The Panopticon (26 page)

I light a match and it goes out. Light another one and it goes out as well. Curve my hand around the third and it catches.

‘Then, today, they just stopped.’

Tash is still not home and it’s been four days. I saw her photograph on a poster at the train station tonight. Click, click, click. Car engine. Door. Locks. Trying the handle, fan heater on hot, a porno on the floor, the man’s hand reaches out. Tash turning to try and get a blade out of her pocket and stab him.

‘Yup, they’ve gone now. The clocks have stopped ticking, Anais.’ Isla strains to hear something.

‘Tash’ll come back, Isla.’

‘Dead people dinnae come back.’

That’s true, dead people don’t come back, not even for a second, not for one word or one whisper or one tiny bit of human touch. They go and it’s cold, and it stays cold and you cannae ever change it.

‘The clocks have fucking stopped, Anais.’

My heart stops, then it thuds back in.

‘They put a poster up, in the train station, it’s got her name and photo on it. She’ll see it, Isla, she’s just – getting wasted. She wouldnae leave you.’

‘I know she wouldnae, you know she wouldnae, we all fucking know she wouldnae, so where is she?’

I dinnae know why I’m lying, and trying to say Tash’ll be alright and she’ll be back soon. This night is too big and too strange and too dark, and it unfolds out around us, all the way out there – dark streets and dark fields and dark car parks. I cannae take this.

‘When my babies were born, Anais, they came quick, just like that. No big fuss. No drama. My mum had them in my arms before she even cut the umbilical cord. I put them right on the breast. Fed them myself. That’s how they fucking got it.’

‘It’s not your fault, you didn’t know. You have tae think of them, Isla. They need you.’

‘The first thing I said tae my babies was,
I love you
.’

The trees rustle. It’s so cold out that it stings your skin. Winter’s come to claim the world again, the sky is clear and the stars are bright.

Isla disappears in her window. Look down at the lawn. Imagine all those grandfather clocks there? Tick-tick-tick; cuckoos and big old white ones and skinny brown ones and tiny ones. Grandmother clocks, and shiny brass bits and cogs to make the pendulum swing. I can almost see them, but I cannae hear them. Isla pops her head out again and she is holding a half-empty bottle of vodka.

‘D’ye want a drink?’ she asks.

‘No, I just want tae smoke myself fucking senseless. Ta, though. I could come through tae your room?’ I say.

‘Night-nurse won’t let you, the doors are locked.’

‘Aye. She’d only go on about my fucking dilated pupils!’

We giggle. It’s so good to hear her laugh. She downs almost the rest of the bottle. I light another joint. I dinnae know where the fuck Shortie’s got to. Maybe she’s tried to sneak downstairs to see John. We all know she doesnae want him to leave.

‘There’s soul-stealers out there, Anais. My old man’s like that, even before the Aids, he’d sell my mum. He once sold her tae the guy upstairs. He would have sold me; that’s why she wanted me in care, it’s safer.’

Her hands are shaking.

‘I’m gonnae get the night-nurse tae come and see you, Isla.’

‘Dinnae. I’m just gonnae crash. Tomorrow I’m gonnae ring up, ask for a visit to see the twins.’

‘Are you sure?’

Shortie pops her head out her window – with a humongous spliff clamped in her gob.

‘Ladies!’

She brandishes the beast, sparks her flame-thrower. We laugh at her. She grins and double-drags it. Isla downs the dregs of her vodka and lobs the bottle across the lawn – it thuds on the grass.

‘Tae absent friends, may they soon return,’ she says.

‘Absent friends,’ we echo.

‘Pass the joint then, Shortie.’

She swings it along to me.

‘What did the old guy say at the hospital?’ Isla asks me.

‘Nothing much.’

‘He must have said something.’

‘He said I was the daughter of a cigarillo-smoking Outcast Queen, one of only three cigarillo-smoking Outcast Queens. He said she flew intae the nuthouse on a flying cat.’

They’re both silent for a full minute.

‘Sounds about right,’ Shortie says.

We smoke and listen as fields rustle in the quiet. A crescent moon sits all lopsided above the forest, leering at us in the sky.

26

THE DARK IS
too dark.

Sleep won’t happen.

Clocks won’t tick, no matter how much I wish they would. The night is sinister. For some reason I’m remembering ski-slope Julie who cried in primary One, cos I told her the social worker brought me, not the fucking stork.

