The Complex

by Michael Walters

  ‘Would you get the kids?’ Art said to Leo.

  Both children were in the library and eager for food. Fleur was wearing a striking dress, white with lots of tiny squares sewn all over it. It looked expensive. She was wearing lipstick too. An elegant young woman. She didn’t look at all ill. Stefan had been worried, Polly too, but she was a picture of health now.

  Gabrielle was at the kitchen table when he got back. His elusive wife. Fleur was saying something when Art cut her off.

  ‘It’s all going to be yours, sweet pea,’ Art said. He pulled plates from a drawer under the oven. There was a pleasant fug over the kitchen. Outside the last of the dusk light was fading on the mountains. Leo stood to one side and listened.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ Fleur said. ‘I don’t want your life, Daddy.’

  Art came to the table and put a plate out in each place, moving methodically around.

  ‘Hot,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch. It won’t be my life, it will be your life. You can do whatever you want.’

  ‘You’re not listening,’ Fleur said.

  ‘Gabrielle, tell her,’ Art said.

  Gabrielle didn’t say anything.

  ‘Fleur’s right,’ Polly said, stepping in.

  Art looked to Leo, beseechingly. ‘Leo?’

  ‘Don’t involve me,’ Leo said.

  ‘You can’t sit on the side lines all your life, Leo,’ Art said.

  Stefan bristled for him. ‘He isn’t—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Art said. ‘Sorry. Let’s eat. It’s just a bit of frivolity. Stefan, ignore me.’

  Art went to fetch the pots of coq au vin. Leo moved to help, but Art shooed him away with his tea towel. ‘Sit, sit.’

  Leo sat next to Gabrielle, glancing at her. Her arm touched his, but her skin was hot and clammy, and he shrank back involuntarily. He immediately wished he hadn’t. She didn’t look at him. Her cheeks were red, like Art’s. He remembered Polly’s comment last night. A pair of junkies.

  ‘Et voilà!’ Art placed the first steaming pot in the centre of the table. ‘Can you make some room? There’s one more.’

  The grey mush did smell good. Stefan moved glasses and bowls for the other pot.

  ‘Fleur?’ Art said. ‘Do you want to start?’

  Art finally took his seat. Polly put some on Art’s plate as well as her own. When it was his turn, Leo gave himself a polite amount and two big hunks of bread. When Gabrielle didn’t move, he gave her a portion too.

  ‘Would you pour us some wine, Stefan?’ Art asked.

  Stefan looked confusedly around.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Leo said.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ Leo asked Gabrielle as he poured her some wine. It felt overly polite.

  ‘I went for a walk,’ she said.

  She put her fingers on the table, as if to steady herself. Part of him was alarmed, but another was disconnected and had little sympathy. Had she had too much of Art’s supply or not enough? Nobody else seemed to notice.

  Polly looked at Stefan, then Fleur. ‘Art saw the stag again. He took a shot but missed. Thank God.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Art said in mock exasperation.

  ‘Mum would have hit it,’ Stefan said.

  ‘I still haven’t seen her shoot,’ Art complained. ‘I tried to get her to have a go. I thought she was going to punch me.’

  ‘Then you ran off,’ Polly said to Art, her voice rising to a half-laugh that was a little too loud.

  Fleur swirled some food around with her fork.

  ‘How long since you’ve fired a gun?’ Art said to Gabrielle.

  ‘Four years,’ Gabrielle said.

  ‘What did you shoot?’

  Gabrielle started to speak but stopped. Her face seemed to be going through an array of emotions.

  ‘Change the subject, Daddy,’ Fleur said, noticing Gabrielle’s discomfort. ‘We’re eating.’

  ‘I shot a nine-year-old girl,’ Gabrielle said.

  The words took a moment to register. Leo couldn’t believe what she had just said. Stefan was open-mouthed.

