The Panopticon

by Jenni Fagan

  I would rather do anything than be around people like that again. I want out. I want to watch a fire-breather as dawn comes up on the solstice. They cannae have this soul. They have taken everything else and it’s the only thing left that I own. I’m not telling Shortie what’s happened, or anyone else, but especially not Shortie; she’s had enough tae deal with. What would be the point of her feeling hurt as well? Nobody’s gonnae catch those guys, and the polis fucking hate me anyway. What would they do? Clever experiment.

  I go back downstairs, into the office, and Angus is still arguing with PC Arnold.

  ‘So tag her again!’

  ‘I dinnae think so, Mr Everlen.’

  ‘Anais, are you okay? You look really pale,’ Angus asks.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you going tae tell us where you have been, Miss Hendricks?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I have no other option than tae take you down the station for questioning,’ PC Arnold says.

  ‘Come on, look at her – she’s not well, and you cannae take her straight down there and off tae secure, Mr Arnold. She is allowed special consideration, if a family member has died.’

  ‘Aye, but that wee lassie wasnae related tae Anais, was she?’

  ‘That’s not the point. The girls develop unusually strong bonds in here, they are a family.’

  ‘Aye, but they urnay related, are they? We have an order here tae put Anais in John Kay’s. She’ll be kept there until she’s eighteen, I reckon, and that is that!’

  ‘But PC Craig has improved!’ Angus is almost shouting.

  ‘Aye, but Anais battered an innocent schoolgirl from our village, Mr Everlen. If that family decide tae pursue it, she won’t be done for grievous bodily harm; it will be attempted murder. She needs locked up.’

  ‘Tag her – I’ll take her tae school personally, and I’ll go at four o’clock and collect her at the gate. You can monitor where she is: and the rest of the time she’ll be on total house-arrest. We let her go tae the funeral on Thursday – and then she’s all yours!’

  ‘I dinnae think so, Mr Everlen.’

  ‘Well, your sergeant said I could legally push for extenuating circumstances tae be taken into consideration, should we prove that Anais was in a state of extreme shock when she got in that fight.’

  ‘That’s what my sergeant said?’ he asks.

  ‘Aye, pretty much. And you better check with him before you take her anywhere, or you might be the one who gets in trouble,’ Angus says.

  ‘I’ll check that with the station.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Angus shows him out.

  I walk out behind them. Shortie runs up.

  ‘So are you gonnae tell me where you’ve been yet?’ she asks me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fuck off, Anais, what’s the big secret?’

  ‘I umnay going tae John Kay’s.’

  ‘How? Are they letting you off? Are they letting you stay here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then, what?’

  ‘D’ye think Dylan could break intae the staff safe?’

  ‘Aye. How?’

  Shortie squeezes my hand and she doesnae need me to tell her. I’m getting out. I dinnae care how. If I don’t, then I will only ever have been nothing, and no-one, and what is the point of surviving this – for that?

  ‘Anais?’

  ‘Aye, Angus.’

  ‘I have an order here, I got it from the head of the social-work department. Dinnae ask. He knows someone I know. Anyway, they are going to make sure that you can stay until the funeral – you have special consideration. I am meant tae take you to school tomorrow, but I trust you tae come back, and on Thursday we will go and see Isla off, okay?’

  I well up, and he squeezes my shoulder.

  ‘D’ye want tae talk about it, Anais?’

  ‘No. But, Angus?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I am wearing all warm clothes. They call it dressing for the weather. I’ve never bothered before, but right now I want tae be warm, and safe. Head down the woods. Dinnae let the experiment see you planning.

  This is what’s different from yesterday – I’ve got my hair cut into a bob, I dinnae want to smoke, I dinnae want food, but I will eat, and not just chocolate. I will eat soup, and bread, and cheese, and I will stop having a day on and a day off tae stay skinny. I will comb my hair, and brush my teeth and learn how tae be nice to me.

  Run and catch the first bus; it gets me into town and then I get the second one. Folk from school are on it. It’s stuffy in here. I cannae believe they are making me go in for one day. I sit up the back and have a smoke, just so I have something tae do with my hands. I’m late for school, by like what … a few months?

