The Panopticon (12 page)

The toilet pan has skid-marks, someone else’s shit.

Shivery, shivery, shrinking, shrinking. The light hUms. I’m gonnae have a whitey. No, I’m not. No, I’m not. Don’t panic. Don’t freak out. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Sweating. Shit,
here it comes, fuck, I cannae breathe, I’m gonnae be sick. Shit!

I squeeze my eyes shut so I dinnae have to look at skid-marks splattered with sick.

The cell door has a small straight line in its middle, a wee hatch of an iron mouth set in a grim grin. That mouth can open any minute. Then an eye will stare through it. Tears mix with sweat and I’m embarrassed to cry, even in front of myself, so I dinnae.

My heart is gonnae come out my chest; I cannae fucking breathe in here and they know it. I sense them before I see them. In the concrete, across the floor, and the ceiling – wee faces materialise. One appears in the bottom of the toilet, another looks up from the pipe; they swivel tae peer out at me, squint noses, thin lips.

Traffic zooms by somewhere out there. I cannae breathe. What if this is it and I’ve gone psycho, just like bio-mum? Clinical psychosis. Schizoid visions. Permanent insanity or suicide? What do you do? Stay permanently crazy or just fucking jump? I dinnae believe in suicide. I dinnae – not one bit – so if it’s permanent insanity, then that’s just what it fucking is. And those faces in the walls: spies, the lot, sent straight from experiment headquarters.

‘Can I fucking help you?’ I hiss.

They turn away in alarm. One pretends to whistle, another one gazes nonchalantly at the floor.

‘What the fuck are youz looking at?’

I try to touch the nearest concrete face and he pulls away, horrified. Good. Flick it on the nose and it sinks into the wall. They mutter quietly to each other. Fucking let them talk – they can do their thing, I’ll do mine.

I lay back and stare. Chip my nail varnish off bit by bit, and pile it into smiley wee faces on the concrete bench.

Footsteps clap down the corridor outside. They stop at the door, and the narrow mouth snaps open and an eye looks through. Then there is a key in the lock, click, click, click. The door swings open, and she walks in. PC Craig. She’s straightened her hair. She closes the door behind her and turns around. I dinnae sit up. I dinnae look at her. I feel sick.

‘Get up, Anais.’

The faces watch closely. Glare back at them and they contort, their nostrils flare and their eyes narrow. I push myself upright.

‘Up, Anais, come on, stop fucking about.’

I will have to leave my upside-down nail-varnish smiles on the bench, but I dinnae want her tae see them.

Let my feet fall off the bench; the floor seems too far away and things are spinning – the world is turning on its axis just that wee bit too fast.

‘Take everything off, Anais. Hurry up.’

She points to the middle of the floor, and I stand there, like a dog that has got used to orders. Unbutton my school shirt, slip off my skirt, my sneakers, my socks. I have goosebumps all over my arms, and I can feel my teeth want to clatter together and there’s a roar in my head. She steps forward and begins to walk around me. Round. Round. Round.

‘What makes you think you’re so special, Anais? D’ye think you’re above the same rules as everyone else, is that it?’

She stops in front of me, runs her finger under my bra, then she pulls my knickers out and takes a long look tae see what’s down there. She lets the elastic snap back.

I stare through her. I have perfected this, staring through people. I have been here, all the fucking time lately. Thursday, 12.02, me on a come-down, middle of the cell, stripped. Sunday, 22.17, me with a black eye, to the side of the cell, partially stripped. Wednesday 3.14 a.m., bent over. Monday, 13.10, me with a coldsore, too thin and too frazzled, with bruises on my arms and cut marks on the inside of my thighs and a total inability to conceal my hate.

‘Take off the bra, Anais.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said fuck off.’

‘I dinnae think so, Anais – fuck off is the wrong answer. You just say
Yes
in here.
Yes
, PC Craig.
Thank you
, PC Craig.’

‘Someone’s gonnae put you in a fucking grave.’

‘What did you say?’

I made six official complaints against her, and not one of them has been resolved. I bet I wasnae the only person she pissed off on the job.

‘Anais? Are you coming through? We are ready tae interview you now.’ The policeman is standing at the door.

PC Craig. I wonder who did have the honour of koshing her? The faces are here again, they glance slyly at me. Mind-readers. Dinnae think about them.

Paris. Remember Paris? It doesnae sound right. Paris. Paris. Paris.
Paris
. Fuck!

