Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

Run and catch the first bus; it gets me into town and then I get the second one. Folk from school are on it. It’s stuffy in here. I cannae believe they are making me go in for one day. I sit up the back and have a smoke, just so I have something tae do with my hands. I’m late for school, by like what … a few months?

There’s Christmas decorations in windows and trees, and the lights are on when you go through town and it is so beautiful, a wee fairytale kingdom with old-fashioned rides and doughnut stands and hot mulled wine. I had that once. It was fucking minging. The bus turns right, out into the residential streets, and I look down into a garden of gnomes and reindeer. Santa’s climbing up a chimney.

It’s the 16th December. I opened the square on the advent calendar this morning, and there was nothing in there. Nae chocolate Jesus. John ate the lot, seeing as he cannae help himself but nick things, and he laughs every morning when it’s someone else’s turn to open it and there’s fuck-all there.

I’m wearing my lime-green mini-kilt, thick tights, a jumper and a jacket with a wee dragonfly on the lapel. I put loads of extra conditioner in with my clothes, so everything smells super-clean. I washed my hair twice. I’m wearing my oldest Converse. They look so shit and worn, but they’re great. I put gloves on, and a scarf. I’m dressing myself like I’m somebody else’s bairn. Carefully. Like it counts.

I have a letter in my pocket. I addressed it tae the head of Jay’s prison. I have another one for the guy in Jay’s cell — he told me his name was Rod. I just addressed it to Rod, I dinnae know his number, but I put Jay’s cell number on it. I don’t know if his cellmate will get it. I hope so, though. They dinnae like paedos in jail.

Kids all around me talk about school and what they watched on TV and who’s shagged who. Drift downstairs, get off the bus and wander through the school gates with the crowd.

Through the door. Down the hallway. Into my classroom. Sit down.

‘Anais Hendricks! Nice tae see you’re present,’ the reggie teacher says.

‘Not really present!’ Someone behind me mutters.

Take two Valium out my pocket — chew, swallow, breathe. There’s a late assembly. I follow my class out and down another hall and into the cafeteria, where all the assembly chairs are. Take a seat in my year’s row. Loudness. Voices rattling over each other. Eyes and faces and hair and bags — it’s all glaring. It’s funny: Pat reckoned rape cannae kill you, but she is wrong.

‘Did you take a trip after the October break? You’ve not been in for ages, ay?’ the girl next to me asks.

Smooth down my skirt. I feel stupid. Awkward. I dinnae want tae shrink here.

‘Aye, I did.’

‘Where’d you go? We went tae Florida again, but just for the October break, ay. You didnae miss much over the last few months. English is boring as ever. History’s still shit,’ she says.

She sticks her legs out and admires her tan. The headmaster comes in, takes one brief sharp look at me and begins.

In afternoon science class a Van de Graaff machine is brought in. A teacher I shagged once on Ecstasy is taking this class. Kids say the other teacher had a nervous breakdown. I place my hand on the Van de Graaff and my hair rises straight up and out. The laddies are watching. What if they’ve seen it? What if the porno is online? It would have gone online. Where else would it go?

There are still bruises. I touch my own hand really gently, under the table, so nobody can see. Almost like I am holding my own hand. Is it sad tae hold your own hand? If nobody was looking I’d hug myself. Arms around me, holding me in, holding on. I’ve been doing that on the toilet in break-times. What a fucking idiot, ay? The laddies giggle, and in the shiny dome of the Van de Graaff there’s a girl who looks sad.

Paris.

Imagine Paris. Imagine being born a beautiful, lucky wee girl with a beautiful mum, who I’d met, who I lived with; one who made pancakes, and drank gin, and listened tae jazz. One that loved me so much I grew strong.

Imagine a name that is not this one. I have tae finish it now.

It’s the only thing that belongs to me — the birthday game. I have spent far too much of my life dealing in truths, too many truths to mention.

Some truths are so heavy they weigh the whole world and the sea. We did Heracles and Atlas in history. Atlas held the weight of the world; Heracles was a bent fuck. Atlas knew what truth was. Truth is something that laps its way in with the tides, and it returns night after night — until it washes you away. The moon brings it. The tides deliver it. When they leave, the tides steal from the shore. They steal grains and shells and stones. They steal cliffs and rocks and stiles and trees and fields and houses and villages and wee countrified lanes. Then they drag it all out to the bottom of the seabed.

The tides won’t stop until they’ve taken everything. One day everything will be at the bottom of the sea. Maybe people will grow fins again? Maybe swimming feels like flying if you have fins and live in the sea?

Paris it is. Maybe one sibling? A brother. Gay. Overly protective, smart, funny, ridiculously attractive. And three aunties. One in Florence. One in New York. One in Iceland. Mandatory holidays to each every single year. It’s a total fucking chore.

THE STAFF FINISHED their meeting and they’ve called all of us into the lounge. A new girl with blue hair has already had a scrap with Shortie. Shortie’s glowing. The new lassie has a black eye. We’re being briefed about the funeral. Me. Shortie. John. Dylan. Steven. Brian. The new girl.

‘So we thought you could draw a memorial to Isla on the tower?’ Joan suggests.

I’m not even answering that. Shortie is wearing a trilby, fitted trousers and braces. She looks great. I’m wearing a yellow dress and black leggings and no shoes. I’ll wear furry boots when we go out, and I’m buying a really warm coat for the funeral. It is Twenties-style. Angus will take me to the shopping centre later. I’m wearing one of those Russian hats with the earflaps, and fur lining as well. You could sleep rough in this hat in the winter and not die.

John Kay’s rung. They are looking forward to signing me up for group therapy.

Fucking freaks!

‘Anyway, we can maybe work on some ideas next week, once things have settled down,’ Joan says.

‘We want you all tae feel like you can say goodbye tae Isla in a creative way,’ Angus says.

‘What about Tash?’ John mutters.

‘Who’s Tash?’ the new girl asks.

‘Some of you have applied for special circumstances to attend Isla’s funeral. Shortie, Anais, John, Steven and Dylan — you will all be collected in the morning, okay?’ Joan says.

We nod. She’s holding a large card.

‘If you all want tae sign this, please, we will have a wreath for Isla, and this card from everyone. We will all be here for the wake afterwards, which will be held here in the main room.’

I’ve packed my bags for the secure unit. Three bin bags. No matter how much shite I accumulate I always seem tae have three bags. Joan checked them. She can check all she likes, the only things that are important to me, urnay in there.

A social-work minibus trundles down the drive — great, it’s the wee kids coming in for a visit. Fucking hell. It pulls up and five of them jump down.

‘I thought we could do some crafts with the residents from the small children’s unit today,’ Joan says brightly. ‘Especially you, Anais. If you want tae attend tomorrow, you can take part in something that isnae just about you for once!’

‘I’ll do crafts with them!’ John grins. He’s totally monged on something.