  There’s Christmas decorations in windows and trees, and the lights are on when you go through town and it is so beautiful, a wee fairytale kingdom with old-fashioned rides and doughnut stands and hot mulled wine. I had that once. It was fucking minging. The bus turns right, out into the residential streets, and I look down into a garden of gnomes and reindeer. Santa’s climbing up a chimney.

  It’s the 16th December. I opened the square on the advent calendar this morning, and there was nothing in there. Nae chocolate Jesus. John ate the lot, seeing as he cannae help himself but nick things, and he laughs every morning when it’s someone else’s turn to open it and there’s fuck-all there.

  I’m wearing my lime-green mini-kilt, thick tights, a jumper and a jacket with a wee dragonfly on the lapel. I put loads of extra conditioner in with my clothes, so everything smells super-clean. I washed my hair twice. I’m wearing my oldest Converse. They look so shit and worn, but they’re great. I put gloves on, and a scarf. I’m dressing myself like I’m somebody else’s bairn. Carefully. Like it counts.

  I have a letter in my pocket. I addressed it tae the head of Jay’s prison. I have another one for the guy in Jay’s cell – he told me his name was Rod. I just addressed it to Rod, I dinnae know his number, but I put Jay’s cell number on it. I don’t know if his cellmate will get it. I hope so, though. They dinnae like paedos in jail.

  Kids all around me talk about school and what they watched on TV and who’s shagged who. Drift downstairs, get off the bus and wander through the school gates with the crowd.

  Through the door. Down the hallway. Into my classroom. Sit down.

  ‘Anais Hendricks! Nice tae see you’re present,’ the reggie teacher says.

  ‘Not really present!’ Someone behind me mutters.

  Take two Valium out my pocket – chew, swallow, breathe. There’s a late assembly. I follow my class out and down another hall and into the cafeteria, where all the assembly chairs are. Take a seat in my year’s row. Loudness. Voices rattling over each other. Eyes and faces and hair and bags – it’s all glaring. It’s funny: Pat reckoned rape cannae kill you, but she is wrong.

  ‘Did you take a trip after the October break? You’ve not been in for ages, ay?’ the girl next to me asks.

  Smooth down my skirt. I feel stupid. Awkward. I dinnae want tae shrink here.

  ‘Aye, I did.’

  ‘Where’d you go? We went tae Florida again, but just for the October break, ay. You didnae miss much over the last few months. English is boring as ever. History’s still shit,’ she says.

  She sticks her legs out and admires her tan. The headmaster comes in, takes one brief sharp look at me and begins.

  In afternoon science class a Van de Graaff machine is brought in. A teacher I shagged once on Ecstasy is taking this class. Kids say the other teacher had a nervous breakdown. I place my hand on the Van de Graaff and my hair rises straight up and out. The laddies are watching. What if they’ve seen it? What if the porno is online? It would have gone online. Where else would it go?

  There are still bruises. I touch my own hand really gently, under the table, so nobody can see. Almost like I am holding my own hand. Is it sad tae hold your own hand? If nobody was loo
king I’d hug myself. Arms around me, holding me in, holding on. I’ve been doing that on the toilet in break-times. What a fucking idiot, ay? The laddies giggle, and in the shiny dome of the Van de Graaff there’s a girl who looks sad.

  Paris.

  Imagine Paris. Imagine being born a beautiful, lucky wee girl with a beautiful mum, who I’d met, who I lived with; one who made pancakes, and drank gin, and listened tae jazz. One that loved me so much I grew strong.

  Imagine a name that is not this one. I have tae finish it now.

  It’s the only thing that belongs to me – the birthday game. I have spent far too much of my life dealing in truths, too many truths to mention.

  Some truths are so heavy they weigh the whole world and the sea. We did Heracles and Atlas in history. Atlas held the weight of the world; Heracles was a bent fuck. Atlas knew what truth was. Truth is something that laps its way in with the tides, and it returns night after night – until it washes you away. The moon brings it. The tides deliver it. When they leave, the tides steal from the shore. They steal grains and shells and stones. They steal cliffs and rocks and stiles and trees and fields and houses and villages and wee countrified lanes. Then they drag it all out to the bottom of the seabed.

