The Complex

by Michael Walters

  Her father pressed some keys and all the screens came on simultaneously, flashing white then starting to fill with numbers.

  ‘You okay?’ he said.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ She felt safe with her father there, but she hadn’t liked being hidden. That felt wrong. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be in this room.

  ‘We have to do something important. I can’t tell you, Gabrielle. But it won’t take long.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Just sit there. I’m sorry. It’ll be a bit boring. Ah, wait.’ He went to a drawer under the desk and pulled out a magazine. On the cover was a woman in a white lab coat sitting at a computer terminal. ‘It’s all there is.’

  The far wall had a big window in it and a door. Her father went out through it. She was alone.

  There was a white board opposite covered in symbols she didn’t recognise. Equations. They had done a little algebra in school. She was good at it. But this was something else, a different language.

  ‘Are there any words that you recognise?’ a voice asked from the air above her.

  Gabrielle looked up at the ceiling, then at the corners. There were no speakers. She felt disorientated and compelled to speak.

  ‘Rate of cellular development,’ she said. ‘Proxy name. Expiration date. Fisher. Rate of cellular decline. Intelligence seed. Responds to light stimuli. God cell. Complex.’

  ‘What is your father doing?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Go and find him.’

  Her body was moved by another will. This was what a puppet felt like. The air seemed heavier as she was pushed through it. She watched her small hand open the door. A blast of noise struck her, and she flinched.

  There were metal gantries all around and four giant fans rotating high above her. She was on the first-floor gantry. The floor below was filled with mechanical equipment – metallic vats, pipework and things she didn’t know the function of. Her stomach was dancing unpleasantly. Lights blinked on arrays of machines. Steam came from chimneys and was sucked up quickly towards the ceiling.

  ‘Keep going,’ the voice said.

  She went left towards another door. Her father opened the door sharply and came out carrying a pile of metal objects in his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He passed her without saying a word.

  ‘What’s in the room?’ the voice said.

  She didn’t know. ‘I want to go to Daddy.’

  ‘Go and look.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go. And. Look.’

  She felt like she was about to throw up. Her body moved into the room. Trays were open in machines. There was a single, small screen and keyboard in this room. The walls were bare apart from a noticeboard. There were papers pinned to it. She went to look at them, but the words wouldn’t come into focus. It was the same for all the papers. She rubbed her eyes, but the blur remained.

  There was a release in her and it was like an elastic band was snapping her back, but the office door was closed and when she tried the handle it wouldn’t move. A pressure started to build in her head. Through the glass, the metal boxes her father had been carrying were on the floor and he was smashing them with something until they broke open and their electronic guts were spilled everywhere. His violence was silent, her ears filled with the noise of the machinery behind her. The magazine had fallen and was spread next to the chair she had been in.

  The pressure in her head had become a throbbing pain and was getting worse. She tried the door again and shouted to her father. He stopped, breathing hard, and looked at the trolley. A girl stepped from behind it. Another girl. She was looking at herself. The fans above her seemed to get louder. She banged at the glass. She couldn’t breathe.

  There was a snap in her body somewhere, like someone had clicked their fingers or a membrane had been popped, and she was sitting in the chair again, holding the magazine. Her father came back through the door and she stood quickly, relieved to see him. The magazine fell to the floor. He was carry­ing a pile of metal boxes. The sound of machinery outside reminded her of something, but the thought wouldn’t come. Her father was red-faced and panting, spilling the boxes in the centre of the office floor. He was holding a long piece of metal.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart. This will be loud. Go behind the trolley for me so you don’t get hit.’

  She did as she was told.

  ‘Cover your ears.’

  She sealed her ears but could still hear the crash of metal on metal and feel the trolley vibrate. When it stopped, she took her fingers out and heard her father making a noise she hadn’t heard before.

  ‘Daddy?’ she said, peering around the trolley end. The metal bar clattered on the concrete floor.

  Her father’s cheeks were wet, and his eyes were a puffy red. ‘I’m done,’ he said. ‘Don’t mind me. Pass me that brush.’

  She watched him sweep all the debris into a pile in the corner then cover it with a lab coat.

  ‘That’ll do for now,’ he said.

  There was one metal container left near the door. She couldn’t remember him carrying that one in – had it always been there? It was cylindrical, about her height, black and shiny.

  ‘That one’s coming with us,’ he said. ‘We have to go. Back under, please.’

  She crawled into the trolley again, not willing to complain after seeing her father’s face. The cylinder came in after her, her father’s hands placing it at the front, as far from her as it would go. She pressed her back against the rear. The material came down and her father’s hands neatened it. Then she heard the click of the main door and they were moving. The lights were bright enough that she could see they were in a long corridor. The wheels rumbled on the floor.

  ‘Lyndon!’ An authoritative voice, gravelly and thick. The trolley stopped.

  ‘Simon,’ her father said. ‘What are you doing here so late? Actually, what are you doing here at all?’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Gabrielle bristled at the tone of it. A head teacher. Bossy. ‘It’s ten-thirty. Are you on to something juicy?’

  ‘I thought you were at the Ministry.’

  ‘It got delayed again. They really don’t know what they’re doing. There should be a businessman in charge.’

