The Panopticon (23 page)

Anais is booked for a day out with her social worker tomorrow. She is being taken on a trip to where she was born, to try to help her gain a stronger sense of her own identity. She will then attend an end of ‘Client Care’ review, as her social worker is leaving. No more situations have arisen within the unit as of 5.07 before changeover today
.

Angus Everlen

Put the report back down. I’m feeling edgy. I was sitting in bed last night, feeling creepy – the building was too creaky, and I could hear someone crying and I couldn’t work out who it was. The watchtower window had a wee light glowing in it, and the night-nurse came out. She stood there on the top landing looking at all the doors, then she turned around and said something. Like to someone inside the tower.

‘See last night, Angus, was it just the night-nurse on duty?’

‘Aye, and Brenda, but she was asleep in the staff flat downstairs.’

‘So she was in the watchtower on her own?’

‘Aye, who else would be there, Anais?’

The experiment, Angus. That is who would be there. They’re closing in. I can feel them all the time. The police have been quiet, but they’re biding their time, and PC Craig, in that coma, she knows all about them. They are standing around her bed. Five of them. No noses, matching hats, matching trousers, whispering – let go! They’re coming for me next.

22

IT IS SO
weird to step into our lift, to press up, to whizz past our floor, our flat, our stair. I could stop the lift now and go and look at our front door, but then I’d hear other people in there and that wouldn’t be right.

What is in our old flat is this: me and Teresa, sitting on the sofa, eating popcorn and watching a DVD. There is no policeman in the hallway, no Pat grabbing me up and carrying me out the door like a wee wizened blank-eyed monkey.

The lift keeps going up. Past the safe-house. Straight to Pat’s. I haven’t been back to see her – in how long? Years. Look straight up above me and the hatch is still in the roof. I have climbed out that hatch a hundred times, crouched down on the roof and waited in the dark until someone got in and pressed up. Then I’d surf up, arms out, metal wires whizzing by, and when the other lift came up – I’d leap right out.

There’s nothing like it. Jumping out into empty space, that wee gap between the lifts where you could fall and die. The buzz is fucking epic. My old neighbour fell one time, but his jeans caught on a metal hook and saved him. He dangled there for ages, with one ear half-ripped off and
everyone shouting up the shaft, until the ambulance got here. After, everyone said he should become the face of the jeans company, cos their jeans saved his life.

Ninth floor. Tenth floor. Up. I’m wearing a vintage Dylan T-shirt I bought with my clothes allowance. Wee Dylan asked me who the guy with his name was, cos he hadnae heard of him before. He told me he was named after the rabbit in
The Magic Roundabout
, and he’s never listened to music much, let alone old stuff.

Fix my hair, and hum that Dylan song – the one about being on your own. It was Teresa’s favourite track. The lift pings open, nineteenth floor. Step out and knock. My nails are really clean. The flat-next-door’s telly blares – some old western movie, gunshot rings out down the hall, then hooves pound.

‘Oh my God!’ Pat shouts at her door.

‘Hiya, Aunty Pat.’

‘Oh, come in, look at you? Come in, come in. Oh, Anais, aren’t you growing up drop-fucking-dead gorgeous! Look at you! Excuse the shit-pit, darling.’

Follow her in, and gangster rap is booming down from the flat above.

‘Fucking prick!’ she shouts up.

She bangs on her ceiling with a broom, but the music doesnae go down. I think he turns it up. She shoves a pile of wigs off the sofa. Pauline, who used to be Paul, is unconscious on the armchair.

‘He’s been on a binge, I doubt he’ll wake up again today. The bastard keeps nicking my good wigs, and he goes mental if I don’t call him her! You should see it when he goes mental – fucking hormones! Honestly, you’ve never seen the like.
And I don’t actually mean it, I’ve always called Paul, Paul – you know, Anais, I’m not doing it to be contrary! He still looks like Paul to me. They’re pert wee tits, though, look.’ She lifts up his top. Pauline has perfect silicones.

I giggle. It’s good to see Pat, I cannae believe I’ve been away for so long.

‘So, is anyone giving you hassle?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘Are you in trouble with the police?’

‘Not really.’

‘Liar, what’s that?’ She lifts up my jeans and has a gander at my tag.

