The Complex

by Michael Walters

  ‘What are you doing back there?’ she said.

  ‘Browsing.’

  ‘Seven weeks, Stefan.’

  He held his tongue and came out to join her. ‘Let’s get some lunch.’

  Her face dropped, and she looked harassed. Her desk was dense with notes and books and his was empty. He felt sorry for her and a little sorry for himself. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about it all. He held his hand out to her and gestured with a forefinger.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  ‘You’re the impossible one,’ she said. But she came.

  Upstairs, his father had put all the leftovers from dinner out on the table, as well as more bread and some olives. Stefan loved olives. His father took some food on a plate towards the bedrooms.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ Stefan said.

  ‘She’s taking a nap,’ Polly said, from the sink.

  ‘Has Dad taken a look at Maya yet?’

  ‘Who’s Maya?’ Fleur asked.

  ‘The car AI. We brought her from home.’

  ‘Cute,’ Polly said. ‘Like a pet.’

  ‘She says she isn’t charging. Dad will fix it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Art said, looking over Stefan’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Stefan said.

  He ate with Fleur in the library. When they had finished, Stefan took an apple with him to the car. He wanted to hear Maya’s voice. The car was a hideaway and a piece of home. The gate to the garden was pulled closed. The sun was overhead and blisteringly hot. Another tropical April afternoon. It impressed him how comfortable the house felt, no matter how random the weather was outside. Perhaps it was just the volume of air in there. The house had its own climate, inside and out. If he didn’t know better, he would say the air was less pressured up here. They were higher, but it wasn’t exactly high altitude. Things were changing, he could feel it in the way his parents were being and in himself. He wished there was someone he could talk to about it. He stood by Maya, looking up at the branches of the trees that sheltered the car park from the sun. They were still. It was like being in a photograph.

  ‘Stefan!’ Art called, marching across the car park towards him from the house. Fleur was following, looking at her ­father’s heels. ‘I want to show you something.’

  Stefan fell in behind Fleur, and Art led them to a field above the walled garden, beyond the cars, along the contour of a hill. Above were a few trees and the beginnings of the woods – below was a shallow grass bank running down and to the left of the red brick wall of the vegetable garden.

  There were three upturned black buckets on the grass. On the first was an apple, on the second a cabbage and on the furthest one a tomato.

  ‘I couldn’t help myself,’ Art said. ‘Dramatic, don’t you think?’ He gestured down the hill. ‘This way.’

  They walked another thirty or so paces. Stefan widened his eyes as he saw what Art had left there. A rifle. Art stopped near it and turned to them. Stefan couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  ‘Pass it to me, would you, Stefan?’ Art said.

  ‘The gun?’ Stefan said.

  ‘Yes, the gun.’

  Stefan picked it up awkwardly with both hands.

  ‘You’ve never held a gun before?’ Fleur said. She didn’t try and hide her amusement.

  ‘Is it obvious?’ Stefan said.

  Art looked from Stefan to Fleur. Fleur looked at the ground again. Art took the rifle from Stefan and checked it over.

  ‘Look,’ Art said. ‘This is the stock.’ He put his hand on the handle. ‘It goes against your shoulder. This is the magazine.’ He tapped a black protrusion.

  ‘For the bullets,’ Fleur said.

  ‘And this is the safety,’ Art said, indicating a button near the trigger. ‘When it’s up, it’s on. So, you aim and pull the trigger. Like this.’

  Art lifted the rifle to his shoulder, paused for a second and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  ‘The safety is on,’ Art said. ‘So, you can see. Nothing happens.’

  He held the gun out to Stefan. ‘You try.’

  ‘I don’t think—’, Stefan said.

  ‘Fleur?’

  Fleur took the rifle, put it to her shoulder, pressed the safety off, and took aim. She held her position. Stefan studied her face, the nape of her neck, her jawline. Her eyes narrowed fractionally. There was a sound like someone knocking once, hard, on a wooden table. The cabbage spun but didn’t fall off the bucket.

