The Panopticon
Page 18
‘Fuckin’ posh cunts!’ Shortie shouts after them.
‘Oh, aye, that really fucking told them!’ Tash snaps.
Joan’s putting out the picnic stuff on a table when we pull up to the shore. My arms are achey. It’s hard work, that rowing shit. We drag the boat up the shore and join Joan at the table. There are egg sandwiches on brown bread. Brilliant! I’m hungry now. I dinnae eat, and then I eat. It’s not an eating disorder; it keeps me thin, though. If I didnae not eat – then I’d just always eat, and then I’d be a fat fuck. Fact.
‘We fucking beat youz.’
John swaggers along. He winks at Shortie.
‘Only by default,’ I say.
‘Youz were pish, just face it,’ Dylan says, grabbing a sandwich.
Shortie tickles him. ‘You cheeky wee shit.’
‘I’m gonnae pee myself – stop!’ he yelps, so Shortie tickles him harder.
Isla is sat quiet on a bench watching the water; me and Tash walk away while Angus attends to a hysterical Brian. I turn to glance behind us to make sure nobody’s seeing us go, and it’s alright, nobody’s looking. The loch sparkles, and the trees all along it are thick and dark; they sway as the sun begins to fade.
20
ANGUS HOLDS THE door open and taps his watch.
‘Where have you two been?’
‘Piss-stop,’ Tash says.
‘Lovely.’
‘You seem tae have cheered up. I told you, a nice day out on a boat and you’d feel a lot better,’ Angus says, quite chuffed with himself.
I grin at him and he slides the door shut behind us.
Brian is in the back-right corner with his fists balled up; he stares at the back of Dylan’s head. Brian’s clothes are still damp, even though Angus dried most of them under a hand-dryer at the bogs. We could hear them in there for half an hour, blasting the dryer while we sat and ate lunch with Joan.
Dylan is keeping quiet, and Steven seems to follow whatever Dylan decides to do. The minibus trundles out of the car park.
‘I had one like that, in the Seventies.’ Joan lights up when she sees a pristine VW. ‘That’s called glamping,’ she says tae Angus, cos the lassies at the VW have candles, and wine, and beanbags all out around where they are sitting.
Tash puts her arm around Isla.
‘Oh, it’s a nice VW. Look, it’s got the bay window. God – look at that, someone’s smashed it!’
Dylan and Steven turn to look, and Tash just stares ahead smiling.
‘Looks like the tyres need pumping up,’ Angus adds.
‘Has that lassie got a black eye?’ Dylan asks.
The posh lassies urnay looking this way. The blonde’s holding her bloody nose and her wee pal is shouting down a mobile phone. Angus glances at me in the rear-view mirror and accelerates.
‘That was a great day out,’ he says.
Joan looks back and opens her mouth to say something, but he blasts the radio.
‘Great day, people. Well, except for poor Brian, of course. We’ll deal with you when we get you home, Dylan,’ he shouts over the music.
Joan turns the radio down and Isla snuggles in for a snooze on Tash. I wish I had someone who wanted me as much as that – like really wanted me like that. Maybe I just need a wee dog, and an artist’s studio, and a side street in Paris. Not everyone needs people, ay.
I hope the staff dinnae give Dylan too hard a time for trying to drown Brian. They shouldnae be trying to make the laddies take Brian in – he’s not their problem.
‘Anais, how comes you always look classy?’
‘I dinnae, Dylan.’
‘Aye, you do. It’s not even like you wear designer clothes; you wear some weird stuff. Ay, she wears some weird stuff?’
John nods. So does Shortie.
‘But you always look – I dinnae know – like you’ve got class. D’ye know what I mean?’
‘I think so, ta.’
‘I’m serious. Like, I dinnae get it. Does someone teach you class, or are you just born with it?’
I want to cry again now. Joan and Angus share a wee glance in the front.
‘I bet you even smell of strawberries,’ Dylan says.
