The Laius Complex

A Story by Davy

Short Story

Graham trod heavily down the stairs, not loudly enough to wake the sleeping, but loudly enough to angrily announce his presence to the one person he was certain would be awake. He hadn’t dressed fully after his shower, thinking to pull on a shirt that was hanging in the kitchen, but he also hadn’t bothered to dry himself properly, and his cream trousers clung unappealingly to his clammy flesh.

“Good morning!” Dimitri beamed as soon as Graham appeared in the kitchen.

“F**k off.” Graham replied. Well no, not really. Not replied as such. That would imply a genuine desire for his answer to be comprehensible, and to be registered as a meaningful engagement in conversation, if only with the intention of closing any such discussion. In fact Graham grunted incoherently, deliberately, so that he could evince his furious and bitter thoughts without their finding explicit vocalisation. Such a retort was nevertheless hardly accommodating but Dimitri would of course put it down to Graham’s having only woken recently, and implausibly take such a response as a sign of friendship. What particularly outraged Graham that morning, other than the general irritation of uninvited cheeriness from the interloper, was that Dimitri was standing in his kitchen, scandalously topless. This was not, of course, a hypocritical thought. He, Graham, had a right to wear, or not wear, whatever he liked in his own kitchen and his own house, but this, this presence, was a guest, and no longer a welcome one. In fact, from Graham’s own partial nudity and ‘need’ to find the one shirt that wasn’t hanging in his wardrobe, he had hoped to make the early-rising house-invader feel uncomfortable; to make it perfectly obvious to him that he was staying in someone else’s home and intruding on their privacy. From the bright, unfazed reply, it was clear that it hadn’t worked and the fact that Dimitri himself had had the audacity to appear in such a state of undress at the same time was disgraceful; it wasn’t his house. In fact the incident had backfired spectacularly and left only Graham feeling awkward and intimidated, his flabby inferiority and apologetic posture evident against Dimitri’s toned chest and effortless confidence.

It had seemed like a good idea initially; taking this stranger in. Dimitri was starting in his company and his office, it was his first time in the city; and he needed temporary accommodation for his first few days while he looked for something more permanent. The plaudits to Graham that he would receive from their mutual superior would certainly not go amiss and he had offered readily. His wife had been pretty irked that he’d not first checked with her; more so as her sister was staying and they were already pressed for space, but Graham had been unrepentant, certain that he could tolerate a few days of tense displeasure surrounding his wife, himself and their guest. Would that that had been so and her annoyance had lasted. Both she and her sister had become almost instantly enchanted and, it must be reckoned, infatuated, by Dimitri; gibbering incessantly with him for hours on his very first evening there while he, Graham, struggled to get a single word in. In his own house. Everything Dimitri said, did, or was, was apparently perfect and, worst of all, he dared to lend credibility to this idiotic first impression and repay the females’ attention with charm and flattery, until such a point where Graham might have thrown a grenade into the middle of the room and the only change in his captivated wife would have been that her open-mouthed gape would have been suddenly bereft of teeth.

“Dimitri, so exotic…” his wife, Helen had murmured, evidently now so bewitched that she felt the need to fill any lull in the conversation with such nonsense.

“Yes, let’s all admire him for that too” Graham mused bitterly to himself, already fed up with the interloper after the first hour. “Let’s sing his praises for his name. As if he even chose it, as if it means anything.” Most unforgivable, Dimitri failed to display any unattractive proud tendencies and instead had the nerve to be modest in the face of such laughable flattery while replying with compliments that even sounded genuine.

Dimitri was even sweet to Helen. Not just kind but sweet. That odd intermediate position between politeness and flirtatiousness that so excited Graham when he experienced it from a young woman but that within his house, towards his wife, and from a younger man, was unforgivable. To Helen, his wife; how dare he. She’d wanted intimacy with Graham that night and at first he’d been delighted, and not just because it was so rare now. It was a chance to mark his territory against this young buck, and re-affirm his status as alpha-male; he’d intended to make as much noise as possible, leave the intruder in no doubt of what was happening and perhaps even prompt him to accelerate his departure through his embarrassment. But then he’d realised what Helen’s true desire must be. That all the time she’d be thinking not of Graham but of him. That b*****d. Graham had said he had a headache, made some other excuses and gone out to take a walk. He’d intended to be back in bed in twenty minutes but on his return had ended up standing in the hallway for a period of implausible duration; just glaring at the lounge door, behind which Dimitri had made his bed and his den on the sofa. Just glaring, for the most inconceivable time. Doing literally nothing else.

