The Complex

by Michael Walters

  ‘Can I get some air?’ he said, putting both his hands on the glass.

  Outside was a lawn and some dead trees, black trunks with stubbed empty branches reaching upwards. The woman’s hand was cold on his arm.

  ‘Come and lie down.’

  ‘No,’ he said, too sharply. ‘Sorry. No. I need to go.’ Her hair had become free and was loose around her shoulders, her pale neck exposed.

  ‘You’re not well,’ she said. Her hand was still on his arm and he shook it off. The air now had a chill to it. His thoughts wouldn’t coalesce, but he had an overwhelming need to get out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, lunging away, knocking a table over with his hip, ignoring the clatter of fallen junk. There was a stag’s head on the wall and a gun beneath it. It looked like Art’s rifle.

  He had a single clear thought: everything here is dead.

  ‘I can give you what you want,’ the woman said, floating after him as he stumbled into the hallway.

  It was like the air was water and his body struggled to move through it, the room pulsating with colours, rainbow swirls all around him. He used the wall to almost pull himself to the front door and then he put all his weight on the handle. It took all his effort to open it. Looking back, the woman was close, her white dress now splashed with colour, her hair drenched with paint, colour clinging to her body, dripping from her in thick streams. She wanted him, but he didn’t know why. It was like he was becoming stuck in one of her paintings.

  He threw himself out onto the porch, falling onto the gravel drive. His face stung, scraped on the stones, and he twisted his body, putting his hands up to his cheeks and forehead.

  He was expecting blood, but instead found himself sitting upright on Fleur’s bed, gasping, staring at the insectoid headset. He threw the headset on the floor. The room was swaying.

  Fleur was still wearing her headset. She hadn’t moved. He shook her. Her skin was grey and, when he touched her, she was cold. He ripped her headset off. It fell off the bed with a clatter. Her eyes were blank and staring. Her chest was still.

  Stefan stepped back from the bed. Before he could decide what to do, the door flew open and Art was coming straight at him. Stefan stumbled trying to get out of his way.

  ‘Wait in the kitchen,’ Art said. He went to the opposite side of the bed and pulled open a drawer in Fleur’s bedside table.

  ‘She’s not breathing,’ Stefan said.

  Art looked sharply at him. ‘Go to the kitchen and close the door behind you.’

  Stefan looked back one last time as he left. Art was leaning over Fleur’s motionless body, something in his right hand, out of sight. Stefan closed the door. The corridor was quiet. He pressed his ear against the door’s panel. Nothing. He looked at his hands – they were shaking.

  Gabrielle: Rifle

  It was rare she remembered dreams, but this one had been vivid, and her heart was still beating hard. She had been in the woods, approaching the blue tarpaulin again, but this time there was a figure in a long black coat, hood up, facing away from her and hacking at something, so that a red mist floated around its head. Sensing her presence, it turned, a black scarf covering its face, a bloody knife held up in warning. Gabrielle froze, terrified, as if she may yet avoid being seen. The figure stepped towards her, pulling the scarf down. The hair was knotted and dirty, the eyes had more wrinkles around them, the face was more weathered, but there was no doubt about it. She was looking at herself.

  She didn’t know what it meant. Dreams weren’t Leo’s forte either, even if he had been there. His side of the bed was empty. She felt a stab of shame at how quickly she had become drunk and how little she remembered after getting changed for dinner. That had been Art’s idea. Someone had brought her to bed. Leo, she hoped. She didn’t think the children had noticed, though she couldn’t be sure. Idiot.

  Art loved the high life. She did too, now that she had tried it. It was an extraordinary thing to be waved into expensive restaurants and private members’ clubs without a care. Men sat huddled in those clubs, the stratum of businessmen that made deals in back rooms that affected millions of ordinary people. The sex clubs attracted these men too, masked and costumed, looking for something – a woman, a man, both, just something not themselves. She saw the draw. She couldn’t deny it. It had been intoxicating. But the guilt had accreted gradually, remorselessly, and now she was here, with the three men in her life, none of them knowing who she really was. But then, she didn’t know who she really was any more either.

