The Panopticon (2 page)

We’re just in training for the proper jail. Nobody talks about it, but it’s a statistical fact. That or on the game. Most of us are anyway – but not everybody. Some go to the nuthouse. Some just disappear.

The policeman unbuckles his seatbelt and checks there’s nothing worth choring on the dash.

‘Here we go.’ He opens his door.

One of the girls whistles, long and low.

‘Less of that,’ he glares up.

‘I wasnae whistling at you, pal,’ she says.

The baseball-cap lassie spits.

‘Dinnae give your mind a treat, we meant the hot one!’

They’re still giggling when he rams his hat on and clicks open my door. The policeman guides me up, hand on my head, turns me around – beeps the car alarm on.

The blonde girl lets her long globule of saliva fall away. The polis walk either side of me. I keep my shoulders back, my gaze even – almost serene. I dinnae walk with a swagger, just a certainty. As we reach the main door, I look up and it passes between us: the glint, it’s strong as sunlight and twice as bright. They can feel it in me. It can start a riot in seconds, that glint. It could easily kill a man.

I give the lassies my sweetest smile and lift an imaginary hat as a salute.

‘Ladies!’

The blonde girl grins at me. The policeman takes my elbow and steers me under the porch where they cannae see, and he rings the bell and I stamp my feet lightly, once, twice. I already know what it’ll smell like in there. Bleach. Cleaning products. Musty carpets. Cheap shite. Every unit smells the same.

There’s wire through the front windows but not the side ones. They’ll be easier tae smash. I try to breathe easy, but I want these fucking cuffs off, and my neck aches, and I’m starving. I want a milkshake and a vege-burger with cheese.

The policeman rings the bell again. My heart’s going. I’ve moved fifty-one fucking times now, but every time I walk through a new door I feel exactly the same – two years old and ready tae bite.

It’s open-plan inside. Nowhere to hide. That sucks. The Officer in Charge waddles towards us; she’s got a shiny bowl-cut, stripy socks, flat red shoes, and a ladybird brooch on her cardy.

‘Hello, hello, you must be Anais. Come in, officers, please come in. Did you get lost?’ she ushers us through the door.

‘Noh, we’re later than intended, sorry about that. We didnae want tae hold Anais’s transfer up, but it couldnae be helped,’ the policeman says.

He smiles and takes his hat off. He’s such a two-faced fuck.

‘We thought Anais was arriving yesterday,’ the Officer in Charge says.

She witters to the polis and I trail along behind them, turning around once, twice, looking at every single detail
– it’s important to place where everything is. So nobody can walk up behind you.

This whole building is in a big curve, like the shape of a C, and along the curve on the top floor are six locked black doors. The two landings below have another six identical doors on each floor, but they’ve been painted white, and none of them are closed. I heard they dinnae close the doors in here except after lights out. It’s meant tae be good for us, ay. How is that good? Even from down here you can see bits of people’s posters in their rooms, and a kid sitting on a bed, and one putting on his socks.

Each of those bedrooms used to be a cell. Embedded in each door frame there are wee black circles where the bars were sawn off. I wonder why they kept nutters in cells? I suppose it was so each inmate could only see the watchtower, they couldnae see their neighbours. Divide and conquer.

Kids begin to step out of their rooms and look down. I count them out of the corner of my vision – one, two, three, four, five. A boy with curly hair and glasses begins to kick the Perspex balcony outside his door. I dinnae look up. There will be time for all the nice fucking hello-and-how-do-you-dos later.

Right in the middle of the C shape, as high as the top floor, is the watchtower. There is a surveillance window going all the way around the top and you cannae see through the glass, but whoever, or whatever, is in there can see out. From the watchtower it could see into every bedroom, every landing, every bathroom. Everywhere.

This place has experiment written all over it.

My social worker said they were gonnae make all the
nuthouses and prisons like this, once. The thought of it pleased her, I could tell. Helen reckons she’s a liberal, but really – she’s just a cunt.

The ground floor is mostly open-plan; there’s a lounge to the right of the main door, and opposite that four tables make a dining space in the corner. Three doors lead off the main room, probably to the laundry, interview rooms, maybe a games room – if that’s a pool table I can see through there! There’s a telly screwed to the wall so nobody can chore it. The DVD player will be in the office, same reason.

