Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

‘We grew you, yes. Clever, isn’t it!’

‘Not really.’

‘Now we’re going to keep you in a cage, next to Brian. You can read Brian’s thoughts in his see-through skull. See, Brian’s thoughts are as warped as your own.’

That gives me the shivers. Brian’s thoughts are clearly more warped. Is it more warped tae rape a dog or tae think of murder? Thinking of murder isnae the same as murder — it’s not even like I think about murder a lot. I just think whatever the fuck it is I shouldnae think.

Like, on a train platform, the train rushes in and I always think — Jump! Just fucking jump. Or some wee radge will be standing there, or even some nice wee old lady, and I’ll just picture my arm slamming out. Then — them dead on the train track. I dinnae wantae, I dinnae wantae think stuff like that. Probably there is something fundamentally wrong with me. Thoughts are not actions, though, thoughts dinnae mean anything — unless they do. Then you’re fucked.

I can never work it out. Why do I think thoughts like that, unless I’m bad? Probably there’s something in me that’s gonnae come out one day and everyone will see it. I mean, even though I umnay a Brian, really — right where no-one can see — I’m rotten. There’s something wrong with me.

It’s why nobody kept me. Except Teresa and she got murdered, and whose fault was that? The therapist said it wasnae mine, but I could have checked on her, I could have made her come through for lunch. I could have knocked on the door after her client left and asked her if she wanted a cup of tea. But I didnae, I sat in my pyjamas and ate crisps and watched cartoons while she lay there for a full fucking hour.

The experiment know.

They dinnae know this, though: I’d die before I’d pick on someone. I would. You dinnae bully people, ever, cos all bullies are cowards and I umnay a fucking coward, I never was. And I’d take my own life, I mean totally fucking kill myself, before I’d hurt even one hair on a bairn’s head. I wouldn’t think twice. I umnay a Brian — but they cannae tell the difference, and I’m beginning to get less sure by the year.

Turn so my ear is pressed against the door. What if they’re behind the door? The experiment. Maybe some of them have made a bet that I’ll get in, but some have made a bet that I won’t. They could be sniggering into their test-tubes right now. They’ll ask me about it one day, on the radio, when I invent something dead useful.

‘So, did they grow you, Anais?’

‘No.’

‘Liar.’

‘Am not.’

‘Are too. Just like in the nightmare!’

It is always the same. In the nightmare they grow me from a pinprick, an infinitesimal scrap of bacterium, study me through microscopes while wearing radiation suits and masks. There’s a stupid tune in my head. What is it? It’s that nursery rhyme Teresa used tae sing about what little girls are made of. Sugar and spice and all things nice; whatacrockofshit — I knew I wasnae all things nice, even then.

‘What did they make you out of then, Anais?’

‘Sugar and fucking shite, mate.’

‘No, really, what did they make you out of?’

‘Bacteria. Bacteria they scraped off some dead mother-fucking alien, you prick; now get out my fucking way!’

The nightmare happens in the daytime. It happens in the night. It happens in the shrinking place or especially the falling place. First the tongue expands so fast you cannae blink, then it kicks in, too fast to grab a hold, or breathe, or form thoughts. Shrinkingshrinkingshrinkingshrinking. Nothing — gone.

There’s nothing to hold onto out there. Not a single thing. Fuck all — you are just floating in space. It’s worse than back-to-back panic attacks. It’s worse than psychosis. It’s worse than getting fucked after you said no, and it’s worse than not knowing anything about who you are or where you’re from.

It’s worse than the polis fucking with you just for fun, or cos they see you as a nothing, a no mark, easy meat — just like all the other freaks do. It’s worse than listening tae kids you dinnae know cry themselves to sleep, or watching your twelve-year-old pal go on the game. It’s worse than your ma jagging up on Christmas Eve. Or not knowing anything about someone other than their da raped them, or their uncle abused them, or their brother’s been fucking them up the arse since they were three. The shrinking can take you from person back tae a pinprick in seconds, and once the pinprick disappears you — are gone.

Nothing but empty space.

I have tae get in that door. I have to look. It could be full of fuck-all, or it could be the experiment, holding up test-tubes of champagne, ready to toast their long-lost specimen — finally come home.

I stick my head around the office door. Eric’s sat behind Joan’s desk with his feet up.

‘I need Tampax.’

‘Okay, Anais.’

What a tosser! Don’t be cool about it, Eric, you hate blood, you hate fannies — I can tell.

‘Like today would be good.’

He’s looking at me like he cannae believe something I’ve done, and I realise he has my files half-open on the desk. He’s reading year five. He’s not got tae the good stuff yet, he’s still on the phenomenon bit. The psychologist bit. The child-that-cannae-show-love shite.

‘Uh, okay, Anais, when I’m ready.’

Eric’s relishing the power. He’s on the lamest power trip in the world — the decider of how long it takes for me to get a tampon. Wow, Eric, the heady fucking heights your degree is taking you to!

I’m glad I never had to ask him for a fanny-pad. I started a right good fire with a bunch of fanny-pads once, but that’s all they’re good for. I even hate the way it sounds … fanny-pad. I umnay keen on sanitary towel either, or pants — or vagina. Vagina sounds like a venereal disease. Or like the name for some snobby rich German countess’s daughter; her entry into society would be announced in some glossy magazine, and underneath it would read … Vagina Schneider at the débutante ball, wearing an electric-blue Vera Wang — a true glory to behold .

Vagina. It’s a shit word, ask anyone. It’s not like cock. Cock is a good clean word. Pat was a big fan of the word cock. And cunt. She said if two words ever got married, it should be cock and cunt.

Eric shuffles around, he makes sure the petty cash is locked up, he puts a pencil back in Joan’s pen mug on the desk.

‘I’m bleeding like a fucking haemophiliac here.’

‘Can you spell that?’ he snaps.

‘Can you spell, fucking arsehole!’

‘Dinnae swear, Anais.’

He picks up a large set of keys and walks ahead of me. At the store cupboard he shoves a key in, but he cannae get it to turn at first.

‘What kind of sanitary products would you like?’

‘The kind you stuff in your fanny to stop blood?’

He steps away from the door, his cheeks burning. Seriously — this cunt’s a total retard. Has he never had tae get Tampax for any of the lassies before?

‘Go and select one then.’

‘I umnay picking a diamond ring, Eric. You dinnae select one , you need the whole fucking box.’

‘You have an attitude problem, Anais.’

‘No fucking shit, Sherlock.’

Step into the big old cupboard. Toothbrushes, bonus, two in the back pocket; four combs, a bag of rubber bands. Further down, at the back, there are some tools for the Hoover and a flathead screwdriver. The screwdriver will be perfect.

‘Are you alright in there?’ he calls.

‘Aye, just a minute.’

Grab a box off the shelf and walk out. Eric closes the cupboard door and locks it twice.

‘I know that Angus is your support worker, but if you ever want a chat, I’m totally happy tae listen. Any time.’