  She touched the window to let some daylight in. Her watch was charged, thanks to Leo, and she put it on the bathroom shelf next to Art’s orange container of tablets. The container looked so innocuous. She had been off them for eight days before coming here. Since Sunday, she had taken one of the new ones, and the horse pill Art had forced on her yesterday. Forced? That was the thing with Art. He was forceful, but from unexpected angles.

  She popped the orange container open. Art would be angry. Fuck him. She tipped the tablets into the toilet bowl, dropped the container after, then flushed, watching to make sure they disappeared. The rashes were gone, the tablets were gone, and her head was clear, even if her conscience wasn’t.

  After her shower, she put on her black linen trousers and white t-shirt and went to find Stefan in the library. Neither child was there. There were notes and folders on Fleur’s desk. It reminded her of her own desk at the police station, before it all got fucked up. Stefan’s desk was bare. She despaired of him. Fleur’s handwriting was illegible. Equations were dotted here and there. A different mind to hers.

  She ate breakfast alone. The silent kitchen made her yearn for a chance to undo all the rushed breakfasts and shouted goodbyes. Stefan would soon be gone. She made herself a cup of coffee, sipped it, then poured it down the sink with a grimace. She filled a glass with water instead, drinking it in a few long gulps.

  The walled garden was like an oven. She stuck to the shade, but it didn’t help much. There was an unpleasant smell that caught in her throat as she walked down the hill. The plants all looked exhausted, flopping extravagantly. She was heading to the hedge maze – she wanted to lose herself along its cool paths. She kicked some brown apples and they split easily, as if lacking some internal structure. There were no wasps, no flies, no movement in the air at all. The apples had all fallen from the trees overnight and were lying like a green-brown pebbled beach. She looked up at the clear sky. No birds.

  She was glad to launch herself into the maze’s shadowy embrace. The path bricks had a pleasingly random pattern to them, and after a few turns she found herself facing a staring stone lion. She laughed. Her mother would pull a face just like that when they were playing monsters. And the chess set. Goodness, it had been a long time since she had thought about that. They had played chess after school on a wooden set, and the king sat on a lion with a face just like that one. When she had walked into her father’s trashed apartment, the day after he died, her mother’s photo had been lying amongst shards of glass on the floor. It was the first thing she spotted.

  She looked around. There were four paths from the lion. She took the nearest one, on her left, and walked it slowly, choosing and backtracking without thought, enjoying each step and breath. Above her the sky was a consistent blue line. She let her thoughts drift. Heaven.

  Her mother had taught her to play chess at the dining table. This was their first house, what she thought of as her mother’s house. Gabrielle remembered dangling her legs, swinging them while studying the faces of the white pieces. She loved to unfold the board. The box was black, rectangular, with a clip to open it. The smell had never left her – musty wood and plastic. She loved taking everything out, flattening the board, putting the pieces in place. Then her mother would come, and they would play.

  ‘You go first,’ her mother said. ‘You like to go first.’

  Gabrielle moved her knight. She d
id like to go first, and she loved that the knight could jump over an entire line of soldiers. Her mother was wearing the white dress that Gabrielle liked most on her. The sun was on the side of her mother’s face so one cheek was glowing yellow. It was almost dinner time.

  ‘How was school?’

  ‘All right.’

  Her mother moved a pawn out two squares.

  ‘Did you have music today?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gabrielle moved the knight again, to the centre of the board.

  ‘You’re putting your knight in trouble,’ her mother said. ‘There’s nothing to protect it.’ She moved another pawn out to threaten Gabrielle’s white knight. ‘Now you’ve got to move it back.’

  But she didn’t want to move it back. Instead she moved the knight across the board but kept it in the centre.

