The Panopticon (7 page)

‘Anais, are you in for dinner? I asked.’

‘Depends on what it is.’

‘It’s chicken.’

‘I dinnae eat meat.’

I drink the rest of the milk out of my bowl, but keep my pinky tipped all posh like Teresa used to do. Teresa went to a private school when she was younger, so did Pat. Airs and graces. I slam the bowl down and Eric shites his pants. Cute laughs.

‘You’ll
have tae eat the same meal, just without the meat then, if you have an aversion,’ Eric says sullenly.

‘I dinnae have an aversion.’

‘Are you a registered vegetarian?’

‘Why, d’ye need a licence?’

‘You need tae be registered.’

‘Are you a registered prick?’

‘I won’t take cheek, Anais. I’ll bring this up in changeover.’

‘You do that.’

Eric’s right angry. Fuck him! His casual clothing is wrong as well, somebody’s ironed his jeans so there’s a line in the middle.

Brian is in the lounge area. He balances a school bag on his ankles and lifts, then lowers it, for weights.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Eric asks him as he heads towards the office.

‘Taxi.’ Brian pushes his glasses back up his nose, they are held together with silver tape on the right arm.

A car beeps outside.

‘Your taxi is the next one, Brian!’ Brenda calls down the hall.

He glances over. He wants his ball back. I roll it over the table and he looks at me out the side of his head. He’s a foetus with teeth. Brenda walks out the front door; the beep must be her lift, she must have been on sleepover last night. I need more coffee, and a fucking smoke.

‘So, you’re Anais Hendricks?’ Cute smiles at me.

‘Nope.’

He grins wider, he’s got dimples. I smile back. I cannae help it. It’s one of they awkward ones where it seems like
you like somebody
that
way, but actually you dinnae! You’re just smiling like that cos you’re a moron!

‘I’m John, pleased tae meet you.’

He shakes my hand. That’s unnerving.

‘So, you’ve been in care a while, ay. How long?’ he asks.

‘I got taken in when I was born, moved through twenty-four placements until I was seven, got adopted, left there when I was eleven, moved another twenty-seven times in the last four years.’

That’s that out the road. I’ve said it so many times it’s like reciting a wee bunch of words that dinnae mean anything. I could be reciting the ingredients for cornflakes. There’s some football chat programme on the radio in the kitchen. I fucking hate football – it’s the most depressing game in the world.

‘D’ye never meet your folks?’

He swings back on his chair. He likes me, I can tell.

‘No, I didnae meet Mummy and Daddy, or anyone else like that.’

I debate whether to have a slice of toast. I didnae eat one meal in the cells, I dinnae trust anything they give you in there.

‘You never got adopted again then?’ he asks, and he’s not even being that subtle about checking me out. He grins at me and, despite myself, I grin back.

‘Have you ever heard of an eleven-year-old being adopted?’ I say.

‘I suppose not, ay. Guess you’re fucked then.’

He’d make a stunning vampire. Wonder what he kisses like.

‘What’s he in for?’ I nod at Brian.

‘His mummy and daddy had enough of him being a naughty boy. Running away. Nicking things. They used tae bring him Tupperware tubs full of cakes, tae share with his pals, ay. Except he’s no got any pals. I think they thought we all had midnight feasts and went on adventures. They dinnae come now though, ay. They dinnae come
now
, Brian, your folks, ay?’

‘Why?’

‘You dinnae ken yet?’ John swings back on his chair.

‘Ken what?’

‘Brian’s sick.’

‘What, like good sick?’

‘Noh, no good sick; like fucking very fucking bad sick,’ he says.

‘I’ll try not tae faint,’ I tell him.

‘He raped a dog,’ John says loudly.

‘He fucking what?’

‘Last Thursday. Raped a dog – ay, Brian?’ he shouts.

The curly-haired laddie turns away, his cheeks flaming.

‘Aye, the cunt kidnapped it, raped it, threw it off a wall – broke its fucking legs.’

We both turn to stare, but the laddie’s face is blank. No emotions. Nothing. Sick as fuck. I mean I can be a cunt, but I dinnae batter someone unless they go for me first and I’d never, ever pick on a kid, or an animal, or some old person.

I’ll pick on the polis, aye, but only when they ask for it. PC Craig went tae war with me, not the other way around. Brian rams his index finger up his nose; he knows we can see him doing it, he’s liking it cos we’re watching. He inspects the bogey and then flicks it away.

