The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan Read Free Book Online

I take the piece of paper and turn to walk away and Mark goes to walk in step with me. I stop and stare at him.
    ‘I’ll get away the now then, Anais. See you later, ay.’
    He crosses the road and smirks back at me. Loser. Fucking troll. I stuff the bit of paper with the address in my pocket, and unwrap my speed. What a weird wee envelope. He’s folded it wrong. I do mine way neater than that. He’s used a porno mag tae make his wraps with – I’ve got a bit ofsome guy’s knob on mine, mid-cum-shot, gross. Unfold it and breathe in the cat-piss smell and wonder if it’ll take the edge of the colours. Lick it clean off the wrap, it’s bitter, but easier than snorting.
    Everything accelerates. There is a bicycle ride. A coffee cup. A bus. A boat. A train. There’s a toilet on the train so white and cold I begin to wonder if I’m dead. This cubicle feels like a fridge. I bet a body kept in here would take years tae decay.
    Listen tae the chug and hope I umnay dead. What if I’m dead and I just think I umnay?
    Dead on a train.
    Dead-dead.
    Chug chug chug chug.
    Train station, ooh, be quiet, breathe quiet. I laugh, but my laugh jumps back at me. It’s fucking freaky. Chug. Chug. Chug. I sit on the loo and stare at the door too scared tae make a noise. I try to breathe right quiet, but my breath grows as loud as the train chugs, and the chugs say ridiculous things.
    Lift up the toilet lid. Dinnae look at hands or veins. Sit and take a long nervous piss. I pick a scab on my knee and close my eyes.
    Flashes. Fluorescent. Witches flying to and fro on the inside of my eyelids, they cackle and fly up in packs of twelve. One sticks her fingers up at me, winks, then does a skid out of sight.
    Open my eyes. Tiny screws on the door handle stare at me. I stare back at them but they dinnae look away. They spiral round and round and round. The lock mouth below them grins. I might never be able tae leave this cubicle. Fact.
    Heart really begins tae pound and I dinnae like this any more – I need to come back down. Shit! Red spots of blood splash onto the floor, my nose is heavy, and blood streaks down my chin. I grab a wadge of tissue, shaking. Who gets a nosebleed on acid? Shit. Shit. Shit!
    My hands are see-through in the mirror. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Veins sticking out. Take another long pee, it’s lime-green. I drop a bloody tissue down the bog and flush twice. The train stops. This is it, if I’m getting out – this is it.
    Pinch nose hard, tilt head back and walk. The platform echoes and the announcer warbles and something crackles and a man in an orange waistcoat gnashes his teeth.
    Nobody stops me. I make a phone call in an old phone box with one windowpane left and roach cards all over it. Call 07926145601 for a good fuck. The black Madonna – £10 a massage. Girls, all ages, no short visits. Transsexual gives good massage, water sports extra.
    There is a street and another, a high-rise and a lift. All I need to do is ask for the bag. Get the bag. Go.
    The lift pings, then there is a door. Knock. Knock. Knock.
    ‘Are you a shaman?’ he asks me.
    ‘Aye.’
    I shake my headdress.
    ‘Come in,’ he says.
    The guy opens the door wide. There is a hall but no carpet, there’s no anything really. I’ll not embarrass him, so what if he squats. In the living room a muscular iguana turns around on the windowsill. His claws tap, tap, tap.
    ‘This is Chief.’
    ‘Alright,’ I say.
    Chief the iguana blinks.
    ‘You urnay bleeding, are you?’ the guys asks.
    ‘No.’
    He’s a sly fucker is Chief. I know it and Chief knows it, and the guy tries tae kiss me but his breath smells like sick. I shake my feather headdress and begin to do a war dance. It’s the only way.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Anais. Mark sent me, ay.’
    ‘Did he now?’ He looks me up and down.
    ‘What’s your name again?’
    ‘Roo.’
    He’s still looking me up and down. He’s a right skinny cunt and he fucking stinks. He folds down onto the floor