The Complex

by Michael Walters

  ‘Let’s go to the clubhouse,’ he said, looking up into the trees. Art’s broken tennis racquet was somewhere out there. Polly pulled at his hand.

  ‘You need to concentrate on me,’ Polly said. ‘Not the woods, not those damn stones. Me.’

  She stopped and put her hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down so her lips could meet his. Her mouth was slightly open. She kissed him gently.

  ‘Come on,’ she said.

  His lips tingled. She was right. She always knew exactly what he needed. They climbed to the clubhouse balcony and Polly went straight inside. Leo tensed, afraid they would be lit up by movement sensors, but no lights came on. He looked back over the court at the house. A pale white light now lit up the lawn. He sensed the crystals in his mind again. He felt a burst of relief. Then Polly was pulling him into the dark building. He glanced towards the car park one last time. No sign of Art. Inside, it was warmer. Art was welcome to the dead animal. Leo would have Art’s living, breathing wife.

  ‘There’s a sofa,’ Polly said.

  She kissed him on the mouth again, lifting his shirt and pressing the heels of her hands into his chest. He put his hands on her hips and kissed her back. She pulled him towards the sofa by the waistband of his jeans. Still standing, she lightly pressed his hard penis through the denim. He was reminded how Gabrielle once did the same. Ancient history.

  He guided her around, so she was facing away from him and put his hands under her hoodie, feeling for her breasts. She pressed her bottom back into his crotch. Groaning, he tried to put his head in her neck, but the hood was in the way, so he pulled the whole thing up over her head. She lifted her arms to help, but the hood got stuck. She was giggling, muffled by the hoodie.

  She was naked underneath, her skin goose-bumping under his fingers. Her shadow was just visible on the back wall, a delicious silhouette.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, get this off me,’ she said. ‘I want to see you.’

  She managed to get it off herself, her hair pulling free from its band. She looked dishevelled and glorious. He wanted her. As he took his t-shirt off, he realised he was wary of discarding it. He didn’t want to leave any evidence. He felt a glimmer of guilt, even now.

  Polly sat on the edge of the sofa and undid his jeans, pulling them down with his boxers to his knees.

  ‘Poor baby,’ she said. ‘All that tension.’

  He closed his eyes and heard a whisper of material on skin.

  ‘Let me help,’ she said.

  She lapped at him as a cat would a bowl of milk. In her room, sat on her bed, he had been afraid this might happen. He remembered her tears as she showed him her leg – white sacs of artificial muscle mixed with metal and bone. Completely vulnerable and open. As Stefan was. He remembered Stefan’s shocked face when he caught them holding hands. That had hurt. He had felt like an imposter.

  His penis softened.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Polly said.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  He felt guilty for wanting to and guilty for not wanting to. Everything felt mixed up and wrong. There was no winning. He sat next to Polly and ran his fingers over her stomach, into her wonderfully wiry pubic hair. His buttocks felt cold on the leather. He concentrated on her, making circles on her skin, getting ever closer to her hot centre. She arched her back and her head came into his shoulder. She rested it on him as he kept going.

  He wondered how, exactly, he had ended up with someone else’s wife.

  ‘Don’t slow down,’ Polly said. ‘Please.’

  She bit his shoulder gently, wanting something more of him. He kept his fingers moving. It didn’t seem like his hand at all.

  Through the clubhouse windows he could see the glow on the lawn grow brighter. Polly’s moans were getting louder, so he gently put his hand over her mouth. Her breath was hot on the palm of his hand. She twisted underneath him. She seemed to like that.

  There was a shadow on the balcony. A man, tall and broad-shouldered. So, Art had set all this up. Perhaps Art liked to watch. But the figure was looking away, as if standing guard.

  Polly convulsed, her body tightening. He pressed his hand harder on her mouth.

  There was someone sitting in one of the armchairs. Leo could make out a peaked cap, like in the old war films. The figure leant forward, into the light from the windows. It was an unusual face, long and androgynous, with deep-set eyes, and a protruding jaw. The light outside flashed, as if someone was taking a picture. When Leo looked, he could now see that the figure on the balcony was a soldier, who was smoking a cigarette. The officer in the chair looked solemnly at Polly, whose eyes were half-closed. She had stopped moving.

  Then he was turning Polly over, so she was kneeling on the sofa. He wasn’t soft any longer. He was observing their bodies from outside his own, panning back until he was on the balcony, looking in through glass. The other Leo was fucking Polly from behind. The officer, who he could now see was wearing a green uniform, had stood up and was walking to the rutting bodies, a pistol in one hand, using the other to cock it slowly.

  ‘It’s quite a sight.’ Leo turned, surprised. He had forgotten the guard, who was now next to him. The soldier was looking towards the horizon, which was flashing, along with the regular, dull thump of explosions.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Leo asked.

  ‘They’re flattening the village. The bulldozers go in tomorrow.’ The man flicked his cigarette onto the grass below.

  The flashes were hypnotic, but Leo needed to know what was happening in the clubhouse. He twisted back to see. The officer was pointing the pistol at the back of the other Leo’s head and looking out through the window at him, as if for permission.

