Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

Dylan is keeping quiet, and Steven seems to follow whatever Dylan decides to do. The minibus trundles out of the car park.

‘I had one like that, in the Seventies.’ Joan lights up when she sees a pristine VW. ‘That’s called glamping,’ she says tae Angus, cos the lassies at the VW have candles, and wine, and beanbags all out around where they are sitting.

Tash puts her arm around Isla.

‘Oh, it’s a nice VW. Look, it’s got the bay window. God — look at that, someone’s smashed it!’

Dylan and Steven turn to look, and Tash just stares ahead smiling.

‘Looks like the tyres need pumping up,’ Angus adds.

‘Has that lassie got a black eye?’ Dylan asks.

The posh lassies urnay looking this way. The blonde’s holding her bloody nose and her wee pal is shouting down a mobile phone. Angus glances at me in the rear-view mirror and accelerates.

‘That was a great day out,’ he says.

Joan looks back and opens her mouth to say something, but he blasts the radio.

‘Great day, people. Well, except for poor Brian, of course. We’ll deal with you when we get you home, Dylan,’ he shouts over the music.

Joan turns the radio down and Isla snuggles in for a snooze on Tash. I wish I had someone who wanted me as much as that — like really wanted me like that. Maybe I just need a wee dog, and an artist’s studio, and a side street in Paris. Not everyone needs people, ay.

I hope the staff dinnae give Dylan too hard a time for trying to drown Brian. They shouldnae be trying to make the laddies take Brian in — he’s not their problem.

‘Anais, how comes you always look classy?’

‘I dinnae, Dylan.’

‘Aye, you do. It’s not even like you wear designer clothes; you wear some weird stuff. Ay, she wears some weird stuff?’

John nods. So does Shortie.

‘But you always look — I dinnae know — like you’ve got class. D’ye know what I mean?’

‘I think so, ta.’

‘I’m serious. Like, I dinnae get it. Does someone teach you class, or are you just born with it?’

I want to cry again now. Joan and Angus share a wee glance in the front.

‘I bet you even smell of strawberries,’ Dylan says.

I turn around and give him a wee kiss on the cheek. He’s gonna grow up to be a really nice guy one day. He’s flushed, and happy, and I look out the window — there’s a world out there, you know. One that isnae here. We shouldnae be here; I shouldnae, I should be in Paris. It’s still nice, though. Today. The sound of the engine, the motorway, just a wee band of outsiders, and I feel alright, quite liked. Sort of content.

‘You’re a fucking crawler,’ John sniffs.

‘Leave him alone,’ Shortie says without turning around.

Amazingly, he listens to her. I could see them together. John leans forward and smiles nicely at me. I smile nicely back at him. He lifts up the long white gold chain from my cleavage. There’s five charms hanging on it. One is of a wee yacht. There’s also a shoe, a cat, a heart and two red cherries. He swings it to and fro.

‘That’s a nice necklace.’

He notes the designer stamp on each of the charms. He’s toting up how much it’s worth. I put my hand under my leg so he cannae see the rings. Tash’ll take them into town later and pawn them for some gear.

‘Were you wearing this earlier, Anais?’ he asks.

‘Aye.’

I take it back off him and drop it under my T-shirt.

‘Loser!’ Shortie says to him.

‘Noh, I fucking umnay,’ he snaps.

‘Aye, you are.’

‘Shut it, Shortie, ya fishy cunt. You’re all uptight cos you’re a virgin. Your fanny’s depressed.’

‘Shut it, ya clarty poof.’

‘You fancy me, ay, Shortie?’ He grins.

‘I’d rather chew my own fucking arm off than go anywhere near you, ya prick.’

‘It’s like Scarlett and Rhett,’ Joan says to Angus.

The staff snicker up the front like a couple of bairns. Joan passes back her boiled sweeties. I’m hungry again. It must be all that air on the loch. I take one and pass the bag to John. He takes four, then passes it to Dylan. He hands it over Brian’s head to Shortie. Open the back window and lean out — feel the wind on my skin.

THE OFFICE SMELLS of coffee and stale air from the fan-heater. Angus’s handwriting isnae too bad; he’s letting me read his files on me. He doesnae have to, but I can apply through the new policies if I want to read them now. Angus reckons all kids should be able to read any of their files, any time, without even having to apply for permission.

He leans back on Joan’s chair, puts his feet up on the desk. His boots are off, cos he has a hole in the sole. He’s wearing thick fisherman’s socks — they look cosy, but totally worn.

‘You should buy some new socks.’

‘Funny you should say that, Anais. My wife gave me money last week and ordered me tae go and buy new socks, new combat trousers and a jumper.’

‘So why are you still wearing that crap?’

‘I didnae make it as far as the clothes shops.’

‘Too stoned?’

‘I spent it on CDs instead, Anais. I cannae bring myself tae buy into capitalist society, just good music, books, and my motorbike. ’S all I need!’

It’s funny, he’s the only member of staff I’ve met in years who I really get on with.

‘Did you see what Joan put up for you?’ he asks.

‘What?’

I look up. On the wall, right in between all the religious icons, there is a pagan pentagram and a wee witch with a pointy hat.

‘Three-parts witch, Anais. Except on Sundays.’

He’s smiling away. Aye. Very funny, Angus. I keep flicking through his notes.

‘Are you doing a thesis or something?’

‘No, the notes are — well, I dinnae think the social-work department get it right all the time, and I like tae think about that. I might do a Ph.D. on it one day.’

‘Have you ever been tae France, Angus?’

‘No, I’ve travelled a lot, mostly the East. I spent four years on a kibbutz in Israel, but no, not France. I did do Italy on my bike, though. Why are you asking?’

‘Dunno. I might join the Foreign Legion and learn a hundred ways tae kill a man.’

‘They dinnae take fifteen-year-old girls, Anais.’

‘Their loss.’

I pick up Angus’s next set of notes and skim.

The residents in the Panopticon have publicly stated that they refuse to identify themselves as ‘Cared-for Young People’. This emerged during interviews for the ‘celebration of diversity’ survey. When our student Eric asked the group why they do not identify with the term ‘Cared-for Young People’, they cited among their reasons that: ‘cared-for’ was blatantly ‘taking the piss’ (their words). They also stated that ‘Young People’ sounded ‘shite’ (their word). They then refused Eric’s possible suggestion of ‘Young Offenders in Holistic Rehabilitation’ or a return to ‘Children in Residential Care’ .

Staff at the Panopticon were recently informed that ‘Clients’ is going to remain the term used to describe residents. Eric informed our ‘Clients’ of this decision. One girl stated that Clients was inappropriate, as ‘Clients have the right to respond’. The residents do not think they have this right. If a complaint is made, it has to be done officially or it is not allowed. This is especially the case regarding historical abuse or social-work department failures. The right to respond is cited in the freedom-of-speech human-rights Act. I propose to explore this area of legislation further .

Several Panopticon residents refer to themselves as Inmates. They say this because they believe they are in training for the ‘proper jail’ (their words). While this may seem like negative or dramatic terminology, the reality is that up to seventy per cent of residents leaving care do end up either in prison, or prostitution, mentally ill or dead .