10

THEY’VE GIVEN ME
warm tea in a styrofoam cup, with lots of sugar in it. An empty bin has been placed by my feet – in case I’m sick again. Remembering that last whitey in here, with PC Craig, it sparked me right into another one. Cold. Clammy. Dizzy-feel-sick-want-tae-puke. Shouldnae-ever-smoke-skunk. Fuck!

One policeman’s sat in the corner, the other one’s at the table eyeballing me. Helen had to leave. Another emergency – maybe there’s an elephant at the zoo needs some fucking Reiki or something. He clicks the Record button to begin the interview.

‘Can you say your full name, please?’

‘Annette Curtains.’

‘Dinnae take the piss,’ he says.

I lean into the recorder.

‘Minnie Mouse, address: Disneyland,’ I squeak.

‘Recording started at three seventeen, 1st October 2011, interviewing Anais Hendricks, who evidently has no middle names,’ he says, unimpressed.

The recording light flashes red.

‘Her body lay on Love Lane for hours,’ the first policeman says.

The light glares down and a sign on the wall reads Exit Only.

‘Where were you on Wednesday 23rd September at eleven a.m., Anais?’

‘School.’

‘That’s not true, we checked with your school. Where were you?’

‘Skiving.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Wanking.’

‘Have you any witnesses tae that, Miss Hendricks?’

I shake my head.

Cold skin. Shivery. I dinnae feel right and it isnae the skunk, that just opened the door. Truth of it is I’m mental, or I’m gonnae be mental. Maybe I should just say it. I’m Anais Hendricks and I’m mental in the head.

Sweating. I hate it when this kicks in. They should just lock me away. Stick a needle in my vein. Fry it all out. Fry out rooms without windows and doors, and red bicycles and Teresa’s kimono. The policeman reminds me of a dog. I’m scared of dogs. What a fanny, ay? Scared of dogs. I’d never tell anyone.

‘Are you okay, Anais?’

‘I think I have flu.’

‘Really. So, what did you hit her with?’

‘I didnae hit her.’

‘Then who did?’

‘I dinnae know, do I? That’s your job.’

‘Dinnae get lippy, Anais.’

‘We know you did it,’ the one in the corner says.

‘Noh, you dinnae, or you’d have charged me by now.’

He leans over the table into my face and his breath stinks of curry. Dinnae breathe. Just remember what the wishes look like, down the woods in summer. Wee silver orbs. Totally magical.

‘Speak!’ the policeman roars.

Wipe the spittle off my face. I’m done answering now.

Say nothing. Just stare. The pigs’ nerves begin tae fray. They get angry. They get calm. They offer me a smoke. They try bullying, threats, bribes. I’m not shrinking any more. It went. It does that. It just goes. You think this is it – permanent psychosis – then it goes. I will beat these pricks. I dinnae give a flying fuck how long they keep me here.

The faces look from me to the policeman, like we’re at Wimbledon, but there’s nae umpire. The thing is to think of other things. That’s the thing. Like when I was a kid, things were different then – even when it was shit, it wasnae shit. The sun smelled like the sun, and summers were warmer. I remember I had this amazing bike, a chopper with a flag on the back. I had tae use stabilisers even though I was nine; I learnt to ride it so late it was embarrassing.

‘Why did you not learn before you were nine?’ some kid asked me.

I wobbled around him with one stabiliser lifting off the ground.

‘My mum was too busy tae teach me.’

‘Too busy doing what?’

‘Your da.’

‘What?’

‘And your brother.’

‘What?’

The kid skidded his bike intae the gravel and clenched his fists.

‘Aye, and anyone else who’ll fucking pay.’

Helen should have come back for the rest of the interview, but they’ve said she’s still called away. She’ll be uploading elephant photos on Shitebook. Just focus on enunciating. It will all be okay. Just enunciate.

‘You have a long history of violence.’

Paris, think of Paris. New York. Florence. Think of Jay. Think of kissing Jay. Think of being held that way. The policeman begins to shrink; first it’s his head that seems the wrong size, then his nose elongates and he accelerates – further and further away.

‘Possession of marijuana.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Possession of hydroponics, one harvest in a school shed.’

Focus on the space between his eyebrows.

‘Possession of an offensive weapon. Let’s see, three times: one hammer, one baseball bat and a nineteen-millimetre easy-gauge gun.’

The second policeman begins tae shrink.

‘Possession of seventeen grams of heroin.’

‘That wasnae smack and it wasnae proven,’ I say.

