Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

The thud when I catch the ball is a perfect rhythm. The bug-eyes are watching. That watchtower wants its face smashed in. It wants a smile drawn on it and a petrol bomb up its arse.

Throw, catch, throw, catch. It’s the only sound.

Everyone is at school apart from Brian, cos he gets collected by a taxi and taken to a special school cos he has special needs. Translate that as — cannot be trusted with civilians.

There’s a cute guy downstairs in the breakfast area, he’s eating toast and staring at a wall. He keeps scratching his balls through his trackie bottoms and he’s wearing Adidas two-stripe trainers; they look like an original design, but they urnay, they’re just a retro reissue. Jay used tae wear the exact same style.

I wonder if PC Craig’s eyes were open, when they found her on Love Lane? Do they stay open if you’re in a coma? When you go into hospital — if you’re in a coma, do they shut your eyes like what they do if you’re dead?

The polis kept asking me where I was that morning and I cannae remember. Well, I remember being in a park, and the waltzers in town. The last thing I can mind is the waltzers — then nothing. It was the ketamine that did it, Troll Mark’s fucking ketamine and four days caning it. I didnae tell the polis that. I didnae tell them I was so fucked up I couldnae even mind my own name.

They kept on going on about a kosh. I’ve never even held a kosh. I saw mad Chrissie swinging one once — but that was years ago. Me and Chrissie were on acid in a house with black and white checks all over the walls and her bloke had just died of Aids, and there was a paedo with money following us about, cos of me. I was eleven, I know that cos it was before Teresa died. I cannae even mind how I met mad Chrissie. I cannae mind that — and I cannae mind how I got blood on my skirt.

I keep getting wee flashes. It’ll come back, I’ll remember, you always remember something eventually, ay. The pigs dinnae give a fuck if I did it or not; they just want me locked up and that’s that, they dinnae care what it is they put me away for. It’s not just cos of the death-threats. She deserved them. They fucking know she did.

I drop the ball. Shit!

Pig’s dead.

I’m dead.

It rolls along the landing. The cook opens a hatch downstairs and the radio clicks on in the kitchen, and some tinny song plays. Thank fuck! It’s like a fucking tomb in here.

I am not wearing any socks, my feet are a size two — my feet are quality. Nae knobbly bits. They might be my best feature, or my eyes. Or probably it’s my hair, black, long, thick and wavy. I’m gonnae bump down these stairs on my arse. Fifteen-going-on-two, I am.

Bump.

Bump.

Bump.

Cute looks up and I cross my eyes, make a mongo face at him and he grins. He’ll tell me what I need tae know. Whenever you arrive at a new unit the staff always tell you to not say what you’re in for, and it’s always the first thing you get asked. Usually one person tells you what everyone else is in for — then they go away and tell everyone else what you’re in for.

The breakfast hatch is open and there’s a carton of milk, cold, icy-cold, perfect. Cornflakes, brilliant. Pour cereal until it’s almost spilling over the edge. Then milk up to the rim. Walk with it held out like precious treasure — do not spill!

I sit down with the stealth of a vampire. Begin to eat. Crunch. A perfect crunch. Mm, mmm, mmmmm. The cook isnae looking at us, he rolls out pastry and listens to his radio. He’s wearing blue football socks and he’s got the aura of a man just out of jail. I lift what’s left of the fresh coffee while he’s not looking; it must have been made for a staff meeting earlier. Score. Cute watches while I pour myself a mug of black coffee, dump three sugars in and stir. I start on my cornflakes again.

‘Are you gonnae be in for dinner later, Anais?’

Eric has creeped up behind me and asks this while staring at my cereal, not at me. My cereal evidently has some secret information on me, that it’s about to reveal. I didnae even know he was in. Fucking wankstain. He doesnae notice the coffee pot. Ha. Nil points to the student, one to me. No fresh coffee for your break later — fucking loser. He looks nervous and he still won’t meet my eyes; he must be reading my files.

‘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?’