Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

‘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.

John sprays half a can of deodorant on, then he wanders back along to the bathroom. He leaves the door open as he rubs some wax on his head, looks at himself this way, then that way. He knows he’s good-looking. How could he not?

It’s freezing in here, these old buildings are always totally Baltic. The skies are blue today, but it’s blustery, autumn’s well settled in already. I’m gonnae go over and check out that wee ornate door with Fire Exit written above it — just as soon as John fucks off.

‘Where you off to?’ I ask as he heads towards the office.

‘Clap-clinic. Later, Anais.’

His eyes are blue and his hair’s black. If you met him like at school, or hanging out somewhere getting wasted, most people would just think he looked like a radge, but when you see him up close, and look at him — not his trackies or that — he’s graceful. He just is.

He gets money off the staff, then swaggers out, walks away down the drive.

It’s just me now. Chef’s in the kitchen. Eric’s in the office. Everyone else is at school. The watchtower windows reflect the sun, and the big bug-eyes stare, and it’s totally obvious that watchtower doesnae even need staff in it; it just watches — all on its own.

LIFT BOWL, PUT it through hatch, smile at the cook. Anyplace you live, the cook isnae a man to cross. He unties his apron and switches off the radio. I walk past the dining tables, then the living-room area, past the watchtower, over to the fire exit on the furthest-away turret. You have to practise walking quietly, you have to will yourself silent — barely even breathe.

Place my hand on the wee ornate door and push. It gives. My heart skips as I slip inside the turret; it reeks of damp in here, and it’s dim. There’s a wooden gate on the bottom step and a No Entry sign. Bags of concrete are stacked along the wall. I shove the gate and stumble up, following dusty footprints on worn steps. Round, round, round.

The spirals get smaller, the stairs narrower. I need tae stop smoking so much, I’m wheezy. It isnae the fags so much as the joints — cardboard roaches are a killer. One hundred and seventeen steps; one more floor and it’s the penthouse. The hairs on my arms rise.

Fourth landing, fourth floor, there’s a black door. I shove it hard but it won’t give. It’s locked. It’s only a wooden door, with a Yale lock. I could get that open if I had my metal card, but I dinnae, cos the polis taxed it off me.

Keep glancing back down the stairs, it’s like someone’s there but when I look they disappear. It’s dark and cold and musty. My heart thuds, it’s a dull sound. Lay against the door, flatten my hand and listen. What if someone’s waiting on the other side of this door — their hand where my hand is?

My breathing is loud. Somewhere outside someone shouts. I press my whole body weight on the door and rattle the handle. It won’t budge. Fuck!

That’s rubbish as fuck, I really thought I could get in there for a minute. Fuck it! At least I found a joint in my school jotter, it’s flat but smokeable. I had to add another few skins to tighten it up. Light it and blow three smoke-rings; they hover in the still air. Inhale and it glows all red in the dark. The first smoke of the day is always the best one, especially if you double-drag it back-to-back.

This turret’s well draughty. A window leads out onto the roof further up. I open the latch on the wee window and pull myself up so I can look right out.

Wow! It’s amazing — I have never seen skies this big. The fields go out for miles and miles, and there’s a flat attic ledge-thing tae sit on. Slate roof tiles, though. If you fell off from up here, you’d be dead.

This window would be the only escape if they got me into the secure unit. If they get it built while I’m still here, this turret will be the main Fire Exit. Turn around and look back up at the locked door, the only access to where the secure unit will be. Imagine if the experiment were just waiting behind that door to welcome me in.

‘Welcome, Anais, we knew you’d figure it out in the end!’

Then they would inject me in the head — with a big needle full of shit that makes your skull see-through. Then they would put me in a box. The box would have a light switch that’d make my thoughts glow a different colour, in my see-through skull. So they could read them. Forced telepathy — it’s the last step for total mind control.

Imagine them waiting to hand over a wee award for finally catching them out! They’d clear it all up.

‘Yes, yes, Anais, we grew you in a Petri dish — you got us!’

‘I did?’

‘You did, you got us! We knew you would.’

‘How did you make me then?’