Pan Ghillie

Pan Ghillie



By Martin Rusis



Stupid stupid stupid stupid! He berated himself viciously but without sound. From his hide in her huge, cluttered bookcase he saw his pen – a chrome cylinder – a gift from proud parents – lying plainly on the coffee table in front of her couch.

The security camera he had a feed of showed her in the building’s foyer. That meant 90 seconds until she made it to her door. Not enough time to extricate himself from his ingenious, belaboured disguise.

I can never make mistakes! He worried that the mix of inwardly directed anger and disappointment (even shame) would prevent proper observations. Then the front door opened and all hurt was dispelled: Subject-J (for Julie) had come home.

She sighed on dumping her handbag and keys on the end table. Sighed at a day closed like a boring book before bed. She busied herself in routine. He took mental notes and re-checked that the cameras and microphones were all online and recording.

Turning past his fixed point of view as she settled in and prepared dinner he looked to her eyes whenever he could. Eyes so large, ready at anything unexpected to widen into a fetching startle.

She took off her shoes, sat on the couch and massaged her toes. She turned on the TV and flicked a few stations. Back to him she unbuttoned her work shirt and slipped it off, underneath she wore a thin, white tank top. Exposed now on her upper forearm was the bandage that concerned and intrigued him so.

She checked and rechecked the locks on the door. When she felt safe she reheated leftovers from the fridge and went back to the couch. Moving aside a tissue box, some magazines, nail polish, remotes and a bong she made space for her feet on the coffee table. Dusk became night as she watched her third episode of Animal Rescue for the week. Now came the part that was always hard for him, but in the name of science he could not intervene: by the second ad break Subject-J was playing with her cigarette lighter and, as usual, as the puppy or kitten – enormous, credulous, innocent eyes shining – was returned to its family she rolled back the bandage. There was an oval wound. She thumbed the lighter and let it burn for 11 seconds. She then flicked it off and pressed it to her skin.

She held the scream in, her determined strain against it twisted her face. Her amygdalae dumped hormones. Tears, not from pain, welled in her eyes. His heart broke.

*

She was almost exactly the subject he visualized – the only thing different was jet black hair. And in all the important ways she fitted what the experiment required: suspicious, damaged, young, naïve. Pliable by fear, in other words. The mess was a plus, it meant places to hide.

*

At 8:32pm Subject-J cycled through the TV stations, then she pressed mute and made a phonecall. Silently the tap started recording.

“Hi Mum.”

“Hello my dear, how are you doing?” – kind, wrought, old voice.

“Oh okay, okay…”

“That’s good. Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Yes, I am.”

The conversation always opened this way. Sometimes it wouldn’t gain enough momentum through the agreed rituals to escape the pattern. Tonight was not one of those nights. Stale adrenalin was still working through her.

“Why can’t they fucking leave me alone?”

“Who?”

“Old, creepy men.”

“I’m sorry?”

“On the bus. There’s this one guy, he’s old and has a moustache, he’s always reading some science book. He’s always looking me. You ignore, but it’s always him. And he’s always on the bus.”

Her mother expressed sympathy and suggested notifying the police.

“What would the police do? Nothing. The police never help anyone, even after they’ve been raped.”

“I don’t think he is going to rape you. Women have always had the problem. You just ignore it. Maybe get a personal alarm or changes buses...”

“I do ignore it. But I still notice. It’s my fucking city too. Why can’t he just leave me alone.”

She looked out through the glass door that led onto the messy, dirty balcony that moated her apartment. So many city lights, whole floors of office towers lit. Who the hell was there at this hour? Just one man or woman in those huge ticking, humming spaces? Doing what? What the hell did people do?

Something on the coffee table gleamed in the bluish glow of the TV. Her mother said something. “Yes, mum.” The streetlight outside stammered. “Okay, mum.” A drunk went yelling down the street. “Yes I am, mum.”

“You really should call your aunt, she is very sick.”

“She’s been sick forever.”

“Well it is looking like ‘forever’ won’t be much longer. You really should call.”

“Okay mum, I will.”

“Do you have the number? No. have you got a pen?”