I turn around and give him a wee kiss on the cheek. He’s gonna grow up to be a really nice guy one day. He’s flushed, and happy, and I look out the window – there’s a world out there, you know. One that isnae here. We shouldnae be here; I shouldnae, I should be in Paris. It’s still nice, though. Today. The sound of the engine, the motorway, just a wee band of outsiders, and I feel alright, quite liked. Sort of content.
‘You’re a fucking crawler,’ John sniffs.
‘Leave him alone,’ Shortie says without turning around.
Amazingly, he listens to her. I could see them together. John leans forward and smiles nicely at me. I smile nicely back at him. He lifts up the long white gold chain from my cleavage. There’s five charms hanging on it. One is of a wee yacht. There’s also a shoe, a cat, a heart and two red cherries. He swings it to and fro.
‘That’s a nice necklace.’
He notes the designer stamp on each of the charms. He’s toting up how much it’s worth. I put my hand under my leg so he cannae see the rings. Tash’ll take them into town later and pawn them for some gear.
‘Were you wearing this earlier, Anais?’ he asks.
‘Aye.’
I take it back off him and drop it under my T-shirt.
‘Loser!’ Shortie says to him.
‘Noh, I fucking umnay,’ he snaps.
‘Aye, you are.’
‘Shut it, Shortie, ya fishy cunt. You’re all uptight cos you’re a virgin. Your fanny’s depressed.’
‘Shut it, ya clarty poof.’
‘You fancy me, ay, Shortie?’ He grins.
‘I’d rather chew my own fucking arm off than go anywhere near you, ya prick.’
‘It’s like Scarlett and Rhett,’ Joan says to Angus.
The staff snicker up the front like a couple of bairns. Joan passes back her boiled sweeties. I’m hungry again. It must be all that air on the loch. I take one and pass the bag to John. He takes four, then passes it to Dylan. He hands it over Brian’s head to Shortie. Open the back window and lean out – feel the wind on my skin.
21
THE OFFICE SMELLS of coffee and stale air from the fan-heater. Angus’s handwriting isnae too bad; he’s letting me read his files on me. He doesnae have to, but I can apply through the new policies if I want to read them now. Angus reckons all kids should be able to read any of their files, any time, without even having to apply for permission.
He leans back on Joan’s chair, puts his feet up on the desk. His boots are off, cos he has a hole in the sole. He’s wearing thick fisherman’s socks – they look cosy, but totally worn.
‘You should buy some new socks.’
‘Funny you should say that, Anais. My wife gave me money last week and ordered me tae go and buy new socks, new combat trousers and a jumper.’
‘So why are you still wearing that crap?’
‘I didnae make it as far as the clothes shops.’
‘Too stoned?’
‘I spent it on CDs instead, Anais. I cannae bring myself tae buy into capitalist society, just good music, books, and my motorbike. ’S all I need!’
It’s funny, he’s the only member of staff I’ve met in years who I really get on with.
‘Did you see what Joan put up for you?’ he asks.
‘What?’
I look up. On the wall, right in between all the religious icons, there is a pagan pentagram and a wee witch with a pointy hat.
‘Three-parts witch, Anais. Except on Sundays.’
He’s smiling away. Aye. Very funny, Angus. I keep flicking through his notes.
‘Are you doing a thesis or something?’
‘No, the notes are – well, I dinnae think the social-work department get it right all the time, and I like tae think about that. I might do a Ph.D. on it one day.’
‘
Have you ever been tae France, Angus?’
‘No, I’ve travelled a lot, mostly the East. I spent four years on a kibbutz in Israel, but no, not France. I did do Italy on my bike, though. Why are you asking?’
‘Dunno. I might join the Foreign Legion and learn a hundred ways tae kill a man.’
‘They dinnae take fifteen-year-old girls, Anais.’
‘Their loss.’
I pick up Angus’s next set of notes and skim.
The residents in the Panopticon have publicly stated that they refuse to identify themselves as ‘Cared-for Young People’. This emerged during interviews for the ‘celebration of diversity’ survey. When our student Eric asked the group why they do not identify with the term ‘Cared-for Young People’, they cited among their reasons that: ‘cared-for’ was blatantly ‘taking the piss’ (their words). They also stated that ‘Young People’ sounded ‘shite’ (their word). They then refused Eric’s possible suggestion of ‘Young Offenders in Holistic Rehabilitation’ or a return to ‘Children in Residential Care’.