  Or a woman.

  ‘Thomas says it’s not going well,’ the man, Simon, said.

  ‘Nothing has changed since last week.’

  ‘Yes, well, Thomas is a worry. A worrier.’

  ‘He’s also brilliant,’ her father said. ‘One of the dead ends had anomalies,’ her father went on. ‘That’s the next thing. Then the N-strain. But I still think the N-strain is a mistake.’

  ‘Time’s running out, Lyndon. The War’s almost over. We’re going to win.’

  ‘I’d rather not—’

  ‘We need to get something to trials. Now isn’t the time to be squeamish. When they rescind the Act, we’re done.’

  ‘Jesus, Simon. That isn’t—’

  ‘We’ve got weeks, not months. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Footsteps. The trolley started to move. Gabrielle waited until the man’s footsteps had gone.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

  ‘Someone important,’ her father said. ‘Who shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Like me,’ Gabrielle said.

  ‘Sorry.’ Her father sounded sad. ‘We’re almost there. When this is all over, everything will get easier.’

  She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. The cylinder seemed to have slid closer to her as she was pushed along. The wheels of the trolley made a click every few metres. Her eyes kept coming back to the cylinder’s glossy surface. Her reflection was just about visible, but her shape was smeared around the curved surface.

  She missed her mother. The sadness ro
lled over her and she tried hard to stifle her sobs. The cylinder was weirdly reflective and to distract herself she moved her hands around to see them move, like the mirrors at the funfair. Sometimes the reflection didn’t move when she did, as if in a sulk.

  Her chess piece, the black knight, was in her pocket, as it always was, and she held it, running her thumb over its face. That helped.

  ‘I’m tired of playing,’ a girl’s voice said. It was in her head, like the other voice.

  ‘Why?’ Gabrielle whispered.

  ‘It’s cold. I can’t move.’

  ‘My dad will help you.’

  The reflection shivered. ‘He hates me.’

  ‘He does not,’ she said, aloud.

  The trolley stopped, and her father pulled the material back.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ her father said.

  ‘Myself.’

  He looked at her, then at the container, then back to her. His face in that moment looked more tired than she imagined possible.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said. ‘Then you can talk as much as you like.’

  He put the material back in place and Gabrielle stared hard at the cylinder. There was another girl in there. She knew it. She wanted to help the other girl. Whatever her father was about to do wasn’t right.

  She studied the smudged reflection. The girl inside it leaned forward so Gabrielle could see her face more clearly. It was puffy, not very pretty, and forceful – just by the way she moved Gabrielle could tell this girl had power. Her hair was longer than Gabrielle’s and her eyes were small. There was a mark on her cheek.

  Somehow the cylinder had moved halfway across the floor of the trolley and was now closer than the length of her arm. The girl’s face came right up to the surface and seemed about to come through. The cylinder slid another few centimetres towards her.

  ‘Daddy!’ Gabrielle shouted and scrambled through the material next to her father’s legs. He stopped the trolley.

  ‘Come out,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s a girl in the cylinder.’

  ‘A girl,’ her father echoed. ‘Well, stand by the wall for a minute. Stay well away from the end.’

  She looked around. They had left the corridor and were now in a small cave with a concrete floor. At the furthest point of the cave the concrete fell away. Their voices were dulled by the bare rock. She wondered how deep they were here and how far from sunlight.

  ‘Okay,’ she said.

  How could she have doubted her own father? There was no girl.

  Her father heaved the cylinder out of the trolley. She was sure it hadn’t been that heavy before. He carried it in three quick shuffles to the furthest part of the cave. He seemed to struggle more the closer he got. She had a book about outer space and there was a picture that she had always loved of a black hole. She had read about black holes and she knew it wasn’t a real picture, but she loved the idea as much as it terrified her. The densest things in the universe. The closer you got to one the harder it was to escape.

  ‘What’s down there?’ she asked.

  ‘The centre of the earth,’ he said.

  He put the cylinder on its side and held it in place. She went a little closer, not wanting her father to shout at her but needing to see what he was doing. The concrete ran down to a hole. Her father let the cylinder go and it rolled. She wondered if it would defy gravity and stop. Instead, it disappeared into the darkness and she heard it bump on rock once, twice. Then nothing.

  ‘Did you let her out?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s no girl. It’s just a liquid. I promise. Just a liquid.’

  ‘Why did you have to put it in there?’

  Her father’s voice had an edge to it. ‘It was something I shouldn’t have made. That’s all. It’s just a chemical. Let’s go.’

  Gabrielle’s arms were covered in goose bumps. ‘It’s cold, Dad.’

  There was another dislocation, as if everything was paused.

  ‘What else did the girl say to you?’ the voice said.

  She didn’t remember.

  ‘Try, sweetheart.’

  That was something her father would say, but it wasn’t her father.

  ‘Think,’ the voice said. ‘This is important.’

  Important to who? Her arms were next to her body and she couldn’t move them, like she was swaddled, a baby. She tried to speak but no sound would come out of her mouth. Then she was lying in a bed. She felt another sting on her arm.

  ‘Mum?’

