Panoptic by Jacob Magnus
Zamran wiped his face with the back of his glove, and then he leered at Oleg, blood trickling down his swollen lips. Oleg circled, watching for an opening.
A hush fell on the audience, and then came a might shout as Oleg launched a flurry of devastating blows. The crowd screamed as Zamran absorbed the punches as if they were mere swats from a child, and returned with another crushing hook that hit Oleg's jaw with a crack that could be heard in every corner of the arena.
The cheering died as Oleg staggered back, weaving as if drunk, and then it returned with a triumphant shout as he righted himself, and struck back at Zamran with a shot to the liver that left the challenger bent double and gasping.
The thrilled cries shook the arena.
Throughout the battle, one man remained silent. A handsome black man, broad shouldered and well muscled, watched the entire fight without uttering a sound. He’d let his hair grow long, but neat, and his blue sweater and cream cargo pants contrived to look smart, but no amount of skilful grooming could conceal the pale network of scars around his eyes, or his blunt, crooked nose. The large, costly camera he carried seemed puny in his powerful hands, as if it might fall apart if he gripped it too hard.
And he did grip it hard.
His fingers squeezed the camera with enough force to make the plastic creak, his soft brown eyes were narrow and creased, and he breathed through clenched teeth. He winced with every punch that landed, and he looked away when blood spilled.
But he held his ground, and when the fight was over, and Oleg raised his arms as if to embrace the cheering crowd, he had enough pictures to satisfy his employers.
***
The two little chimps cavorted through the branches of this little patch of the rainforest. Today the rains had soaked the upper canopy, and the band had descended to seek shelter and food among the lower branches. Rain pattered on leaves, and trickled down in rivulets to splash on the distant forest floor. The rain muted the sounds of the forest, so there was little to be heard besides the soft splashing rain, and the mournful cry of a distant macaw. The littlest chimps had worn downcast expressions, until one of them had spotted a tiny baby monkey. So like them, and yet so different, it made a fascinating, if unwilling play mate. They’d chased it down through the branches, all the way to the ground, where it scrambled from root to branch, rusty brown fur shining with rain drops and sweat. It paused in a thicket at the foot of a tree. The baby chimps split up, and while one of the watched the tiny monkey, which stared back at him with blinking black eyes, his play mate circled around, as he’d learned by watching the older chimps.
A man crouched in the foliage, watching the baby chimps at play. He wore tiny round glasses, with gold rims and black arms, and the solid red lenses tinted his eyes, and made it impossible to tell their natural colour. He wore loose, ill-fitting green jungle fatigues, jutting khaki shoes, and a white silk scarf wound around his neck. As he watched the chimps, he took the scarf in one of his long, bony hands, and wiped perspiration from his face and his gleaming dome of a head. He had no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no hair on the back of his hands or neck, not even stubble on his long, drawn cheeks. On his left ear hung a golden ring, worked into the shape of a scarab beetle. On his right middle finger, he wore a gold ring with a square face, engraved with a minute Aquila. The ring looked awkward on his slender finger, and so did everything about him. He looked as if someone had attached clamps to his hands and feet, and stretched him every day of his life, until his body had become a grotesque mockery of the human form. He tucked the moist scarf back into his collar, inured to the stink of his own sweat. It came to him as a faint background to the too sweet perfumes of forest flowers, the earthy scent of rotting leaves, and the sickening odour of decaying flesh from the tiger’s last kill.
His attention never wandered from the furry black bodies of the little chimps as they rustled through the forest undergrowth, chirruping to each other, and hopping in excitement. So absorbed were they in their game, they failed to catch the cries of alarm passing between their kin, higher up in the trees.
The watcher heard the cries. He recognised the sound, and he’d been waiting for them.
The baby chimps took their game to a new level. As one backed away, the other would charge forward, and send the tiny monkey screaming and running, straight into the path of other chimp, who would jump forwards, brandishing a twig, howling and jumping up and down. The poor monkey, terrified and bewildered, would yelp, turn, and run right back into the other chimp’s trap.
