The Panopticon (10 page)

There’s a sticky circle on the table, where a jar sat. She’s left a piece of paper as well. I feel like starting a fire – one match is all it takes. I could start a great fire, with just one match and that piece of paper.

I watched a documentary once, about Hindu wives getting shoved on the pyre after their husbands died. It’s cos they’re meant to want to jump on the flames on top of their dead husbands, but some of them dinnae really fancy it. They dinnae want to burn themselves alive – just so’s their husband can have someone to make them a cup of tea in the afterlife. They reckon that sometimes the wife just gets shoved on, like if she doesnae jump on herself, ay. Someone in the family will do it. An elbow in the ribs and a boot up the arse. In you fucking go.

Angus sticks his head around the door.

‘Sorry tae leave you in here, Anais. I had tae see Mrs Patterson out. I’ve got you a vegetarian option, come on.’

‘I want tae be alone.’

‘So did Garbo. You do know what happened tae her, don’t you?’

‘I dinnae give a fuck what happened tae her.’

‘Nobody wants tae be a recluse, Anais, we all need friends.’

‘Fuck off, Angus.’

‘That’s not polite, and I can tell you are a polite girl really.’

I stare at him.

‘It’s sad tae eat on your own,’ he says.

‘It’s sad tae get done for an attempted murder you didnae commit.’

‘You didnae put PC Craig in the coma?’ he asks.

It’s funny how many things you never get asked. Things that are totally obvious. He closes the door quietly. I dinnae want to go out there, I dinnae want to sit, with people, in rooms. I just don’t. Why is that such a fucking problem?

My nails look nice today – red, no chips, not like when I flake them away for hours in the cells. I do that, then I organise all the wee red bits of varnish intae upside-down smiles and leave them on concrete benches. Maybe the next person in the cells walks in and sits down and sees them. Maybe they don’t.

‘Okay, Anais, here you go, service with a smile. If you want more cheese, just shout. I put butter on your tattie and I poured you a fresh orange juice. Is that alright?’

Angus slides a tray in front of me, then touches my shoulder just lightly, like he didnae, but he did. He closes the door behind himself again, really quiet and careful like. I look down at the tray and I feel like crying.

7

TWO DRAGONFLIES FLUTTER
by, then come to rest on the window frame – their wings are metallic blue in the sunlight. I adore dragonflies. I adore the sea, the moon, the stars, vintage Dior and old movies in black and white. I adore girls with tits and hips and class, and old men in suits who have that dignified look about them. Sometimes you see a decrepit old man, and his hop-along mangy dog, and you can tell the dog is hanging on for the old man, it won’t die before he does. The two of them creak back from the shops together every day.

I adore guys who talk in a way that makes you wonder about their smooth cocks, or that narrow perfect ridge along their hips. I’d like to paint guys like that, in a studio in Paris, somewhere above a bakery where I’d wake up every morning to the smell of fresh croissants.

Teresa ate cakes from the French pattiserie when she was depressed. She’d sit in her bed, in a kimono, drinking gin and reading. Sometimes I think she’s still here, but she’s not. Pat has the ashes, and me and Teresa never did make it tae Paris. We had the passports ready and everything. She’s so dead, it’s more than a full stop.

If I lived in Paris, I’d sit in cafés by the river smoking
coloured cigarettes and I’d never speak. Or, only rarely – I’d be mysterious.

‘You fucking silly cunt!’

Step out my room and look downstairs over the landing. It’s Shortie. She’s giving this lassie it tight, but really it’s me she wants, she’s chuffed that I’ve come out to look. She’s making out like she’s hard, but right now she’s just being a fucking bully. She glances up and I go back in my room quick as. I’ve been here over a week now – to be honest, I’m surprised it’s taken this long.

Earrings out. Hair scraped back. Boots on. Laces tied.

‘D’ye want a smack in the pus?’

There’s a thud from downstairs, then the girl, pleading.

‘I didnae,’ she says.

‘You didnae what?’ Shortie hollers in the lassie’s face.

I take the stairs two by two, clocking who’s around, hardly anyone; Isla, Tash, they’re watching me descend.

‘I dinnae know,’ the lassie whimpers.

‘You dinnae know what you didnae?’

‘No!’

Shortie smacks her.

‘Leave her alone, she’s fucking leaving the day,’ I say.

‘What the fuck’s it got tae do with you?’ Shortie snaps.

‘Ssssh.’ Tash jerks her head towards the office where the staff are. She’s sitting on the back of the sofa thing. Isla’s lying back on her.

