The Panopticon (31 page)

‘John cannae wait tae move intae his supported accommodation place in town,’ Shortie says.

‘Aye?’

‘Aye. It’s dead good. It’s like a bedsit, but it’s his own.’

‘Sound.’

‘He’s gonnae make me a meal,’ she says.

‘Is he now?’

‘Aye.’

My heart flip-flops, and I think about the last time we kissed, but she doesn’t look at me; she’s looking out the window.

‘Good. So. We’re agreed then?’ I ask her.

‘Exactly how we said,’ she says.

John comes swaggering downstairs.

‘It’s never too early tae start,’ Shortie whispers.

‘What have you done?’

‘Angus!’ the night-nurse hollers from somewhere.

‘You know how Brian grassed you – for battering that cunt in the village, ay?’ John says to me as he kisses Shortie on the cheek. She takes his hand.

‘Aye,’ I say.

‘Well, we thought that was naughty of him.’

The night-nurse emerges out the front and Angus follows her out there. We go out and look up. Brian is hanging upside down from the bars of the top turret window.

‘What are you doing, Brian?’

‘He’s just hanging about,’ Shortie says.

‘How did you get up there?’ Angus calls.

‘We have to get him down! I’ve called the fire service,’ she says.

‘Noh, you dinnae, just fucking leave him,’ John says.

‘Joan has the only keys for that floor. I dunno how he got in there,’ Angus says.

‘Can you get Joan in, with her keys, then?’

‘She’s away on a training course!’

‘We called for help. Just hang on, Brian!’

‘What the fuck else is he gonnae do?’ John snorts.

‘You know what this reminds me of?’ I grin at Shortie and John.

‘What?’

‘A few years ago I used tae nick the Christmas lights off the tree outside the church. They were all different colours and we’d put them in the rooms in the home. We were lit up like a fucking fairground in there that Christmas.’

A fire engine rolls down the drive. Firefighters put ladders up the front of the building, and two unfold a net at the
bottom. The other firemen go to see if they can try to drag Brian up into the building – they appear upstairs.

‘Just chop his thing off while you’re there – do the world a favour!’ Shortie shouts.

‘That’s enough,’ Angus says.

‘We’re gonnae have tae cut through, or it’ll be the blowtorch!’ the firefighter says.

‘Ooh, get the blowtorch,’ Shortie shouts.

‘Blowtorch, blowtorch, blowtorch!’

‘Inside, all of you, now,’ Angus snaps.

We shuffle inside. I am so tired. I keep thinking about Isla in the morgue, and Tash. Click, click, click.

When I get into my room I look out my window. A red light flashes on and off from the fire engine and I can hear them firing up a blowtorch. A few minutes later sparks fly by – I guess the cutters didnae do it after all.

37

‘THEY’VE SAID YOU
will be driven to John Kay’s after the wake, Anais, okay?’ Angus says.

‘Aye.’

I didnae eat breakfast this morning. I dinnae think anyone did, other than Brian and Mullet. The chef made porridge and most of it is congealing in a big plastic tub on the table. I didnae sleep last night. I thought about how Isla used tae smile, and how she never let anyone feel sorry for her; she’d be taking her HIV meds and visiting the twins and worrying about Tash – but she would never worry anyone. She’d never lie. She’d always try. It was just the cutting, she couldnae stop, then she cut too deep. I miss her. It still doesnae seem real that she’s not here. I keep expecting her to stick her head out the bedroom window at night, or to see her and Tash walking back from the village.

I posted the letters to the prison this morning. I came back to the unit and dressed all in black. Black leggings, black polo neck, black shoes, black jacket. I have black sunglasses. I’m wearing just a touch of mascara and lip-gloss and my hair is pinned back. I’ve cried every night since I got out of the safe-house. I keep having nightmares about
it, but I umnay blocking it out. Not with grass, or pills, or anything.

‘It’s been good tae work with you, Anais,’ Angus says.

‘Is that all?’

He nods. We go out to his car. The social-work cars drive out first, then me and Shortie in Angus’s car. John, Dylan and Steven are in with Joan. The twins, Stewart and Bethany, are with their foster-mum in the car behind us. Isla’s social worker is there and some woman counsellor Isla used to see.

‘Why’s Isla’s mum not coming?’ Shortie asks.