They’ve painted everything magnolia and it all smells like shite deodorant, and stale fag smoke, and BO, and skanky, fucking-putrid soup.

At the end of the main room, opposite the door to the office, there is a wee ornate wooden door, one of the only original things left in here. I’ll investigate what’s through there later. This place would have been nicer once, more Gothic. It’s been social-work-ised, though, it’s depressing as fuck.

The polis come tae a halt outside the office door, and the Officer in Charge goes in. I scan the ground floor, and tap my feet, and clink my cuffs together until the policewoman leans over and says:
Stop
.

The office door opens, and they let us in. The Officer in Charge must have been waiting on the staff finishing their changeover, but it’s obvious they havenae. There’s too many staff in here, last shifts, and this shift. I dinnae like it. I feel bare, like my skin’s missing. My skin doesnae even feel like mine half the time. They shouldnae be putting me through a handover with this many staff in the office.

‘Anais, sorry, I didnae introduce myself properly. I am
the Officer in Charge, my name is Joan. D’ye need a drink or anything?’

‘No.’

She looks at the polis and they shake their heads.

‘Okay, Anais, this is Eric, he is our student at the moment. This is Brenda, this is Ed, and this is your support worker, Angus.’

They all nod in turn, smiling. Ed has a frizzy ginger mullet and wee round specs. Slick. Ginger isnae the problem (all the hottest girls are redheads), it’s not even the frizz; it’s the tone, a pissy-orange colour, and it’s waist-length and – a mullet.

The student prick is trying to dress like he’s a casual. Twat! Brenda appears to be on Prozac and Valium, her eyes have that glazed dullness about them. My support-worker guy, Angus, has long green dreadlocks and knee-high Doc boots.

‘I do apologise, you’ll need tae excuse us – sorry, you caught us in between shifts. We were hoping to try and finish the changeover before you arrived,’ Joan says.

The policeman puts my files down.

‘Without disclosing anything directly, of course – can you verify that Anais has been released without charge?’ she asks.

‘We haven’t charged Miss Hendricks, but she is under investigation. We need her school uniform in this, and you’ll need tae do it as soon as we leave. We cannae give her the opportunity tae tamper with possible evidence.’

The policeman hands a clear plastic bag with a label on it to Joan.

‘D’ye not normally do this at the station?’

‘Miss Hendricks cited many, many regulations while she was detained. These included her right to only have her clothes removed, for a full search, if she has a female social worker present. She has this stipulated on her file.’

‘Why’s that?’ Joan asks.

‘There were previous allegations from Miss Hendricks about treatment during searches. We did try to get her social worker but she is apparently abroad, and of course we are only concerned for her well-being, so we decided tae wait until we brought her here.’

Old skelp-your-pus sounds well convincing, I almost fucking believe him myself.

‘That’s not a problem, officer.’

‘I’ve arranged for our lab technician tae come out tomorrow. She’ll do the final tests and collect Miss Hendricks’s school uniform.’

He’s shifting from foot to foot, he wants out of here – good!

‘Can you tell us if the police officer’s condition is stable, at least?’ Joan asks.

‘For now.’

‘It is a coma, though?’

‘An acute coma.’

‘Is she expected to come out of it soon?’

Joan’s not looking at me. All the staff are, carefully, not looking at me. Except the student. He’s fucking fascinated.

‘No, she’s not, they dinnae know if she will.’

‘But you didnae charge Anais?’

‘No. We’ve no actual evidence that Miss Hendricks was responsible for the assault. Not yet.’

Joan puts the plastic bag in her drawer and signs a release form.

I hold my hands out and the policewoman unlocks my cuffs. It feels so good to be able to rub my wrists. Imagine a bath – that would be too good. A great big fuck-off thing on legs with a huge window next tae it, and bubbles, and views of the sky. Imagine a bathroom like that, with fluffy white towels and a bolt on the door.

Joan ticks more forms for the police, then they leave. Crusty reaches over to shake my hand.

‘Hello, Anais, I’m your support worker, Angus. I’m really pleased tae meet you.’

‘Hiya.’

‘Are you no gonnae take a seat?’ he asks.

I sit down.

The polis get intae their car, doors slam. The sky is azure out there now; azure means blue – it’s nothing to do with Aztecs. The pigmobile trundles up the drive. Smell ye later, wankstains. The statues on those pillars are stark against the sky – the gargoyle’s telling the flying cat a secret. His wings lift in the breeze.

