Panoptic

Panoptic - Chapter 05

 The sense of unease that Soro had begun to feel after he'd met Misty did not disappear. It grew over the passing days, and though the marks on his body from his New Verity exploit faded from the surface, he felt an inner discomfort, as if they were not healing, but burrowing deeper, chewing through his flesh to settle on the bones.

When he went outside, he felt eyes on his back. When he stayed home, he felt trapped, cut off from the world.

His feelings communicated themselves to Squizzle, who began at first to sit on his shoulders and groom his scalp, but when that failed to soothe him, Squiz tried shock tactics; he marched up and down in front of Soro, shooting nervous glances at the sofa and the fridge, and when he heard a loud noise from outside, he leapt up in the air, hair jutting out like a porcupine, and then he scrabbled for cover in the hidey hole under the wooden cabinet where Soro kept his keepsakes locked away.

Soro resisted it, but the tiny monkey was a born comedian, and the act broke him down into peals of laughter.

"You're right, Squiz," he said, sitting on the couch, tickling the critter's fur. "I've been acting like Hamlet on a bad day. Let's get some air."

He thought he'd thrown off the gloom for good, but when he got back, it was waiting for him, in a more insidious form than before.

Sam and Soro were close enough that they didn't need to talk every day. Between the two of them, they had such a common understanding that they could be apart for a week, a month, even a year, and then one day they'd sit down together over a pot of coffee, and show each other their latest pictures.

That was their bond, the uncommon talent with cameras they shared. Not a blood bond, gene bond, gift from giving parents, though that pair had given them other things. It was just something they had, something that set them apart from other people, and pulled them closer together.

But you can't sit down, drink coffee, and share pictures when you're a thousand miles apart. Well, they had the internet, but if it wasn't the same for a human, it was impossible for a monkey. Squiz loved Sam too, but he had no more patience with the web than he had for the cats that tried to stalk him from time to time, without effect. Squiz was more than a match for a street cat.

When they were apart, he and Sam kept in touch with picture postcards. Not the store-bought variety, with a pretty if unmemorable photo of some local delight, but something more personal: they made their own cards, with pictures that they took wherever they were, glued to squares of high grade cream-coloured card made in only one store, Vertigues, in their neighbourhood. Wherever one went, he made it a point to stop at Vertigues on the way to the bus terminal, train station or airport, and pick up a lasting supply. They both had portable digital printers, their small size worth the big money it cost to maintain this private connection.

When he saw the card, poking out of his mail slot, on his way home, he felt as if a warm breeze blew over him on a cold winter's eve. He plucked the card from the slot, felt a jarring, eerie tingle in his fingers, and then it passed, and he hurried upstairs to look at the picture, and read the note.

Squiz jumped and chirruped when he saw him, and ignored the proffered raisin, in favour of sniffing over the card. The little monkey rolled his eyes and puffed out his lips, snatched the raisin and bounced away.

"Weird," said Soro. "Maybe Sam forgot to shower." He glanced at the card, and wondered if he ought to wash his hands.

He dropped down on the sofa with a mug of steaming black coffee, enjoying the aroma. Squiz made a face, and strolled into the kitchen to look for more raisins. Soro grinned and sipped his drink. "You're young, Squiz. One day you'll appreciate the finer things."