Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

‘They dinnae own you,’ he whispers.

‘Bye then,’ Helen calls loudly.

I turn the domino over in my hand, and slip it in my pocket before Helen can see. The car begins to reverse and I stick my head out of the window. The monk steps back and stamps his feet together hard.

‘Good luck, daughter of an Outcast Queen,’ he salutes me.

All the way down the drive I watch him recede. Still saluting. Still barefoot, standing in his pyjamas.

WINCE AT THE light in the living area — that watchtower seems bigger than ever. The night-nurse has just come on duty. I am watching her tae see if she speaks to anyone in the watchtower again. I can imagine her up there, while we’re asleep, doors locked, playing chess with the experiment, all of them naked. Playing for our souls.

The boys are in the pool area. John is wearing new clothes — Shortie says he’s moving out soon.

‘Where have you been?’ the night-nurse asks me.

‘Up town,’ I say.

She grabs me by the chin and tilts my head up into the light.

‘I am a hundred per cent certain your pupils are dilated.’

‘D’ye want tae let go of my fucking chin?’

‘Do you know I haven’t once seen you with undilated pupils, Anais Hendricks!’

‘Aye? Well, maybe I’ve seen you!’

‘Seen me what, Miss Hendricks? What have you seen me do?’

My mouth tastes like dog-ends. The night-nurse snorts. Tonight’s interrogation is over. She’s wearing a blue suit and her soft albino hair is neatly tied up at the back. She sashays away.

‘Upstairs then, boys,’ she says.

‘Have you seen Isla?’ John asks me.

‘No, I’m going tae see her now.’

‘I cannae believe it about Tash, ay?’ wee Dylan says. He looks scared — I give him a wee kiss on his cheek. It’s horrible for everyone knowing she’s still out there. I cannae even remember the last time I sat down and ate, or anything.

The kitchen’s still open — someone’s forgot to lock the larder door. Sneak in, quiet as. There’s a catering-size block of chocolate in the larder, it’s the length of my arm. Shove it up under my jumper, grab a few bags of crisps and some vanilla essence.

Imagine being the daughter of an Outcast Queen, imagine being a daughter! Imagine if flying cats were real and you were special, not just a total fucking no-mark.

They say the devil’s best trick was to make everyone believe he didnae exist. Maybe God’s just a scientist. This is all an experiment gone wrong, every single one of us, just wonky as fuck because of some chemical cock-up that was meant to produce something less faulty.

Click, click, click. The car doors all close, Tash looks in the side rear-view mirror, watches Isla get further away.

Everything’s fucked.

How do I know I’m not an experiment? I dinnae. Fact. And the other fact is this: nobody knows, cos we’re all just wandering about with no fucking idea what the universe is, or what death is or what happens after you die. Maybe I’m just going schizo.

But, if nobody knows anything about anything, then who’s to say there’s not an Outcast Queen who smokes cigarillos, and sends out winged cats to watch over her daughter?

What if schizophrenia makes you believe in flying cats? Probably it does. That, and it makes you see faces where there urnay faces — next it’ll be voices, then it’ll just be me and the monk playing dominoes until the meds run out.

Back in my room I open the top latch of my bedroom window and stick my head out — it is such a relief to see her face.

‘Hey, Isla.’

‘D’ye want first on?’ she offers.

‘Nope, I’ve got something better to smoke. D’ye want some?’

‘Aye, sound.’

Tie a hunk of chocolate and some grass together and swing it along to Isla. Her eyes are red and puffy.

Shortie snaps her window open and sticks her head out on the other side.

‘I have a delivery for you as well,’ I say, and I undo the knot on my shoelace with my teeth. Swing a parcel along to her.

‘You are saving my life, I thought I was gonnae end up straight for fucking ever. I’m gonnae skin up.’ Shortie’s head disappears.

‘What can you see?’ Isla asks.

‘What?’

‘Out there, fucking look.’ She gestures across the lawn and she’s almost shouting.

It’s the Prozac that’s making her aggressive and weird and totally non-Isla-like, and the police still haven’t found the car that took Tash.

‘All I can see is the dark,’ I answer.

‘The lawn,’ she points.

Look down, but all I can see is dark, and fir trees silhouetted against the sky. Bare oak trees. There’s a frost out, and there’s been snow. Our lawn sparkles.

‘Tash used tae see clocks there, on the lawn. She’d say the whole lawn was full of them. Big old grandfather clocks and grandmother clocks, and that their hands were spinning and they were all tick-tick-tick-ticking away.’

‘I remember you saying that when I moved in.’

‘She said it so often, Anais, that I began tae hear them.’

I light a match and it goes out. Light another one and it goes out as well. Curve my hand around the third and it catches.

‘Then, today, they just stopped.’

Tash is still not home and it’s been four days. I saw her photograph on a poster at the train station tonight. Click, click, click. Car engine. Door. Locks. Trying the handle, fan heater on hot, a porno on the floor, the man’s hand reaches out. Tash turning to try and get a blade out of her pocket and stab him.

‘Yup, they’ve gone now. The clocks have stopped ticking, Anais.’ Isla strains to hear something.

‘Tash’ll come back, Isla.’

‘Dead people dinnae come back.’

That’s true, dead people don’t come back, not even for a second, not for one word or one whisper or one tiny bit of human touch. They go and it’s cold, and it stays cold and you cannae ever change it.

‘The clocks have fucking stopped, Anais.’

My heart stops, then it thuds back in.

‘They put a poster up, in the train station, it’s got her name and photo on it. She’ll see it, Isla, she’s just — getting wasted. She wouldnae leave you.’

‘I know she wouldnae, you know she wouldnae, we all fucking know she wouldnae, so where is she?’

I dinnae know why I’m lying, and trying to say Tash’ll be alright and she’ll be back soon. This night is too big and too strange and too dark, and it unfolds out around us, all the way out there — dark streets and dark fields and dark car parks. I cannae take this.

‘When my babies were born, Anais, they came quick, just like that. No big fuss. No drama. My mum had them in my arms before she even cut the umbilical cord. I put them right on the breast. Fed them myself. That’s how they fucking got it.’

‘It’s not your fault, you didn’t know. You have tae think of them, Isla. They need you.’

‘The first thing I said tae my babies was, I love you .’

The trees rustle. It’s so cold out that it stings your skin. Winter’s come to claim the world again, the sky is clear and the stars are bright.

Isla disappears in her window. Look down at the lawn. Imagine all those grandfather clocks there? Tick-tick-tick; cuckoos and big old white ones and skinny brown ones and tiny ones. Grandmother clocks, and shiny brass bits and cogs to make the pendulum swing. I can almost see them, but I cannae hear them. Isla pops her head out again and she is holding a half-empty bottle of vodka.

‘D’ye want a drink?’ she asks.

‘No, I just want tae smoke myself fucking senseless. Ta, though. I could come through tae your room?’ I say.

‘Night-nurse won’t let you, the doors are locked.’