‘So Helen – it is Helen, your social worker?’

I nod and Joan continues.

‘Good, Helen is not due tae arrive for at least another few weeks. She is really, really sorry that she has been held up like this, but it is completely out of her control. She asked me tae pass on her apologies.’

The cat’s wings flex, just lightly.

Sit up straight and stare. It definitely moved, or it could be a flashback. There’s nae tracers, though. I get
the flashbacks a lot lately, I’m beginning to worry I didnae make it back from my last bad trip.

Mental note – quit tripping on schooldays. Keep it for special occasions: bar mitzvahs, pancake Tuesday, fucking Easter. Jay told me gangsters used tae dip their pinkies in liquid LSD so they were permanently tripping, but the clever bit was, if they got done, they only went to the nuthouse. It’s because if you’re permanently tripping, you’re legally classified as insane. In the States, even if you only take acid like ten times or something, they still reckon you’re certifiable. They’d think I was well gone.

I hate this. Handovers. New places. Staff. Files. What I want is a hole under the ground to live in. Or a treehouse. Somewhere nobody can see me.

My stuff’s not arrived yet; well, it isnae in this office anyway. I asked for something other than bin bags – to move my stuff in – once.

‘What would you like, Anais?’

‘Matching Italian leather suitcases? Designer. Vintage if possible. And a trunk, a big old leather one with my name on it.’

They thought I was being wide. To be honest, I would have settled for a fucking rucksack! I’m not paying for one, though. Why the fuck should I have to pay to keep moving?

‘Your room is forty-nine. The fourth floor is
totally
out of bounds for all clients right now. You will have access tae arts groups and counselling through your support worker. We practise a holistic approach tae client care in the Panopticon.’

Joan’s been talking at me the whole time I’ve been sat here.

‘Holistic?’

‘Aye, that means we take into consideration all the needs of our clients.’

‘All of them?’

‘The ones we consider healthy.’

‘Is it healthy getting locked up twenty-four hours a day, like?’

‘You know why secure units are necessary, Anais, and you are not locked up in the main unit anyway.’

‘Does that mean I umnay being put in the secure unit?’

‘We cannae place anyone in there yet; there are delays because there’s asbestos in the roof. The whole secure-unit renovation has been postponed, until we resolve funding issues.’

‘Right.’

My heartbeat’s fast, fast, fast. This is a score. I was sure they were gonnae get me locked up on the top floor straight away. This buys time. Maybe I’ll no be dead for my sixteenth birthday. I’d rather be dead than locked up 24/7 – cos if that happens, the experiment will have finally, totally fucking got me.

‘Am I getting put up there when it opens?’

‘Well, let’s hope not, Anais. But if you do get placed there at some point in the future, then rest assured you would actually be in one of the best small secure units in the UK.’

‘Spiff-fucking-spoff.’

She just looks at me.

You dancer! It isnae open yet. Thank God, thank Jesus and Mary and Buddha. The student is fascinated. Subtle much? He wants tae measure me up – turn me around,
knock on my head and peer inside my ear to see what’s marching around in there. What a fucking womble!

‘Are you gonnae ask me if I did it?’ I ask him.

He doesnae know where to look.

‘No, Anais! We are not going tae discuss it here.’ Joan stands up.

‘Aye? Well, he obviously wants tae, he wants tae so bad he needs put on a leash.’

‘That’s enough,’ she snaps.

She’s big, Joan. If she sat on you in a restraint or in a riot, you’d fucking feel it. Mental note – avoid bowl-cut next time there’s a riot.

Mullet’s reading a book in Chinese. He has skinny legs and knobbly fingers, and the way he holds his shoulders isnae what let me know. It’s just something that’s there. I cannae explain it, but I can usually tell on sight these days. Mullet doesnae do adults. No way. I’d put fucking money on it. Sometimes I think they should take me around schools and kids’ clubs, like a sniffer dog, but not for drugs – for paedos. They’d never believe me if I told them? Hello, my name’s Anais Hendricks and I can tell a paedo on sight – usually. Aye, right, they’d believe me! I can, though, I can tell if a lassie’s been abused just by looking at her. They wouldnae believe it, though, there’s nae point in telling them. Not about that. Not about the dreams. Not about flying cats.