I posted the letters to the prison this morning. I came back to the unit and dressed all in black. Black leggings, black polo neck, black shoes, black jacket. I have black sunglasses. I’m wearing just a touch of mascara and lip-gloss and my hair is pinned back. I’ve cried every night since I got out of the safe-house. I keep having nightmares about it, but I umnay blocking it out. Not with grass, or pills, or anything.
‘It’s been good tae work with you, Anais,’ Angus says.
‘Is that all?’
He nods. We go out to his car. The social-work cars drive out first, then me and Shortie in Angus’s car. John, Dylan and Steven are in with Joan. The twins, Stewart and Bethany, are with their foster-mum in the car behind us. Isla’s social worker is there and some woman counsellor Isla used to see.
‘Why’s Isla’s mum not coming?’ Shortie asks.
‘I dinnae know, Shona.’
It’s not a big cemetery, the headstones urnay flash — it isnae like the ones in town. There’s trees, though, and birds singing. Shortie and I walk behind Angus. I am holding Shortie’s hand and so is John, and I cannae cry.
‘Dylan did it, ay.’
Shortie squeezes my hand and passes me a package, a stiff envelope. The staff urnay looking just now, so it’s the ideal time. I slip it into my pocket and thank God that Teresa wanted tae take me abroad once upon a time.
‘When did he do it?’
‘When the staff were trying tae get Brian down. Dylan kept it hidden for you, cos he knew Joan would be in your room packing.’
At the top of the cemetery is an open grave that’s just been dug; there’s no headstone yet. Everything feels swirly: the sky, the air, the wind. Isla’s coffin is waiting to be lowered. I dinnae know what a good coffin would look like, but this one looks cheap. They have only buried her because the foster-mum and the social workers said the twins should have somewhere tae visit her when they are older. Normally she’d just get burnt. This is better, I think. Is it better? None of it is better really, there is nothing good in this, for me. Not one thing. I want her back.
There are six sashes. We wanted tae hold one, but they wouldnae let us. The staff are doing it, and some folk from the church that Isla didnae even know.
We stop when we get to the grave, and a leaf falls from a tree. Most of the trees are bare, but that one still has leaves. It spirals down as the Minister makes his speech.
The experiment are here. In their car, waiting. They will follow the police car with me and PC Arnold, for four fucking hours all the way up tae the northern isles.
John is jittery. So’s Dylan. So’s Shortie. The Minister turns the page and continues to talk.
‘What did you give them?’ I ask Shortie, and she shrugs.
‘Everything,’ she says.
‘In my whole stash?’ I ask.
She nods. I try to add up what was left in my stash, but I cannae mind. It was a lot — and it was Pat’s industrial-strength shit as well.
‘They took it all?’
She nods.
Dylan is staring at the Minister. Steven is as well. All it would take today would be a speck of dust falling, but they’re ready, I can feel it.
Bethany and Stewart throw flowers onto the casket. We have one each tae throw down as well. I cannae believe Isla is in there; it doesnae seem real, but it is. The sun is bright over the graveyard, and it begins to snow.
‘Isla knows how tae make an exit. That’s the prettiest snowfall I’ve ever seen,’ John says.
Shortie takes my hand.
‘So we will return now to pay respects and thanks, Amen.’
The twins are pelting after a rabbit — their wee legs are getting stronger, they’re not as chubby now.
Joan chats to the Minister as we walk back towards the cars.
‘Was that it?’ Shortie asks.
‘That was it,’ I say.
‘Your boyfriend’s waiting,’ John says to me.
He points at the police car — we look across, give him a wee wave. He is pissed off. John Kay’s is not even on the mainland; it’s on an island they dinnae tell the public about because they dinnae want press, or vigilantes, turning up.
I dinnae see anything on the way back. I hurt, really fucking ache, for Isla and for Tash, and for Teresa. It’s all catching up with me, I feel fucking old. We drive through the Panopticon’s gates, and I take one last imaginary photograph. I’ll put it up in my imaginary gallery later. It’s of Malcolm, and he’s wearing my star-shaped sunglasses.
There is food on tables, and the watchtower is glittering, and we are reflected in it, as always. The Minister is standing up in front of everyone.
‘It’s so good of you tae come out and say something, Minister,’ Joan says.
‘Not at all. It’s times like these where we all have tae do our best, and what we have tae think about in this hard, difficult time is the light — we have tae be able to strive for the good, not for the darkness.’
‘Tell her now,’ I whisper to Shortie.
‘Today is a sad day for all of us. When someone is taken away so young, it is hard to understand that this is God’s will, and God’s will alone can decide when it is our time to go. We must have the courage tae let Jesus guide us in our hours of sadness!’
John’s legs are jigging up and down like mad, and he is clenching and unclenching his fist. Shortie grins at me — she’s got really bright eyes now — I can feel her watching me without even looking back. Look at the watchtower: look at it! Watching all this, it’s sick. The experiment are behind that glass, drinking tea, waiting for me tae leave; they are taking us out one by fucking one. One raises his mug of tea.
‘God knew what was best for Isla, a lost sheep in his flock.’
The glint’s here — in the room, passing around the kids, one by one, Angus sees it first. And the twins’ foster-mum is walking out the door with the twins. Shortie has warned her tae go, to take them out of here now. This isnae something for them to see.
Now it’s just the staff, the Minister and us.
‘God is with Isla, as he was always with Isla.’
‘Was he with her when she fucking died, on her own, up those fucking stairs?’ John says.
‘Ssssh,’ Joan admonishes, and she’s looking up too, catching it. Angus is trying tae see where I am, but the kids have closed around him and Joan.
‘We must ask God tae walk beside us!’
‘Fuck — you’re God!’
Shortie raises a chair above her head, just as Mullet clicks that the screws that are normally holding all the furniture down urnay there.
‘Joan, watch out!’ he shouts.
‘FUCK YOUZ!’ Dylan screams.
A chair crashes through the window. John tears a pool-cue off the wall and smashes out the strip-lights. Dylan is taking a run at Angus, and I am running up the stairs two by two — behind me the new girl has a fire extinguisher and she’s battering in the office door. Windows are being smashed all around the main room. Joan is on John’s back, restraining him, and I am reaching into the bathroom where I stashed it, picking up a glass bottle — lighting the rag with a match. It catches.
‘Shortie!’
I raise the lit bottle tae her and launch it — up, up. It turns once, twice, arcs towards the surveillance window.
‘This … this is how we fucking say goodbye tae our own!’