The baby chimps shook their little arms, stomped their feet and guffawed, delighted with their game.
The watched shifted his grip on his camera, and shifted his weight; he’d sat for hours, days, in his camouflaged hide. His tendons and ligaments had grown tight and sore, his muscles cramped and stiff. His stomach growled; he hadn’t had a good meal in two weeks, and he’d sweated out several pounds from his already spare frame. His skin clung to his bones. He looked more skeletal with every passing day, but still he kept up his watch. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought. No, he felt it, sensed it with some organ other than eyes or ears or skin. He could smell it, could taste it on the air.
He heard a padding footstep.
The baby chimps, captivated by their game, failed to catch the warning sound.
The watcher tensed and leaned forward, though every slight movement sent pains through his stiff body. He quivered with suppressed excitement, and mingled with anxiety, even fear. He was not afraid for his own skin, nor had he formed an empathic bond with the chimps he had come to film; he was too detached an observer to identify with them, to lose his control for the sake of a pathetic illusion of kinship. His fear, when it came, was of failure. He needed to catch this footage.
“I can’t fail this time,” he whispered to himself. “I can’t afford another Strachan Bing. It’s too risky.”
The jungle did not reply.
As fast as it had begun, the rain stopped. The pattering ceased to sound overhead. The water that had streamed down to splash on the leaf-strewn bed of moss, dirt and twigs dwindled to an occasional drip.
The baby chimps, engrossed in their game, failed to notice the passing of the storm. They didn’t react to it, neither did they catch the ominous silence that followed. The animals that had hid in the boles of trees or burrowed underground should have begun to peep out of their hiding places. Instead, if anything, they dug down deeper.
The watched in the hide sensed the moment coming, felt it as a tension in his solar plexus, and a sub-audible tingling in his ears.
The tiny monkey, eyes wide, fur standing on end, ran shrieking from the paws of one chimp, straight at the waiting hands of its brother. The chimps hooted and chortled, dancing from one foot to the other. The monkey froze halfway between them, its little head darting left and right. The baby chimps gaped at it, barked and waved their hands, but they failed to elicit a reaction. One chewed his lip, the other drummed his feet in exasperation. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Tiny monkeys weren’t supposed to ignore much bigger, stronger chimps, even if the chimps were just kids.
The monkey continued to ignore them, spun around, stared into the undergrowth, and then ran away in a blur of speed. The chimps exchanged a puzzled glance, and then an orange patched shadow shot through the clearing, pounced on one of them, and vanished, splashing the other chimp with a spray of arterial blood.
The remaining chimp remained frozen where it stood, pawing at its bloodstained face, steaming urine pouring down its legs.
Fury consumed the watcher in the hide. He bolted upright, starting a dozen explosions of agony in his legs, his arms, and his back. “God damn dumb monkeys!” he shouted.
Stifled, exhausted, and feeling cheated, he blundered at the zipped door of the hide, and when his creaking fingers failed to find it, he unstrapped his jungle knife, and slashed a hole in the thin fabric. He stepped out into the moist jungle air, wiped sweat from the elongated dome of his head, and jerked the camera
His pictures flashed on the screen. The chimps appeared, and their living toy. The monkey vanished, and a moment later, one of the chimps disappeared in a dark, blood smear blur.
“Useless!” he cried.
He threw the camera down on the ground, and slammed his heel down on it. The plastic cracked, but held together.
He stamped on it again and again, until the expensive camera was reduced to flinders.
***
Belle Stakker thrust the files aside, and started up from her chair, the leather sighing as she moved. She paused, and her thick lips fell open as she caught sight of her hand. Even as she’d been poring over the yellowing papers, running her right index finger along each printed line, her left hand had betrayed her. It had crept down out of sight, acting on an impulse that emanated from deep within her psyche. Ignoring, defying her conscious will, it had snuck down to the drawer, slid it open, and pulled out the garish pink packet.