  ‘Good shot,’ Stefan said.

  Fleur grunted. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘I thought it would be louder,’ Stefan said, looking at the rifle again.

  ‘It’s a police model,’ Art said. ‘At the shooting range, you would wear headsets and the guns are standard. It’s noisy. But this one is a little bit fancier.’

  Fleur held the rifle for Stefan, barrel down, stock up in the air, inviting him to have a go. She gave him a small smile. It felt like a dare.

  ‘Do you hunt?’ Stefan asked Art.

  ‘Children,’ Fleur said, quietly, out of her father’s earshot.

  ‘Rabbits and hares, mainly,’ Art said.

  ‘Human hares,’ Fleur whispered. He got a breath of something flowery.

  Stefan took the gun. His hands shaking.

  ‘That’s natural,’ Art said. ‘You should be nervous. You’ll get used to it.’

  Stefan tried to copy Fleur’s position. He had played shooting games before, but the heat of the sun, the brightness of the light, the eyes of these strangers, all made it feel utterly different. The gun was lighter than he expected. He put the stock into his right shoulder and aimed, his finger near, but not on, the trigger, and his left hand on the thick part of the barrel. It felt like a real weapon. It felt dangerous.

  ‘Use the sight,’ Art said. ‘Drop your shoulders. You’re too tense. Make it so the rifle is an extension of your body.’

  Stefan aimed at the cabbage. He pressed the safety off. He didn’t feel confident he was lining it up properly, but he did his best and steadied himself. The barrel was still moving.

  ‘Breathe,’ Art said, an edge to his voice. ‘Look out for the recoil. Hold her firm.’

  Perhaps it was like serving at match point. That calm that came when he pretended it didn’t matter, even as he knew it mattered very, very much.

  ‘Elbows down,’ Art said. ‘And do it.’

  He pulled the trigger. The rifle jumped in his hands, but only a little. It didn’t hurt as he thought it would. The bucket flew up the hill and the cabbage fell to the grass, rolling a few metres towards them, before stopping. His shoulders relaxed a little.

  ‘You killed the bucket,’ Fleur said.

  ‘Hell, Stefan,’ Art said. ‘They’re not our buckets.’

  Art was grinning at him, but there was a dissonance that bothered Stefan. Art’s smile, in that moment, in the blazing sun, didn’t seem real. He didn’t think too much of it though. The entire situation was crazy. Firing a damn gun.

  ‘Daddy,’ Fleur said to Art. ‘Don’t be mean, look at his face.’ Fiercely, she said to Stefan, ‘Don’t you listen to him.’

  Stefan blushed.

  ‘He’ll get used to it,’ Art said, winking at Stefan. ‘I’m a big softie.’

  Stefan was still holding the gun. Art jogged towards the buckets.

  It was intoxicating, holding a weapon. He remembered the stag, antlers high and looking straight at him, Art arriving on his shoulder, putting the stag’s proud body in the rifle sights. Stefan imagined taking aim at Art, and suddenly afraid, he had to stop himself from raising the barrel.

  Fleur whispered, behind him again: ‘Safety on.’

  Stefan shivered.

  ‘A lot of power, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You get used to it. It’s quite addictive.’

  ‘I c
an see that.’ He remembered the way she had bundled her headsets into her backpack, out of her father’s sight. ‘What about your headset?’ he said. ‘Is that addictive too?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean being immersed. Escaping reality.’

  ‘The studies say no.’ She stepped back, giving him an assessing look. ‘I’ll show you what I’ve made.’ She looked up at her father, who was showing them the hole in the bucket before placing it back for another shot. ‘Once Daddy’s done with us.’

  After a couple more tries, Stefan’s arms and shoulders began to ache. He walked back to the house with Fleur. He was thirsty and drank two glasses of water. Then he splashed water on his face, neck and arms.

  ‘You need sun cream,’ Fleur said.

  ‘We won’t have packed that.’

  ‘I have moisturiser. In my room.’

  Her room. ‘Okay.’

  They walked quietly to Fleur’s bedroom door and stopped.