  Her mother looked at her, then at the board. She moved another black pawn out, ready to take the knight.

  ‘What are you up to? A kamikaze mission?’

  ‘What does kamikaze mean?’

  ‘It means that you are willing to kill yourself for a greater cause.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t. I can’t think of a cause worth dying for. Except you, of course.’

  Gabrielle looked at the knight again. Did he have children? It was only a horse. It didn’t even have a rider. But horses had feelings too. She loved horses. She moved the horse back.

  Her mother moved her black knight on the other side of the board. Gabrielle did the same with her opposite white knight. Her mother moved a pawn. Gabrielle copied.

  ‘Now you’re being a mirror,’ her mother said, and laughed. It was a soft sound, mostly through her nose. Her cheeks wrinkled around her eyes.

  ‘If a white knight looked in the mirror, would it see a black knight?’ Gabrielle asked.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  There was a knock at the door. Her mother frowned, then sighed.

  ‘Visitors. They’re early. Could you clear away? Then come through and say hello.’

  Her mother left the room. Gabrielle enjoyed putting away nearly as much as getting out. She put all the pieces in the box except the white knight and the black knight. Then she folded the board and put that away too. She didn’t clip the box shut. Instead she pushed the two knights together on the table, nose to nose. They made a heart shape, if she squinted.

  ‘Gabrielle?’ Her father’s call.

  She put the white knight in the box but slipped the black knight into the pocket of her trousers. She closed the box and put it away.

  A couple of months later Gabrielle had set the table for breakfast. This memory was very clear. It was a school day and she was in her uniform. She had to climb to get things she needed from the cupboards. The bowl went here, this china jug here, this spoon here. Into the bowl a mixture of oats, cornflakes and sultanas with a spiral of honey. Milk into the jug, though she had to open a smaller carton, so she could pour it safely. Then she sat at the table and waited. She prayed, saying the words she had practised. She looked at the hallway door. Nothing. She was stubborn, though, willing to fight for it. She continued to wait, not moving even though she was crying. Eventually she heard her father come down the stairs, his step distinct and heavier than the ones she wanted to hear. When he came through the door and saw Gabrielle at the table his face had paled, and he had put his hand on the doorframe. He wasn’t dressed, though it was late. She would have to get to school herself.

  ‘Who set the table like that?’ he had said.

  ‘Mum did.’ She still had the black knight in her pocket, and she was holding it tightly in her hand as she spoke.

  ‘No, Gabrielle. She didn’t.’

  He left her at the table and she heard his heavy steps going back up. The shower didn’t come on. He had gone back to bed.

  Gabrielle had been letting her fingers run lightly on the privet leaves, but they had gone too deep and her palm caught on a branch. She pulled her hand back with a gasp. There was a short scratch that blossomed with a thin line of blood as she watched. She put her tongue to it and tasted copper. The tingle wasn’t unpleasant. She looked again. It was nothing. She had no clue where she was. The outside world felt far away. Her eyes were damp, and she wiped them on the sleeve of her t-shirt.

  Turning the next corner, she came into a square, the bricks of the path now interweaving into a much more detailed and structured pattern. The centre. And without even trying. There was a brick wall in the middle with ivy draping down, and red, pink and white roses growing up from a border to meet it. Some of the rose heads were entangled in the ivy, creating a transition layer, where anything seemed to go. It was quite beautiful. She could see the tops of trees on the left, behind the hedge, which she could now see was on the outer left edge of the maze. A centre not in the centre. And the pattern on the floor was itself a maze, presumably the one she was in.

  A sound from behind the wall made her tense up. Surely not another stag? Or, worse, Art? She walked warily around.

  It was Polly.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Polly said.

  They were both avoiding Art. Polly’s white trousers were dazzling in the sunlight, though her face was in the wall’s shadow. There was a bench against the wall, beneath the ivy.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Gabrielle asked.

  ‘A while. It’s quiet and out of the sun. Art says it’s a local anomaly. Something about the hills.’

