Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

‘Aye,’ I say.

‘Well, we thought that was naughty of him.’

The night-nurse emerges out the front and Angus follows her out there. We go out and look up. Brian is hanging upside down from the bars of the top turret window.

‘What are you doing, Brian?’

‘He’s just hanging about,’ Shortie says.

‘How did you get up there?’ Angus calls.

‘We have to get him down! I’ve called the fire service,’ she says.

‘Noh, you dinnae, just fucking leave him,’ John says.

‘Joan has the only keys for that floor. I dunno how he got in there,’ Angus says.

‘Can you get Joan in, with her keys, then?’

‘She’s away on a training course!’

‘We called for help. Just hang on, Brian!’

‘What the fuck else is he gonnae do?’ John snorts.

‘You know what this reminds me of?’ I grin at Shortie and John.

‘What?’

‘A few years ago I used tae nick the Christmas lights off the tree outside the church. They were all different colours and we’d put them in the rooms in the home. We were lit up like a fucking fairground in there that Christmas.’

A fire engine rolls down the drive. Firefighters put ladders up the front of the building, and two unfold a net at the bottom. The other firemen go to see if they can try to drag Brian up into the building — they appear upstairs.

‘Just chop his thing off while you’re there — do the world a favour!’ Shortie shouts.

‘That’s enough,’ Angus says.

‘We’re gonnae have tae cut through, or it’ll be the blowtorch!’ the firefighter says.

‘Ooh, get the blowtorch,’ Shortie shouts.

‘Blowtorch, blowtorch, blowtorch!’

‘Inside, all of you, now,’ Angus snaps.

We shuffle inside. I am so tired. I keep thinking about Isla in the morgue, and Tash. Click, click, click.

When I get into my room I look out my window. A red light flashes on and off from the fire engine and I can hear them firing up a blowtorch. A few minutes later sparks fly by — I guess the cutters didnae do it after all.

‘THEY’VE SAID YOU will be driven to John Kay’s after the wake, Anais, okay?’ Angus says.

‘Aye.’

I didnae eat breakfast this morning. I dinnae think anyone did, other than Brian and Mullet. The chef made porridge and most of it is congealing in a big plastic tub on the table. I didnae sleep last night. I thought about how Isla used tae smile, and how she never let anyone feel sorry for her; she’d be taking her HIV meds and visiting the twins and worrying about Tash — but she would never worry anyone. She’d never lie. She’d always try. It was just the cutting, she couldnae stop, then she cut too deep. I miss her. It still doesnae seem real that she’s not here. I keep expecting her to stick her head out the bedroom window at night, or to see her and Tash walking back from the village.

I posted the letters to the prison this morning. I came back to the unit and dressed all in black. Black leggings, black polo neck, black shoes, black jacket. I have black sunglasses. I’m wearing just a touch of mascara and lip-gloss and my hair is pinned back. I’ve cried every night since I got out of the safe-house. I keep having nightmares about it, but I umnay blocking it out. Not with grass, or pills, or anything.

‘It’s been good tae work with you, Anais,’ Angus says.

‘Is that all?’

He nods. We go out to his car. The social-work cars drive out first, then me and Shortie in Angus’s car. John, Dylan and Steven are in with Joan. The twins, Stewart and Bethany, are with their foster-mum in the car behind us. Isla’s social worker is there and some woman counsellor Isla used to see.

‘Why’s Isla’s mum not coming?’ Shortie asks.

‘I dinnae know, Shona.’

It’s not a big cemetery, the headstones urnay flash — it isnae like the ones in town. There’s trees, though, and birds singing. Shortie and I walk behind Angus. I am holding Shortie’s hand and so is John, and I cannae cry.

‘Dylan did it, ay.’

Shortie squeezes my hand and passes me a package, a stiff envelope. The staff urnay looking just now, so it’s the ideal time. I slip it into my pocket and thank God that Teresa wanted tae take me abroad once upon a time.

‘When did he do it?’

‘When the staff were trying tae get Brian down. Dylan kept it hidden for you, cos he knew Joan would be in your room packing.’

At the top of the cemetery is an open grave that’s just been dug; there’s no headstone yet. Everything feels swirly: the sky, the air, the wind. Isla’s coffin is waiting to be lowered. I dinnae know what a good coffin would look like, but this one looks cheap. They have only buried her because the foster-mum and the social workers said the twins should have somewhere tae visit her when they are older. Normally she’d just get burnt. This is better, I think. Is it better? None of it is better really, there is nothing good in this, for me. Not one thing. I want her back.

There are six sashes. We wanted tae hold one, but they wouldnae let us. The staff are doing it, and some folk from the church that Isla didnae even know.

We stop when we get to the grave, and a leaf falls from a tree. Most of the trees are bare, but that one still has leaves. It spirals down as the Minister makes his speech.

The experiment are here. In their car, waiting. They will follow the police car with me and PC Arnold, for four fucking hours all the way up tae the northern isles.

John is jittery. So’s Dylan. So’s Shortie. The Minister turns the page and continues to talk.

‘What did you give them?’ I ask Shortie, and she shrugs.

‘Everything,’ she says.

‘In my whole stash?’ I ask.

She nods. I try to add up what was left in my stash, but I cannae mind. It was a lot — and it was Pat’s industrial-strength shit as well.

‘They took it all?’

She nods.

Dylan is staring at the Minister. Steven is as well. All it would take today would be a speck of dust falling, but they’re ready, I can feel it.

Bethany and Stewart throw flowers onto the casket. We have one each tae throw down as well. I cannae believe Isla is in there; it doesnae seem real, but it is. The sun is bright over the graveyard, and it begins to snow.

‘Isla knows how tae make an exit. That’s the prettiest snowfall I’ve ever seen,’ John says.

Shortie takes my hand.

‘So we will return now to pay respects and thanks, Amen.’

The twins are pelting after a rabbit — their wee legs are getting stronger, they’re not as chubby now.

Joan chats to the Minister as we walk back towards the cars.

‘Was that it?’ Shortie asks.

‘That was it,’ I say.

‘Your boyfriend’s waiting,’ John says to me.

He points at the police car — we look across, give him a wee wave. He is pissed off. John Kay’s is not even on the mainland; it’s on an island they dinnae tell the public about because they dinnae want press, or vigilantes, turning up.

I dinnae see anything on the way back. I hurt, really fucking ache, for Isla and for Tash, and for Teresa. It’s all catching up with me, I feel fucking old. We drive through the Panopticon’s gates, and I take one last imaginary photograph. I’ll put it up in my imaginary gallery later. It’s of Malcolm, and he’s wearing my star-shaped sunglasses.

There is food on tables, and the watchtower is glittering, and we are reflected in it, as always. The Minister is standing up in front of everyone.

‘It’s so good of you tae come out and say something, Minister,’ Joan says.

‘Not at all. It’s times like these where we all have tae do our best, and what we have tae think about in this hard, difficult time is the light — we have tae be able to strive for the good, not for the darkness.’