‘Seventeen grams of heroin, charged fully for. The hospital speed was the other one, Anais, can you no even remember what you were charged with?’

It wasnae heroin. It wasnae my heroin. Fingers look weird. Don’t fingers look weird? They think I’m scummy as fuck, maybe I am? But I bet I know more about paintings than
they do. I dinnae know much, like, but I bet it’s more than they do. They dinnae know I know about sub alterns. Old Professor True specialised in that, he was my favourite client of Teresa’s, old True, even if he was old and fat and ugly. I know what the meaning of empathy is. I know how to outline my lips in red liner.

I umnay meant to be here. I was meant to be born in Paris.

‘Over one hundred charges in the last sixteen months, Miss Hendricks. Now, the Ecstasy tablets and, let’s see,’ he runs his pen down a long list, ‘three sheets of LSD, a half-ounce of ketamine, a quarter of hash, an eighth of sinsemilla, a nine-bar in December. How have you stayed out of secure?’

Because I get grade As at school, when I go. Cos I move so much that each department forgets where I am and where I’ve been. Because the experiment find me amusing.

‘Two drunken disorderly, seven breaches of the peace – oh, and of course your weekly absconding phase, how can we forget that, Anais? Let’s see: forty-eight times you have absconded, only caught once?’

I know what the experiment would like tae see. They’d like to see me hang myself in a secure unit. One knot. One neck. Vertebrae. Snapped.

‘How were you only caught once?’

‘Luck?’

The faces are gone. Almost. They are fading all over the walls. I focus on the bit between the police officer’s eyebrows; you can sometimes get a shrinking person back if you look at that space between their eyebrows and focus. Or sometimes, like now, it just makes their head a minuscule
fucking pin. Tiny Head shakes from left tae right. His tiny eyes glare. His tiny mouth squeaks.

‘You’re in a bit of a mess, aren’t you, Anais?’

There is nothing at the end of the rainbow. Not a fucking thing. Fact.

‘Battery of an eighteen-year-old.’

‘She was picking on a kid I know.’

‘Two broken bones, a broken nose, broken ribs. Stolen property. Shoplifting. Destruction of social-work property. Brandishing a hammer at an officer of the peace. Joyriding. Smashing the window of Continental Jewellers. Inciting a riot in Valleyfield children’s unit. Inciting another riot in The Braids children’s unit. And, oh, this is lovely, Anais, destruction of police property – a prolonged campaign of terror by one Anais Hendricks of 13/9 Loam Terrace, Handerly Estate, against one officer now in a coma, our own officer: PC Dawn Craig.’

Tiny Head turns a laptop round. The CCTV footage is in order of dates; he presses Play. It’s me. I’m a movie star, Mama, are you proud? Me walking through the police-station door with my arms full. I know what’s coming.

I chore the first polis light off PC Craig’s pigmobile at 6 a.m. It is February. It’s still cold and the ground is frosty. Foam the CCTV with cheap-as-shit shaving foam, climb on top of the car and unscrew the bolts holding the light down. Wear a Buddha bag on my head, with holes cut out, so I can see. They know it’s me, but they cannae prove it.

Run up to my dealer’s after and chap on his window until he wakes up. He’s the vicar’s son. Hold out the police light
for him, it’s a love-token. He’s well impressed. He stashes it under his bed and says he always wanted some genuine police memorabilia for a keepsake. He fancies me, and he’s totally – hot.

Do the next car at 3 a.m. This one is double-screwed and an extra CCTV camera is on the roof. Spray the camera with fluorescent-pink paint. Dawn Craig strips me twice that week.

Strip the third car at 4 p.m. on a Sunday while the church bells ring. This one has two screws and has been glued down, so I have tae use a Stanley knife tae get the light off. Almost give up, but I get it off in the end. Strip the stickers off the side of the car. Take the hubcaps off. Remove anything I can get. Climb up on the roof of the car and surf for the cameras; my Buddha bag is squint and over the eye-holes I’m wearing star-shaped sunglasses.

Three more searches from Dawn Craig.

Wait, wait, wait. Three long weeks pass, then I do two more cars.

Five visits by the police to the children’s unit. My room gets searched. Staff quizz me. The polis look in the woods for stolen blue lights, and give me a lecture on how much money vandalism costs the average taxpayer a year. They talk to me a lot about the taxpayers. The taxpayers hate me. Why am I costing them so much money? I am selfish and personally responsible for their high taxes – they would like to see me hanging from the old oak tree.