Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

I discussed last week’s survey and group discussion with my newest ‘Client’, Anais Hendricks. Anais has been in the Panopticon for seven weeks now; she was relocated from Valleyfield Children’s Unit. When I asked what terminology she would use to describe herself personally, she used a term popular for ‘Clients’ with a background such as hers. The term Anais used was ‘Lifer’. The young people who refer to themselves as ‘Lifers’ do so because they have always been in (care) and/or adopted (with subsequent adoption breakdowns) and they now think they will be in care for the remainder of their upbringing. I suggested to Anais that it was up to her whether that term meant her whole life. On reflection, it was probably rather insensitive of me — it is unlikely that Anais will ever become part of a family unit now. However, the worry is that this term seems to infer a continued institutionalisation after childhood. The effects of long-term institutionalisation are something I hope to explore further. I will continue to collate information as research towards a Ph.D .

Anais is booked for a day out with her social worker tomorrow. She is being taken on a trip to where she was born, to try to help her gain a stronger sense of her own identity. She will then attend an end of ‘Client Care’ review, as her social worker is leaving. No more situations have arisen within the unit as of 5.07 before changeover today .

Angus Everlen

Put the report back down. I’m feeling edgy. I was sitting in bed last night, feeling creepy — the building was too creaky, and I could hear someone crying and I couldn’t work out who it was. The watchtower window had a wee light glowing in it, and the night-nurse came out. She stood there on the top landing looking at all the doors, then she turned around and said something. Like to someone inside the tower.

‘See last night, Angus, was it just the night-nurse on duty?’

‘Aye, and Brenda, but she was asleep in the staff flat downstairs.’

‘So she was in the watchtower on her own?’

‘Aye, who else would be there, Anais?’

The experiment, Angus. That is who would be there. They’re closing in. I can feel them all the time. The police have been quiet, but they’re biding their time, and PC Craig, in that coma, she knows all about them. They are standing around her bed. Five of them. No noses, matching hats, matching trousers, whispering — let go! They’re coming for me next.

IT IS SO weird to step into our lift, to press up, to whizz past our floor, our flat, our stair. I could stop the lift now and go and look at our front door, but then I’d hear other people in there and that wouldn’t be right.

What is in our old flat is this: me and Teresa, sitting on the sofa, eating popcorn and watching a DVD. There is no policeman in the hallway, no Pat grabbing me up and carrying me out the door like a wee wizened blank-eyed monkey.

The lift keeps going up. Past the safe-house. Straight to Pat’s. I haven’t been back to see her — in how long? Years. Look straight up above me and the hatch is still in the roof. I have climbed out that hatch a hundred times, crouched down on the roof and waited in the dark until someone got in and pressed up. Then I’d surf up, arms out, metal wires whizzing by, and when the other lift came up — I’d leap right out.

There’s nothing like it. Jumping out into empty space, that wee gap between the lifts where you could fall and die. The buzz is fucking epic. My old neighbour fell one time, but his jeans caught on a metal hook and saved him. He dangled there for ages, with one ear half-ripped off and everyone shouting up the shaft, until the ambulance got here. After, everyone said he should become the face of the jeans company, cos their jeans saved his life.

Ninth floor. Tenth floor. Up. I’m wearing a vintage Dylan T-shirt I bought with my clothes allowance. Wee Dylan asked me who the guy with his name was, cos he hadnae heard of him before. He told me he was named after the rabbit in The Magic Roundabout , and he’s never listened to music much, let alone old stuff.

Fix my hair, and hum that Dylan song — the one about being on your own. It was Teresa’s favourite track. The lift pings open, nineteenth floor. Step out and knock. My nails are really clean. The flat-next-door’s telly blares — some old western movie, gunshot rings out down the hall, then hooves pound.

‘Oh my God!’ Pat shouts at her door.

‘Hiya, Aunty Pat.’

‘Oh, come in, look at you? Come in, come in. Oh, Anais, aren’t you growing up drop-fucking-dead gorgeous! Look at you! Excuse the shit-pit, darling.’

Follow her in, and gangster rap is booming down from the flat above.

‘Fucking prick!’ she shouts up.

She bangs on her ceiling with a broom, but the music doesnae go down. I think he turns it up. She shoves a pile of wigs off the sofa. Pauline, who used to be Paul, is unconscious on the armchair.

‘He’s been on a binge, I doubt he’ll wake up again today. The bastard keeps nicking my good wigs, and he goes mental if I don’t call him her! You should see it when he goes mental — fucking hormones! Honestly, you’ve never seen the like. And I don’t actually mean it, I’ve always called Paul, Paul — you know, Anais, I’m not doing it to be contrary! He still looks like Paul to me. They’re pert wee tits, though, look.’ She lifts up his top. Pauline has perfect silicones.

I giggle. It’s good to see Pat, I cannae believe I’ve been away for so long.

‘So, is anyone giving you hassle?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘Are you in trouble with the police?’

‘Not really.’

‘Liar, what’s that?’ She lifts up my jeans and has a gander at my tag.

Avoid her gaze and check out her paintings instead. She’s got even more than when I was here last time. They’re all over her flat; some are even painted straight onto the wall. There’s a stunning black lassie, naked, smiling at something. There’s a painting of a parrot on Pauline’s shoulder, and another one of her in a red glittery dress. Then there’s the penises. All kinds of shapes. Every kind there is. Some have faces on them, or top hats. Lots of them are smoking cigarettes. Each is deformed. They are all preposterous.

‘Fat Mike could get that tag off for you,’ she says.

‘That’s what I was hoping. Is he still around?’

‘Aye, Mike’ll outlive us all!’

We laugh. Fat Mike’s a genius of the underworld, but he looks dumb as. He’s clever that way — it’s how he’s got away with it all so long.

‘He’s cutting hair now as well,’ Pat says.

‘What?’

‘Aye, he was up last night for a doubler: me and Pauline. And he told us — he’s decided to find his inner hairdresser.’

Pauline turns over and stops snoring.

‘Can you picture it, Anais? Mike cutting your hair with a pie in one hand and a tinny in the other.’

She’s pushing my hair back, checking out my clothes and my skin.

‘Teresa would be so proud, Anais. You’re not on the game yet, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Good, that’s not for you, either. You’re built for better, mark my words. This shitty wee life’ll not hold you back. I’d place money on it. You could be a model — or a madam. In fact, if you wanted to train in one of the best dungeons in London, I know a lovely one in Shoreditch.’

She rummages in her bag and hands a card to me; it’s plain black with just a telephone number.

‘They do dominatrix stuff, high-class and kink only. D’ye know how much they make in London for the good stuff?’

‘No.’

‘You could clean up and buy a place outright by the time you were in your twenties. It’s a classy establishment. If you ever consider going on the game, Anais — you go there and you tell them I sent you.’