‘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.’