The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan Page A

tossers.’
    She fucks off upstairs. The Japanese presenter is gesturingexcitedly cos the Sumo Baby Champion is about tae be decided. The last two babies face each other: one is in a green jumpsuit, the other baby is wearing a headband. All the parents get really excited and clap. Bets are in. Yen flash up; it’s big money. My cash is on Green, he’s a fat one. Fat babies rule.
    The camera pulls out to a big gym hall with, like, two hundred other sumo babies. They’ve all been set up in twos, and each baby stares at the other until one baby cries. The first baby to cry is the winner, gaining honour for their family and grace for their future. They’re down to the final two contestents now. The mums step back and wait, but neither baby does a thing.
    The first mum yanks her baby’s hair to try to make him cry, and then the judge guy makes faces at the two of them and flaps his hands around. Nothing. Especially not from Green, he doesnae even fidget – he just stares. He’s Buddha, but harder. He is the total nut. If I ever had a baby, I’d want one just like him.
    The presenter gestures at the two babies, and the other parents are all trying to see over each other’s heads, as the judge snaps at one of the mums.
    The judge flaps his hands. Green’s bored. He’s clearly intelligent beyond the idiocies of social decorum and he quite obviously doesnae give a flying fuck about the honour of his family. The baby opposite him starts crying and his mum lifts him up, shows him off. They reckon he’s the winner, but he’s not. Green’s the winner as far as I’m concerned. That attitude’ll take him far one day, he’ll see.
    I still keep feeling like I’m shrinking, but I umnay giving into the fear. All I have tae do is breathe and bide my time,and this will pass. I shouted about the shrinking – at a panel of social workers a few years ago. That started a great big ball of shit. Antipsychotics. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Flowcharts. Borderline personality. Hooroo-kooroo. Fucking murk! That’s when the social work started.
    ‘We think you have a borderline personality, Anais.’
    ‘It’s better than no personality.’
    Wrong. Apparently – no personality is the correct answer. Borderline not so much. It was all cos of that canoe trip and Gaarwine, the instructor. The social workers sat about after Gaarwine had me charged; they were all sipping herbal tea, and acting disappointed, cos that trip could really have healed somebody.
    ‘He was traumatised!’
    ‘I’m traumatised.’
    ‘But he was really traumatised.’
    ‘How – did he find his ma dead?’
    They didnae like that.
    Identity problem. Funny that. Fifty odd moves, three different names, born in a nuthouse to a nobody that was never seen again. Identity problem ? I dinnae have an identity problem – I dinnae have an identity, just reflex reactions and a disappearing veil between this world and the next.
    Someone’s crying, upstairs.
    Tash comes out of Isla’s room and goes along the landing. There’s a hoot outside, then another, long and low. That must be Britney. I go to the window and rub it, but I cannae see much; it’s weird that hooting out there, coming from nowhere.
    I wonder what my mum, or dad, would look like? I’ve never even seen a photo of someone I’m related to. I dinnaeknow a name, there’s just a great big void, black as night. I dinnae understand how they cannae work out where you’re from by, like, your blood, or your eye colour – or the way you hold a knife and fork or something?
    ‘It’s impossible, Anais.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Totally impossible. You have to accept that you will never meet anyone you are related to, or see a picture of them, or hear their voice, or know what their name is, or where they live, or who they are. You have to accept this, so you can be well and whole. You do want to be well and whole, don’t you?’
    ‘Fuck off!’
    I dinnae trust social workers or their stupid stories. I’m a bit