I step between Shortie and the lassie. The lassie doesnae need tae be told; she edges out the front door to wait outside, where it’s safer.

‘If you want a fight, Shortie, all you have tae say is pretty please.’ I shove past her.

‘Aye?’

‘Aye. I dare you. I double-fucking-dare you.’

She’s getting edgy now. Flexing her fingers. Psyching herself up, summoning up the worst memory she’s got in her head, so she can try to batter me. Up on the second floor Brian squats down and grins.

‘Stop being a tit, Shortie,’ Isla says.

Isla tries to stand up, but Tash puts a hand on her shoulder.

Shortie’s heavier than me, and taller, but not much. She’s game. Game is good, it’ll get you a lot further than hard will. I can feel her behind and I turn, slow as. Here it comes. Right. Fucking. Now. She’s pulling her head back tae head-butt me and I swerve – just out of her way, up two steps, and boot her right in the pus.

Spit flays through the air.

‘D’ye think that hurt?’ she gobs as she pushes herself back up.

Grab her by the back of the head, smash my skull off her skull.
Crack
. She makes a glutty pit-pit noise in her throat.

Tash is standing up now, but she doesnae step in. I can taste blood. Shortie’s pupils are black, and I see it, just for a second – her behind a rose bush with her Granda standing over her. She punches me right in the face, so I grab her hair and smack her face off the stairs, once, twice. John walks in the front door.

‘For fuck’s sake, you could try to separate them, Tash!’

‘Are you gonnae step in between those two, like?’ she says.

‘Fuck off, John, fuck off. I mean it, I’m fucking fine,’ Shortie says, holding her nose.

The office door opens. Brian snickers up on the landing
above, his hands splayed on the Perspex. Me and Shortie untangle and limp towards the stairs.

John stoats across the room and up into the staff’s faces. Isla sprints up behind him and makes sure they’re distracted – so they cannae see what’s happened.

I’m up the stairs first, Shortie’s behind me; when we get tae our landing I push her towards the boys’ toilet and she slaps my hand away, slams the door.

‘Noh, I want tae see my social worker now, ya fucking radge!’

John harasses Mullet, keeping him in the office.

Step into the Ladies, turn on the cold tap. There’s blood. Stop shaking. Stop it. Dinnae look in the mirror. I hate fighting, it makes me feel sick – if I never had tae fucking fight again, ever, that would be such a relief.

Clumps of hair are stuck to my fingers. Flick them away so they swirl around the sink and settle at the top of the plughole.

Red knuckles. They fucking hurt, and there’s a bruise in the middle of my forehead. I yank off a wadge of bog-roll, and run it under the cold tap so I can dab my face.

The bath’s empty. Dinnae think about it. Not about
that
.

My breath sounds loud, and wee flashes of Shortie behind a rose bush just make me feel – sad. Nobody should go through that. No-one. Shortie’s alright really; she just wants tae be hard, but she isnae, but it’ll not stop her. She’s a social climber.

‘Are you okay?’ Isla opens the door.

‘Aye. Are the staff away?’

‘Aye.’

‘Ta, Isla.’

She pulls fags out her pocket. ‘D’ye want one?’

‘Aye.’

‘C’mon.’

I follow her down the stairs and through the open-plan area.

‘Where is everyone?’ I ask.

‘They’ve all just been dragged away in the minibus. You should think yourself lucky you’ve missed it. These weekend trips tae the park that Joan’s trying tae get us on are truly pish.’

‘The social-work minibus!’ I say.

‘Everyone stares!’ we both say.

‘They want us tae go boating soon,’ Isla says.

‘Fuck that! They sent me on a therapeutic canoeing trip once and I got charged for breach of the peace, and assault.’

‘Anais, that’s too funny. Tell!’

‘The guy was wearing an orange wetsuit and a What Would Jesus Do wristband.’

‘The God Squad – sinister.’

‘Exactly. He went mental cos I was having a fag in my canoe.’

‘How – does God hate smokers?’ she asks.

‘Aye, cannae fucking stand them!’

Isla checks the staff urnay around, then she opens the fire exit and runs up the turret ahead of me. Fuck – I thought it was just me that knew it was here.

On the fourth-floor landing she opens the wee window and climbs straight out. It’s windy as anything today. I climb out behind her and try not to look down.

‘So what happened then, did you stop smoking?’ she asks.

‘No. I double-dragged it down tae the wood and flicked
it in the water, and he’s all, like, the fishes, the fishes, cos my dog-end’s floating on the water, and I’m, like – fuck the fishes! Fuck the fucking fishes!’

