae go for me earlier?’ He grins.
‘I was gonnae try and drag you off that windowsill, cos I could tell you were gonnae jump.’
‘I was wasted,’ he says.
‘Blatantly. I’m amazed you didnae break anything.’
‘My ankle is swollen up tae fuck, I think I’ve strained it, ay. It fucking hurt when I straightened up a bit.’
‘I bet it did.’
‘I’d just had shite news – well, Mullet had kept some bad news from me, ay. My mum didnae win her appeal tae get out. She’s fucked up about it, and Christmas is coming and she kept saying she wanted tae get out and we could all be together for Christmas, and I just … I just needed tae get mashed.’
‘’S fair enough,’ I say.
‘Fuck it, d’ye wantae wrestle me … girl-on-girl?’ he asks.
‘I dinnae wrestle, I’d just kick your cunt in.’
‘Aye, well, we’ll skip that then, ay. I thought you might fancy me in a dress!’
‘You make an ugly bird, John,’ I laugh.
‘Fucking hell, Anais.’
He looks serious for a minute. His eyes are round like he’ll cry, and I can tell his anger’s gone. That dress is ridiculous. His nipples poke out over the top.
‘You like my frock though, ay?’
‘Bit slutty.’ I grin.
‘You’ll be wanting tae borrow it then?’
‘Aye.’
‘Are you coming back tae the unit then?’
He nods down at the big shadow at the end of the drive and tries to adjust his dress, but his paps are still well on show. He places a finger over each nipple for modesty.
‘I suppose so.’
I climb around Malcolm’s back, then jump the last bit. We walk on the grass. John limps where his ankle is all swollen. The wee house hidden behind the trees that I saw yesterday is lit up outside, with dim lights on its porch.
‘What’s that place, John?’
‘That’s for under-eights, they’ve got like six of them in there.’
‘What, a home?’
‘Aye. Most of them are under five, though. They bring them down tae visit us sometimes.’
‘That’s horrible. D’ye want a smoke?’ I pull a joint out.
‘Fuck, aye.’ John nods appreciatively. ‘Follow me,’ he whispers and grabs my hand.
‘I saw Tash over in that field earlier, looked like she was getting something?’
‘Oh, that’s their stash,’ he says. ‘I’ve looked for it a few times but I cannae find it. They’re saving up Tash’s earnings from the game – they’re gonnae apply for custody of the twins soon as they’re old enough.’
‘Where’s she working, like?’ I ask.
‘Just on the street. I did it a few times, had one guy used tae pick me up near the bushes by the theatre. There’s fucking hundreds of them there. He was alright, just wanted a wee wank-off, then home tae his wife. I get good money when I do – ’s cos of my huge cock, ay.’ He grins.
‘Aye, okay then!’
I follow John around to the back of the wee house. There’s a kid’s roundabout in the shape of a big sunflower.
‘Madam, your chariot awaits!’
I hop on and he spins it; he has to hoick up his dress, and the big shoes he’s chored look mental. He’s got the joint clamped in his mouth, grinning, one foot on the roundabout, the other pounding the ground.
‘So, really, are you alright?’ I ask him.
‘Suppose.’
‘I met Bethany and Stewart.’
‘Did their foster-mum bring them in again?’
‘No, Isla’s social worker brought them in.’
John cracks his knuckles nervously. He hands the joint back to me and the roundabout slows.
Lean back and watch the stars spin round.
‘She needs tae stop cutting herself, and have you seen Mullet? He won’t go near her if she’s cut; she doesnae let anyone but the doctor touch her, like, but Mullet really makes it obvious. I think she’s trying tae cut the virus out, ay. She feels so fucking bad that the twins have got it, she cannae take it. There’ll probably be a cure by the time they’re older, though, and the kind she’s got she’s probably gonnae live another forty fucking years, ay. It’s just shit though. How come the nice people always get the shit luck, Anais?’
‘How did she not know she had it?’
‘She had the twins at home with her ma, same as her ma had done, same as her granny had done. They never told the school – her ma was scared they’d take the bairns away, and she’s away in the fucking head anyway, Isla’s ma. They didnae find out until Isla took them for their first immunisations. That’s how she found out she had it. Next thing she’s hauled in, her ma’s hauled in, then her da comes back – says he knew he had it the whole fucking time.’
‘Shit! Her dad?’
‘Noh, that’s not how she got it, no like that; her old man’s a smackhead, he used tae tie her tae the bed when they went out tae score, so she took a shot of his gear one night when he was nodding. Game over.’
