Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

RIP OPEN THE first bin bag. All my posters are worn along the creases. Jim goes above the bed, Teresa’s original Chanel photo under that. I had to break into our flat and chore the photos after Teresa died. It’s funny to say it like that. Like she just died.

In our kitchen there were forty boxes of teabags, and a vintage photograph of French girls smoking cigars. A blonde and a brunette — bobbed hair, wearing face masks. I fancy them both. Imagine going to a ball wearing a fancy face-mask and a beautiful dress. I Blu-tack that one up by the side of my bed, then a picture of Teresa, smiling like nobody will ever hurt her.

There are other important things that must be checked. I need tae make sure that everything has survived the trip here. There’s my robot badge, an igloo postcard, a Lego dragonfly, an art-nouveau ad for absinthe. A photo of me holding a plastic bucket on a beach, topless and blank-eyed. I was called another name then.

‘Anais, the lab tech’s here.’

‘Shit, Angus, d’ye not know how tae knock?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Can I finish emptying this bag?’ I ask him.

‘Two minutes. I have tae see Dylan, then I’ll be back.’

I tip the other bin bags upside down. My floor’s strewn now, with earrings, sandals, sneakers, books. Some novels have bits ripped off for roaches, or cartoons drawn in the margins, or notes I’ve made. Things like: Be Happy. Quit Chocolate. Become a Movie Star. The Revolution Will Be Televised and Streamed Live Online.

One-eyed teddy, boot him under the back of my bed; hairdryer, make-up bag, eight journals filled with drawings. A guide to Paris. My old brace in a box.

‘Come on, Anais, let’s go.’

‘Alright, I’m coming.’

My phone beeps.

Wank me .

That’s all it says. Prick! The only person that’ll be wanking Jay is some guy in the jail.

Go to the safe-house. Split the profit. 50/50 .

I read his text again. He would never split the profit 50/50 on the outside, and he’d usually get one of his guys to sell his gear, not me. I could use the money, though.

What are you wearing, kitty cool?

I’m naked. Turd-breath . I text it back as I follow Angus downstairs. A lawnmower hums outside and I can smell fresh grass, and Angus reeks of patchouli.

Really?

I’m ignoring that.

‘How’d ye get your hair that bright green, Angus?’

‘Organic dye. I get it from India.’

You are giving me a hard-on .

Angus hangs back until I catch him up. Downstairs the entire unit are eating their tea, it looks like shepherd’s pie. It’s too quiet. There isnae even a murmur coming from the dining area, just the click-click of forks.

Text me a photo of your tits .

‘I told the chef tae keep some dinner back for you, Anais.’

‘Dinnae bother. I’m a vegetarian.’

‘We can accommodate that.’

Why, so you can sell it in the jail for a quid?

Are you kidding? I’d need a fanny shot for a quid .

Fuck off, Jay .

Noh, you fuck off I’m in DEBT. Send me a fucking PIC .

I switch my phone off. He keeps making out like it’s my fault he’s in debt or I should help him out, cos what? Cos he hid me when I was on the run? Cos he thinks I owe him — owe him fucking what?

Me and Angus walk past the dining tables, Brian is watching me, out the side of one bespectacled eye. Shortie glances up as well. Angus opens a door on the right turret. There’s a wee corrider, then another door — he gestures at me to go through before him. I step into the interview room and a tall woman wearing a blue plastic pinny looks up.

‘I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Hendricks.’

‘It’s just Anais.’

I fucking hate formalities. Angus shuts the door behind him, clomps away back down the corridor. On the table there’s a row of glass jars lined up, and a marker pen.

‘Could you please be quick, Anais? I’m running late. Chop-chop!’

Chop-chop? Chop fucking chop-chop? I hate. Her face. Those jars. My socks. How many miles is it to Hollywood? I should go there and make like Marilyn, take my kit off and see if anyone’ll let me on their film set.

There’s a great big lump on the lab tech’s left ring-finger, under her plastic glove. Now that — is a diamond. Will anyone ever buy me diamonds? Who cares. I’ll never wait for anyone, if I want a fucking diamond I’ll buy it myself. I dinnae want any of those blood ones, though — people die for them, and that’s well sick.

‘Open your mouth, Anais. Open it a bit wider, please!’

She runs a long cotton swab around my gum, and she smiles at me and her teeth are fucking immaculate. I open my gob wide and show her my two straight big middle teeth, surrounded by squinty ones.

‘They did this already.’

‘I am sure they did, Anais, but in these situations, you know.’

‘What — these being -accused-of-putting-someone-in-a-coma situations?’

‘Exactly those. This will prove you didn’t get yourself into any naughty trouble.’

There are so many wee jars on the table, must be about thirty. Each has swabs in it, invisible bits of skin, strands of hair. Saliva. It’s clarty.

‘You can close your mouth now, thank you, Miss Hendricks.’

‘How’d you get a job like this? Did you have tae get a degree in, like, swabbing?’

‘I did indeed, three of them actually.’

Fucking smart-arse. She rubs some funny-looking paper on my skin, then drops that in a jar. Then she holds up some tweezers.

‘Can I take a hair sample — just one strand will do?’

‘No.’

‘It’s not negotiable.’

She advances with the tweezers and I hold my hand up. I pluck one hair from my scalp and hold it out to her.

‘Merci beaucoup,’ she says.

‘Do you speak French?’

‘Oui, oui.’

‘Have you been there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you been tae Paris?’

‘Yes, I go to the South of France most summers, but Paris is beautiful at any time. Would you like to go there?’

‘Nope.’

‘Would you like to go anywhere, Miss Hendricks?’

‘No. I heard they had a revolution there once, though, in France, ay; they killed the rich people because they were really beginning tae irritate the fuck out of the poor.’

‘Vive le révolution,’ she mutters.

‘Exactly. Viva la revolution.’

‘Did you get a degree in mispronunciation, young lady? “Viva” is Italian; “vive le” is French!’

‘Whatever.’

Vive le. Vive le. I say it in my head and remember it. That’s how you learn. Fuck school, ay, just listen, and google, and read like fuck.

You can learn a lot on Google, but some of it’s lies. Like the rumour about the chickens that are grown with four legs — for the fast-food places. I believed there were four-legged chickens for ages. Knowledge is power, and what fucking other power do I have? None. Fuck-all! I’m stashing up facts and figures and words and reasons. One day I’ll use them. I’ll learn tae master mind control and take over the fucking world.

Teresa used to say school was an uneccessary form of social control.

Aye, sweetie, everything you will ever need to know can be found in songs, books, art, films and lovers .

The lab tech drops the strand of my hair into a wee jar. She scribbles something on the label. It’s like another me is going to be grown in there — a wee DNA Anais in a glass jar. They can grow it until it gets to about five centimetres long; that’ll be big enough so that they can tip it out onto the table, poke at it with a toothpick until it does a dance.