by Jenni Fagan
I used to think everyone had some good in them. They don’t, though, do they? I have no empathy for scum. None. I mean, I could kill a kiddie-killer. Easily. It wouldnae make me feel bad, I dinnae think it would make anyone feel bad, not even God.
‘Joan said the secure unit is on hold for now – asbestos or something?’ I ask John.
‘Aye, the staff are gutted, though. I heard in a meeting, they wanted you right up there, you were gonnae be their star pupil.’
Brian has lifted up his top and is picking fluff out his belly button.
‘He’s giving me the boak,’ I say.
‘Aye. He has that effect on people.’
‘Was it a big dog?’
Brian cranes to see if his taxi is coming. He’s pretending not to listen in, but he can hear every word.
‘I dinnae think so! That wee bastard wouldnae pick on a big dog, it was a wee fucking runt, ay. He’ll move on, they start off with animals, then they move on to people – he’ll do a pensioner before the year’s out. He’ll end up with they kiddie-killers up north. Your support worker, Angus, drove the last two up there, did you ken that?’ John asks.
‘No, I didnae.’
‘Aye, the two in the paper.’
‘They should just fucking shoot them.’
‘They give Angus the ones nobody else can handle.’ He smiles at me.
‘Aye, I fucking bet they do. How’d they know Brian raped a dog?’
‘Shortie and wee Dylan saw him; they were just walking back from school, and they see that! Shortie took a run at him just as he pulls his knob out of its arse and throws it off a wall. She leathered him while Dylan ran tae get the staff. They didnae find the dog’s owner, but they’ve got the name-tag, they had tae put it down, like. Probably did it a favour – who’d want tae live after being raped by that?’
I cannae face cereal. Toast. Nothing.
‘So, what are you in for?’
‘Battered my grannie,’ John says.
‘That’s not fucking funny,’ I say.
‘Noh, she didnae think so, either.’
‘Are you fucking serious?’
‘I’m kidding, Anais, calm down – fuck! I’m sorry, okay, bad joke. Nothing major, I used tae do over shops with my mum, and my aunties, down in Leeds. That’s where I was moved from.’
‘You dinnae sound English.’
‘I umnay. My ma and all the family are from Glasgow, they just moved down there a few years ago. Mum’s got an appeal tae get out the jail in a few days, fingers crossed.’
‘I hear the homes are worse down south.’
‘They are. I was only in one, though, so I dinnae know really. They kept me there for six weeks before they sent me here.’
‘Where were you before that, like?’
‘Some loopy teacher was fostering me, until she had a breakdown. I burnt down her work, ay.’
I begin laughing, I cannae help it. That’s the best placement-breakdown story ever, mine isnae such a good one. Prozzie mum gets stabbed – it doesnae have the same funny vibe.
‘Where did she work, like?’
‘She was a teacher in a disabled school.’
‘You burnt down a disabled school?’
‘Aye. I did.’
He looks sad, and I begin laughing again – it’s so wrong you couldnae make it up. I’m beginning to like him.
‘I umnay proud of it!’
Brian’s taxi pulls up outside. He jumps up and hurries out the door.
‘You’re gonnae get battered later,’ John shouts after him.
The door slams.
‘Aye, so then I burnt her hoose down, flat tae the fucking deck, pal – you should have seen it! She’d pissed me off by then, though, d’ye know what I mean?’
We’re laughing so hard the cook looks out. Some woman pulls up outside, jumps out of her car and then posts something through the front door.
‘Christ!’ John says.
‘What?’
‘She’s a local mum, ay. They’ve got a campaign down the village tae get this place shut already. They’re worried we’ll fuck their children. Contaminate their bloodline.’
‘They should be so fucking lucky. Have you seen their kids – nobody wants tae fuck them!’
John laughs and, just like that, I know we’ll be mates.
‘Did you move here from a foster placement?’ he asks.
‘No. I’ve not been in a family for,’ I count back on my fingers, ‘about ten months. I prefer units anyway, they’re less hassle.’
It’s a relief just to chat with someone. In the cells I thought I’d go mental, I hardly ever speak to police in the interviews. Hayley used to be the best person to speak with, until she moved away to Singapore with her dad. She still sends e-mails but it’s not the same. I used to speak to Jay, but not since he got put in jail; now it’s just texts and him being weird.
