The Panopticon (8 page)

John sprays half a can of deodorant on, then he wanders back along to the bathroom. He leaves the door open as he rubs some wax on his head, looks at himself this way, then that way. He knows he’s good-looking. How could he not?

It’s freezing in here, these old buildings are always totally Baltic. The skies are blue today, but it’s blustery, autumn’s well settled in already. I’m gonnae go over and check out that wee ornate door with Fire Exit written above it – just as soon as John fucks off.

‘Where you off to?’ I ask as he heads towards the office.

‘Clap-clinic. Later, Anais.’

His eyes are blue and his hair’s black. If you met him like at school, or hanging out somewhere getting wasted, most people would just think he looked like a radge, but when
you see him up close, and look at him – not his trackies or that – he’s graceful. He just is.

He gets money off the staff, then swaggers out, walks away down the drive.

It’s just me now. Chef’s in the kitchen. Eric’s in the office. Everyone else is at school. The watchtower windows reflect the sun, and the big bug-eyes stare, and it’s totally obvious that watchtower doesnae even need staff in it; it just watches – all on its own.

5

LIFT BOWL, PUT
it through hatch, smile at the cook. Anyplace you live, the cook isnae a man to cross. He unties his apron and switches off the radio. I walk past the dining tables, then the living-room area, past the watchtower, over to the fire exit on the furthest-away turret. You have to practise walking quietly, you have to will yourself silent – barely even breathe.

Place my hand on the wee ornate door and push. It gives. My heart skips as I slip inside the turret; it reeks of damp in here, and it’s dim. There’s a wooden gate on the bottom step and a No Entry sign. Bags of concrete are stacked along the wall. I shove the gate and stumble up, following dusty footprints on worn steps. Round, round, round.

The spirals get smaller, the stairs narrower. I need tae stop smoking so much, I’m wheezy. It isnae the fags so much as the joints – cardboard roaches are a killer. One hundred and seventeen steps; one more floor and it’s the penthouse. The hairs on my arms rise.

Fourth landing, fourth floor, there’s a black door. I shove it hard but it won’t give. It’s locked. It’s only a wooden door, with a Yale lock. I could get that open if I had my metal card, but I dinnae, cos the polis taxed it off me.

Keep glancing back down the stairs, it’s like someone’s there but when I look they disappear. It’s dark and cold and musty. My heart thuds, it’s a dull sound. Lay against the door, flatten my hand and listen. What if someone’s waiting on the other side of this door – their hand where my hand is?

My breathing is loud. Somewhere outside someone shouts. I press my whole body weight on the door and rattle the handle. It won’t budge. Fuck!

That’s rubbish as fuck, I really thought I could get in there for a minute. Fuck it! At least I found a joint in my school jotter, it’s flat but smokeable. I had to add another few skins to tighten it up. Light it and blow three smoke-rings; they hover in the still air. Inhale and it glows all red in the dark. The first smoke of the day is always the best one, especially if you double-drag it back-to-back.

This turret’s well draughty. A window leads out onto the roof further up. I open the latch on the wee window and pull myself up so I can look right out.

Wow! It’s amazing – I have never seen skies this big. The fields go out for miles and miles, and there’s a flat attic ledge-thing tae sit on. Slate roof tiles, though. If you fell off from up here, you’d be dead.

This window would be the only escape if they got me into the secure unit. If they get it built while I’m still here, this turret will be the main Fire Exit. Turn around and look back up at the locked door, the only access to where the secure unit will be. Imagine if the experiment were just waiting behind that door to welcome me in.

‘Welcome, Anais, we knew you’d figure it out in the end!’

Then they would inject me in the head – with a big needle full of shit that makes your skull see-through. Then they
would put me in a box. The box would have a light switch that’d make my thoughts glow a different colour, in my see-through skull. So they could read them. Forced telepathy – it’s the last step for total mind control.

Imagine them waiting to hand over a wee award for finally catching them out! They’d clear it all up.

‘Yes, yes, Anais, we grew you in a Petri dish – you got us!’

‘I did?’

‘You did, you got us! We knew you would.’

‘How did you make me then?’

‘We grew you, yes. Clever, isn’t it!’

‘Not really.’

‘Now we’re going to keep you in a cage, next to Brian. You can read Brian’s thoughts in his see-through skull. See, Brian’s thoughts are as warped as your own.’