Avoid her gaze and check out her paintings instead. She’s got even more than when I was here last time. They’re all over her flat; some are even painted straight onto the wall. There’s a stunning black lassie, naked, smiling at something. There’s a painting of a parrot on Pauline’s shoulder, and another one of her in a red glittery dress. Then there’s the penises. All kinds of shapes. Every kind there is. Some have faces on them, or top hats. Lots of them are smoking cigarettes. Each is deformed. They are all preposterous.

‘Fat Mike could get that tag off for you,’ she says.

‘That’s what I was hoping. Is he still around?’

‘Aye, Mike’ll outlive us all!’

We laugh. Fat Mike’s a genius of the underworld, but he looks dumb as. He’s clever that way – it’s how he’s got away with it all so long.

‘He’s cutting hair now as well,’ Pat says.

‘What?’

‘Aye, he was up last night for a doubler: me and Pauline. And he told us – he’s decided to find his inner hairdresser.’

Pauline turns over and stops snoring.

‘Can you picture it, Anais? Mike cutting your hair with a pie in one hand and a tinny in the other.’

She’s pushing my hair back, checking out my clothes and my skin.

‘Teresa would be so proud, Anais. You’re not on the game yet, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Good, that’s not for you, either. You’re built for better, mark my words. This shitty wee life’ll not hold you back. I’d place money on it. You could be a model – or a madam. In fact, if you wanted to train in one of the best dungeons in London, I know a lovely one in Shoreditch.’

She rummages in her bag and hands a card to me; it’s plain black with just a telephone number.

‘They do dominatrix stuff, high-class and kink only. D’ye know how much they make in London for the good stuff?’

‘No.’

‘You could clean up and buy a place outright by the time you were in your twenties. It’s a classy establishment. If you ever consider going on the game, Anais – you go there and you tell them I sent you.’

‘Nah, Pat. Anyway, Jay is getting out – in a few weeks. We might give it a go, ay.’

‘Jay? He’s not coming back here, Anais – I’d be surprised anyway. He’s in debt, and I mean a lot of fucking debt. You remember Mark, don’t you?’

‘Aye.’

‘He owes the troll a bomb, that’s what I heard.’

Pat rifles through Pauline’s cardigan and takes out a wadge of notes.

‘Here, you keep that. I’m being serious, take it – you might need it. I feel like you’re going to need it, and take these wraps. They’re quality speed, so don’t take it all yourself. You’re skinny anyway, but you could sell it for some cash. And this is premium-quality acid; be careful with this shit, it’s very strong! These are some happy pills, they’re downers – here, take them, Anais, you can keep them in this.’

She hands me a wee Tupperware tub.

‘Thanks, Aunty Pat. I might need tae sell them, though.

They want tae put me in a secure unit.’

‘They do, do they?’

‘Aye. They think I’m bad.’

‘That’s what the experiment want them to think.’

I go cold.

She’s moving around, picking things up and putting them down, and I don’t know if she knows what she’s said. Pauline looks weird, sleeping through all this. I can feel the experiment in the room, just like that. Watching through the half-opened slits of Pauline’s eyes.

‘You’re the brainybox, Anais, you could get out. Look at me.’ She gestures at her paintings. ‘Will you see this in art galleries? No, you won’t, cos they don’t want fucking art – they want ideas. Would you like one of my paintings?’

She looks hopeful.

‘Aye – when I get my first flat, though. I wouldnae keep it in a home.’

‘You take one whenever you want.’

She pours half a glass of vodka and hands it to me.

‘Straight,’ she orders.

I drink it down. She refills the same glass and does the
same. It’s a tradition; her and Teresa used to do it nearly every night. She first poured me half a tumbler of vodka when I was nine, and I drank it straight then as well – I thought my throat was on fire.

‘You know what they don’t tell you in this life, Anais, it’s this, those …’ She points at a wall of penis paintings. ‘The phallus, the prick, the cock, whatever you want to call it, it’s not the most powerful thing in the world.’

‘No?’

‘No. Like –
they
think it is,
they
build skyscrapers and mosques and big weapons in the shape of penises, to make you think that it is.’

‘Why?’

‘Gender wars. Absolute domination, over what they fear. What men fear is a cunt, so they try and make the cock scarier. It’s why they cut off girls’ clitoris, and use rape as a war tactic. It’s why the sentencing for rape is so offensively pathetic.’

She pours another two straight drinks.