‘What did he do?’

‘He spits!’

‘What? At you?’

‘Right in my face. Fucking cunt!’

‘What? Fucking hell, what did you do?’

Isla grinds out her fag and pulls another two out for us.

‘I hooked him.’

Isla is giggling so hard she slides forward. I grab her back without thinking. I dinnae like the height up here, but the view is all fields and clouds and autumn colours on the leaves, reds and oranges, golds and russets.

‘So, what happened then?’

‘I thought he was gonnae punch me out.’

‘What a prick!’

‘Exactly, he pulled back his hand like he was gonnae, so I pulled the paddle back – knocked the cunt out.’

Isla’s laughing now, tears are flowing down her face. I cannae help but laugh as well.

‘He was flat out across his canoe and I’m like, fuck – I’ve killed Gaarwine.’ The two of us roar with laughter. It’s so funny it’s not even funny any more.

‘Why were they sending you on a healing canoe trip anyway?’

‘I found my adopted ma,’ I say.

‘What, dead like?’

‘Aye. In the bath.’

‘Suicide?’ Isla asks.

‘Noh. She got stabbed.’

I dinnae know why I said that. I feel stupid now. I normally dinnae say that.

Bring me some gear in, and wank my cock while you’re here. Dinnae be square, kitty cool. We’ll get high as fuck again soon as I’m out, just you and me, and nothing else
.

‘Boyfriend?’ Isla asks as I switch my phone off.

‘Not really. He’s inside, keeps hassling me to take him stuff in. He’s in debt though, ay, and I think he’s getting shit inside, but I cannae tell.’

‘Really?’

‘Aye.’

I like Isla. I really like her. She’s one of those people with manners; she doesnae ask me anything else, and she knows I’m not – you know – a total arse that just fights with people.

‘Shortie didnae really mean it,’ she says.

‘Did the staff see anything?’

‘Noh, John kept them occupied. He fancies Shortie like fuck.’

‘Aye?’

‘Aye. He doesnae admit it, but he does.’

‘Does she like him?’

‘I dinnae ken. Shortie’s the only virgin I ever met in a home!’ Isla giggles.

‘Is she?’

‘Aye. She’s frigid. She says she doesnae like guys, but she does. She’s not like me. I wouldnae shag a guy if you put a gun tae my head. I mean I’ve shagged a guy, for a while, but I didnae rate it.’

‘Are you and Tash together?’

‘Aye.’

‘She seems nice.’

‘She’s amazing. She takes a while tae get tae know people, though.’

‘How come she wears the moustache? Like it’s cool, it reminds me of an artist,’ I say.

‘She likes lassies with a wee bit hair, but she’s not really got any – a bit on her legs, aye, but she’s got tae shave them for work. The moustache she can put on and take off when she wants. Mine’s too blonde.’ Isla touches her upper lip. ‘She’d like it darker.’

‘Have you got a kid, Isla?’

‘Aye. Twins, they’re with foster-parents. They dinnae let me see them much, ay. Tash’s saving up money for us tae leave care and take them.’

‘Aye?’

‘Aye. She’s saved quite a few hundred already. I really want them back. Their foster-mum’s nice, but I miss them and she cannae understand it, no like I do.’

‘Understand what?’

Isla flicks her fag away.

‘We’ve – we’re all living with the same condition, ay. Like you can live a long time with it now, like a lifetime.’

She looks out over the fields. It’s so quiet up here – we listen tae the birds, and she looks unbearably sad. I’ve seen her getting her meds, ay, the same one’s Teresa’s pal used to take.

‘What age are they?’

‘Two,’ she says.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.

‘Modern science,’ I say.

I cannae speak now, I’m an arse-piece, I know nothing
about nothing and I should probably be strapped to that turret over there and shot.

‘You get an owl out here at night.’ She grins, changing the subject.

‘No way. I heard something hooting the other night but I’ve never actually seen an owl.’

‘Me neither, until I moved here. She’s beautiful, really wee, we called her Britney; listen out at night and you’ll hear her. Did the social workers ask you if you wanted tae live away out here in the sticks?’

‘No!’

It’s amazing what the social work dinnae ask. They dinnae ask about the terrible baldness of the moon, they dinnae ask about rooms without windows or doors – and they sure as shit dinnae ask about flying cats. I bet they didnae ask Isla what her dreams are as a mum. They didnae ask me about blood in an empty bath, and they didnae ask about what Teresa was gonnae do when she got out that bath – she was gonnae curl up with me and watch a movie. We were gonnae make microwave popcorn.