  Stefan’s voice. She opened her eyes. He was crouched next to her, his face level with hers.

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘You’re crying.’

  ‘I’m okay. I was dozing.’ Fragments drifted on the edges of her memory.

  ‘It’s dinner soon. Are you coming through?’

  ‘Yeah. Wow, how long have I been asleep?’ She wiped the cold tears from her cheeks.

  ‘Most of the day. I’m worried about you.’

  ‘I was running.’ She remembered a blue tarpaulin. Being in a dark space. A calming voice.

  ‘And—?’ Stefan said.

  ‘I got lost in the woods. Promise me you won’t go into the woods?’

  ‘Did you leave the path or something?’

  ‘I wasn’t concentrating.’ She saw again Leo in the garden, Polly’s arm around his waist. ‘I came back cross-country and found the side door in the garden. I fell.’

  ‘But you’re okay now?’

  She moved her head, did a quick assessment of herself. She did feel okay. ‘Yes. Where’s your father?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him,’ Stefan said. ‘Fleur’s been showing me her—’ He stopped.

  ‘Stefan Hunter, what has that attractive young woman been showing you?’

  He laughed but looked uncomfortable. ‘She doesn’t want her father to know.’

  ‘I bet she doesn’t.’

  ‘I don’t mean that.’

  Gabrielle sat up, holding the sheet to her chest.

  ‘I won’t ask any more questions,’ she said. ‘Go on, scoot. I’ll get dressed.’

  Once Stefan had closed the door, she went to the bathroom. Her arm was sore. She examined it as she showered. There were several scratches and marks from her adventure in the woods. It looked like she had a bruise coming. After drying herself she chose her loosest-fitting trousers and a baggy black t-shirt. She thought about Polly as she put the clothes on. Polly was attractive in a rather bland, passive way. She was surprised how much Leo’s harmless flirtation with her had hurt.

  Gabrielle’s prime was behind her – in the bathroom mirror she saw baggy eyes, sagging neck – still, to hell with makeup. She imagined her face collapsing on itself, an empty crater. No, it wasn’t that bad. More like an old, unexploded bomb.

  She went through to the kitchen. Polly was cooking in a green knee-length sheath dress with lace. She gave Gabrielle a smile. The bitch was so blatant about it. Part of her admired that. Gabrielle was underestimating her. It was instinctive, murderous even, to so openly go for the kill. Polly’s hair was up, her only concession to the fact she was cooking.

  ‘Watch the splashes,’ Gabrielle said, pulling a chair back from the table and sitting forward, elbows on her knees, chin on her hands. ‘It’s Leo’s turn. Where is the lazy sod?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Polly said. She looked around, then said quietly, ‘I think he was going to get your car working.’

  Gabrielle felt a stab of pity. Polly was afraid of Art. Who knew what she went through when no one else was around.

  ‘Art won’t like that,’ Gabrielle said.

  Polly turned back to the hob and gave the sauce a feeble stir.

  ‘Have I got time to read my book?’ Gabrielle said. ‘Unless I can help?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no.
Of course. Please. Read.’

  Polly’s shoulders were forward, and Gabrielle wondered if she was about to cry. It pleased her and irritated her that Polly was upset.

  Gabrielle got her book from the bedroom and came back to sit on the sofa. Art was putting plates out on the table. She wondered where he had been hiding. He handed her a very small glass of red wine.

  ‘Thanks,’ Gabrielle said, holding the glass up and studying the meagre measure.

  Polly looked at her and looked quickly away. Her makeup was still perfect. Not crying, then.

  Gabrielle took a sip and went over to the sofa. She put her book down on the floor, cradled her wine glass and looked at the view. The sun was getting lower. The grass was a vibrant green and the hills seemed friendlier, a gentler slope perhaps, a mellower green to the trees, in the evening light. The wine was good. In the months she had known Art, she had come to appreciate the freedoms that came with having money. She couldn’t deny it. She had eaten oysters and watched a jazz band play in the restaurant at the top of the French Building. That was with the CEO of a Japanese robotics firm. His wife had been Canadian, and they had gotten on well until the woman had realised Gabrielle wasn’t Art’s wife. That was the first time she had felt like she didn’t belong. Like a consort. No, worse – a courtesan. In the toilets, she had looked at her face in the mirror and seen a black hole orbited by a nose, eyes and mouth.

  The sun was lower. The table was set. Gabrielle sat and watched Art play a board game he had pulled from somewhere. The energy she had felt on waking had faded and she was beginning to feel drowsy.

  ‘What are you playing?’ she asked Art.

  ‘Solitaire,’ he said.

  ‘Not the card version?’

  ‘No, a beautiful wooden board.’

  ‘Solitaire. On holiday. With your family and friends.’

  ‘I was telling Polly about your work,’ Art said. ‘Before you started with Toby. All that time with the police. You’re wasted on him.’

  The drowsiness was building, and she struggled to concentrate. She didn’t understand why Art was bringing this up now, unless it was to humiliate her.

  ‘That’s history,’ she said.

  ‘Why did you leave?’ Polly asked.

  Gabrielle tucked her feet underneath herself and picked up her book. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said. ‘A long story.’