  ‘Wait here,’ Fleur said.

  She went in and Stefan realised she wasn’t going to ask him to follow. He could see her bathroom door, which was closed, and clothes on the floor – a purple skirt, a black sock, something jade green and dress-like, though who knew, really, what it was. He heard a drawer opening and closing, then another.

  ‘Fuck, I can’t find it.’ She came back to the door, looked up the corridor to the kitchen. ‘Just come in. Ignore the mess.’ She held the door open, so he could pass, then closed it, ­silently, behind him.

  ‘Wow,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not ignoring the mess,’ she said.

  ‘It’s hard.’

  ‘Yes, well.’

  Her bed was a swamp of clothes – trousers, jackets, socks, stockings, blouses, dresses, all colours, all together like an abstract painting. Some things were folded, some were spread out next to each other, still awaiting a decision. It all spilled to the floor, like an artist who would not be constrained by a canvas.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘Really.’

  He loved her dry tone. She went into the bathroom and he heard a cupboard opening.

  ‘Ha,’ she said. ‘I knew I brought it.’

  There was a white dress on a hanger on the wall, seemingly stitched with hundreds of tiny squares of green, blue and red. Without thinking, he took it and held it against the light of the window. The material of the dress was not completely opaque, but the squares were solid blocks.

  ‘I haven’t tried it on yet,’ she said, watching him from the bathroom doorway, a small blue bottle in her hand.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said.

  ‘I found it in a boutique shop.’

  Stefan ran his fingers over it, admiring the squares. ‘Did someone hand stitch these?’

  ‘Probably,’ she said. ‘Please put it back. You haven’t washed your hands and I might have to return it.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He felt mortified. There was no way he, or his parents, could afford to pay for it if he stained it with rifle grease. He hung it back on the wall and looked at the floor.

  ‘Sit on the bed,’ she said.

  He obeyed, looking at the bottle in her hand.

  ‘Are you sure it’s the same as sun cream?’

  ‘Dry skin needs water. That’s what moisturiser is. This,’ she held the bottle up and sat next to him, ‘is just unbelievably expensive after-sun.’

  She pulled the back of his shirt down and hissed.

  ‘You’ve really caught it,’ she said.

  It felt sore, but not that bad. He heard the bottle lid flip open. He turned and saw her squeeze white liquid into her palm. She rubbed her hands together and put them on each side of his neck. He shivered.

  ‘Cold?’ she said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, shifting his weight on the bed. She ran her palms and fingers over the muscles. Trapezius. Deltoid. His mind threw their names at him.

  ‘You’d better do your face,’ she said, handing him the bottle. ‘Does your scalp burn?’

  ‘Because I’m blonde? When it’s longer, not really. This length is fine.’

  ‘It’s thick,’ she said. ‘I like it.’

  He squeezed some cream onto his fingers, paranoid he would get some on the clothes he was sitting on. He rubbed the cream onto his forehead, then delicately, with fingertips, on nose and cheeks, smearing what was left on the little of his chest visible above his t-shirt collar.

  ‘You’ll thank me,’ she said.

  ‘No, you’re right. I didn’t realise.’

  She took the bottle back to the bathroom. He looked around. On her bedside table was an old battery clock, jewellery in a pile, coloured bottles, a table lamp. One of the bottles was smaller than the others, more medicinal. An orange pill bottle filled with white pills. The label was blank.

  ‘Do you want to see?’

  He turned guiltily, thinking she meant the pills. Instead she was holding out a headset.

  ‘Definitely,’ he said, taking it. ‘Is your dad—’

  ‘He won’t come in here.’

  ‘Don’t I need some space to move around in?’

  ‘These are a little bit further ahead on the technological curve. A chair would be perfect, but the bed is fine. Use a pillow behind you. Like this.’

  She demonstrated, sitting up, her back propped with a pillow, next to him. Her black t-shirt was crumpled under the straps of her dungarees. She had taken her shoes off, so her feet were bare. She was holding a headset too.