There had now been three nights since that first and, loath to sit on the bus with this perfect enemy, who would undoubtedly insist on troubling him with conversation that couldn’t objectively be called boring, but that he would make it his business to find boring when it came from Dimitri, Graham had invented some work for a project that he needed to catch up on in the early morning, and that required him to catch an earlier bus. Specifically, the bus that left immediately before the one Dimitri would get, whichever that should be. As, in point of fact, he couldn’t think of anything to be getting on with in the morning before usual working hours, Graham found himself occupied only with looking from his desk towards the entrance and willing someone other than Dimitri to enter first. Preferably someone fat, stupid and ugly who Graham would be able to dominate in conversation, demonstrate his own superiority over and use as a chubby springboard back to self-confidence. Better yet, Laura came in and, by virtue of neither Dimitri nor any other men being present at this time, Graham could, however briefly, enjoy the status of most attractive and charismatic man available in front of her. He’d been gradually winning her over with the wit and wisdom of his greater years since she’d moved to this office in February and, once she’d engaged him, as courtesy must demand of the first two people present in any room, he found his mood lifting slightly as she once more assumed her largely passive role in their ongoing jocular dialogue. He was certain that her laughter was less forced and more coquettish than it had been in their very first initial tête-à-têtes.

As the office filled up, Graham able to ignore Dimitri’s friendly wave by pretending to focus on whatever it was Laura had to say for herself on those tiresome occasions when she wasn’t listening to him or tittering at his repartee, and the hour approached nine, it would not have surprise or troubled him to learn that he’d not completed or even begun a single piece of work since his arrival. He finally broke from holding Laura in captivity as he spied the one other person he fawned upon, and for quite different reasons. His manager was a David Cohen, and Graham hated him and obsessed over him, knowing that his was the only approval he truly required or cared for in any part of his life. Now that he had appeared, Graham did need to find evidence of having done something since arriving, or his early clocking-in was wasted. He paced back to his computer, which he had at least had the sense to switch on and brought up a semi-completed spreadsheet which had, in fact, been gathering virtual dust for several days, but which he might conceivably have added to that morning. As David approached him, Dimitri appeared, as if from nowhere and blindsided him with a proposal about the corporation’s strategic direction. Graham scowled. Sycophantic little tosser; what business did he have getting to work so quickly? Obviously out to impress. And, as Graham typed as earnestly, ostensibly and aggressively as possible without damaging the keyboard, David ignored his efforts; preferring, as everyone seemed to, to listen with amazement to Dimitri’s sound advice, laugh raucously at his jokes, and enjoy his pleasant company.

Perhaps David had undergone some kind of recent brain-trauma, but it seemed that every time Dimitri passed his manager’s computer, he was able to spot and correct an error of some sort. From the highlighting of superfluous processes and company-wide inefficiencies, to simple arithmetic support; with the most casual attention he was able to improve his boss’ lot in practically every way throughout the day and attract heartfelt praise with no effort at all. To say he was surpassing Graham’s own popularity and reputation would be an understatement of such magnitude as to be more misleading than saying nothing. Indeed Graham’s star had been eclipsed on Dimitri’s first morning and already only flickered pitifully on the periphery of company concern; more akin to a sad, solitary fairy-light, adding its feeble and unwanted glow to the radiance of this new morning sun. Graham’s fortunes worsened that day as Dimitri’s improved. Because Dimitri’s improved. In that Dimitri’s improved.

