Surveillance
A life for a life.
The screens showed Jane Doe at different times. Half of them, the three on my left were dated the night before, while the three on the right had her taking a shower at 19:00, going to bed at 21:00, and she was now sleeping, the clock read 22:30. In both, the woman was wearing the exact same fleece jacket, doing - almost - the exact same thing. If there weren’t those slight differences, the sound of the bathroom door creaking a little louder at an angle than the other, the fact that she has changed her book since yesterday, and whether or not it was her mood to put on reading glasses, there’d be no way to separate the images. I was one to talk: here I was in front of the screen on my chair, arms folded, legs on the table, unmoving, days on end. I knew her slumber won’t last long, because the screen on the left that said 23:45 alarmed the one on the right, and Jane Doe rose from her bed. The two Janes would then reach for her water, put back on her glasses, lit a candle, and pick up the laptop she left on the floor in the blindspot of the camera, and froze. Just when I thought the camera’d stopped working, she hammered away at the keyboard for about twenty seconds, then froze again, whiplashed by her own sudden movement. In the older footage on the left, she ate a meal after her shower: rice and braised pork with an assortment of veggies. My own text editor was opened, empty, as it’s been empty for the last two weeks. Before, there was: 18:20: cook, 18:43: dinner, rice and fried egg, 18:55: finished, Subject eats surprisingly little very quickly. She cooked well, however, for it never failed to get my own stomach grumbling, and it’d turned into a routine, us having dinner with each other, while she cooks I go grab something from the convenient store downstairs. I didn’t today. Was it her movement, or her expression, or the way her fleece hung a little lower on her arms, but I was reluctant to get up, despite the hunger pang. Three hours later and it was the same routine, but my gut refused to listen to my body’s protest for sustenance. It was her frozen state.
Subject leaned her head towards the door more than before when she thinks. She’s expecting someone at the door. Who at this hour?
My hunch was confirmed a bit later, as another monitor above the set in front of me lit up as a man in uniform, a courier service of some kind, with a package approached and knocked on Jane’s door. The box was neither very large nor too heavy, since the delivery man used one hand to hold it while he knocked. Jane often ordered her books online, but this was something else: Jane wasn’t excited. I switched on another screen, one tagged “kitchen,” guessing she’d go there for her scissors. Last time, when she didn’t know what was in the box, she was eager, happy even, too happy to care that no one would deliver books at that time of day. This time, she was cautious, stopping to breathe as she held the pair of scissors close, trying her best to keep herself together. I found myself as tense as she was, clutching my mouse. Jane opened the box, flung the bubble wrap on the floor, and pulled out a bag. I held my breath and zoomed in to see it better: vegetables. Jane and I were again in sync, shocked at the strange variables that barged into our day. I couldn’t read the letter that come along with the package, but reading her lips, Jane said something like “thank you grandma” before tears flowed from her eyes. The veggies were nothing out of the ordinary: morning glories, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a watermelon. Still, we will have to confiscate the content in the morning. Unlike the target Jane on the right screens, who was holding onto a cucumber like her life depended on it, Left Jane was still looking at her computer, thinking of the next line. Left Jane, Jane of yesterday, suddenly became a blur, her stillness fizzled in and out, blending in with the background. Invisible.
“Have I not told you never to fast-forward?” - I yelled at my assistant. My heart was beating fast.
“But we know what will happen. She writes a bit and goes to sleep, wakes up and repeats. Except for that parcel, nothing has changed. It’s as if I'm watching a movie on rewind.”
“Must I remind you that the only exception we get is when Subject is sleeping.” - I swung out my hands in an attempt to hide the fear that had crept in.
“I got it I got it. I won’t do it again… Are you all right, Sir? You looked flustered.”
“I’m okay. I apologise. I haven’t had dinner.” - I bowed, trying to take in quick, shallow breaths.
“It’s fine, Sir. I would be stressed too if I had to do this every day. I will go get you some coffee and a sandwich from downstairs.”
“Thank you.” - I was still bowing, waiting for him to be gone so he couldn’t see my face.
This room of mine. There used to be only one screen, but they give you more as you get more experienced with watching. I used to live quite far away, but moved right across the street from the office. I used to walk to and fro, but by year three, I’d only leave when the company required the odd spring cleaning or bug spraying or maintenance. I’m happy as long as I’m behind the screen.
Jane Doe made a living as a writer. Before she was a Subject, anonymous messages were sent to her old apartment, with death threats and blood-soaked handkerchiefs telling her not to ever fall in love, ever, to anyone. The usual. Her editor, concerned for his breadwinner, quickly set her up with a new place along with a contract with us, a surveillance company. Unfortunate for Jane as the situation was, her books have been selling like hotcakes ever since. Pretty convenient, and things could go either way: be it a publicity stunt by the editor, a publicity stunt by the writer herself, a genuine threat, or the editor was the stalker after all, for why else would he hire a surveillance company and not a security firm. Either way, I didn’t much care, for I was here to watch, not make observations.
At the beginning, I was under the impression that surveillance was filled with suspense and mystery, that I was going to spot suspicious behaviours and alert authorities. In actual fact, I found my Subjects spending most of their time at home after work, too exhausted to do anything much less pursue a hobby. But that’s hooked me, their mundanity, their normalcy. In a world that keeps on changing outside, humans in their habitats never change. In their home, they are no different from me, always on the verge of trying to do something to no avail. Jane Doe was not the odd one out. Her writing, perhaps a hobby at first, an ambition, had now become reality, become work. Except for the tears she shed at her supposed grandmother’s present, her face had yet to show any expression when typing at the keyboard. Look at her now, 3:56 on the right, 3:56 on the left, the exact same images. She will continue to stare at the screen for another three to four hours, at which point she would sleep, then breakfast, then go outside to write at a local cafe, and be back at 18:00, at which point the cameras on the Left and Right merge once more.
Perhaps I have been stressed. When my assistant got back, I went outside to the clean, white, clinical-looking corridor. I looked up at the fluorescent lights to see imprints of Jane Doe on the bulbs, a blackish-green, sitting still on her bed. As might be expected from a surveillance company whose raison d'etre was to watch people 24/7, the lights stayed on, be it night or morning. I went out to the balcony to breath, flickering a Zippo, the same brand Jane used to light her candles. Watching her, I noticed I’d started ordering the things she owned, from her laptop to her knife set, to the little brush she used to clean the dust out of her keyboard. Jane Doe has slowly become less of a Subject, but more of a channel. The Jane Doe Show, where she’s the main characters in all of the shows, and the poster girl for the advertisements.
If only I could order these items straight to my office.