  ‘Her name was Samantha Blake. I shot her in the face and the stomach. She survived for fourteen minutes. The helicopter was there in six, but it was a difficult spot to reach. It was two a.m. in the Tea District of Area One. We were in a sealed room, inside a warehouse. It was a drugs factory. It wasn’t a civilian area. She shouldn’t have been there. But she was. Her mother was working, a few of them doing a night shift, and she couldn’t get a babysitter.’

  She said all of this in a monotone. Leo was aghast.

  ‘Mum, stop,’ Stefan said. He looked like he was going to be sick.

  Fleur pushed her chair back. ‘I have to leave the table.’

  Gabrielle was looking intently at her untouched plate of food.

  Stefan stood up with Fleur. Then he looked beyond Leo at the front window.

  ‘What?’ Fleur said.

  ‘Can’t you see it?’ Stefan said.

  Leo turned. Stefan went to the glass. Fleur hung back.

  ‘What do you see?’ Art said.

  ‘The stag,’ Fleur said. ‘On the field.’

  Leo wanted to see the famed stag. The deep purple sky gave the field a strange dim light. The animal was fifty metres away, running from the right across the field. It was an incredible sight.

  ‘It’s so fast,’ he said.

  It angled towards them, crossing the drive.

  ‘What is it doing?’ Polly said.

  ‘Is it being chased?’ Stefan said.

  It didn’t show any signs of slowing down. It was now coming straight at them.

  ‘How strong is this glass?’ Leo called to Art, who was standing in his place at the table.

  ‘It’s the strongest glass you can get. Even a rifle shot won’t break it.’

  Leo was sure it was going to pull up or swerve away, but he pulled at Stefan’s arm anyway, both of them looking over their shoulders as they retreated to the far end of the room. In full flight it was astonishing, its antlers alone the height of a man. Then it was in the light cast by the house and Leo knew it wasn’t going to stop.

  ‘Everybody down!’ Art shouted, pulling Gabrielle, who was still sitting in her seat, to the floor. Fleur was already under the kitchen table with Polly. Leo ducked down near them, but kept watching the window, ready to avert his eyes if the glass broke.

  The stag, still five metres out, leaped at the window, like a living wrecking ball.

  The boom stunned Leo into falling on his side. He waited for the sound of glass. Nothing. He scrambled to his feet to check the damage. Art was already up. The window was smeared with blood and organic matter. It was hard to see much through it, but something was still moving. Leo moved right to get a view through the still-clean parts of the glass. The stag’s back legs were wobbling, and it collapsed on its rear. It managed to get up once more, lurching left, then right, before wobbling towards the window.

  Art was assessing the glass.

  ‘Will it hold?’ Leo said.

  ‘It looks like it will.’

  The stag crumpled a final time and lay on its side. The glass looked like an abstract painting, splashed with brown and red. Clumps of fur and flesh slowly slipped downwards.

  ‘I think it’s done,’ Art said.

  The stag’s massive chest was rising and falling in shallow gasps. Both antlers were gone, and its head was a gnarled, bloody mess. Leo was glad the dirty glass made it hard to see. Something jutted out from its neck. Perhaps a rib.

  Leo looked for Stefan, then Gabrielle. Gabrielle had sat back down at the table. She looked like she was about to start eating.

  ‘Why did it do that?’ Stefan said. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’ His voice was rising. To Gabrielle, he said, ‘How can you just sit there?’
/>   Gabrielle didn’t move.

  ‘Gabrielle?’ Leo said.

  ‘I’ll sort out the mess,’ Art said.

  Polly came up to Stefan and tried to put an arm around his shoulder, but he shook her off. He stepped away from them all, looking at Gabrielle, then at Leo.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ Stefan shouted.

  Gabrielle didn’t blink.

  Leo felt helpless. ‘Stefan—’

  ‘No,’ Stefan said, waving his arms dismissively. He ran down the stairs into the basement.

  Fleur looked at Art. If she wanted guidance from her father, she didn’t get it. He was stroking his cheek with the back of his hand and looking at the carcass. She grunted and followed Stefan.

