Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

‘Can I have a look up there?’ I ask him.

‘No, Anais. The watchtower is out of bounds.’

I knew he wouldnae let me look up there. No fucking way.

THEY WON’T LET me in the office yet, cos Isla cut herself again last night. There’s a doctor in there cleaning her up — it must have been a bad one. I want to take her something, a magazine and Lucozade, or Valium and Victorian porn.

‘Alright?’ Shortie asks me.

‘Aye, you?’

‘Aye.’

It’s a truce now. I knew the fight wasnae anything personal.

‘Where are you going?’ John asks her.

‘I’m getting my head shaved.’

‘Dinnae get your head shaved, I like it like that,’ he says.

‘Twice the reason tae shave it then, ay?’

Shortie disappears out the front door.

‘Anais, come on, we’ll use one of the interview rooms.’ Helen appears.

She’s been in the interview room collecting herself. Meditating. Reading up on my putting-a-cop-in-a-fucking-coma-might-get-done-for-murder-if-she-dies case.

What are you wearing?

Press delete on my phone, follow Helen into the interview room.

Strip for me, baby .

Bolt!

‘Okay, Anais, sit down.’

Helen closes the door behind us.

That’s no very nice. I miss you, d’ye no even miss me?

‘So. Where were you?’ I ask Helen.

‘I was totally unable tae get back home! You wouldn’t believe it out there, Anais, there was a terror alert and all the planes were stopped, then there was flooding and we couldnae even leave our region. It was a nightmare.’

‘What, you mean you couldn’t leave your five-star all-inclusive hotel? For three more weeks?’

‘I ended up stuck in India for another three weeks, yes. We couldnae fly anywhere, then I got ill. I think I had dengue fever.’

‘Here’s hoping.’

‘Don’t be rude, Anais. All I could do when I got home was rest and sip tea. I know, I really do understand that you have been having a nightmare. I am really, really sorry I wasn’t there for you.’

Send me a fucking picture .

I stare at the LCD. He’s getting pissed off cos I’m not like what I was at eleven, or twelve. Everyone changes, though, ay. I should just tell him to fuck off, but he’s the only person who ever held me that way, stroked my hair. After Teresa, after she died, that was where I went. Jay’s bed. Jay’s drugs. Jay’s arms. I don’t think I would have made it otherwise.

‘It did give me another few weeks working in the elephant sanctuary — you would have loved the elephants, Anais!’

‘I fucking doubt it.’

‘Anyway, I’ve been given all the details by Angus. He seems nice?’ she says.

‘He’s alright.’

‘He told me that PC Dawn Craig’s condition is not improving; she’s not in a vegetative state, but she is still in a coma. You know if she doesn’t improve, Anais, and they find any evidence, you will be detained in a secure unit until you’re eighteen.’

‘I didnae do it.’

‘You’re sure?’

I think she must have been doing some hardcore meditating over there; she’s finally fucking grown a pair.

‘So, how did you get all that blood on your skirt, if you didn’t get in a — altercation that day?’

‘Ask the police, they’ve got the swabs; they should have proved by now that the blood on my skirt is fuck-all tae do with PC Craig,’ I say.

‘We’re going tae have to go down there this morning.’

‘Why?’

‘They want to do some additional questioning, Anais, and they would like to speak with me as well, and I would like tae speak with them.’

‘I umnay going.’

‘It’s not optional, and there is a policewoman’s life at risk here. You might want tae think about that, maybe, rather than just yourself.’

‘If they put me in a secure unit like John Kay’s, with the kiddie-killers or the paedos or whatever the fuck it is they keep up there, do you think there is any chance that I won’t just fucking hang myself, Helen?’

‘Calm down, Anais!’

‘I’m not spending my life inside, for something I didnae fucking do!’

She takes coconut hand-oil out of her bag and rubs it into her hands. She doesnae think I’m getting out — she thinks I’m in the system now, all the fucking way. Foster care. Homes. Young Offenders. Jail. Where to when I graduate? Experiment headquarters — so they can pickle my fucking brain.

‘Secure units really help some kids, Anais.’

‘I need tae get changed.’

‘Okay, I’ll meet you outside. Don’t be longer than ten minutes, please?’

‘Fucking whatever.’

Run up the stairs, grab a pre-rolled skunk cone — John brought some back into the unit last night. It’s fucking lethal shit. I go into the toilet, double-drag the entire spliff. Fuck, it reeks, I haven’t smoked grass for … I cannae mind. Months. Flush the roach down the bog, cold water on face, go.

I’m trying not to pay attention to the way the floor rises up and down in waves. I feel fucking queasy. I hate this station.

‘Hello, I am Helen Stevenson, Anais Hendricks’s social worker. We have a meeting at 2 p.m.?’

‘Take a seat, please.’

‘They’ll see us soon, Anais.’

She sits down. There are posters on the wall: how tae put someone in the recovery position, what to do if you’ve been mugged, and an advert for self-defence classes. Sit down and scuff my feet. I’m too stoned. Too, too, TOO — stoned. Dawn Craig used to lift me in this police station all the time. Her fiancé works here, he’s an even bigger cunt than she is — I wouldnae be surprised if he’d koshed her, he’s got a right look about him. Like a wife-beater. Or a rapist.

‘Hello again, Anais.’

‘Alright.’

I cannae mind his name, but he’s lifted me before. He comes out from behind the reception bit.

‘Are we going tae do the interview straight away?’ Helen asks him.

‘We received notification that you would like tae speak with us on your own first, is that right?’ the policeman asks her.

‘Yes, if that’s possible?’

I’m looking at Helen.

‘Is that okay, Anais? We’ll come and get you soon.’

Helen doesnae wait for an answer; she disappears into an interview room and I am left in reception where it is too bright, and the coffee machine hUms. hUm. hUm. hUm. I’m gonnae go insane. Fact. What the fuck is it about this place? Last time I was here I thought I’d die, right in front of PC Craig.

The cell’s cold. It stinks of bleach and the rubber mattress, the loo never has a lid, and it’s concrete, same as the floor and the walls. The concrete has wee glittery blue flecks in it. There’s thick glass square windows, and blurry shapes of trees outside.

The toilet pan has skid-marks, someone else’s shit.

Shivery, shivery, shrinking, shrinking. The light hUms. I’m gonnae have a whitey. No, I’m not. No, I’m not. Don’t panic. Don’t freak out. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Sweating. Shit, here it comes, fuck, I cannae breathe, I’m gonnae be sick. Shit!

I squeeze my eyes shut so I dinnae have to look at skid-marks splattered with sick.

The cell door has a small straight line in its middle, a wee hatch of an iron mouth set in a grim grin. That mouth can open any minute. Then an eye will stare through it. Tears mix with sweat and I’m embarrassed to cry, even in front of myself, so I dinnae.

My heart is gonnae come out my chest; I cannae fucking breathe in here and they know it. I sense them before I see them. In the concrete, across the floor, and the ceiling — wee faces materialise. One appears in the bottom of the toilet, another looks up from the pipe; they swivel tae peer out at me, squint noses, thin lips.