That gives me the shivers. Brian’s thoughts are clearly more warped. Is it more warped tae rape a dog or tae think of murder? Thinking of murder isnae the same as murder – it’s not even like I think about murder a lot. I just think whatever the fuck it is I shouldnae think.

Like, on a train platform, the train rushes in and I always think – Jump! Just fucking jump. Or some wee radge will be standing there, or even some nice wee old lady, and I’ll just picture my arm slamming out. Then – them dead on the train track. I dinnae wantae, I dinnae wantae think stuff like that. Probably there is something fundamentally wrong with me. Thoughts are not actions, though, thoughts dinnae mean anything – unless they do. Then you’re fucked.

I can never work it out. Why do I think thoughts like that, unless I’m bad? Probably there’s something in me that’s gonnae come out one day and everyone will see it. I mean,
even though I umnay a Brian, really – right where no-one can see – I’m rotten. There’s something wrong with me.

It’s why nobody kept me. Except Teresa and she got murdered, and whose fault was that? The therapist said it wasnae mine, but I could have checked on her, I could have made her come through for lunch. I could have knocked on the door after her client left and asked her if she wanted a cup of tea. But I didnae, I sat in my pyjamas and ate crisps and watched cartoons while she lay there for a full fucking hour.

The experiment know.

They dinnae know this, though: I’d die before I’d pick on someone. I would. You dinnae bully people, ever, cos all bullies are cowards and I umnay a fucking coward, I never was. And I’d take my own life, I mean totally fucking kill myself, before I’d hurt even one hair on a bairn’s head. I wouldn’t think twice. I umnay a Brian – but they cannae tell the difference, and I’m beginning to get less sure by the year.

Turn so my ear is pressed against the door. What if they’re behind the door? The experiment. Maybe some of them have made a bet that I’ll get in, but some have made a bet that I won’t. They could be sniggering into their test-tubes right now. They’ll ask me about it one day, on the radio, when I invent something dead useful.

‘So, did they grow you, Anais?’

‘No.’

‘Liar.’

‘Am not.’

‘Are too. Just like in the nightmare!’

It is always the same. In the nightmare they grow me from a pinprick, an infinitesimal scrap of bacterium, study me through microscopes while wearing radiation suits and
masks. There’s a stupid tune in my head. What is it? It’s that nursery rhyme Teresa used tae sing about what little girls are made of. Sugar and spice and all things nice; whatacrockofshit – I knew I wasnae all things nice, even then.

‘What did they make you out of then, Anais?’

‘Sugar and fucking shite, mate.’

‘No, really, what did they make you out of?’

‘Bacteria. Bacteria they scraped off some dead mother-fucking alien, you prick; now get out my fucking way!’

The nightmare happens in the daytime. It happens in the night. It happens in the shrinking place or especially the falling place. First the tongue expands so fast you cannae blink, then it kicks in, too fast to grab a hold, or breathe, or form thoughts. Shrinkingshrinkingshrinkingshrinking. Nothing – gone.

There’s nothing to hold onto out there. Not a single thing. Fuck all – you are just floating in space. It’s worse than back-to-back panic attacks. It’s worse than psychosis. It’s worse than getting fucked after you said no, and it’s worse than not knowing anything about who you are or where you’re from.

It’s worse than the polis fucking with you just for fun, or cos they see you as a nothing, a no mark, easy meat – just like all the other freaks do. It’s worse than listening tae kids you dinnae know cry themselves to sleep, or watching your twelve-year-old pal go on the game. It’s worse than your ma jagging up on Christmas Eve. Or not knowing anything about someone other than their da raped them, or their uncle abused them, or their brother’s been fucking them up the arse since they were three. The shrinking can take you from person back tae a pinprick in seconds, and once the pinprick disappears you – are gone.

Nothing but empty space.

I have tae get in that door. I have to look. It could be full of fuck-all, or it could be the experiment, holding up test-tubes of champagne, ready to toast their long-lost specimen – finally come home.

I stick my head around the office door. Eric’s sat behind Joan’s desk with his feet up.

‘I need Tampax.’

‘Okay, Anais.’

What a tosser! Don’t be cool about it, Eric, you hate blood, you hate fannies – I can tell.

‘Like today would be good.’

He’s looking at me like he cannae believe something I’ve done, and I realise he has my files half-open on the desk. He’s reading year five. He’s not got tae the good stuff yet, he’s still on the phenomenon bit. The psychologist bit. The child-that-cannae-show-love shite.

