Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

Walk across the road, down to the village high school and go around the back. There’s one minibus that’s always parked here. I find a chib — a rusty pole. I’m ramming it in the minibus door when two laddies walk up the hill.

They come and watch: one is buzzing gas, and the other one’s doing tricks on a yo-yo. The road is empty and orange and wet.

‘D’ye want some?’ The kid holds out his gas for me.

‘It’s bad for your lungs,’ I tell him.

The front door cracks open.

Hop up into the driver’s seat, rip out a plastic box under the dash and grab the wires. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! My heart’s going mental and the trips are kicking in now. It’s hard to see what’s brown or red in the dark. The ignition catches. I pull my foot up right gentle on the clutch and ease it into first.

‘Get in then,’ I say.

The laddies climb up into the back, and I reverse the minibus fast.

‘What are you doing?’ one boy asks.

Slam my foot down on the accelerator.

‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!’ he screams.

It echoes. That fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck echoes.

Bang! We hit the gym-hall wall. Impact! Bring it. Powwow-wow-wow-wow. Reverse again. The laddies are laughing their arses off as we drive into the wall a second time. There’s a screeching from underneath the minibus and smoke’s coming out the front. Fucking great! We just sit here for a minute, grinning, then something big falls off the back; it clatters and the sound spooks me.

Click, click, click.

‘Where’s Tash?’ I ask the laddie.

‘Who?’

‘Aye, you ken,’ I say, and I stagger down the step, feet on the tarmac — I dinnae feel right.

‘That was fucking amazing!’ the smallest laddie says.

I run up to the corner and the bus is just pulling out. I catch up with it and bang on the door — he stops. Thank God he’s stopped.

‘A half tae town.’

‘Are you a half?’ he asks.

‘Aye, I’m a half!’

He puts it through. Twat! I dinnae look at the folk on the bus, with their long noses, and their stares. I’m going cross-eyed — those trips are way stronger than the last I had. Wobble down the aisle. There’s condensation on the windows and everything smells like wet dog. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I just need to make it to Jay’s. He’ll have something to bring me down, Valis or smack or anything, I dinnae fucking care what.

Glance out the window. The polis urnay following, just the experiment — four black rimmed-hats, a car overtaking, one looking up. Fuck them. They can fucking try me! I’m not taking it, not now.

My nose. Look at in the window, and it’s so fucking long. Keeps growing. Rain spatters outside and the experiment speed up and cruise ahead. Paris. Think of Paris. I bet the rain in Paris is way nicer than this. Imagine if there was an Outcast Queen in Paris, flying to work on her cat; maybe she sent Malcolm to bring me to her, but the experiment turned him to stone.

I need tae get milk .

I hate it when this happens. I can hear people’s thoughts — all the way down the bus, I can dip into each passenger’s head and hear what they’re thinking.

I cannae be bothered ringing, she’ll just moan. Wish this bus would hurry up .

Look at the back of the passengers’ heads and try to work out which person each thought comes from. I cannae switch them off, they lilt in and out — most people’s thoughts are so boring I could die, but I dinnae want tae be dead, staring away with no light in my eyes and my hand held out and scissors on the floor and blood on my cheek.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m panicking. Shit, shit, shit! I wonder if the police are tracking me right now from my tag? I need to get it off.

I can hear a siren somewhere. I feel fucking sick. Shit, it’s getting worse, palpitations and colours like worms everywhere — shit, shit, shit!

Just, hold, on. Rub at the window. Stare. Stare. Stare. I grip the seat in front of me and I’m sweating, and everything looks the same outside the window, and if everything looks the same how am I gonnae know when to get off?

Eventually they appear — five huge fingers pointing at the sky. The high-rises are like one hand that holds hundreds of people’s lives. There’s five blocks and Jay’s safe-house is in my old staircase.

I ring the bell. There’s a woman in front of me.

Need tae get Jack a winter coat. A tartan one. Need tae get his injections from the vet .

Woof, woof — I growl as I walk by her. The bus doors open and I soar down the steps.

The cold air stings, and it’s misty when I breathe out — cars blare their horns at me as I cross the motorway; ribbons of light unfurl from their headlights. And I remember watching gymnasts when I was wee, with coloured ribbons and coloured leotards. The experiment — Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! 3–0 to the experiment. They have Teresa, Tash, and now Isla, but you need four queens to make a deck. They drive by and one lifts up his hat, so he can stare right at me.

‘You’re next,’ he mouths.

The lift stinks of pish.

This is where I stood in cords, holding a social worker’s hand, going to see my new mummy. And this is where they took her away, and this is what I have to do. Now. I press floor fourteen. Wait. Crack my knuckles. Wait. The lift pings open and it is sat there. Door 73F.

Step up to the door and knock, just lightly.

I bend down on my knees and the acid is putting trailers everywhere — my fingers are elongating, and I open the letterbox and peer in. There’s a light on in the hall. At the end of that hall is the living room, and that hole in the door has been there for about ten years. Our carpet is a different colour than it used to be, though, and there is no clock on the wall. Whoever lives here now doesn’t smoke, because all I can smell is air freshener and nothing else.

I’m sorry .

I whisper it through the door and turn around and march straight back into the lift. Jab — up, up, fucking up! I’m getting out. Fuck it. That’s what Teresa would tell me to do.

She’d want me to have something better: to go to Paris and paint naked boys and read every book in every library and walk by the river and never look back. I am getting out. They’ll want me in John Kay’s when I get home. Later. They’ll get me in there this week. Unless I go. This is my floor. Ping.

Mike opens his door.

‘Hello, Anais — a vision indeed!’ He has a tinny in one hand.

‘Mike, can I come in?’

‘Aw, Anais, away and come in, hen, aye, come in. Fuck, how are you?’

‘Alright.’

‘I’ve not seen you since your ma, well — we all miss Teresa, you know. She was quite a woman.’

His hallway’s rammed with magazines and boxes of knocked-off PlayStations and MacBooks and mobiles.

‘D’ye need a laptop, hen?’ He points.

There is a stack of about forty laptops on one desk; the other wall has stacks of boxes of dog food, then beans, Xboxes, porn DVDs. He has a Christmas tree up and the light bulbs are those coloured ones that nobody ever gets now. On the top of the tree there’s a Barbie; she’s smoking a spliff and she looks like she’s wearing bondage gear.

‘No, Mike. What I really need — is tae get rid of this?’

I show him my tag.

‘Aye, hen. That’s no a bonnie bracelet for a wee looker like you, is it?’

‘No, it’s not.’ I’m laughing, and Barbie is parting her legs, sliding down the top of the tree, up and down on the top of the tree, and I’m leaning against something inky. Fuck — it’s the money press. Beside me on the floor’s a wee mountain of fake twenties.

‘Are you alright, Anais?’

‘Aye. I’m gonnae go and see my boyfriend, ay. I’ve not seen him for ages.’