  The tides won’t stop until they’ve taken everything. One day everything will be at the bottom of the sea. Maybe people will grow fins again? Maybe swimming feels like flying if you have fins and live in the sea?

  Paris it is. Maybe one sibling? A brother. Gay. Overly protective, smart, funny, ridiculously attractive. And three aunties. One in Florence. One in New York. One in Iceland. Mandatory holidays to each every single year. It’s a total fucking chore.

  35

  THE STAFF FINISHED their meeting and they’ve called all of us into the lounge. A new girl with blue hair has already had a scrap with Shortie. Shortie’s glowing. The new lassie has a black eye. We’re being briefed about the funeral. Me. Shortie. John. Dylan. Steven. Brian. The new girl.

  ‘So we thought you could draw a memorial to Isla on the tower?’ Joan suggests.

  I’m not even answering that. Shortie is wearing a trilby, fitted trousers and braces. She looks great. I’m wearing a yellow dress and black leggings and no shoes. I’ll wear furry boots when we go out, and I’m buying a really warm coat for the funeral. It is Twenties-style. Angus will take me to the shopping centre later. I’m wearing one of those Russian hats with the earflaps, and fur lining as well. You could sleep rough in this hat in the winter and not die.

  John Kay’s rung. They are looking forward to signing me up for group therapy.

  Fucking freaks!

  ‘Anyway, we can maybe work on some ideas next week, once things have settled down,’ Joan says.

  ‘We want you all tae feel like you can say goodbye tae Isla in a creative way,’ Angus says.

  ‘What about Tash?’ John mutters.

  ‘Who’s Tash?’ the new girl asks.

  ‘Some of you have applied for special circumstances to attend Isla’s funeral. Shortie, Anais, John, Steven and Dylan – you will all be collected in the morning, okay?’ Joan says.

  We nod. She’s holding a large card.

  ‘If you all want tae sign this, please, we will have a wreath for Isla, and this card from everyone. We will all be here for the wake afterwards, which will be held here in the main room.’

  I’ve packed my bags for the secure unit. Three bin bags. No matter how much shite I accumulate I always seem tae have three bags. Joan checked them. She can check all she likes, the only things that are important to me, urnay in there.

  A social-work minibus trundles down the drive – great, it’s the wee kids coming in for a visit. Fucking hell. It pulls up and five of them jump down.

  ‘I thought we could do some crafts with the residents from the small children’s unit today,’ Joan says brightly. ‘Especially you, Anais. If you want tae attend tomorrow, you can take part in something that isnae just about you for once!’

  ‘I’ll do crafts with them!’ John grins. He’s totally monged on something.

  The front door slams open and the wee kids run in, ahead of two support workers.

  ‘Can we see the games room?’ one asks.

  John shows the wee laddies the art on the watchtower, and they start taking crayons out of a box and drawing onto it. John is drawing a peace symbol with feet. Two wee lassies run around me and Shortie.

  ‘Come on, Anais, let’s show them.’ Shortie’s grinning.

  ‘We’ve got a games room in ours, but we dinnae have a pool table.’ A wee red-haired girl tugs my sleeve, pointing at ours.

  Joan brought her record player in and some vinyl – it’s prehistoric stuff, but it’s surprisingly good; she obviously looks squarer than she is.

  ‘Can we put a record on?’ her wee pal asks us.

  She’s got short hair and she’s wearing an Elmo T-shirt. Too cool for school – nothing like the brown cords and brown shoes the social workers used tae dress me in.

  ‘I cannae be arsed with this,’ I say to Shortie.

  ‘Anais, you cannae say that!’ She drags me over to the pool table, then helps a wee lassie put a record on.

  ‘What’s your name then?’ she asks her.

  ‘Alice.’

  ‘I’m Shortie, and that’s Anais. Pleased tae meet you.’

  The little girl comes over to me and I shake her hand solemnly. The record kicks in and she gets all excited and starts jumping about.

  ‘C’mon, let’s shake it,’ she says.

  ‘Shake it?’