‘Uh, okay, Anais, when I’m ready.’

Eric’s relishing the power. He’s on the lamest power trip in the world – the decider of how long it takes for me to get a tampon. Wow, Eric, the heady fucking heights your degree is taking you to!

I’m glad I never had to ask him for a fanny-pad. I started a right good fire with a bunch of fanny-pads once, but that’s all they’re good for. I even hate the way it sounds … fanny-pad. I umnay keen on sanitary towel either, or pants – or vagina. Vagina sounds like a venereal disease. Or like the name for some snobby rich German countess’s daughter; her entry into society would be announced in some glossy magazine, and underneath it would read …
Vagina Schneider at the débutante ball, wearing an electric-blue Vera Wang – a true glory to behold
.

Vagina. It’s a shit word, ask anyone. It’s not like cock. Cock is a good clean word. Pat was a big fan of the word cock. And cunt. She said if two words ever got married, it should be cock and cunt.

Eric shuffles around, he makes sure the petty cash is locked up, he puts a pencil back in Joan’s pen mug on the desk.

‘I’m bleeding like a fucking haemophiliac here.’

‘Can you spell that?’ he snaps.

‘Can you spell, fucking arsehole!’

‘Dinnae swear, Anais.’

He picks up a large set of keys and walks ahead of me. At the store cupboard he shoves a key in, but he cannae get it to turn at first.

‘What kind of sanitary products would you like?’

‘The kind you stuff in your fanny to stop blood?’

He steps away from the door, his cheeks burning. Seriously – this cunt’s a total retard. Has he never had tae get Tampax for any of the lassies before?

‘Go and select one then.’

‘I umnay picking a diamond ring, Eric. You dinnae select
one
, you need the whole fucking box.’

‘You have an attitude problem, Anais.’

‘No fucking shit, Sherlock.’

Step into the big old cupboard. Toothbrushes, bonus, two in the back pocket; four combs, a bag of rubber bands. Further down, at the back, there are some tools for the Hoover and a flathead screwdriver. The screwdriver will be perfect.

‘Are you alright in there?’ he calls.

‘Aye, just a minute.’

Grab a box off the shelf and walk out. Eric closes the cupboard door and locks it twice.

‘I know that Angus is your support worker, but if you ever want a chat, I’m totally happy tae listen. Any time.’

‘Sound.’

‘We could chat today, if you like?’

‘Are you doing a dissertation, Eric?’

He doesnae answer but he’s pissed off, he disappears into the office and shuts the door. Back out the fire exit, close the gate and run up the steps.

When I get to the top floor I take the screwdriver out of my sock, jam it into the door frame, hard – harder. Fuck, I wriggle it around, then I manage tae wedge it right in. Take my sneaker off and belt it; the sound echoes off the stone walls. Fuck it, if they hear it, they hear it. Boot the door and it ricochets open.

Fuck! It’s black in here. Feel my way across the floor, pushing my sneakers out in front of me, so my feet will hit anything before I do. I bump around things, they feel like big boards of MDF or something. I reach the big old windows and it’s hard to undo the first shutter, but I get the clasp and pull it back. A shaft of sunlight floods in. Particles of dust rise up, all golden in the sun.

There are white sheets draped everywhere – it’s a snow scene in a derelict theatre. A faceless, dusty sheet is a polar bear, arching up a paw. Beside him there’s a snow sleigh. A snow wolf thrusts his nose out, sniffing for blood.

Sneeze. Shit! Sneeze again.

This room is amazing. I pull a white sheet off the sleigh shape and underneath there’s a leather bench. Thick ankle-straps
dangle off it, and wrist ones and another for across the forehead, which has teeth marks on it. Run my fingers across the stained leather. That’s how they used to hold patients down, so they could fry the voices out. If they fried my mother’s voices out, did she still know who she was afterwards? They found her naked outside a supermarket supposedly. In labour. Psychotic. They never did say what supermarket.

This bench must be from when this place was a nuthouse. It’s not my first time near this kind of stuff, not if you believe the social workers, ay. They reckon bio-mum squeezed me out on the nut-ward, then jumped. Like from the window. They said the staff couldnae find her on the grounds, and they never saw her again. Like ever. She didnae leave a thing – no forwarding address, no hand-knitted booties, no wee gold bangle. Not even a name.