‘Fucking hell.’
The roundabout’s still spinning and all I can see is stars and John’s head clear as, with the universe behind him. Every other second we whizz past the wee kid’s home again, and a window at the back of the home keeps punctuating the blur of trees, building, window, blur, trees, building, window. A small face peers out from it, then a staff member pops up and switches a light on.
‘Shit, John, fucking run!’
He drags his foot to stop the roundabout and we pelt behind the trees and across the grass. At the main doorway I ring the bell.
‘You’ve got stiff nips,’ I tell him.
‘’S it turning you on, ay?’
The door clicks open, and the night-nurse looks at us.
‘Your pupils are dilated, Anais.’
‘It’s dark.’
‘Where did you get that dress, John?’
‘I nicked it off a washing line, d’ye like it?’ he asks her.
‘Well, you better take it back again tomorrow,’ she says.
‘Aye, alright. Night-night, Anais.’ He gives me a wink and he’s away, up the stairs, peeling off his dress as he goes.
‘Have you been out together?’ she asks me.
‘Noh!’ John shouts back as he runs up the stairs.
The night-nurse grabs me by the chin, tilts my head back and pulls me towards the light. She smells of eucalyptus and she turns my face this way and that. The woman sees everything. She sees what you had for breakfast and the kid you punched in primary school. She sees the first thing you ever stole. And the time your baby-teeth fell out and the tooth-fairy didnae fucking come. She even sees the next day when you glued your baby-teeth to the neighbours bike, like they were eyes, and he cried and cried and cried.
‘You need to straighten up, young lady.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Upstairs then, Anais. You were both reported missing. Joan will want to see you in the morning.’
Run upstairs, quiet. It’s good to be back somewhere with a bed. I would never have thought that a year ago. I would rather have slept in a bush or on a roundabout, or by a motorway, or in a graveyard or the woods, or a doorway, or anywhere but in a unit where the experiment can come in your sleep and take things out of your brain.
Jars lined up in rows. Old labels on them, curling away, but the glass is clean. Each jar contains something – a strand of hair, bacteria, pubes, milk-teeth rattling off glass. Two different-coloured eyes watch from a fat jar. A red bicycle is in the smallest jar, cycling in circles. Malcolm’s trapped in the jar next to that, he pounds his wings and the glass vibrates. The Panopticon is in a jar with a red thread tied around it. A man wearing a wide-brimmed hat is in the watchtower, and he keeps banging on the windo
w for me to look up.
‘Don’t leave your room, don’t leave your room!’ He rings a bell, warning anyone who’ll listen.
I step outside my bedroom door and head for the top floor, where there are three black doors. I’m ignoring the man – let him hammer on the watchtower window all he likes. I go up the steps to the top landing and open the first door.
It’s an ancient lido, full of autumn leaves.
The second door opens onto empty space; a sign for Love Lane hovers tae the right. There isnae a path under it, just a sign and nothing else.
I open the third door and step out onto a pier, which juts out so far across the ocean you could probably walk all the way to another country along it. Its wooden planks are dark with slippery moss, and a humming noise permeates everywhere. A black sun has begun to rise.
The door closes behind me. As I walk down the pier masked men turn around, one by one. A wooden boat bobs out on choppy waves. Miles away it is, miles and miles out.
Jars lilt along on the waves. One carries my social-work files, the missing ones. They have been shrunk down to the size of a tablet. Gargoyle holds the tablet and begins to munch down on it; he munches, munches, munches, then chain-smokes. The tablet is getting him high. He bangs on the glass.
Another jar floats by with Chief in it. He’s asleep on a red pillow and his scales have fallen out and his skin is so thin – you can see his reptilian heart. Hayley is in the jar behind him: gaunt and stripping. A masked man steps onto the pier. I cannae go around him. Behind me another guy lunges up out of the water, grabs onto the pier and hauls himself up. He’s a keeper of the waters of the dead. This is all the water of the dead. The stagnant ocean. The masked men are corpses and their gills flap. They detest the living.
The barnacle-mask man watches me. He knows I’m afraid and he likes it. They are everywhere, hundreds and thousands of them, all waiting. The masked men have large black disc-like glasses on, and bulbous yellow eyes bulge out behind them. Each mask is covered in barnacles.
‘Can I take your photo?’
I am holding my imaginary camera, picturing the prints in my imaginary gallery, and they just stare. Raise the lens and click. Click. Click. Click-click-click.
Masked men lunge out angrily as a boy in a dress races by them.
