Master / Disciple
Take a look, imagine two figures by the side of the road. It would be a busy street during the day, two lanes towards the town centre and one the other way, with irregular islands in the middle to facilitate easy crossing. There were no cars now, though, and virtually no movement between the pools of white light from LED streetlamps that were the City Council’s only work in the area for a couple of years. The two men paced confidently and comfortably, and any hypothetical observer could easily have seen that they’d walked this way many times before. The taller one, swinging some accessory in his left hand, put each foot neatly in front of the other as if he was walking on a high wire. His movement was slightly unsteady, but for all the wobbles he never stumbled off his perfect straight line along the kerb edge. He had platinum blond hair, combed straight back and gelled in a style that had been fashionable a few years ago. Everything about him seemed like a conscious choice, from a designer shirt that was from a name 3 years out of date, to slightly scuffed leather court shoes. Not scruffy, or old clothes, but designer casual, making a point of being a little out of date, a little off the edge of fashion, just the right level of untidiness to suggest that here was someone trying to cut an elegant appearance that was beyond him.
His friend was a little less sober, and wandered back and forth between the road and payment. He wasn’t swaying, but with such a weaving course it was easy to imagine he was. He talked as he walked, as if his brain and mouth were perpetually linked, whether the other man was listening or not. He didn’t have the sculpted, beautiful, muscular body that gave his friend the opportunity to turn down a dozen girls every day, but he wasn’t unfit either.He was stocky, with a build that could be well suited to moving furniture or laying bricks. His hair was straggly,down to his shoulders, and tonight just a little sticky with the sweet traces of some party girl’s spilled drink. The only part you could call well groomed was a neat little red goatee, a careful attempt to hide the chin he always considered too weak.
An impartial observer might have wondered what had brought these two disparate individuals together; what interests they shared, where they’d met, whether they were lovers, brothers or friends. It would have been an interesting story, but there was no observer to ask. The curtains along the street were closed, and no cars passed as they walked from one end to the other. The only story in the city tonight belonged to these two, and no one was there to tell it but them.
Coming home from a special show at Club Aloha, Will twirled his pocket watch on the end of a sturdy silvered curb chain. It was ornate, but not ostentatiously so. The heraldic crest engraved on the back might give the spectators some impression that Will was of noble blood, but Tom knew that it was actually the arms of the family for whom his friend’s great-grandfather had worked. Still, a retirement present for a trusted gamekeeper had been the only silver the family had seen until the days of Will Senior, so the trinket was passed down as a most valued heirloom.
Will had given a flippant performance, waving and swinging the accessory around in a carefree manner, suggesting that he didn’t care a whit whether his act was taken seriously or not, as he flirted his way across the stage . He’d swing the watch on it’s chain like a kid with a conker, toss it from hand to hand, snap it like a bullwhip if a voice in the audience grew loud enough to interrupt the show. This last always got a laugh, and that was gold dust to a performer like Will. He wasn’t actually a stage hypnotist, despite his billing as Doktor Mesmer Ayes. Diverting himself to flirt with the ladies at the bar mid-induction, reading from tiny cue cards, dropping his hat or microphone, directly ignoring any subject’s assertion that they weren’t in a trance, and commanding a volunteer to fly; it was all elaborate set-dressing for double act comedy where he somehow enticed the audience into the lead role opposite his oblivious straight-man.
The watch tricks, especially, Tom had seen him practising with a wooden medallion in front of the mirror for weeks, before he’d risk his family heirloom.
“Does any of that stuff really work?” he knew the answer, asking more to fill the silence more than anything. Despite having lived together since the college dorms had assigned them a room six years ago, this was the first time he’d actually had a chance to see Will perform. He’d given enthusiastic praise until they both got embarrassed, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. His mind was full of wonder, amazed that his friend could come up with something so bold and innovative, and that such wit and talent could hide beneath the surface all these years.
“Oh, it can do,” Will grinned, and after a brief pause: “What, that wasn’t the answer you were expecting?”
“’All stage hypnotists are pretending’,” Tom quoted, “you said you just admit it.”
“Yeah, I’ll stand by that. But a lot of those techniques can work, if you take them seriously. People prancing about on stage, you only get the ones who are willing to act like a tit in public anyway, so you only want them to play along.”
“Like when you were commanding that chick with the red hair and the…” Tom’s hand gestures implied an exaggeration of the feminine body shape that was probably beyond the bounds of realistic anatomy, or at least enough to give the young lady back strain in later life, “When you said she’s going to helplessly fall for you. Could you really do that to someone?”
“Oh, yes! Hell, that’s easy. Though I’d only do that to someone who’s curious enough to ask.” Will must have sensed an uneasy silence, because he felt it necessary to explain, “There’s people who like feeling helpless. You can imagine that, can’t you?” Tom nodded uneasily, curiosity piqued but not sure if that was an acceptable thing to admit to or not.
There was a question hanging in the air, but Tom wasn’t quite sure what it was, so he asked the first thing that came to mind instead: “So out of those things you do, which works the best in real life?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” and Tom got the distinct impression of a lecturer addressing a class. It was there in his voice, his posture, even subtle hand motions as he talked. It was as if Will was pointing to notes on an imaginary blackboard, and it took a real effort to stop following the guy’s fingers. For a moment, Tom wondered if this was another act on a par with becoming an incompetent stage hypnotist, down to the mannerisms, or if it came naturally from the many times he must have explained things like this to the less experienced.