‘What the fuck’s he in here for then? He should be in secure,’ I say.

John raises his eyes to the locked fourth-floor doors.

‘Jesus Christ!’ My heart sinks.

I’m not going up there with that. Or up north with the kiddie-killers. I’ll not make it. I’m hard, but I’m nothing like them; they urnay even hard, they’re just scum. There’s nothing good in them. Teresa used tae tell me that all the fucking time.

Aye, hen, you cannae reason with scum, you cannae talk tae scum, you cannae associate with scum, cos if there is anything good or nice or decent in you – they’ll break it
.

I used to think everyone had some good in them. They don’t, though, do they? I have no empathy for scum. None. I mean, I could kill a kiddie-killer. Easily. It wouldnae make me feel bad, I dinnae think it would make anyone feel bad, not even God.

‘Joan said the secure unit is on hold for now – asbestos or something?’ I ask John.

‘Aye, the staff are gutted, though. I heard in a meeting, they wanted you right up there, you were gonnae be their star pupil.’

Brian has lifted up his top and is picking fluff out his belly button.

‘He’s giving me the boak,’ I say.

‘Aye. He has that effect on people.’

‘Was it a big dog?’

Brian cranes to see if his taxi is coming. He’s pretending not to listen in, but he can hear every word.

‘I dinnae think so! That wee bastard wouldnae pick on a big dog, it was a wee fucking runt, ay. He’ll move on,
they start off with animals, then they move on to people – he’ll do a pensioner before the year’s out. He’ll end up with they kiddie-killers up north. Your support worker, Angus, drove the last two up there, did you ken that?’ John asks.

‘No, I didnae.’

‘Aye, the two in the paper.’

‘They should just fucking shoot them.’

‘They give Angus the ones nobody else can handle.’ He smiles at me.

‘Aye, I fucking bet they do. How’d they know Brian raped a dog?’

‘Shortie and wee Dylan saw him; they were just walking back from school, and they see that! Shortie took a run at him just as he pulls his knob out of its arse and throws it off a wall. She leathered him while Dylan ran tae get the staff. They didnae find the dog’s owner, but they’ve got the name-tag, they had tae put it down, like. Probably did it a favour – who’d want tae live after being raped by that?’

I cannae face cereal. Toast. Nothing.

‘So, what are you in for?’

‘Battered my grannie,’ John says.

‘That’s not fucking funny,’ I say.

‘Noh, she didnae think so, either.’

‘Are you fucking serious?’

‘I’m kidding, Anais, calm down – fuck! I’m sorry, okay, bad joke. Nothing major, I used tae do over shops with my mum, and my aunties, down in Leeds. That’s where I was moved from.’

‘You dinnae sound English.’

‘I umnay. My ma and all the family are from Glasgow, they just moved down there a few years ago. Mum’s got an appeal tae get out the jail in a few days, fingers crossed.’

‘I hear the homes are worse down south.’

‘They are. I was only in one, though, so I dinnae know really. They kept me there for six weeks before they sent me here.’

‘Where were you before that, like?’

‘Some loopy teacher was fostering me, until she had a breakdown. I burnt down her work, ay.’

I begin laughing, I cannae help it. That’s the best placement-breakdown story ever, mine isnae such a good one. Prozzie mum gets stabbed – it doesnae have the same funny vibe.

‘Where did she work, like?’

‘She was a teacher in a disabled school.’

‘You burnt down a disabled school?’

‘Aye. I did.’

He looks sad, and I begin laughing again – it’s so wrong you couldnae make it up. I’m beginning to like him.

‘I umnay proud of it!’

Brian’s taxi pulls up outside. He jumps up and hurries out the door.

‘You’re gonnae get battered later,’ John shouts after him.

The door slams.

‘Aye, so then I burnt her hoose down, flat tae the fucking deck, pal – you should have seen it! She’d pissed me off by then, though, d’ye know what I mean?’

We’re laughing so hard the cook looks out. Some woman pulls up outside, jumps out of her car and then posts something through the front door.

‘Christ!’ John says.

‘What?’

‘She’s a local mum, ay. They’ve got a campaign down the village tae get this place shut already. They’re worried we’ll fuck their children. Contaminate their bloodline.’

‘They should be so fucking lucky. Have you seen their kids – nobody wants tae fuck them!’

John laughs and, just like that, I know we’ll be mates.

‘Did you move here from a foster placement?’ he asks.