Ski-slope never swore; I did, I was five but I swore. I bit. I kicked. I didnae sleep, hardly ever. She called me a liar and I smashed her apple off the playground, then I ate her strawberry rubber – while she stood crying her eyes out. She told everyone I was evil and they believed her.

She had a gym outfit and could do a cartwheel. I was three weeks late for school; I was always arriving from somewhere. I had a wee suitcase, and my teddy. It’s manky, that teddy; it’s no wonder, though, I always kick him under my bed wherever I live. I wouldnae speak at first, whenever I went anywhere new to live. I just watched. Waited to work out who the people were that I’d moved in with, and then if I thought I could relax, I’d start gabbing away and
probably never shut up. Teresa said when I did start speaking she cried in the bathroom for half an hour.

There are long low hoots from outside. It’s one of those nights, where all you can do is watch the shadows on the wall – until it gets light.

Extra-big bowl of cornflakes. Icy-cold milk. Perfect. The chef’s voice grows louder and louder from the kitchen.

‘It was a big bar!’

‘Maybe someone ate it?’ Joan asks.

I can see him through the hatch. He’s looking at Joan’s big belly and wondering.

‘Noh, it was a great big fuck-off bar,’ he says.

‘Please try not tae swear in front of the clients!’

‘They only speak in swear-words, Joan! Those wee pricks are fucking feral.’

‘Aye, well – they dinnae get paid tae be here; we do.’

Go, Joan!

‘That chocolate bar was big enough for twenty sponge-cakes, Joan. I only got it in the last delivery.’

She sticks her head out the hatch into the dining area. I keep eating my cornflakes. They’re covered in sugar and drenched in milk. Shortie’s over by the telly with her feet up, watching cartoons.

‘Have you seen a bar of chocolate?’ Joan asks me.

‘A big huge bar?’

The chef interrupts her, sticking his head out to take a look at me.

‘A big huge bar of chocolate, Anais?’

‘Nope.’

Push my bowl through the hatch.

‘Any toast?’ I ask the chef.

He shakes his head. ‘You’re the girl who wants vegetarian meals?’

‘And?’

‘They’ve not authorised them. What are you living on in the meantime?’

‘Good looks and fresh fucking air, pal!’

He looks like he wants to machete me, in the face.

‘There’s no need for that attitude,’ Joan calls after me.

There is a need for that attitude – I tried being nice to the chef, but he cannae stand us, so fuck him.

‘Where’s John?’ I ask Shortie.

‘He’s at the shops.’

‘Where’s Isla?’

‘She’s in her room.’

‘Where’s Dylan?’

‘He had a visit arranged with his uncle. Watch this, Anais, this is great!’

Shortie bursts out laughing at the TV again. I scuff upstairs.

Morning, beautiful. Can you come on Friday? Please, please, please? I just want tae hang out like old times. I’ve got gear for you as well
.

Jay has sent me, like, ten texts making sure I will be there on Friday. I forgot to ask him about what Pat said about his debts, but he’ll no doubt tell me when I see him. He hasn’t been as nice as this to me since I was like twelve, and it’s soothing to have something,
anything
, nice right now.

Okay x
.

My hands stink of vanilla, I like it. I pop my head around
Brian’s door and he pushes his glasses up his nose and rubs his hands on his shorts.

‘Do you have any money?’

‘No.’

‘Dinnae fucking lie tae me, you wee prick.’

‘I dinnae, Anais. I dinnae get any until my clothing allowance comes in.’

‘Aye, well, stay away from the Lane, Brian. If I find out you went in one old person’s cottage and ripped them off, or worse … I’ll chop your fucking dick off.’

My room’s a shit-pit; it reeks of vanilla, so I open my window. The staff do room-checks tomorrow so I need to make sure I double-hide the money, and the speed-wraps from Pat, and the other gear. I’ll deal with the gigantic brick of chocolate later.

Isla’s vodka bottle is still lying on the lawn. I need to go and see if I can catch Mike this time. I want this tag off; I could do it before I go and see Jay. I wonder if Jay’s changed much? Eighteen months, it’s a long time to spend inside. Brush my hair and pick out what I’ll wear to go and see him. Isla might chum me up town later. We need to take our mind off Tash, at least until there is news.

‘Isla, d’ye want tae go up town?’

Swing my leg around her door and twirl burlesque-style into her room.

The floor hits me.

Her left hand is open, and someone is screaming.

‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!’

