The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan Page B

unconvinced by reality, full stop. It’s fundamentally lacking in something, and nobody seems bothered. Like – if we’re in the middle of the universe, one of the universes, and there’s nae proof heaven exists, and religion is just used mostly to control people, then the real fact is: nobody knows why we’re here.
    That means really, we all come from nothing. A great big fuck-all that will never have an answer, and it bothers me. I want tae ask the woman in Tesco about it, when she says – That’ll be £4.97, I want to say to her … We’re in the middle of the universe, right now, right at this exact minute! Does that not bother you?
    It bothers me. It really fucking does. Nobody talks about it, though, that’s the thing. We live, we die, we do shit in between, the world is fucked up with murder, and hate, and stupidity; and all the time this infinite universe surrounds us, and everyone pretends it’s not there.
    I’m suspicious of silence, and reality, and social workers. I’m suspicious of teachers, and police, and psychologists, and clowns, and apples, and red meat, and cows. Cows are too big and they’re telepathic. You walk past a cow field and they all just turn as one being, and stare. And they do chase people. I’ve fucking seen them. Bovine grass-munching hippies – my arse!
    Authority figures are broken, and they’re always bullies as well. Red meat is just an arm, or a leg, or a face – without skin on it. I cannae deal with raw meat. I walk past a butcher’s and begin tae see everything as meat. Meat hands. Meat feet. Head meat, heart meat. There’s a meat moon and a meat tree. Some bloke drinking a meat margharita, in a meat bar on meat street.
    Clowns are vicious – they’re all nefarious grins – and if you hang out with a bunch of clowns in a bar, pretty soon it would turn into a horror movie. Nefarious means evil. It’s nothing to do with Rastas.
    Apples fall from trees. The sound an apple makes when it hits the ground gives me needles in my spine. Teachers, shrinks, pigs, staff, they all do the same, and so does life, without being able to think about who I would have been – if I’d actually got to be me.
    I wouldnae have been this. This was a mistake. I’m gonnae get it straight in my head again later, play the birthday game and finish it this time. It’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.
    ‘Telly off now, up tae bed, Anais.’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Did you put the big light off?’ Angus asks me.
    ‘Nope.’
    He flicks the big light back on. I put my cornflakes bowl through the hatch; that’s all I ate today, tomorrow it will be normal food. The day after that – crisps only. Angus goes through tae the office and comes back out with the keys for the watchtower. He opens a door round on the back of it.
    ‘Can I have a look up there?’ I ask him.
    ‘No, Anais. The watchtower is out of bounds.’
    I knew he wouldnae let me look up there. No fucking way.

9
    THEY WON’T LET me in the office yet, cos Isla cut herself again last night. There’s a doctor in there cleaning her up – it must have been a bad one. I want to take her something, a magazine and Lucozade, or Valium and Victorian porn.
    ‘Alright?’ Shortie asks me.
    ‘Aye, you?’
    ‘Aye.’
    It’s a truce now. I knew the fight wasnae anything personal.
    ‘Where are you going?’ John asks her.
    ‘I’m getting my head shaved.’
    ‘Dinnae get your head shaved, I like it like that,’ he says.
    ‘Twice the reason tae shave it then, ay?’
    Shortie disappears out the front door.
    ‘Anais, come on, we’ll use one of the interview rooms.’ Helen appears.
    She’s been in the interview room collecting herself. Meditating. Reading up on my putting-a-cop-in-a-fucking-coma-might-get-done-for-murder-if-she-dies case.
    What are you wearing?
    Press delete on my phone, follow Helen into the interview room.
    Strip for me, baby .
    Bolt!
    ‘Okay, Anais, sit down.’
    Helen closes the door behind us.
    That’s no