Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

‘Are you okay in there?’

Christ! It’s Joan.

‘What?’

‘Are you alright in there, Anais?’

‘Aye, sorry. I was just washing my hair.’

‘It didnae sound like it. It sounded like you threw something?’

‘I dropped the soap.’

‘You are aware that bathtimes don’t begin for another two hours?’

‘Sorry.’

Stick my fingers up at the door. Fuck off. Fuck off. Fuck off. Fuck off!

‘Okay, I’ll see you later on.’

‘Okay.’

I hate it when a guy makes you feel cheap. It’s like that in fights. It’s like that when you say no and they do it anyway. I’ve not let that happen for a long time, I learnt — the worst way.

Turn the cold tap on with one toe and let it run until the bath’s almost cold. I turn the taps off using both feet and rummage behind my head for a roll-up. Spark the lighter three, four, five times, cos my hand’s damp; eventually the flame catches.

Sink back under the water. I wiggle my toe in the cold tap, so rivulets trickle down my ankle. The fire alarm is ripped off the ceiling, half of it is sat in the sink — I’ll need to try to shove it back up later.

I like being underwater like this. All I can hear is my heart. Thud. Thud. Thud. It’s muffled like the soundtrack of sharks in a documentary I watched a few weeks ago, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud — I’m just a girl with a shark’s heart.

Mullet’s in. I try to get around the landing without him seeing but he clocks me right away.

‘Anais, it’s not bathtime yet.’

‘I know.’

‘So, why did you have a bath?’

I shrug.

‘I’m putting this on report,’ he says.

‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

‘That’s none of your business, Anais.’

‘I bet you only do fresh meat.’

I stare at him and he flinches, and glances around — but nobody else heard.

‘Are you having an outing later?’ he asks.

‘Why can you not just say — are you going out?’

Tash comes out of her room. ‘Has John been seen yet?’

‘No, Natasha, he’s not. Did you give a description tae the police of what he was wearing?’

Mullet is glad to have someone focus his attention away from me.

‘Aye, he was wearing fuck-all but a T-shirt with a monkey DJ-ing on the back!’ Tash says.

He walks off, shaking his head.

Shove my door as shut as I can get it, put all the bits of my phone back together, get the battery in and turn it on. Messages flash.

I’m sorry. I want you. I’m just being a dick. You are the most stunning girl I’ve ever met. I need tae see you, I miss you, it’s alright if you only want tae be pals — please, I am begging you, Anais, come and see me when I get out. I’ll send you a time and date, be there, it’s important .

‘Anais, what are you doing later?’ Shortie sticks her head around my door.

‘Nothing, why?’

‘You couldnae do me a huge favour, seeing as things are, like, alright with us now?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got a date, tae piss John off, not that he’s fucking here tae see it now, likesae, but it’s a doubler — you wouldnae?’

‘No.’

‘Please?’

‘I’d rather chew my own arm off, Shortie. I’m not in a dating mood.’

‘Dinnae be like that, they’re just a laugh, they always have good gear!’ she says.

‘Who are they like?’

‘They’re nice, really nice, we’ll pick you up at the gate later. I’m going tae meet them the now. I just thought — you know, we could hang out.’

‘Alright.’

‘Really?’ she asks.

‘Aye, I’ll see you out there at six.’

Slam my music on — loud as it will go — and find the last of my glittery body lotion, rub it into my arms and legs and neck. Spray perfume over my head and walk through it. I hate these social-work towels; they are so tiny.

I’m still listening to music on Jay’s old iPod cos my dock’s totally battered — need to get a new one. Skip through tracks until I get to ‘Jesus Don’t Want Me for a Sunbeam’, on Nirvana’s unplugged sessions. I love this album. After this I’ll play some no-wave. Or Joy Division, ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. Teresa used to say I was old-school. She said the best movie stars and burlesque dancers, and musicians, dealers, artists and hookers, were all totally old-school. I wish I was a drummer in a really good band.

I’ve left my brush in the bathroom, pad out of my room and stop. The twins are standing at the end of the hall, holding hands. They’re totally identical, curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and they look just like Isla. I love their matching dungarees, and they’ve both got cute wee welly-boots on; hers have ladybird eyes and his have frogs.

‘Hello,’ I say.

They scuff their feet and stare at me; they have beautiful wee fat arms and dimpled fingers. Isla comes out of her room with her social worker.

‘Mammie!’ The boy reaches his arms up.

Isla picks him up and hugs him so, so tightly. The girl wraps her arms around Isla’s leg.

‘I have something for you both, maybe, if that’s okay with Mummy?’ I ask Isla and she nods.

Leg it back to my room and haul a long T-shirt on for now. I only own two lucky things. One is luckier than the other — I come back out with my arms behind my back.

‘Pick an arm,’ I say.

The wee girl looks a bit curious and freaked-out.

‘It’s okay, Bethany, go on,’ Isla says.

She picks my left arm.

‘Good choice,’ I say and I pull out the feathered headdress, and she grabs hold of it shyly.

‘What do you say?’ Isla asks her.

‘Thank you.’

‘So this must be for you!’ I say to the wee boy, as I whip my black fairy wings out and waggle them like a big beard under my chin. He giggles, snatches them straight away and runs off down the hall making aeroplane noises.

‘Thanks, Anais.’

‘’S alright. Are you taking them to the soft play centre?’

Isla nods and squeezes my arm. Her social worker’s away downstairs, waving at her to come down.

‘See you later then,’ I say.

Close my door to its designated four-inch gap. A lump rises in my throat again. I ache. Don’t think about it. Just go out and get wrecked.

Laid out on my bed are a pair of navy-blue shorts, short-shorts, with six buttons at the front and a high waist. I’ll need to put tights on under them, cos my legs are so white they’re almost blue. It isnae a good look for shorts. Haul on my favourite knickers, matching bra and my oldest band T-shirt — it’s totally faded, and it has wee holes in it, but I love it. Slip on four bracelets, pin my hair up at the back until it looks more Sixties. Rub serum between my fingers and smooth it over until my hair is shiny, shiny.

So.

Paris it is.

Paris — offensively rich parents, three eccentric and exceptionally beautiful aunts, a garden with a swing and a sundial. Jasmine flowers. Lilies. A big bedroom with a huge window overlooking the garden. Stuff. Piles of it. All new. All expensive. None from the chore.

Dab foundation on quickly, but not too much. I suit my pale skin mostly, it’s just my legs that look see-through in winter, so it’s better to hide them. Try my new pink blusher, carefully pencil on cat’s eyes with black kohl, finish up with two layers of mascara. I outline my lips with red liner, fill them in, then blot them by kissing the back of my hand. They look like perfect wee cupid’s bows — red always make the amber flecks in my eyes pop out.

I glance at where my wings were. Professor True gave me those wings. He bought them in London. Professor True was quite funny really. He loved Teresa and you want someone to love your mum — even if he is a client. It made her happy. He was always bringing her cashmere jumpers, and books, and perfume, and wee things for me. He got the wonky-cock disease eventually. Teresa said it was alright, cos mostly he just liked it up the arse anyway. Gross, or what!