  His head lit up with a flare of white-hot pain. Then he was holding the gun to the other Leo’s head. The pistol was cold and hard in his palm.

  ‘Do it,’ the officer whispered.

  The other Leo was moving his hips violently and grunting like an animal.

  ‘Shoot.’ The words slipped like silk into his fingers.

  He pulled the trigger.

  His body jerked and he had the sensation of falling. He came to lying on his back on the sofa, Polly’s head on his chest. Both of them were breathing hard, but he felt like he had sprinted a hundred metres and his heart was going like a jackhammer.

  ‘Wow,’ Polly said.

  He was gasping for air and he wondered if he was going to have a heart attack, but with each second that passed he was able to relax a little bit, looking around the clubhouse for the officer, the guard. They were alone. Leo rubbed his hand over his face. The light over the lawn was gone. Something had happened. A dream.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Polly said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you were pretty intense.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  Polly looked up at him. ‘I mean, it’s been a long time for me. And I didn’t think you were like that.’

  It sounded like he had done something out of character. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember having sex with her at all. But her warm skin was soothing.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, us? What are we going to do?’

  ‘We should get back,’ Leo said. His mouth was watering. He was really hungry.

  She pulled herself to her feet and got dressed. He did the same and went into the clubhouse kitchen.

  ‘I’m going,’ she called quietly from the balcony.

  There was an edge to her voice. She was upset about something. He took a long drink of water. His skin was hot, so he ran the water on his wrists and arms. He felt calm. He felt good.

  He strolled along the back of the tennis court again, then let the grass bank lead him naturally down to the crystals on the lawn. They had fascinated him. Now, they di
dn’t. Through the wall, Gabrielle was in their bed, and it was easy to imagine one of her disgusted looks. The nearest crystal was humming gently. But it was different, he realised. It had turned black. They all had. He stepped closer. And they were radiating an incredible amount of heat. It was like opening an oven door. He went to the biggest one and spat on it. His scorched saliva hissed back at him.

  His calmness was dissolving. He tried to remember exactly what had happened with Polly. Nothing. She had kissed him on the mouth. They had gone to the clubhouse. Then it became vague. He felt nothing. It was like someone had cut the memory out of his brain and cauterised either side. He walked back, hoping proximity would guide him, and stood on the balcony, listening.

  He smacked the rail with the palm of his hand. What was happening to him? He strode down to the car park.

  ‘I thought I heard someone,’ Art said. He was closing the rear door of the Mercedes and, after slamming it shut, came to meet him, hands in his pockets. Art’s voice sounded hoarse, and he walked slowly. ‘There are so few of us and there is so much space. We still somehow find each other.’

  Leo didn’t reply. Something about the way Art was moving made him uneasy.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ Art asked.

  ‘Did you do the stag?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything with the stag,’ Art said. ‘The stag was a bit of a mess.’ Art put his hands behind his back and looked up. ‘Like the trees.’

  ‘The trees?’ Leo sensed a trap. The man was making no sense.

  ‘Are you okay, Leo?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Because you seem a little edgy, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Leo surprised both of them by laughing. Art flinched. Leo remembered Polly’s lips under his. And then what?

  ‘Do you think this is normal?’ Art kicked leaves into the air.

  It looked like Art was hiding something. A knife. Or a gun.

  ‘I don’t care any more,’ Leo said. ‘I’ve seen them.’

  Art straightened. ‘You’ve seen what?’

  ‘You know.’ He could see Art’s arms were shaking. That was why he had them behind his back. To hide his weakness.

  ‘I don’t know, Leo. What have you seen?’ Art was beginning to sound pissed off. At last.

  ‘The videos.’

  Art came towards him, bringing his arms out from behind his back.

  Leo adjusted his weight and swung for Art’s head. Art saw it coming and tried to get out of the way, stumbling back and to the side. Leo’s fist glanced off Art’s shoulder, but Art was off balance and fell on his hip. He cried out in pain.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Art shouted.

  Leo walked in a small circle. ‘Get up.’

  Art managed to get to one knee, then stopped. ‘Look at me, Leo.’

  ‘I am looking at you.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Look at me.’

  Something in Art’s voice cut through Leo’s rage. Leo looked at him. Art’s face was wrinkled and pale and he was out of breath. He looked old.

  ‘You have been fucking my wife,’ Leo said. ‘And you’re giving her whatever shit you’re giving her.’

  ‘Is that what this is about, Leo? Gabrielle?’

  ‘You can’t talk your way out of this.’

  ‘It’s therapy, okay? Therapy. I was hypnotising her and letting her talk. She was traumatised. She wouldn’t go to any of the psychotherapists I recommended to her. I did it myself. I’ve got a qualification. It was therapy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have not fucked her. I haven’t touched her. You have to believe me. It’s anxiety medication. I tell her not to drink alcohol, but she doesn’t listen. That’s all it is.’

  Leo suddenly felt exhausted. He put his hands up. ‘You win. I’m going inside.’