Dimitri’s desk was opposite Graham’s own, such that Graham had to tilt his head downwards towards his keyboard, and only glimpse upwards when he needed to check the screen, in order to avoid making eye-contact. It also meant that he couldn’t see what Dimitri was doing and as the day drew on, Graham decided he might demean himself by pretending to be sociable towards Dimitri, in order to view the screen of his monitor and check the progress of the rival he couldn’t rival. As he rose to carry out his attentions, Laura appeared and moved over to Dimitri. And brought a chair to sit with him. Graham sat back down immediately, noting with displeasure that the two of them were whispering to eachother, like some sickly star-crossed lovers, but at least glad that this meant he couldn’t hear the content of what they were saying. It was depressingly pointless to ask himself why Laura should prefer Dimitri. He was younger, better-looking, more confident, people liked him, and he already seemed to be the best at just about everything that needed doing in the office. But he, Graham, wasn’t so bad, was he? He hadn’t seemed so before Dimitri had exploded into his life. Exploded, from Graham’s perspective, most similarly to a parasitic organism exploding out of a person’s chest in a horror or science-fiction film. And being just as welcome. Dulling his monitor screen to check his appearance in it, Graham noticed an obvious dark mark on his left cheek and brushed a finger against it to find that it had the feel of encrusted dirt. Well, there was no point in looking needlessly unattractive; he left his desk and walked over to the toilets.

The dirt was far more obvious in the mirror and, failing to flick it off with a dry finger, Graham vigorously scrubbed his cheek with hot water and soap. Still not removing the stubborn grime, Graham planed his face once more with his other, dry, hand to achieve success. Or failure. A sudden but mild feeling of pain, told him that it was, in fact, a large scab he had just removed and a large spot of bright red blood rushed out to discolour his cheek. Graham remonstrated impotently with himself; he must have known that it wasn’t dirt, that he had a scab there. Of course his judgement was severely impaired by the circumstances, he couldn’t possibly be fully sensible with that appalling newcomer in his office. As if on cue, Dimitri appeared, before Graham had had any time to mop up the worst of the damage with a tissue and was just left standing there with blood on his face, like a teenager who’d been worrying his acne, looking unquestionably worse and more stupid than before. And Dimitri just walked out with an apology, as though he’d had no reason for entering the toilets, and presumably now thinking that Graham had been deliberately clawing at his face like some neurotic loon.

Graham had a performance review scheduled for the afternoon and so had to walk past the whole office, bearing his still-bleeding cheek, in order to reach David’s office. As he sat down grumpily, David looked as though he might comment but obviously thought better of it. Graham didn’t pay much attention in the meeting, or even put any real effort into his pretence of doing so, he had been doing the same job for years and must have had a dozen such reviews, and they were always the same. They were a tedious interruption to his life and would have been intolerable if they happened any more frequently, or if he actually enjoyed what he did outside of them. As this particular review drew to an end though and Graham forced himself into a state of reasonable alertness to absorb the closing comments, he noticed a change though. Perceptible before he’d sufficiently awakened to understand the actual words being used, there was a discernibly negative tone in his manager’s voice. Graham strained to hear the unexpected criticism and was shocked to hear that his productivity and commitment were being questioned, however tentatively; that there was apparently reason to believe that the standard and efficiency of his work could be improved upon.

“Please don’t take this as a personal criticism” David continued “or as a warning of any kind. It’s really just a suggestion, just an idea. As I was saying earlier, your contribution over all your years has been highly valued, and your work continues to be. It’s just that values and standards in business are always changing and the bar must constantly be raised. I don’t want to draw any comparisons but maybe, for example, just have a look at some of Dimitri’s recent project work. I know he’s new but I think there’s a lot we could all learn from him.” The last minutes passed in a daze for Graham. He was aware of standing, without being sure why, of receiving a warm handshake by his manager, being handed the paperwork, and being told something about it not actually constituting a bad review, but since those employed to suggest learning from Dimitri, there was scarcely a word he could recall being uttered.