‘No. I’ve not been in a family for,’ I count back on my fingers, ‘about ten months. I prefer units anyway, they’re less hassle.’

It’s a relief just to chat with someone. In the cells I thought I’d go mental, I hardly ever speak to police in the interviews. Hayley used to be the best person to speak with, until she moved away to Singapore with her dad. She still sends e-mails but it’s not the same. I used to speak to Jay, but not since he got put in jail; now it’s just texts and him being weird.

‘D’ye never find a family you liked, Anais?’

‘Families are overrated. They’re like elephants.’

‘Elephants are sound, aye, with their big ears and that,’ John says.

‘Elephants are cunts.’

‘Noh, they urnay, nae danger!’

‘Aye, they are. I mean, look – if you’re an elephant, you’re only alright if you belong! Like if you’re
in
the pride or the tribe, or whatever the fuck it is they live in.’

‘What’s the pride?’ John asks.

‘It’s like the group, the family; if you’re in that and you’ve got a ma and a da, or some auntie elephants or some cousins –
then you’re alright. They’ll play football with you. They’ll protect you if the lions come, and if you drown in the river they’ll be right sad about it; they’ll stand over your body and sing you some nice fucking songs. They’ll even bury you with branches.’

‘Aye, exactly!’ John says.

‘Aye. But if you’re an orphan? Ye’ll starve. Tae death. Alone.’

He doesnae say a thing for a good minute.

‘That’s no nice.’

‘Noh, it’s not fucking nice,’ I say.

‘What, they’ll no even feed you? What if you’re, like, a three-month-old baby elephant?’

‘You’ll stand there until you’re fucking emaciated. If you approach them, they’ll kick you in the pus, and tell you tae get tae fuck.’

‘Maybe it’s a strain on resources if they need tae feed an extra mouth?’ he tries.

‘How? Are leaves expensive?’

‘Maybe there urnay enough leaves?’

‘Aye – well, maybe it’s not that. Maybe elephant matriarchs are just mean old fucks, maybe they dinnae
want
tae share their bananas.’

The cook glances out the hatch and keeps wiping bunkers down. John shakes his head and grins, and it’s infectious. I have tae look away. Jay would be pissed off.

‘I umnay fooled. Not by families, and not by fucking elephants.’

‘I can see why they want you banged right up on the top floor!’

‘Aye?’

‘Aye, they’re gonnae get you up there and throw away the key, mate. And you put a pig in a coma – I mean, if she dies! If she dies, you’re fucked, mate.’

I’ve already finished my coffee, so I just look at the bottom of the mug. I’d rather be dead today. I’m bored of places, tables, windows, shite food, cheap deodorant. Same pish, different unit. Families with their wee petitions. I want to live in a hotel on a side street in Paris – I dinnae belong, not here.

I put my mug down and he rubs his hair and sighs. He’s stunning with the morning sun coming in the window.

‘I mean, they say you put a cop in a coma,’ he adds quietly.

‘Do they now?’

‘Well, first they said she was dead.’

‘Right.’

‘Then we figured they’d have put you in John Kay’s secure unit if she was dead, ay. I didnae mean tae put you on a downer. Sorry.’

He takes his bowl over to the hatch. His narrow hips are bare, and his trackie bottoms sit low. His hair is shaved short and his skin is light brown. He wears a gold ring on his left hand, and a gold bracelet, and a chain.

‘You’re prettier than they said, like a lot prettier,’ he says.

I cannae speak. My chest’s all closed up. I want to sleep.

‘It’s really nice tae meet you, Anais. If you need anything, just gimme a shout, aye?’

He wanders up the stairs, slams one of the bathroom doors fully open. The shower blasts on and he starts singing in the bathroom. ’S some crappy dance tune that came out last month.

Steam rises out the door and I want tae go up there, follow him around with a camera. Take photos of his hands, and his sneakers, his hips, and the indent on the small of his back. I love that indent on a guy’s back.

Boner Brian. That’s disgusting. No wonder they’ve already started a petition trying to get this place shut down – I might take a walk down the village hall myself, and autograph the thing twice.

John is back out the shower already. Dance music booms out from his bedroom. He drags on jeans, and a hooded top. The whole door thing, supposedly giving you privacy if you stand to the left, doesnae work. Cannae see in from the ground floor? As if. I can see right in, especially if he’s standing in the middle of his room.

I look up at the watchtower. They can see in, but they can see everything, whether you’re left, right or in the corner.