  Gabrielle snorted. ‘He’s such a bullshitter.’

  ‘It’s part of his charm.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  Polly ran her fingers up and down a dangling tendril of ivy. ‘He paid for my leg.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I was in a car accident. Three years ago. I lost my leg. A lorry hit my car and flipped it. Software glitch.’

  Gabrielle couldn’t help but try and work out which leg was the fake.

  Polly tapped her left hip. ‘You can’t tell, can you?’

  ‘No.’

  Polly sat on the edge of the bench. There was space for her, but Gabrielle stayed standing.

  ‘Did you know his wife died from a War cancer?’ Polly said.

  Gabrielle shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know why that matters. He found a drug to help with the phantom pains I had after the operation. He came to visit me in the hospital. I could see he liked me. His father had dementia at that point. My father had it too, when he died. We bonded over that. And I was exotic to him – poor, working class. Grateful. When I got out, I moved in with him.’ She shrugged. ‘And here we are.’

  Gabrielle wished she didn’t feel so sympathetic.

  ‘He’s a creature of habit,’ Polly said.

  Gabrielle bristled. ‘What do you mean?’ But she knew what exactly what Polly meant.

  ‘You’ve sort of stolen my job,’ Polly said. ‘I’m redundant.’

  Gabrielle blinked, unsure how to handle this overt attack. She was annoyed with herself for lowering her guard.

  ‘Doesn’t Leo get jealous?’ Polly said.

  ‘Look, Polly—’

  Polly waved her hands, cutting Gabrielle off. ‘Sorry, ignore me. I don’t mean any harm. But I am worried about Leo. You must have noticed his behaviour?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He stares off into space. When you talk to him, he doesn’t hear you, like his mind is somewhere else entirely. He starts doing one thing, then he forgets what he was doing and starts another. He isn’t like that at home, is he?’

  Gabrielle was stunned. Polly’s words felt like an assault, and Gabrielle seemed to have no defence against them. She recovered herself as best she could.

  ‘We’re on holiday,’ Gabrielle said. Her voice was hard. �
�Leo is overworked. I am overworked. My father died four months ago. Leo hasn’t got dementia.’

  ‘It’s good that you’re upset.’ Polly stood abruptly so they were face to face.

  Gabrielle was reminded of the white knight and the black knight facing each other in the mirror. Polly moved past her and went to the hedge wall, putting space between them.

  ‘Does Leo take the pills Art gives you?’ Polly said.

  Gabrielle felt like she had been punched in the guts. Art must have told her. Or perhaps she wasn’t hiding her habit as well as she thought.

  ‘I take them for my leg,’ Polly said, matter-of-factly. ‘Fleur takes them because her father tells her to. Art takes them because he likes them. But we don’t know what’s in them, do we? And what about Stefan?’

  ‘Enough, Polly.’ Her voice didn’t sound as strong as she hoped it would.

  ‘Wake up, Gabrielle. You brought your family here.’

  Polly reached into the hedge and pulled at something. A rectangular section of the hedge swung inward. A hidden door.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Gabrielle said.

  Polly gave her a grim smile. ‘You’ve got to know where your exits are.’

  Gabrielle walked after Polly onto the path that ran along the outside of the walled garden. It was a relief to be back in the open. On this side of the garden, the ground between wall and woods looked swampy and wild. She had run through it only yesterday, thinking she was going to get a bullet in the back. She frowned and followed Polly up the hill, staying in the wall’s sliver of shade. Neither of them spoke.

  Polly slowed and pointed across the open ground. ‘Do you see it?’

  The stag was standing right at the edge of the woods. Its antlers were so high they seemed to tangle with the branches of the ash trees behind. It was looking across at them. Gabrielle had dismissed Art’s description of the beast at dinner, but if this was the same animal, it lived up to the telling. As if knowing it had been spotted, the stag shook its head violently and kicked its back legs.