“By my eyes,” she said. “By my eyes.”
She bent to put the packet away, but the sight of it, the feel of wrapper as it crinkled against her skin, the gentle waft of sugar, the scent of artificial preservatives, of synthetic strawberry cream, the total sensory impact of the packet arrested her motion.
“Why not,” she breathed.
She tore open the packet, and called for her secretary, Roe Dorrens.
When Roe, a slim, perky redhead given to wearing white brocade blouses, skirts and stockings, appeared, Belle imagined the sight she must present: a squat, stubby creature, her grey eyes bulging from their sockets, her short blonde hair poking out of her scalp, her distended gut pushing at the material of her pinstripe suit. A toad, she thought. A pregnant toad, stuffed into human clothes, that’s what she sees.
She brushed crumbs from her lips, and proffered the packet of strawberry creams to Roe. “Have a cookie,” she said.
Roe gave her a pretty smile, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Stakker,” she said. “I’m on a diet.”
You would be, thought Belle. You, who need it least, can do it with ease.
“Have one,” she said.
Roe’s smile died on her face. It didn’t go away; it remained in place, and decayed, just like a corpse. “You’re a generous employer,” she said, taking the snack. She nibbled at it.
Belle felt a void within her, a hunger that neither her cookies nor her play of authority could satisfy. She’d thought to win some pleasure from dominating Roe, and instead she felt less sated than ever.
She dropped down into her chair, and regretted it. She’d thought that comfort and ease would salve her feelings; instead she found that she had to tilt her head to look up at Roe, and the awkward position reminded her of her stubby, ugly form. It reminded her of the disparity between her and Roe.
Roe seemed to sense her displeasure, and she turned her eyes away, and rested them on the scale model panopticon that took up most of Belle’s large mahogany desk. “It’s really very impressive, your project,” she said.
She had a way of making the most blatant flattery sound warm and genuine. A good thing, Belle reflected. She’d hate to have an honest underling.
“My project is more, much more than just one building,” she said.
“Of course, Miss Stakker.”
“And it calls for more than the meagre assemblage of low rent talent you’ve provided.”
“I’ll send a memo to the scouts this minute,” said Roe.
Belle began to feel heat and tension in her gut. Roe had a way of agreeing with her that, instead of placating her, left her more frustrated.
“I think we need more than that.”
“I’m at your service, Miss Stakker.”
“If you’re at my service, then give me the man I want.”
Roe pursed her lips, and flicked her eyes at the floor. “He’s…unavailable.”
“He doesn’t want to be available.”
“We’ve offered him every incentive. He’s… Had better offers.”
“No,” said Belle. “No he hasn’t. That’s not the reason.”
“You’re correct, of course, Miss Sta-”
She cut her off with a wave of her stubby hand. “Stop Stakkering me and get to it.”
Roe chewed the tip of her tongue. “He wouldn’t accept until we gave him the details.”
“The complete story, or just the cover?”
“The complete story. You know who he is. We couldn’t buy his name with money. He could have held out forever, and he saw right through the contest.”
“So you told him.”
“...Our agent talked to me, and I-”
“You told him.”
“I know how important this project is to you, so… But his reaction! I’m sorry, Miss- I’m sorry, but he won’t do it.”
“Not for any amount of money. Not for any award. Not even for charitable donations.”
Roe looked down at her shiny red high heels, and shook her head.
No matter how pretty she was, no matter how quick her mind, she’s failed me, thought Belle. She’s no good now. I have to do it myself.
“I have a new idea,” she said. “Our boy has a brother.”
Roe tilted her head, and looked at her askew. “I suppose we have a file on him”
“It’s time to reach out,” said Belle. “Sit a while, and talk to me about him. And Roe, have another cookie.”