‘I dinnae know, Shona.’

It’s not a big cemetery, the headstones urnay flash – it isnae like the ones in town. There’s trees, though, and birds singing. Shortie and I walk behind Angus. I am holding Shortie’s hand and so is John, and I cannae cry.

‘Dylan did it, ay.’

Shortie squeezes my hand and passes me a package, a stiff envelope. The staff urnay looking just now, so it’s the ideal time. I slip it into my pocket and thank God that Teresa wanted tae take me abroad once upon a time.

‘When did he do it?’

‘When the staff were trying tae get Brian down. Dylan kept it hidden for you, cos he knew Joan would be in your room packing.’

At the top of the cemetery is an open grave that’s just been dug; there’s no headstone yet. Everything feels swirly: the sky, the air, the wind. Isla’s coffin is waiting to be lowered. I dinnae know what a good coffin would look like, but this one looks cheap. They have only buried her because
the foster-mum and the social workers said the twins should have somewhere tae visit her when they are older. Normally she’d just get burnt. This is better, I think. Is it better? None of it is better really, there is nothing good in this, for me. Not one thing. I want her back.

There are six sashes. We wanted tae hold one, but they wouldnae let us. The staff are doing it, and some folk from the church that Isla didnae even know.

We stop when we get to the grave, and a leaf falls from a tree. Most of the trees are bare, but that one still has leaves. It spirals down as the Minister makes his speech.

The experiment are here. In their car, waiting. They will follow the police car with me and PC Arnold, for four fucking hours all the way up tae the northern isles.

John is jittery. So’s Dylan. So’s Shortie. The Minister turns the page and continues to talk.

‘What did you give them?’ I ask Shortie, and she shrugs.

‘Everything,’ she says.

‘In my whole stash?’ I ask.

She nods. I try to add up what was left in my stash, but I cannae mind. It was a lot – and it was Pat’s industrial-strength shit as well.

‘They took it all?’

She nods.

Dylan is staring at the Minister. Steven is as well. All it would take today would be a speck of dust falling, but they’re ready, I can feel it.

Bethany and Stewart throw flowers onto the casket. We have one each tae throw down as well. I cannae believe Isla is in there; it doesnae seem real, but it is. The sun is bright over the graveyard, and it begins to snow.

‘Isla knows how tae make an exit. That’s the prettiest snowfall I’ve ever seen,’ John says.

Shortie takes my hand.

‘So we will return now to pay respects and thanks, Amen.’

The twins are pelting after a rabbit – their wee legs are getting stronger, they’re not as chubby now.

Joan chats to the Minister as we walk back towards the cars.

‘Was that it?’ Shortie asks.

‘That was it,’ I say.

‘Your boyfriend’s waiting,’ John says to me.

He points at the police car – we look across, give him a wee wave. He is pissed off. John Kay’s is not even on the mainland; it’s on an island they dinnae tell the public about because they dinnae want press, or vigilantes, turning up.

I dinnae see anything on the way back. I hurt, really fucking ache, for Isla and for Tash, and for Teresa. It’s all catching up with me, I feel fucking old. We drive through the Panopticon’s gates, and I take one last imaginary photograph. I’ll put it up in my imaginary gallery later. It’s of Malcolm, and he’s wearing my star-shaped sunglasses.

There is food on tables, and the watchtower is glittering, and we are reflected in it, as always. The Minister is standing up in front of everyone.

‘It’s so good of you tae come out and say something, Minister,’ Joan says.

‘Not at all. It’s times like these where we all have tae do our best, and what we have tae think about in this hard, difficult time is the light – we have tae be able to strive for the good, not for the darkness.’

‘Tell her now,’ I whisper to Shortie.

‘Today is a sad day for all of us. When someone is taken away so young, it is hard to understand that this is God’s will, and God’s will alone can decide when it is our time to go. We must have the courage tae let Jesus guide us in our hours of sadness!’

John’s legs are jigging up and down like mad, and he is clenching and unclenching his fist. Shortie grins at me – she’s got really bright eyes now – I can feel her watching me without even looking back. Look at the watchtower: look at it! Watching all this, it’s sick. The experiment are behind that glass, drinking tea, waiting for me tae leave; they are taking us out one by fucking one. One raises his mug of tea.

‘God knew what was best for Isla, a lost sheep in his flock.’