  ‘Do we both put them on?’ he asked, taking his shoes and socks off.

  ‘You get the small one,’ she said. ‘When you play, some of the surfaces won’t be visible. It might all seem a bit skeletal, especially at the edges of the map.’

  It was fun to see her excited about something. ‘It’s a game,’ he said. ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘What did you think it was?’

  ‘I don’t know. They do simulations, don’t they? These companies? Flying, surgery, combat?’

  ‘This isn’t military. I can’t tell you who it is yet. But it’s a big gaming company. Lots of money in it. And they’re looking for new blood.’

  The headset was smaller than any he’d tried before – a fine net of wires with a metal plate – and astonishingly light.

  ‘What does your headset do?’ he asked.

  ‘Game admin. Like I said, it’s not finished.’

  ‘What type of game is it?’

  ‘No more questions.’ She smiled encouragingly and raised her eyebrows. ‘Ready?’

  He put the wires over his head, the visor falling smoothly into place over his eyes.

  ‘I can still see down,’ he said, disappointed. ‘Shouldn’t the eyes be sealed off? And what about sound?’

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she said.

  Everything flipped once, twice, and he gasped, trying to get some balance back. Everything was black.

  ‘Relax,’ a male voice said, distant but authoritative. ‘It’s calibrating.’

  Then he was in an office. He blinked, taking the environment in. But when he closed his eyes nothing changed. He could still see.

  ‘That’s weird,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ A female voice this time, but not Fleur’s.

  ‘I can’t close my eyes.’

  ‘That’s a setting. Do you want to be able to close your eyes?’

  ‘Blinking,’ he said. ‘I can’t blink.’

  ‘Hold on.’ There was a fizz of static. ‘Try now.’

  He closed his eyes, and everything went black. He opened them again.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I really didn’t like that. But that must mean—’

  ‘Yes. This is all in your head.’

  ‘How—’

  ‘No mo
re questions. We can talk about it after. Just explore and see what you can find out.’

  It was mind-blowing. His fingers were long and slender, a pianist’s hands where his own were thicker. Wait. He looked down. Oh, shit.

  He was a her. He laughed, delighted.

  ‘Fleur, this is amazing.’

  He was wearing loose, grey trousers and a white t-shirt, with shoes that were grey and indistinct. He pressed the heel of his hand into his right breast. It felt spongy and flesh-like. He touched where his nipple should be, but there was nothing, just smooth skin, a dome under his shirt.

  ‘Stop feeling yourself up,’ Fleur said.

  ‘Can you see me?’

  ‘From a distance, somewhere above and to the right of you. It’s kind of hilarious.’

  He looked, but there were only ceiling tiles, lights and a coat stand in the corner. It was a standard office, with desks, chairs, filing cabinets, a door into a conference room and another to a corridor.

  He went into the corridor. Again, he looked down at his female body, his shoes, sensing something wasn’t right, but knowing it was just the strangeness of it. He jogged right, towards a junction. The running was effortless, quick. His breath didn’t shorten. At the junction, he saw a lift to the left and went to it, pressing the button. The door opened.

  In the lift mirror a woman was looking back at him. Going in, he put a hand to his face, watching the woman watching him back, feeling her fingers on cheeks that weren’t his. The skin was smooth, a freckle on her right cheek, just under her eye, her eyebrows perfect, her nose straight. A plainly beautiful face with absolutely no character.

  The door had closed, so he pressed the button for the ground floor. The door closed, and the lift started to move downwards. It was a fast lift and the acceleration made his stomach lurch. It was incredibly authentic.

  ‘How did you do that, Fleur? It feels so real.’

  The lift slowed quickly and stopped. Fourth floor. He stepped out into a corridor, this one plusher, with thick, red carpet, red flocked wallpaper and white cornicing. This was like another building altogether. There was laughter and voices from along the corridor. He walked slowly towards the hubbub. There were silver chandeliers. A man in a midnight-blue suit stumbled out of some doors, pulling the hand a woman in a pale-blue pencil dress.