‘Men are scary, sometimes, Pat.’

‘Aye, but it’s all up here.’ She taps her head. ‘They want us to think rape’s the worst thing that can happen.’

‘It’s not?’

‘Look – I’ve been raped six ways from Sunday, and it wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was not as bad as losing my firstborn, it was not as bad as watching my mother die from cancer. I mean it was bad. I am not saying it wasn’t bad; it was horrific, it made me stab one guy and I won’t even tell you what I did to another. The point is: society’s conditioned us, men
and
women, to live in fear.’

Pat must be off her meds, but I dinnae want to ask in case she brings out the bazooka. Last time she stopped taking her lithium she bought a bazooka from Fat Mike’s cousin. She keeps it stashed in the airing cupboard, or she used to. The police had to stop her shooting rockets at passing planes last time she went manic; she thought we were in wartime, ay.

‘Teresa always knew they’d come for you,’ she says, draining her drink.

‘Who?’

‘The experiment.’

Heart thumping – cannae breathe. Pauline’s snoring and I want to get out of here, I want to get out of my face and wake up a different person.

‘Penises,’ she says. ‘Wrinkled wee piss-holes – so fucking what!’

‘I better head off, Pat.’

She points at her paintings.

‘When men, and women, understand that they are not the scariest things in the world, for
either
sex – it’s this!’ She taps her head. ‘That’s when the world’s real revolution will begin. I’m fucking telling you. It’s your
own
mind that kills you. The most dangerous weapon in the world is a brain. You need to learn to master yours, Anais. It’s like a wild fucking horse in there, I can tell.’

Pauline farts. It’s a sudden, loud burst of sound. Pat is rocking. I wonder if I could find her lithium and put it in her vodka.

‘Do you still see Professor True?’

‘Gave him the grater last Tuesday. He likes it rough, that man does. He misses your mum though, even now. I can
get him off, but she really meant something to him. He misses that. She had the touch, did our Teresa.’

There’s a pipe on the table and from here I can see that the dungeon room has been repainted black and there’s a large cat-o’-nine-tails on the wall.

I bet the experiment tune into Pat’s flat every fucking night.

23

THERE’S A GAP
at the back of my drawer, where I can drop the socks down and my hands are wee enough to get them back up. I stuff them down the gap, pull the drawer right out and look. You cannae see anything. I’ve put all the cash Pat gave me in one sock. It is two hundred and forty quid. The wraps and all the gear are stashed in there too.

Tash is on the landing. She’s wearing a skirt and make-up, and her hair is down and curly. She’s got more colour in her skin because she’s been on the sunbeds, and she’s wearing big hoop earrings.

I go out onto the landing.

‘Have you ever heard of Frida Kahlo?’ I ask her.

‘Nope – is she in care, like?’

‘No, she used tae be a painter.’

‘I’ve no heard of her. How?’

‘You look like her.’

‘Good-looking, was she?’

‘Aye.’

‘Anais – Helen cannae make it today. It’s first thing tomorrow now, okay?’ Angus calls up to me.

‘Okay,’ I say.

I feel deflated now. Helen’s such a waste of space. I’ve seen her four times since she’s been back, but she is still doing less than fuck-all to help me prove I didnae kosh PC Craig. She thinks I did. That’s the fucking thing.

Isla and Tash walk away down the stairs.

‘Where are youz going?’ I trail behind them.

‘Up town.’

‘You could stay in and watch telly with me?’

I sound like a fanny.

‘It’s Friday night!’ Tash says.

I watch them walking away. Isla’s not happy. John reckons she almost cut an artery yesterday.

‘Are you alright, Isla?’ I call after her.

‘I suppose.’

They walk through the lounge and out the front. Fuck this – I run out and catch them on the drive.

‘Anais, your feet are bare!’ Tash laughs at me.

‘I can give you some cash.’

‘I dinnae want your cash, I’ll make my own,’ she says.

‘You dinnae want tae go,’ I say, and for some reason I’m almost crying. I dinnae know what the fuck is wrong with me. Even as I’m saying it, I feel like an arse. Tash is just looking at me.

‘We could play Monopoly?’

‘Anais, calm fucking down – the staff are looking.’

Tash tucks my hair behind my ear and I give her a kiss on the cheek.

‘Sorry. I’m just … I dunno. Are you taking down the registrations?’ I ask Isla.