  Art started walking towards the front door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Leo said

  ‘To skin it,’ Art said, giving Leo a devilish smirk. ‘Hang it. Dinner tomorrow.’ He stopped and came back towards the table. ‘I’d better have some food first.’

  The horror seemed to have given Art a new lease of life. He started to eat, tearing into some bread and dipping it in the coq au vin.

  Gabrielle was at the window, crouched where Leo had just been, calmly staring at the dead animal. She stood up.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, to nobody in particular. Leo watched her go.

  Polly was moving the food off the table. She looked jittery. Art was eating from his plate quickly, eager to get on.

  ‘Eat, Leo,’ Art said. ‘Blood sugar. Remember what I said.’

  Leo knew his disgust was showing on his face and didn’t care. Art ignored him. Leo wanted to crack Art’s head on the table.

  Still chewing a mouthful of food, Art stood up. ‘I’ll get the equipment from the car,’ he said. He took a final small potato from the pot with his fingers and popped it in his mouth.

  ‘Equipment?’ Leo said.

  ‘Yes,’ Art said. ‘Equipment.’

  Watching Art head to the car, Polly said, ‘I haven’t had a dinner like that before.’

  Leo saw again the stag in full flight, but his thoughts immediately turned to Gabrielle.

  ‘She looked like an addict,’ Leo said. ‘How could she sit there like that? And her skin—’ He shuddered.

  ‘Art shouldn’t be giving her those tablets,’ Polly said.

  ‘She shouldn’t be taking them.’

  He thought of Gabrielle lying there like a tailor’s dummy as Art fucked her. No. It was too much.

  He rinsed a plate under the hot water tap. Steam quickly rose, and Polly leant across him to turn on the cold, pressing against him lightly.

  ‘Easy,’ Polly said. ‘You’ll scald yourself.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘You’re like a bull. Let me do this. You’ll break something.’

  He stepped back. Her movements were efficient and precise. Where Art was always in a suit, Polly clearly preferred comfort. Leo loved that. His eyes dropped to her bottom.

  Polly looked at him in the reflection of the window over the sink.

  ‘Go and do some more work,’ she said. ‘Meet me later.’

  ‘Okay.’ Later.

  Stefan: Interview

  Stefan’s leg was going up and down. He was sitting at his desk looking at the pieces of paper scattered around. They were all mostly blank, apart from the odd phrase, equation or doodle. The week was becoming a disaster on all fronts.

  ‘I’m shaking,’ Fleur said, holding out both her hands. She was sitting on the edge of her desk. ‘I don’t see why we all can’t just leave. Get in our cars, and drive home.’

  Stefan kept replaying the moment the stag jumped. He had been convinced it was going to check its run. Perhaps it didn’t even know what a window was. Then, the gore.

  Fleur was looking at him with concern. ‘Pretty intense, huh?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you think your mum’s okay?’

  He didn’t know what to think. He wasn’t okay. She wasn’t okay. None of this was okay. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘You’re pissed off at her.’

  Stefan looked at the ceiling. ‘I suppose. What a way to come out with it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She pushed herself off the table, and he thought she was going to come and give him a hug. Instead she bent over, dangling from the waist.

  ‘Stretching?’ he said. She looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  ‘Feels good. Helps me relax. Try it.’

  He started folding one of his notes into an aeroplane. ‘It was the way she spoke. Like a robot. And then she just sat there, as if it was all nothing.’ He scrunched the paper into a ball.

  Fleur straightened up. She picked up the smaller headset and started absentmindedly to turn it over in her hands. The dress was perfect on her. It made her look five years older. He had to make himself not stare. He imagined walking over and kissing her on the mouth.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘What, what?’

  ‘You were looking at me.’

  He felt a bit sick that she’d noticed. ‘What are you going to do about those?’ He nodded towards the headset in her hands.

  ‘I’m not going to pass this interview,’ she said.

  ‘Can you get an extension? Extenuating circumstances or something?’