His heart stopped. Subject-J bent forward to the coffee table and picked up his pen. She scribbled the number down. When the phonecall ended she found she was still holding the pen. She examined it.

Where the fuck did this come from?

She looked around the room, but he knew she couldn’t see him.

*

“You want to observe paranoia?” his colleague clarified.

“Yes”

“People who have a fear of being watched, and you want to watch them?”

“I know, I know. But it is research.”

“Is that ethical?”

“Of course, it’s science. Well psychology. There is a phenomenon I want to know more about, perhaps my PhD. It is called Pan Syndrome.”

“Like Peter pan Syndrome? Michael Jackson—”

“No,” he interjected. “Pan, as in the god of the wilds. You know ‘pan’ pipes, goat legs?”

“Oh him. What’s the syndrome?”

“Pan Syndrome is like a panic attack but it comes from a sudden, intense paranoia. It is like being unaccountably spooked. It is most commonly cited when people are alone in a forest – hence Pan, god of forests. You know, you are in the woods then suddenly it feels like there is a very close threat and that you need to get away. But I think it is broader, I want to see if it can happen anywhere. Even in the home.”

“Isn’t that more a paranormal investigation.”

“The paranormal is just anomalous interaction between the id and the ego. It is all in the mind.”

“Again, is this ethical?”

“I have clearances…”

“What?”

“The security industry is very interested in psychological diversion.”

“Huh, I’ll bet. How is the research going?”

“Slower than expect—

He snapped out of the reverie, this imagined conversation, and put his mind back to work collating, observing.

*

Back when he was scoping Subject-J’s apartment he identified a couple of other places he could conceal himself. A balcony surrounded the place, it was even messier than the inside: broken, decayed chairs, ashtrays, a fishtank that had unsuccessfully converted into a terrarium, a pile of newspapers, a broken air-conditioning unit. Planning well ahead he constructed a ghillie suit from fluttering, dead-history newspapers. The camouflage was perfect, his outline was barely bigger than a sitting person but he was invisible.

He sat and watched, scant feet from her.

When she woke up he watched her go about her morning routine. She stood at the east facing window in her pajamas watching for a few moments the sun’s ascent. It couldn’t have been the cold morning air – the window was closed –but she shivered and quickly turned away. She avoided looking out the window for the rest of her morning routine. He noted the spectrum of changes in her behaviour of late: she wore less colour and sensible shoes, more sugar in the coffee, scratching, blinking less, no perfume. He was losing her more easily in crowds these days. He knew she knew she was followed.

He lost her in the crowds of the Saturday morning street market. Because she hadn’t done anything properly unusual he was confident enough that he’d find her where he expected her. The inputs were the same, so the outputs were largely predictable even if the function of the equation – the knot to be untied by his research – remained unknown. Each unexpected deviation illuminated another feature of the function. Her Saturday had begun like all her Saturdays, so she was going to the park. She was going to find an open area by the small pond and rainforest garden.

*

Consumerism, has delivered the culture to the point where the tools, or set of tools, exist to do anything you can think of. I’ve bought phone recorders, video cameras, infra-red cameras, directional microphones hooked to heart-rate monitors, GPS trackers and camouflage equipment through completely amoral means. The marketplace magnifies the scope for action. It synergistically accelerates the ego, it split us apart into remote specialists, only able connect to others at the cost of our individuality … oh, not much time.

He went to the vine-wreathed tree where he’d hid his stuff. It was camouflaged well beyond anything but intentional perception. He didn’t need to hurry getting kitted out, but he did. There was so much to do, so much to miss.

It annoyed him that the day wasn’t windy, his belly crawl through the underbrush as part of it in his ghillie suit (essentially off the shelf) would be more noticeable. But he got into position without being noticed. Cicadas sang an assiduous, spiraling peal.

No one ever sees anything. He checked his dismissive attitude.

No. No risks. I can never make mistakes.

She was 70 feet away, alone and using a fat horror novel book as a pillow. She was stretched out on the grass soaking up the hot sun.

He noted her attire, that the outer edge of the heels of her shoes had worn down, the 14 days of hair growth on her legs just beginning to show, the sunglasses, strands of hair caught by perspiration and strung across her forehead, a slight patch of newsprint ink – like a bruise – smudged on her cheekbone, white arcs on her nails, the slightest gap between...