‘D’ye never find a family you liked, Anais?’
‘Families are overrated. They’re like elephants.’
‘Elephants are sound, aye, with their big ears and that,’ John says.
‘Elephants are cunts.’
‘Noh, they urnay, nae danger!’
‘Aye, they are. I mean, look – if you’re an elephant, you’re only alright if you belong! Like if you’re in the pride or the tribe, or whatever the fuck it is they live in.’
‘What’s the pride?’ John asks.
‘It’s like the group, the family; if you’re in that and you’ve got a ma and a da, or some auntie elephants or some cousins – then you’re alright. They’ll play football with you. They’ll protect you if the lions come, and if you drown in the river they’ll be right sad about it; they’ll stand over your body and sing you some nice fucking songs. They’ll even bury you with branches.’
‘Aye, exactly!’ John says.
‘Aye. But if you’re an orphan? Ye’ll starve. Tae death. Alone.’
He doesnae say a thing for a good minute.
‘That’s no nice.’
‘Noh, it’s not fucking nice,’ I say.
‘What, they’ll no even feed you? What if you’re, like, a three-month-old baby elephant?’
‘You’ll stand there until you’re fucking emaciated. If you approach them, they’ll kick you in the pus, and tell you tae get tae fuck.’
‘Maybe it’s a strain on resources if they need tae feed an extra mouth?’ he tries.
‘How? Are leaves expensive?’
‘Maybe there urnay enough leaves?’
‘Aye – well, maybe it’s not that. Maybe elephant matriarchs are just mean old fucks, maybe they dinnae want tae share their bananas.’
The cook glances out the hatch and keeps wiping bunkers down. John shakes his head and grins, and it’s infectious. I have tae look away. Jay would be pissed off.
‘I umnay fooled. Not by families, and not by fucking elephants.’
‘I can see why they want you banged right up on the top floor!’
‘Aye?’
‘Aye, they’re gonnae get you up there and throw away the key, mate. And you put a pig in a coma – I mean, if she dies! If she dies, you’re fucked, mate.’
I’ve already finished my coffee, so I just look at the bottom of the mug. I’d rather be dead today. I’m bored of places, tables, windows, shite food, cheap deodorant. Same pish, different unit. Families with their wee petitions. I want to live in a hotel on a side street in Paris – I dinnae belong, not here.
I put my mug down and he rubs his hair and sighs. He’s stunning with the morning sun coming in the window.
‘I mean, they say you put a cop in a coma,’ he adds quietly.
‘Do they now?’
‘Well, first they said she was dead.’
‘Right.’
‘Then we figured they’d have put you in John Kay’s secure unit if she was dead, ay. I didnae mean tae put you on a downer. Sorry.’
He takes his bowl over to the hatch. His narrow hips are bare, and his trackie bottoms si
t low. His hair is shaved short and his skin is light brown. He wears a gold ring on his left hand, and a gold bracelet, and a chain.
‘You’re prettier than they said, like a lot prettier,’ he says.
I cannae speak. My chest’s all closed up. I want to sleep.
‘It’s really nice tae meet you, Anais. If you need anything, just gimme a shout, aye?’
He wanders up the stairs, slams one of the bathroom doors fully open. The shower blasts on and he starts singing in the bathroom. ’S some crappy dance tune that came out last month.
Steam rises out the door and I want tae go up there, follow him around with a camera. Take photos of his hands, and his sneakers, his hips, and the indent on the small of his back. I love that indent on a guy’s back.
Boner Brian. That’s disgusting. No wonder they’ve already started a petition trying to get this place shut down – I might take a walk down the village hall myself, and autograph the thing twice.
John is back out the shower already. Dance music booms out from his bedroom. He drags on jeans, and a hooded top. The whole door thing, supposedly giving you privacy if you stand to the left, doesnae work. Cannae see in from the ground floor? As if. I can see right in, especially if he’s standing in the middle of his room.
I look up at the watchtower. They can see in, but they can see everything, whether you’re left, right or in the corner.
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.