  ‘They watch music videos all the time, duh! Come on, shake it, Anais.’ Shortie grins.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Ooh, you swore! Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off,’ Alice parrots.

  Jesus fuck!

  ‘Puh-leeeeeese dance with me?’ She folds her hands in prayer, then begins busting out demented chicken moves.

  ‘I need a fucking smoke.’

  ‘Anais!’ Shortie says.

  I shake my head at her and walk off.

  ‘I’m gonnae go for a fag too.’ Alice runs after me and takes my hand.

  Joy.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I tell her.

  ‘Aye, I uhm.’

  ‘No, you wait here. You’re too young to smoke!’

  ‘I’ll just sit with you then,’ she says happily.

  We sit on the front step, up where it’s not so frosty. It’s cold out, but I’m warm enough. Alice is wearing a hat too.

  ‘Are you cold?’ I ask her.

  ‘Nope!’

  She chatters away. I forgot this. Whenever I meet wee kids in homes it’s the same: they chat and chat. They tell me all about their lives. Even the older kids do; they’ve been doing it with me for years. They’ll come to my room and they just know there’s nothing they can say that will make me pity them or look at them like they’re cheap or dirty, or crap or ugly or hideous as fuck.

  The wee girl squeezes my hand, drags me back to the winter sun.

  ‘I remember you,’ she says.

  ‘I dinnae think so, Alice.’

  ‘Aye, aye. I saw you playing on our roundabout in the middle of the night. You were with that guy back in there. He was wearing a dress.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Aye, that was me. The guy in the dress is called John.’

  ‘So d’ye get tae leave soon and get a house?’ She squints up at me.

  ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘Why hopefully?’

  ‘Well, they want me tae stay on a few years, maybe until I’m eighteen.’

  Alice is horrified. ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos. I did some bad things.’

  ‘Did you say some bad words?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Like shit?’

  ‘Dinnae say that!’ I laugh at her.

  ‘Like fuck?’ she asks me, her eyes going round. ‘Did you say cunty-balls?’

  ‘Uh-huh, stuff like that.’

  ‘I bet you didnae mean it, though,’ sh
e says, and picks up a stone and throws it. ‘I can tell you didnae mean it. D’you want me tae tell them for you?’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ I say.

  She leans in against me.

  ‘Maybe you could just leave and, like, get a house and I could come and live with you? I’d like that,’ she says shyly.

  ‘That would be cool, ay?’ I say and wipe my face.

  ‘Can you bake a chocolate caterpillar cake?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Oh well. Could you learn tae bake a chocolate caterpillar cake?’

  I squeeze her hand and she puts her arms up, so I let her clamber over me. I hug her. We rock like that on the porch. I can feel the strain in her. Her muscles all tense and her mind always searching around her to see who’s safe and who’s not. She knows about rooms without windows or doors. She knows I do as well – it’s not a thing you need tae say.

  Snow begins to fall, light as ash. Alice sticks her tongue out to catch it.

  ‘Yum, yum, yum,’ she says.

  ‘Have you seen Britney?’ I ask her.

  ‘Who’s Britney?’

  ‘You’ve not seen Britney? You haven’t seen our resident owl? Well, that’s shocking. Next thing you’ll be telling me you’ve never met a flying cat?’

  ‘Cat’s dinnae fly, silly!’ she says.

  ‘Oh, they don’t, do they? C’mon, let’s go and see who we can find first: Britney, the gargoyle, or – Malcolm, the Panopticon’s secret flying feline!’

  She’s grinning and totally excited to meet a flying cat, or an owl. I pick her up, sit her on my hips and we walk down the drive to see Malcolm.

  36

  SHORTIE WENT TO the jeweller’s earlier and picked up my domino. I’ve hung it on a chain and it’s hidden under my dress. I keep checking it’s still there. I bought my Twenties coat, and a new dress. I now only have £517.26 left. I got my allowance, Pat’s cash. Shortie sold some deals for me at her school, and John must be turning tricks again, cos he gave me two hundred and told me he’d stab me if I didnae take it. I’m almost ready. I ate chicken at dinner tonight, I dinnae ken why – I think I’m losing it. Nerves, ay. It was fucking minging. I’m never eating dead flesh again.