What she really didnae like, though, was that I wouldnae stick tae the uniform. No hair extensions, no tracksuits, no gold jewellery. That really pissed her off. The first time she saw me in a pillbox hat and sailor shorts, you’d have thought I’d just slapped her granny.
She wanted a case that was more rough-looking. More authentic, so she could take me for meetings at that bistro near hers, where her posh pals would see and think she was dead cutting-edge and that. India’s the best place for her. I hope she gets a fatal (yet slow-acting) stomach bug and just fucking dies.
I dunno why I was remembering Hayley earlier. She went. Everyone goes. Everything does. Then we’re all just dead. Dead as fuck and there is no heaven. Probably there isnae. Probably there is nothing. Just some gimp sat waiting for you with a bunch of notes.
‘So, newly dead person, that time you did that thing — we have it right here on note 1000000098775f2.987,87. What exactly was that about?’
The watching feeling is getting worse.
I am not an experiment.
I am not a stupid joke, or a trippy game, or an experiment. I will not go insane. Something bad is gonnae happen, though. I can feel it. It’s in the way that crisp bag has faded from the rain. I am not an experiment. If I keep saying it, I’ll start believing it. I have to try. I am not an experiment. It doesnae sound convincing. It sounds stupid.
Try it in German. Ich bin nicht eine experiment. My German’s shite. Inhale slowly to the count of four, look hard at the tip of my nose and try again. This time I go for an official BBC broadcaster circa-1940 accent.
Today, one finds one is not, in actual fact, a social experiment. One is a real person. This is real actual skin as seen containing the bodily organs of a real actual human being with a heart and a soul and dreams.
It’s true that I came from real people once too, and they were a jolly old sort, with no naked psycho-ness in any way.
I, the young Miss Anais, understand wholly that I am just a human being that nobody is interested in. No experiment. No outside fate. I am not that important, and that is just fine by me. I propose a stiff upper lip and onward Christian soldiers, quick-bloody-march! This is Anais Hendricks, telling the nation: to be me is really quite spiff-fucking-spoff, lashings of love, your devoted BBC broadcaster since 1938.
18
‘JOAN, I DINNAE like boats.’
She’s not listening. I’ve said it like ten times, but she’s not having any of it.
‘You will like this one.’
‘I’ll fucking hate it, I’m not going.’
‘Your social worker signed you up, Anais.’
‘This isnae how I intend tae spend my weekend.’
‘Tough titties.’
‘You cannae say that!’ I look at her, appalled.
‘I just did, and you are going, even if we have tae gaffer-tape your hands and wrists and throw you in. You’re going. And you’ll like it.’
Something is up with Joan. I heard that someone she knows is dying. Like cancer or something. She’s been snappy lately.
‘Is it a canoe?’ I ask her.
‘No, it’s a boat. You will be in with Tash, Shortie and Isla. You just have paddles and you go around and have fun. You know, like normal people?’
‘I’m not normal people.’
‘So, enjoy it as someone who is not normal. Just have some fun!’
‘It isnae a canoe?’
‘It’s nothing like a canoe. Now go and get some jeans on, and wear a jumper and a jacket because it might rain.’
Joan jangles the minibus keys; her key-ring is a little monkey with eyes that light up. I cannae believe I have to go to some loch in the middle of fuck-knows-where and float. On a boat. I dinnae like boats. I’m with vampires — they never travel by boat, not unless there is a special hold for them tae sleep in when the sun comes up.
‘Is their a hold underneath the boat?’ I ask Joan.
‘It’s a boat, Anais, not a fucking yacht.’ She mutters the last bit as she goes back into the office. Cheeky bitch. She sticks her head out of the office door and watches me trailing towards the stairs. I sit down on the bottom one.
‘I hate boats.’
‘Don’t be a scaredy-cat, Anais. Now, Helen is coming tae take you tae Warrender Institute, to meet Mr Jamieson as arranged — did she tell you?’
‘Aye. Can you give me money for cigarettes?’
‘If you go and get dressed, Anais, and get into the minibus, then yes, there will be some outing money allocated.’
Joan’s not stupid. If she gives me cash now, I’ll be away. She’s getting quite cunning. I’m impressed.
‘What did they say about my lab-test results?’ I ask her.
‘The blood was not PC Craig’s blood. Did Angus not tell you?’
‘No. Does that mean they know I didnae do it?’
‘No, it just means they are now looking for other proof. Do you know whose blood was on your skirt?’
‘It was a dead squirrel, I found it down the woods.’
‘Did you hurt a squirrel?’ she asks slowly.
‘Aye, Joan, I koshed a fucking squirrel, ay. Hate the cunts.’
‘Dinnae use that word, Anais, it’s demeaning tae women.’
‘Get a grip. Can you just ask them tae check if the blood on my skirt was human?’
‘I’ll ask, although I’m not sure they will do that, unless you give them a good reason tae do so. We can talk about it later, now hurry, please, we need tae leave in ten minutes!’
Angus breezes in. ‘Morning, Anais, Joan.’
‘Morning, Angus,’ I say.
Tash is pleating Isla’s hair. Brian’s sat in front, John is in the back with a cap pulled down over his face. Dylan and Steven are huddled together in the middle. I am standing at the minibus door, smoking a roll-up I cadged off Angus. Double-drag, until I get dizzy.
‘Morning, campers, it’s going to be a good one!’ Angus climbs up intae the front.
‘Move,’ Tash says to Brian. He scurries to the back and sits two seats behind Dylan. Tash and Isla sit together at the front double-seat, holding hands. Shortie runs out and jumps in.
‘I cannae wait,’ she says, ‘out of this shit-pit for a day!’
Eric is stood at the door like an anxious dad watching his kids go off to school.
‘Bye, Anais, have a nice time!’ he calls.
I climb in and slam the door.
‘Leave it on its hinges, please, Anais,’ Joan admonishes and she starts the engine. Shortie slides over and I sit down next to her. She grins happily.
Eric waves at us and wee Dylan sticks his fingers up at him as the minibus pulls away. Joan turns the radio on and everyone opens their windows and pulls their fags out. You urnay meant to smoke in social-work property any more, but Joan’s quite good like that. She chain-smokes like fuck.
‘Can I have one of yours?’
Shortie grins at me. ‘Uh-huh!’
‘How many miles is it, Joan?’ Isla asks.
‘It’s eighty miles away.’
‘That’ll take all fucking day. Can you do a ton in this?’ John asks, still under his hat.
‘Can we ditch Boner Brian?’ Dylan pitches up.
‘We won’t have name-calling today,’ Joan scolds. ‘And you and Brian and young Steven will be in a boat with John today. We are looking for teamwork.’
‘Seriously, we should just kick him out the back when we hit the motorway,’ Dylan mutters.
‘Have you got a boner, Brian?’ Steven asks Brian quietly, and then sniggers.
‘He’ll probably rape a fish in the loch,’ Dylan says.
‘D’ye reckon this claptrap could reach eighty?’ John asks, but the staff are pretending not to listen now.
‘Can you swim?’ Steven asks Brian.
‘Who are you gonnae go in a boat with?’ Shortie pops her head into the front and asks the staff.