I am on my knees, but I’m still falling. Her hand is out, like she is waiting for Tash to come, but she’s not here and
I am up, lifting her under her arms, cradling her, pushing her hair back, trying to clean her face.

Footsteps pound up the stairs.

‘Fuck!’ Joan drops tae her knees, her face white, and she tries tae take Isla off me, but she can’t. Click, click, click.

‘It’s okay, Anais, it’s okay, just let me check her over.’

Adrenaline floods my veins and the faces are there on the walls, but I don’t care. I don’t care about faces, or the experiment or that watchtower staring down. I’m roaring now, really fucking open-mouthed gut sobs, and Joan is feeling for Isla’s pulse – placing her down on the floor. I’m doubled over and I cannae breathe. Her eyes are open.

Angus is at the door, on the phone, in clipped tones, calling for an ambulance. I lean over, tuck Isla’s hair behind her ear.

27

EXPERIMENT
– 2.
US
– 0.

‘Time of death – 8.27 a.m.’

The ambulance man says it quietly upstairs, but we can all fucking hear it. None of us are allowed up there. Dylan’s just back. Steven’s in. Brian’s in. John’s in. Shortie’s shaking like fuck.

The ambulance man takes a big plastic bag intae Isla’s room and I am still crying, but I dinnae care. I feel like someone keeps battering me. Every bit of my body aches.

There are cups of tea on the dining tables – and packets of chocolate biscuits.

‘Have another cup of tea, Anais,’ Angus says.

‘No.’

‘You’re in shock. You need sugar.’

‘I want tae see Isla,’ Shortie says.

‘No, you cannae go up, Shortie. I’m really, really sorry, but we need tae let these men do their job. Okay?’ he says.

Shortie won’t let go of my hand. The two ambulance men come out with a long black bag but no stretcher.

‘Where’s the stretcher?’ I ask.

‘They dinnae need one,’ Joan says quietly.

‘Put her on a fucking stretcher!’

My hands are shaking like fuck, adrenaline is making me buzz and there’s flashes of faces on the walls. The ambulance men stop and look down over the balcony. The glint’s in the room, it’s dense as fuck. The staff can feel it, and we can feel it, and the fucking ambulance men can feel it – we are ready to take them all out. Every last one.

‘It’s okay.’ One of the ambulance men stops and speaks over his radio to someone outside. ‘Can you bring in a stretcher, please, Jim?’

Joan opens the front door.

‘Anais, do you want tae sit down in the office?’ Angus asks me.

I shake my head.

‘Thanks, Jim, bring it up here,’ the ambulance man says.

The stretcher is laid out on our landing. The ambulance men lift Isla carefully onto it. She’s straight now, her back is straight, and she’s not being taken out like the rubbish. I want to wrap her in something soft, take her a pillow and a teddy.

Angus stops shoving a mug of tea at me and puts it on the table, and the ambulance men walk the stretcher along the landing and downstairs. Shortie is crying so hard her face is red. Brian’s in the telly area staring at a blank screen. His programme is normally on just now. He has a wee pile of biscuits by his side. Joan opens the front door for the ambulance men and follows them out.

My skin is hot.

It is teatime, and I am in the train station. I just scored some grass and I am walking past a missing-persons poster, and a face is looking out from a photograph and the name
reads Natasha MacRae, fifteen years old, and all the commuters are just walking by.

Click, click, click.

People dinnae want to look. They dinnae want tae see. Nobody will ask.

‘Where did Tash go?’

‘She just went.’

‘Went where?’

‘She just went, Your Honour, got in a car.’

‘Who was driving?’

It could have been anyone. It could have been some sick cunt with a space in his sex circle. It could have been the devil, or the experiment. Probably it was just an average psychopath, Your Honour.

Disappearing. It happens when you blink. It happens as you write down the registration number for a car pulling away. It happens when you ask for the payment and the guy reaches into his coat, and you just know in your bones he’s not going to pull out money. It is happening right now as the ambulance men secure the stretcher with straps, so they can lift it onto the ambulance.

I have to go.

The roof has been discovered. Angus knows we come up here, but Joan doesnae yet. We need this roof, it’s the only place the watchtower cannae see us. I keep imagining Isla and Tash, petals in their hair – kissing on the island. Laughing. Till death do us part. Then her hand, just open like that. And somehow now all I can see is Teresa, an empty bath, her kimono on the floor, and I really need tae drink until I cannae see anything any more.