“See, it’s all about context. Your mind can only keep track of a few things at once, they reckon around seven for most people. Plus or minus two. So I use as many techniques as once as I can, and even if you notice them, you can’t focus on all of them at once. Then as soon as you realise I’m doing some pattern you weren’t aware of, your brain just panics, and a clear, simple instruction at that point is followed automatically just because a part of your brain would rather be obedient than so confused.”
“So it’s just a trick?”
“No more than anything else. Isn’t all advertising, preying on affinity, whatever, a trick?”
Tom thought for a second before answering, but as soon as he opened his mouth Will continued.
“What is a cheap trick, though, is telling people about the 7±2 thing. Then when I’m trying to give you half a dozen things to think about at the same time, you’ve got one extra thing to think about. You can’t stop trying to count how many threads of suggestion I’m tweaking at once, and even if you realise that counting them is one more thought to count, that only brings you closer to the inevitable surrender when you realise one of them has slipped into your mind without noticing.”
Tom looked sidelong at his friend, trying to judge if he was subconsciously or deliberately drifting back to his stage persona. The tone was level, the words rhythmic. It would have been easy to let that drone lull you into listening with half an ear, letting the words flow over you without paying attention in the hope of eventually reaching some kind of point. In his show, Will always thwarted that expectation with confusion, clumsiness, or spontaneous digression; but now Tom began to wonder just how dangerous a weapon that voice could be if he chose to use it seriously.
There Had to be a distraction. In this case, it was their arrival at the front door of the house they shared with two students, Duncan and Alex. Both young men fumbled with their keys, but Tom was first to get the door to click open this time.
“Your turn!” he grinned condescendingly, “Can’t beat the master, I’d like a coffee please.”
“Curses,” Will muttered, already wandering into the kitchen while Tom struggled to peel off heavy leather boots from his aching feet. The game had been running for so long now that neither of them would think of skipping a late-night to early-morning drink and some insightful midnight conversation.
“Ah, that’s great. Bet you can’t wait to get the kettle on so you can get comfortable.”
“Bastard,” there was no real anger behind the unaccustomed curse word, though, “I knew I should have made you my obedient slave.”
It was a joke, a natural continuation of the conversation. Both men had enjoyed a few drinks during the show, and the sobering effect of the late-night coffee would be the only attempt by either of them to avoid the inevitable hangover. It was a joke Will wouldn’t have made sober. If Tom had been sober, he wouldn’t have considered pretending to take the suggestion seriously, and he certainly wouldn’t have replied: “I’d like to see you try.”
Will’s head was at least clear enough to know that wasn’t an offer. But he was feeling proudly euphoric, like he could take on the world. It was almost like being high on the audience’s adulation, and that was a mood that would have convinced him to do stupid things even without the booze. He knew it was a stupid way to jeopardise a friendship, but his mood was so good that he didn’t care. Never thought that things could go wrong. Some inner voice knew that Tom wouldn’t be his friend any more, but he’d spent the whole evening playing up his stage persona by flat-out ignoring any cynical comment, and he surfed right over his conscientious objection.
“You should be careful what you say! With all the tricks I’ve got up my sleeve, I could have you eating out of my hand before you even realise what’s hit you. You’d be doing everything I say, even feeling what I say, and you’d enjoy it so much you couldn’t even think of breaking free. Can you even imagine how that would make you feel?”
Tom knew he was digging himself a hole. He could imagine that, but it was something he didn’t want to admit. He had enough curiosity to drown a whole clutter of cats, and he couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to lose that element of choice. It wasn’t something he wanted to experience, not at all, but he was intrigued by the possibility of learning if there was a reality anything like the feelings he could imagine. He couldn’t say that, had to think of something else: “How about if you’re limited to just one trick? One hand tied behind your back, could you do anything then?”
Will raised an eyebrow as he replied, “That sounds awfully like a challenge, and you know I can’t resist a challenge. Any more than you can resist doing everything I say.”
“Yeah, I really admire the controlling way you brought me coffee,” Tom took a gulp, hoping the bitter brew would help to clear his head a little. He couldn’t tell any more if they were just pushing a joke too far, or if Will was as excited about the idea as… as someone who was into that kind of twisted master/slave stuff. Someone who certainly wasn’t Tom, that stuff didn’t catch his interest at all beyond a fleeting moment of curiosity.
“One tool, then?” Will gave a flick of his wrist, and the ancestral watch flipped open just as it landed in his outstretched palm, “You really want to try this?”
“The watch?” this time it was Tom’s turn to give a wry grin. They’d had a conversation on that subject a few months back, and he was already quite familiar with Will’s irritability around the fact that the pocketwatch or pendulum technique was one of the most persistent stereotypes of hypnosis despite its numerous weaknesses. “I thought you said that’s half placebo and half a technique so ‘simplistically, obviously simple that anyone with half a brain could just ignore it’, right?“
“Well, if you’re scared of proving me right…”