  He expected Art to say something more as he walked away, to get the last word, but he didn’t.

  Polly was on the sofa swirling a glass of red wine. His stomach grumbled.

  ‘Everyone’s gone to bed,’ she said.

  ‘Not you. Not Art.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘He’s outside by the car.’ He didn’t have the energy to say anything more. Instead he went to the fridge and pulled out a portion of the coq au vin. It looked even less appetising cold, but he got a fork, sat at the table and started to eat.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ Polly said.

  Leo swallowed. ‘What?’

  ‘Art and I – we’re not married.’

  Leo kept eating.

  ‘He gives me a place to stay, pays the bills, and I go with him to business engagements.’

  That made sense. The chicken was good. ‘Why?’ Leo said. ‘Why do you do it?’

  ‘I need the medication.’

  ‘I think he’s playing you. I don’t think you need those pills any more. He just wants you to think that.’

  ‘Leo, you don’t know.’

  He put a big forkful of cold potato in his mouth. ‘Have you tried not taking them?’

  ‘That’s an easy thing to say.’

  ‘You can’t leave him as long as he has you like that.’

  ‘Leave him?’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t that what you’re saying?’

  ‘What does he want with you, Leo? Why has he brought you all here?’

  Leo pushed the empty bowl away and leant back, putting his hands on his head. He was deeply tired. This conversation felt like too much effort.

  Polly was looking away from him, arms crossed, thinking. She turned back to him. ‘Leave with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Right now. Let’s go. This place is poisoned. We’ll take the car and leave them all to their stupid games.

  ‘But, Stefan—’

  ‘Is going to be gone soon. He’s already gone. You’ve seen him with Fleur.’

  Leo stood and went to the sink, dumping his plate. He caught his blackened reflection in the window. A stranger. It had been a brutal evening. He was done in. He couldn’t sleep with Gabrielle. He didn’t want to talk to Polly. He just wanted to be at home in his own bed.

  ‘I’m so tired,’ he said.

  Polly came behind him and put her arms around his chest. ‘Me too. I’m tired too. Come with me.’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘I’m leaving. With or without you.’ She disentangled herself from him. ‘If you don’t come now, you won’t ever come.’

  She started walking towards the front door.

  ‘Wait.’ He ran to catch up.

  ‘I’m driving back to the Areas,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel safe here. You’ve got two minutes to pack your things. Or come as you are. It doesn’t matter, does it? You can get more clothes.’

  They were in the car park now. Leo looked around for Art.

  ‘Christ, Polly, wait until the morning, at least.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, are you?’

  ‘Where are you going to go?’ He stared uncomprehendingly at the blanket of leaves rustling underfoot. He wanted to. There was nothing for him here.

  ‘Come with me and find out,’ she said.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. He opened the passenger door, but didn’t get in, looking through at her. Her eyes were bright, expectant. He wondered if Art was watching from the darkness.

  Polly started the engine. ‘Last chance.’

  He didn’t know what was holding him back. The house whispered to him to go with her. The leaves tried to lift him into the passenger seat. He knew he had come to a crossroads. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But it was Stefan that held him fast. He couldn’t leave Stefan here with Art.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, and closed the door.

  Polly nodded, matter-of-fact, a
nd reversed. She was stone-faced as the Mercedes screeched away, accelerating onto the drive, yellow leaves whirling in its wake.

  The engine faded. Then the only sound was the quiet tap of leaves falling from the branches high above as they hit the floor.

  Gabrielle: Up

  Gabrielle sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the dizziness to pass. Stefan was standing in the bathroom doorway watching her.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘Really. You don’t have to stay with me.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said.

  She looked across at him. ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I thought you were dead.’ There was a crack in his voice.

  ‘I’m definitely still here.’ A shooting pain in her forehead made her wince and close her eyes. She pressed on the area with the palm of her hand and rubbed until it passed. ‘Let me have a shower and then we can talk.’

  He nodded, looking like he wanted to say something else.

  ‘I’ll meet you in the library when I’m done,’ she said.

  He left. The boy was upset, but comfort would have to wait.

  She locked the bedroom door, put a chair against the handle, stripped off her underwear and started the shower running. Stefan had told her about the rooms he had found with Fleur. Art’s secret rooms.

  Her memory was playing tricks with her. Art had injected her with something. She remembered the pier her father used to take her to after her mum died. Her mother’s face was still vivid too. Dream fragments that felt real. Fleur’s simulation was crystal clear in her memory, including everything she called a glitch, although ‘glitch’ didn’t really cover it. The girl had saved her life.

  Before getting in the shower she put her mouth to the cold tap and slurped thirstily. Once under the hot pins of water, she checked each part of her body. Her headache had passed. There was a small, intense bruise on her thigh with a red dot at its centre. There were more bruises and marks on her arm. Images sparked but wouldn’t fit together. It was like a part of her brain had been put through a shredder. The front of her legs ached, but the hot water on her skin was bliss. She hoped it would also dissolve the confusion. She had been in a fight. The girl with the bandaged head.