  ‘If Daddy knew, he could probably pull some strings, but he doesn’t know. He can’t know.’

  The unguarded acknowledgement of the gap between the realities of their lives away from the house didn’t help Stefan’s mood. ‘You don’t think he saw them when he came in your room? They were on the floor.’

  ‘He would have said something.’ She sounded glum. ‘And what the hell is he doing telling you I’ve got a medical condition? I don’t have a medical condition. All I know is I felt like shit when I woke up. I don’t know what he gave me.’

  She showed him the top of her arm, but he had to go closer to see. He sat next to her on the table edge. There was a single red dot on her brown skin and the first hints of a bruise.

  ‘I was scared,’ he said. ‘I thought you might be dead.’

  ‘Would you miss me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Flustered, he resisted the urge to move away.

  ‘How much would you miss me?’ She turned a fraction towards him.

  ‘I feel like I’ve known you for a lot longer than three days.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He leant over and kissed her. Her lips moved against his, a gentle reciprocation, then she pulled back.

  She looked sad. ‘Oh, Stefan. I can’t do this. Not now.’

  ‘Of course. I know that.’ He stood up and went back to his table.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I have to get this job.’ She spoke with force. ‘I can’t work for my father. He’ll take over my life. That interview is my way out.’

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘But you can’t help!’ Fleur dropped the headset on the desk with a clatter.

  Stefan was feeling light-headed. ‘It’s late. I’m going to bring some food down.’

  He left without waiting for her to respond. His heart was beating fast and he was glad to get upstairs. He understood what she was saying, but he didn’t get it. Either she felt the same, or she didn’t. Fuck jobs. That was months away. Through the bloody window he could see Art squatting by the dead stag. It was completely black beyond the line on the grass where the light from the house stopped. They were a lighthouse in the wilderness. He wanted to see the animal up close, as unpleasant as that might be, and he wasn’t even sure why.

  At the front door he stepped out into a sea of yellow. He picked a leaf up and examined it. A sycamore. The trees were already shedding their new leaves. The half-bare branches moved in the wind and more fell as he watched. It was chilly, and the breeze sharpened his senses. I
t was like being in an extended dream, with one strange thing happening after another. He put the leaf in his back pocket.

  Approaching Art, who was now on his knees, hunched forward, Stefan felt out of his depth – with Fleur, with Art, with the stag – with everything. His parents were practically missing. When he looked up, the building dwarfed him, and the inside looked like a film set. They were on display in there. All week he had felt safe, but the domesticity was theatre. Art had said the window would stop a rifle bullet. That made more sense now. They were lit up and perfect targets.

  Art didn’t acknowledge Stefan’s arrival behind him. ‘Mr Fisher?’

  ‘I’m glad you came out,’ Art said, not moving. ‘It’s good to be face-to-face with reality.’ He turned his head stiffly, like he had cricked his neck. ‘You must call me Art. We’ve lived together most of the week.’

  Stefan saw one of the stag’s antlers on the grass. He remembered his dream. It seemed wrong, with the animal so recently dead, to pick it up. It was like picking up a human arm or leg. Art signalled for Stefan to sit next to him. Stefan crouched so that the stag’s stomach was at eye level. Its belly fur was white with brown streaks. It looked soft.

  ‘Can I touch it?’ Stefan said.

  ‘You don’t need my permission.’

  Stefan ran his fingers through the fur, which was pleasant until he pressed in. The skin beneath was cold and spongy.

  ‘What was it doing?’ Stefan said.

  ‘Have a look at its head.’

  At that end of the animal things were messier. There was bloody matter all over the grass. Art’s instruction was a challenge. In the house’s soft light, the carnage seemed surreal. There was no smell, which surprised him. The front of the head had caved in and was a mess of skull and pulp. There were teeth, loose, sitting white in lumps of red flesh.

  ‘Do you think it’s the same one?’ Stefan asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Art stood up. His knees clicked loudly.

  ‘It feels personal,’ Stefan said.