***
Soro gasped for breath as he reached the end of the street, and turned left. At once, he knew he’d made a mistake. The alley ended in a rotten brick cul de sac, its only occupants a rusty blue dumpster and a dead rat.
From behind, he heard his pursuer’s running steps.
In moments the man chasing him would catch up, and then... He shuddered. He was caught in a trap, and if he didn't find a way out in about three or four seconds, he'd wind up like that dead rat.
***
It had been a bad week.
It had taken just over a fortnight for his bruises to fade, scratches to heal, and the lump on his noodle to go from a mountain to a love bite from a mountain.
He'd taken the time to recuperate. It wasn't as if he had a tight schedule. No boss, no job, no wailing alarm in the dark hours of the morning, no hustling for the commute, shivering on a subway platform or being packed on a shuddering bus, the air flesh hot, blood hot, muggy with sweat, thick with the scents of perfume, deodorant, tobacco or, more often today, nicotine gum. No schedules, no deadlines, no pressure.
True, he did seem to spend a lot of time running, jumping, clambering up and over and often under things. There were the occasional bumps on the head, the sprained ankles, the fractured arm and the dislocated shoulder.
There were the bills to pay, and incomprehensible tax forms to file, and while his income was often remarkable, it was ever irregular.
But he had no complaints.
When he was working, he was all intense concentration. During down time, he loved to take Squizzle to the park, and watch him scoot up the big weeping willow. More often than not, he'd climb up after the little monkey, and they'd chase each other across the thick, crooked branches. Later he might go to a bar or a cafe. The local owners all knew Squizzle, and he was guaranteed a plate of nuts or raisins, and he got plenty of attention from the local folks, especially the kids.
And the girls. Squizzle had a way with the girls. He'd look up at them with his big, warm, orange brown eyes, and his cryptic smile, and soon the young lady would sit him in her lap, coo over him, and feed him raisins.
It didn't hurt Soro, either. He met a lot of people that way, not all of them attractive single women, although Squizzle understood his role and played it like a pro.
This time the girl was called Misty.
“No way,” she said.
He gave her a soft smile, raised his shoulders a trifle, and tilted his head.
“But you can't be. N
“They offered a prize...well, some prizes. But...”
“They say you can make anything beautiful.”
He regarded her. She had a small nose, and full, seductive lips. Her eyes were yellow, her hair a curling mass of brown silk, and her off the shoulder blue dress clung to the curves of her trim body, offering a teasing glimpse of her pert breasts. He tasted her perfume, a subtle hint of jasmine and honey.
“I can’t make anything beautiful,” he said. “I can see beauty. I can bring it out. You can find beauty in the most unexpected, overlooked places.” As he spoke, he gazed into her face with an expression of rapt interest, even devotion.
She coloured, looked off to the side, and bit her full red lip with bright, even teeth. Her lips made him think of the petals of the cherry tree, and a chill passed through him.
“You’re just handing me a line,” she said.
“Who me?” he said, his eyes half-lidded. For an instant he saw the girl, the tree, dark figures moving around them, and caught half-heard whispers somehow near and far.
She giggled. “Don’t stop.”
For a moment, he wavered. Then habit and appetite took over, and he leaned forward, fixing her with an intense look. “I can make you immortal.”
They walked, laughing, to his place.
***
Walking back, he felt cold, cooler than he ought to have felt, for though the night was cloudless, the day had been fine, and the city always trapped some heat. And besides, he had the girl on his arm, and she was warm. The stars danced in her eyes as they walked or floated back to his home.
And he took her picture.
After, she looked around his place. “It's so small,” she said.
“I guess.”
“But these pictures on the wall, the Grand Canyon, the field of clouds, they make it feel bigger. And how could you get lonely, with these people staring at you?”
She had passed to the row of portraits he had framed under the landscapes, under the visions of nature. “Why this old man is speaking to me,” she said, with a twinkling smile.