Ants began crawling inside the suit. He’d lay on their nest. They prickled. He sweated. The pheromones released attracted more ants. The nest was on the downward slope as the raised garden bed led to the lawn. More and more climbed over him. Some bit. From some impulse beyond self-control he snorted sharply.

She snapped out of her daydream. The pigeons all pelted into the air. The beating of their wings receded and the grove was still. The cicadas drilled on, unseen, seemingly louder. Muscles in her ears she didn’t know she had twinged.

He saw her tense up and her body language shut. He didn’t have a choice, he’d held still as long as he could. The choice was to slink away and be seen or to explode out of the undergrowth and retreat.

She whipped her head around at the crash of shifting vegetation over her shoulder. All she saw was an inhuman figure, covered … no made of moss and leaves and stuff vanish into the dense rainforest garden. It just melted into the plants like a ghost. Shed hairs from the ferns hung sunlit in the thick air. She grabbed up her book and handbag and got the hell out of there.

*

She stayed out very late the next nights and came home drunk. Probably afraid of being alone, he thought.

*

The streetlight threw enough light into her bedroom for him to see. She was curled into a tight fetal position on the bed. From his hide in the pile of clothes in her closet he mouthed ‘good night’. Her breathing slowed and deepened. This work could be boring, but he knew it would be worth it in the end. To pass the time he mused on what metrics to extract from the date. He could get her exact respiration rate from the recording, fore example. He entertained notions of measuring the exact volume of air she took in, the chemical composition of her breath and scent (perhaps it could replicated in a lab). She shifted in her sleep, he watched her enter REM sleep. He wanted to know what she dreamed. He hoped for nightmares – he could deconstruct her fears and help her overpower them. He imagined her on his therapy couch. He masturbated quietly…

*

Her scream and the slamming closet door woke him. She ran. The city was still sleepy, there were no people on the street. In her pajamas she ran to the 7-11.

“I need to use your phone.” The clerk gaped at her for a second. “There’s someone in my house!”

*

“There was a man hiding in my closet, I saw him sleeping there this morning,” she told the police when they arrived.

“A man in your closet? Is he still there?”

“I don’t know I got the hell out, I think he’s been stalking me.”

“Stalking you? Have you reported it?” one asked.

“Who is stalking you? Can you describe him?” the other asked.

“There’s a man on the bus this old man with glasses and a moustache he’s always watching me.”

“This man in the closet is it the same man?”

“I don’t know, he was all wrapped up bits of clothes, I couldn’t see him.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was all wrapped up in clothes like rags, like a disguise. I saw the pile move and I found all the clothes were attached like a hood, he was asleep. Then I screamed and ran.”

The police looked through the apartment. Carefully prodding piles of papers, books, CDs, magazines, cardboard boxes and clothes (so many clothes).

“Well, there’s nothing here ma’am.”

“He was right there.”

It was just a pile of rumpled clothing like any other.

They took a statement from her.

“Make sure you lock your doors. If anything happens, miss, can us straight away.”

What the fuck do you mean ‘Miss’?

They gave her a card with a number for the station and a counselor and left. She rechecked all the locks then went to the kitchen to get a big knife. In what would become a lifelong routine, she went from room to room knife stretched before her. She opened every cupboard, looked under every piece of furniture. She arrived at her bedroom. She steeled herself to open the closet again. Of course there was nothing there. In the spot where she’d found the rag man was just a rumpled pile of her clothes. She knelt. Switching to a dagger grip she stabbed into the heap, hard. It felt good. She stabbed again. No blood. Nothing. She withdrew the knife, and a piece of punctured clothing came with it. Her favourite jeans. The only one’s she’d ever found that fit properly. Her head dropped. Stupid, stupid.

She couldn’t stop the tangle of thought and feeling.

I’m dumb and stupid and ugly. I am. I am. Iam.

She held her breath and pressed the knife edge to her forearm. It bit. Stung with self-revulsion she jerked it away. The need for air stampeded.

Invisible on the balcony, he knew she had to be stopped before she hurt herself.