The glint’s here – in the room, passing around the kids, one by one, Angus sees it first. And the twins’ foster-mum is walking out the door with the twins. Shortie has warned her tae go, to take them out of here now. This isnae something for them to see.

Now it’s just the staff, the Minister and us.

‘God is with Isla, as he was always with Isla.’

‘Was he with her when she fucking died, on her own, up those fucking stairs?’ John says.

‘Ssssh,’ Joan admonishes, and she’s looking up too, catching it. Angus is trying tae see where I am, but the kids have closed around him and Joan.

‘We must ask God tae walk beside us!’

‘Fuck – you’re God!’

Shortie raises a chair above her head, just as Mullet clicks that the screws that are normally holding all the furniture down urnay there.

‘Joan, watch out!’ he shouts.

‘FUCK YOUZ!’ Dylan screams.

A chair crashes through the window. John tears a pool-cue off the wall and smashes out the strip-lights. Dylan is taking a run at Angus, and I am running up the stairs two by two – behind me the new girl has a fire extinguisher and she’s battering in the office door. Windows are being smashed all around the main room. Joan is on John’s back, restraining him, and I am reaching into the bathroom where I stashed it, picking up a glass bottle – lighting the rag with a match. It catches.

‘Shortie!’

I raise the lit bottle tae her and launch it – up, up. It turns once, twice, arcs towards the surveillance window.

‘This … this is how we fucking say goodbye tae our own!’

Shortie raises the telly above her head and lobs it through the last unsmashed window, and they are chanting, smashing, punching, it’s going around –
This … this … this is how we say goodbye to our own!

Smash
.

The whole surveillance window shatters, and I see them – turning on their fucking tails – the experiment, for a fraction of a fucking second: exposed.

38

YOU HAVE TO
do the first things first – you have to begin at the beginning. This is the last time, I will never do this again.

Begin at the beginning, pick a birth. You have tae do it like it is important, like it counts.

How about a birth just like this: an ordinary baby is born, on an ordinary day, in a hospital just outside London. The labour takes fourteen hours, the baby is eventually delivered by Caesarean section. The mother cries – the father cries. Everyone is happy.

Pull my hat further down, tweak the rim so it turns up, it’s a 1920s-style hat, with a wee pin and a cherry on it. It matches my 1920s coat – and shoes. The train pulled into King’s Cross at 10.22 a.m. I didnae travel in the toilet. I didnae think I was dead; in fact, I have never felt this alive – every single breath feels like a first chance.

Next is the biological mother: Claire. She was the eldest of three sisters; her younger sister died in a boating accident and she passed on a few years later from ovarian cancer. Biological father: had a stroke and died six months later.

Now I’m an orphan. There are far worse things a girl can be.

‘How much are your lilies?’ I ask a woman on a flower stall by the river.

‘Four for a fiver, love.’

‘I’ll take them.’

‘Just four?’

‘Aye.’

The lilies are flat, so they’ll be easy to float – the river is calm. Walk down some steps to the shore. A wee laddie up on the pathway watches me. Down by my right a man is making a sofa out of sand. His wee dog runs around him and people throw coins down. They clatter into his bucket and some just land in the sand.

I unwrap the flowers and kiss each lily in turn. They smell that sweet way. The river is grey and they will disappear in seconds, but it doesnae matter. I place them on the water one by one. One for Teresa, one for Tash, one for Isla, one for Anais.

The tide whorls them away.

It took me ages tae walk down here, all the way past the tourist sites. Big Ben. Parliament. The wheel. The trees, the Christmas lights, the boats, the Christmas market and performers on stilts. And not one person has looked at me twice.

The buses here run all the time. In the village I’d wait for fifty minutes if I’d missed one. Here there is an LCD that tells you: due, 2 mins. I walk along to the steps and run up them, to the bus stop. A bus comes straight away and I get on, sit down next tae a man who is wearing a wee black skullcap. His sideburns are curly. The bus stinks. I breathe into my scarf until we pull up outside St Pancras.

I’ve got it straight now, in my head. I know how I began.
I cannae think of the unit, or anyone I’ve left behind. I dinnae look left, or right, just straight ahead, and there’s no queue at the sales booth, so I walk right up.

‘A single ticket,’ I say.

‘No return?’ the woman asks.