Staff at the Panopticon were recently informed that ‘Clients’ is going to remain the term used to describe residents. Eric informed our ‘Clients’ of this decision. One girl stated that Clients was inappropriate, as ‘Clients have the right to respond’. The residents do not think they have this right. If a complaint is made, it has to be done officially or it is not allowed. This is especially the case regarding historical abuse or social-work department failures. The right to respond is cited in the freedom-of-speech human-rights Act. I propose to explore this area of legislation further.
Several Panopticon residents refer to themselves as Inmates. They say this because they believe they are in training for the ‘proper jail’ (their words). While this may seem like negative or dramatic terminology, the reality is that up to seventy per cent of residents leaving care do end up either in prison, or prostitution, mentally ill or dead.
I discussed last week’s survey and group discussion with my newest ‘Client’, Anais Hendricks. Anais has been in the Panopticon for seven weeks now; she was relocated from Valleyfield Children’s Unit. When I asked what terminology she would use to describe herself personally, she used a term popular for ‘Clients’ with a background such as hers. The term Anais used was ‘Lifer’. The young people who refer to themselves as ‘Lifers’ do so because they have always been in (care) and/or adopted (with subsequent adoption breakdowns) and they now think they will be in care for the remainder of their upbringing. I suggested to Anais that it was up to her whether that term meant her whole life. On reflection, it was probably rather insensitive of me – it is unlikely that Anais will ever become part of a family unit now. However, the worry is that this term seems to infer a continued institutionalisation after childhood. The effects of long-term institutionalisation are something I hope to explore further. I will continue to collate information as research towards a Ph.D.
Anais is booked for a day out with her social worker tomorrow. She is being taken on a trip to where she was born, to try to help her gain a stronger sense of her own identity. She will then attend an end of ‘Client Care’ review, as her social worker is leaving. No more situations have arisen within the unit as of 5.07 before changeover today.
Angus Everlen
Put the report back down. I’m feeling edgy. I was sitting in bed last night, feeling creepy – the building was too creaky, and I could hear someone crying and I couldn’t work out who it was. The watchtower window had a wee light glowing in it, and the night-nurse came out. She stood there on the top landing looking at all the doors, then she turned around and said something. Like to someone inside the tower.
‘See last night, Angus, was it just the night-nurse on duty?’
‘Aye, and Brenda, but she was asleep in the staff flat downstairs.’
‘So she was in the watchtower on her own?’
‘Aye, who else would be there, Anais?’
The experiment, Angus. That is who would be there. They’re closing in. I can feel them all the time. The police have been quiet, but they’re biding their time, and PC Craig, in that coma, she knows all about them. They are standing around her bed. Five of them. No noses, matching hats, matching trousers, whispering – let go! They’re coming for me next.
22
IT IS SO weird to step into our lift, to press up, to whizz past our floor, our flat, our stair. I could stop the lift now and go and look at our front door, but then I’d hear other people in there and that wouldn’t be right.
What is in our old flat is this: me and Teresa, sitting on the sofa, eating popcorn and watching a DVD. There is no policeman in the hallway, no Pat grabbing me up and carrying me out the door like a wee wizened blank-eyed monkey.
The lift keeps going up. Past the safe-house. Straight to Pat’s. I haven’t been back to see her – in how long? Years. Look straight up above me and the hatch is still in the roof. I have climbed out that hatch a hundred times, crouched down on the roof and waited in the dark until someone got in and pressed up. Then I’d surf up, arms out, metal wires whizzing by, and when the other lift came up – I’d leap right out.
There’s nothing like it. Jumping out into empty space, that wee gap between the lifts where you could fall and die. The buzz is fucking epic. My old neighbour fell one time, but his jeans caught on a metal hook and saved him. He dangled there for ages, with one ear half-ripped off and everyone shouting up the shaft, until the ambulance got here. After, everyone said he should become the face of the jeans company, cos their jeans saved his life.
