Jenni Fagan - The Panopticon

‘Oh, right. What do your parents do?’

‘They travel.’

Paris. Defi-fucking-nately. And me — just a tiny Parisian baby, prettiest the world ever did see. Done. Done. Done. Imagine being born so perfect and cool and lucky? Imagine Paris. Paris! Paris indeed. Close the window, dizzy now, climb into a cold bed.

I bet my Parisian mum wouldnae have one British bone in her. She’d never eat a pie. I like pies, but I wouldnae tell anyone in Paris that. I like fish and chips, macaroni, vege-haggis, deep-fried pizza, chips and chocolate. I dinnae eat much of it, like, but if I let myself — I could easy go like Elvis, fat as fuck! Still, my Parisian mum’s culinary purity makes me mildly elated. I always knew my class came from somewhere.

If Paris is done — then next is parents, siblings, an upbringing, detailed memories of garden swings and pine Christmas trees and elaborate Halloween outfits! One year of the birthday game I had hermaphrodite twins as siblings. One grew up to be a physician, the other had orchards in Tuscany; mostly they were boring and gave rubbish gifts.

Another time there were four sisters and a brother who fought in the war. He was a fanny for signing up, but he was vastly preferable tae real-life foster-brothers. Pain in the arse, they are. They either want tae fight you, fuck you or pimp you out tae their pals, and sometimes all three — in that order.

I almost shagged my last foster-brother, I wouldnae have gone anywhere near him usually, but I was wasted. He was such a knob. He used to wear foundation tae cover his spots and he was always wanking in the loo; he was a wimp, ay, I could easily have battered him. We watched a porno and he tried to do it, but I shoved him off. It was totally lame.

There’s a noise on the landing. It sounds like someone’s walking along there, just slowly, peeping in the doors. It’s a man. Wide-rimmed hat. No nose. He’s sending back observations to experiment headquarters.

Place one foot out of the bed, then the other, pretend to put the tray out and glance out the gap in my door. I cannae see him. How many times have I stood in strange buildings — looking out a gap in the door? I slide the tray out quietly.

That surveillance window in the watchtower glitters in the dim. Dinnae look up. There could be anyone behind that glass. Five men in suits with no faces. All watching. They can watch.

I dinnae get people, like they all want to be watched, to be seen, like all the time. They put up their pictures online and let people they dinnae like look at them! And people they’ve never met as well, and they all pretend tae be shinier than they are — and some are even posting on like four sites; their bosses are watching them at work, the cameras watch them on the bus, and on the train, and in Boots, and even outside the chip shop. Then even at home — they’re going online to look and see who they can watch, and to check who’s watching them!

Is that no weird?

If they knew about the experiment they wouldnae be so keen to throw it all out there. The experiment can see every minute, of every minute, of every single fucking day.

I’m not thinking about the experiment again tonight — this is my time, and there isnae much of it. Pretty soon, I’ll be sixteen, or dead. The funniest birthday game was two years ago, that was truly farcical. This year it will be straight reality — but that year! Powwow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow. Bring it!

YEAR THIRTEEN OF freakery. The birthday game begins in bed, under my flower duvet. My bed’s a single. It got sawed off from a bunk when the other girl moved out. I dinnae share this room any more. It’s nice, smells like lemon, and dust.

My foster-mum with the beard is two floors below. I live up here in the attic like a stoned mouse. I spent all this morning watching a spider weave its web in the eaves, it’s amazing — so intricate. The spider wasnae bothered when it came back yesterday and found water droplets sparkling its web up. I took a photo of it with my imaginary camera — and stuck it up in my (imaginary) gallery.

Blow three smoke-rings. As the first one expands, I blow two smaller ones through it — it took me two years tae get as good as this. I only started getting the hang of it when I was eleven. Now I could win competitions. The ultimate smoke-ring is a boat, but I umnay a wizard, so I just do circles.

Cars drive by outside, people away on the school run already or going to work in offices in town. The postman clicks open the gate, and a phone rings somewhere. I pull down my pyjama bottoms and wank. The first orgasm is too quick and a bit rubbish, so I do it again slowly. I think of things I shouldnae, like the next-door neighbour, or my physics teacher, or the girl I shared a room with in the house before this.

There’s a patch of sunlight on the wall, and it shimmers with raindrops from the attic window. I could stay in bed all day, but there’s no way this foster-mum’d let me. I feel about under the bed for my parcel from Hayley. There are two immaculate cones stashed under there as well, one’s pure grass, and a few trips from Jay. I look at the parcel from Hayley for a while, turn it around, smell it, shake it — I cannae work out what it is, maybe a top or something. Unwrap it carefully, so as not to rip the paper, and a brightly coloured feather headdress falls out.

For my Indian Squaw xx

It’s so soft. Nobody else would think to buy me something like this, it’s way cool. I rub the feathers on my cheek.

Three neat squares of paper are sat by my bed as well. Waiting. Jay’s presents. The first has a tiny strawberry printed on it; I pick it up on the end of my finger and stick it on my tongue — strawberries for breakast it is.

I finish unwrapping the parcel from Hayley and at the bottom of it there’s an old cigarette holder. It’s like bone or ivory or something. Fuck! Just like in that film me and Hayley went to see last time I ran away.

Place the last bit of my joint into the cigarette holder, flick my hair back and inhale. The sunlight casts my shadow on the wall and smoke spirals out like curly grey hair. I practise balancing the cigarette holder delicately, like a Fifties movie starlet would. It elongates on the wall like I’m in a silent film. I make a shadow crocodile, and it chats up the silhouette film star — the silhouette film star kisses the crocodile. The credits roll.

My feet are pale on the swirly carpet, which is lifting and falling already — in gentle waves. It’s sunny outside. Nice. Beardy weirdy is downstairs. She doesnae shave her beard; it’s a totally obvious one, but she isnae bothered how it looks. Me neither, it’s kind of debonair on her. Why should women have to shave? I do, like, cos pit-hair is gross, but tae be fair, if I want to grow a beard tomorrow and stubble comes — then that’s my business.

I slip on my school skirt, button it, grab a clean shirt. Put the other trips in my shirt pocket, knot my school tie in a bow and wear it at an angle.

The other trips are dancing test-tubes on golden platters, I got the test-tube bits of the print. The squares of paper urnay too thin, or too thick. I float downstairs.

‘Morning.’

‘Morning. Anais, are you getting yourself intae school today or d’ye want a lift?’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘You better leave soon then.’

The clock reads 8.36 a.m. The breakfast table is odd. The teapot stands with its spout tipping away — handle on its hip — and the checks on the tablecloth shift left, right, left, left, right. Our sugar bowl is blue with yellow chickens on it, and it’s heaped high with sugar; each white grain stands out.

My foster-mum places a cup of coffee down in front of me. She’s sound, Beard is. I place the second trip on my tongue, let it dissolve in my saliva, then chew methodically. I jam the wee bit of leftover paper in the gap between my teeth.