Ninth floor. Tenth floor. Up. I’m wearing a vintage Dylan T-shirt I bought with my clothes allowance. Wee Dylan asked me who the guy with his name was, cos he hadnae heard of him before. He told me he was named after the rabbit in The Magic Roundabout, and he’s never listened to music much, let alone old stuff.
Fix my hair, and hum that Dylan song – the one about being on your own. It was Teresa’s favourite track. The lift pings open, nineteenth floor. Step out and knock. My nails are really clean. The flat-next-door’s telly blares – some old western movie, gunshot rings out down the hall, then hooves pound.
‘Oh my God!’ Pat shouts at her door.
‘Hiya, Aunty Pat.’
‘Oh, come in, look at you? Come in, come in. Oh, Anais, aren’t you growing up drop-fucking-dead gorgeous! Look at you! Excuse the shit-pit, darling.’
Follow her in, and gangster rap is booming down from the flat above.
‘Fucking prick!’ she shouts up.
She bangs on her ceiling with a broom, but the music doesnae go down. I think he turns it up. She shoves a pile of wigs off the sofa. Pauline, who used to be Paul, is unconscious on the armchair.
‘He’s been on a binge, I doubt he’ll wake up again today. The bastard keeps nicking my good wigs, and he goes mental if I don’t call him her! You should see it when he goes mental – fucking hormones! Honestly, you’ve never seen the like. And I don’t actually mean it, I’ve always called Paul, Paul – you know, Anais, I’m not doing it to be contrary! He still looks like Paul to me. They’re pert wee tits, though, look.’ She lifts up his top. Pauline has perfect silicones.
I giggle. It’s good to see Pat, I cannae believe I’ve been away for so long.
‘So, is anyone giving you hassle?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Are you in trouble with the police?’
‘Not really.’
‘Liar, what’s that?’ She lifts up my jeans and has a gander at my tag.
Avoid her gaze and check out her paintings instead. She’s got even more than when I was here last time. They’re all over her flat; some are even painted straight onto the wall. There’s a stunning black lassie, naked, smiling at something. There’s a painting of a parrot on Pauline’s shoulder, and another one of her in a red glittery dress. Then there’s the penises. All kinds of shapes. Every kind there is. Some have faces on them, or top hats. Lots of them are smoking cigarettes. Each is deformed. They a
re all preposterous.
‘Fat Mike could get that tag off for you,’ she says.
‘That’s what I was hoping. Is he still around?’
‘Aye, Mike’ll outlive us all!’
We laugh. Fat Mike’s a genius of the underworld, but he looks dumb as. He’s clever that way – it’s how he’s got away with it all so long.
‘He’s cutting hair now as well,’ Pat says.
‘What?’
‘Aye, he was up last night for a doubler: me and Pauline. And he told us – he’s decided to find his inner hairdresser.’
Pauline turns over and stops snoring.
‘Can you picture it, Anais? Mike cutting your hair with a pie in one hand and a tinny in the other.’
She’s pushing my hair back, checking out my clothes and my skin.
‘Teresa would be so proud, Anais. You’re not on the game yet, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Good, that’s not for you, either. You’re built for better, mark my words. This shitty wee life’ll not hold you back. I’d place money on it. You could be a model – or a madam. In fact, if you wanted to train in one of the best dungeons in London, I know a lovely one in Shoreditch.’
She rummages in her bag and hands a card to me; it’s plain black with just a telephone number.
‘They do dominatrix stuff, high-class and kink only. D’ye know how much they make in London for the good stuff?’
‘No.’
‘You could clean up and buy a place outright by the time you were in your twenties. It’s a classy establishment. If you ever consider going on the game, Anais – you go there and you tell them I sent you.’
‘Nah, Pat. Anyway, Jay is getting out – in a few weeks. We might give it a go, ay.’
‘Jay? He’s not coming back here, Anais – I’d be surprised anyway. He’s in debt, and I mean a lot of fucking debt. You remember Mark, don’t you?’
‘Aye.’
‘He owes the troll a bomb, that’s what I heard.’
Pat rifles through Pauline’s cardigan and takes out a wadge of notes.