Graham’s numb disbelief was shattered only by profound and passionate irritation as he returned to his desk and saw that Dimitri and Laura were once again engaged in hushed conversation opposite him. Clearly, sitting on the other side of Dimitri’s desk wasn’t visible enough to sufficiently rub his nose in it, as they were now standing in full view behind it. As Graham contemplated actually doing some work, if only to take his mind off the feverish whisperers, a fly circled aimlessly around his in-tray. Graham slipped off his right shoe, grasped it by the toe and, behind the desk-divider so that his behaviour shouldn’t be witnessed, lashed angrily at the creature and hit it cleanly with the heel, sending it crashing into the window and sliding down into a corner where it twitched and shuddered pathetically for some time. Graham watched its last moments with a grim but definite satisfaction, though one easily broken when he glanced up and reminded himself that Dimitri had been effortlessly charming his object of impotent infatuation while he had been staring at a dying insect. Another fly breezed by, insolently close to his face and Graham, no longer caring that he should be seen to be waving a shoe around like a madman, once more grabbed it by the toe and pummelled the creature. In his anger, torment and distraction, but, perhaps, just as much from a powerful subconscious drive, his grip slipped and the shoe flew out of his hand. Whatever the cause, the thrill and sadism, tinged with anxiety and reservation, as the shoe spun towards Dimitri’s shoulder, shifted instantly to unequivocal and abject horror as Dimitri bent to open a drawer and Graham’s shoe struck Laura fully, unalterably, in the face.

There was nothing that could be said. The most eloquent, poetic apologies could have extracted no commiseration from the scenario; could have accomplished no greater a lessening of Graham’s humiliation than his paltry, stammering ones. Laura’s anger was worse because it was without passion, it wasn’t even spoken, it was simply cold fury and evident distaste as Graham grovelled. There was no question of it ever rising or subsiding, it was now fixed in place. Forever. She disliked him and thought him a moron, that would never change. Worse still were Dimitri’s embarrassed, apologetic glances between them during the confrontation. In one day, by arousing Graham’s anger so intensely, he’d destroyed his relationship with the only person in the office Graham was interested in; a relationship he’d been building up for months. And he had the audacity to stand there looking falsely and needlessly apologetic, rather than entirely unapologetic, as any decent person who really did have something to apologise for would look. Or something like that. At any rate, it was his fault and, worse, he didn’t even know it.

The matter couldn’t be closed, but Graham slunk away at a point when nobody was talking; fled, in slow motion, without even putting down the paperwork he was carrying, out of the office and into the lift. He had a sanctuary that he escaped to when he needed, and he’d never needed it more. In search of peace and solitude, he’d started going up to the roof shortly after starting with the company; though exponentially more in the last few days since Dimitri had started. Ostensibly, it was to smoke, which he didn’t; and he kept an opened but otherwise untouched cigarette packet in his breast pocket to support the pretence. If anyone else in his small office smoked, they took the quicker route to the ground floor and out of the building; rather than joining him on the roof, and so thus far he’d never been rumbled, though he was sure everyone knew where he went. There were times though, and this was certainly one of them, when he felt he ought to really be smoking. Not because he feared discovery but because the fresh air and silence alone were never enough. Not while he still thought. He needed to be doing something to occupy his hands and mouth, and more importantly, his brain.

For the first time, in all the years he’d worked in the office, and to his utter horror, the door up onto the roof swung open. And who else could it be?

“Hi there,” Dimitri began, “I came up to see you, to let you know some of us are going for a drink after work. And to check everything’s alright.”

“Well, no, they’re not alright, and much less so now you’re here,” Graham thought, but said, “Yeah, fine thanks, maybe I’ll go with you. I just needed a smoke.” Dimitri’s eyes swivelled to Graham’s empty hands and undisturbed cigarette packet. His gaze was not accusatory, he wouldn’t say a thing, but Graham wouldn’t let him have this further humiliation. He retrieved one of the ancient cigarettes, the packet having being bought at some point in the nineties, and placed it in his mouth. Quite possibly the wrong way round, he wasn’t sure, he’d never smoked and didn’t pay much attention to those who did, or whether the white end or the orangey-brown end was meant to stick out. And, he now realised, he didn’t have a lighter. He’d never needed one, had never been forced to actually act out the charade until today. So he just stood there, ridiculously, with an unlit cigarette between his lips, probably with the wrong end protruding. Dimitri’s face said nothing but he’d be smirking inwardly. Let him.

As Graham concentrated on looking nonchalant and trying to make his ignoring of Dimitri appear natural and incidental, a gust of wind caught the papers in his hand, scattered them on the concrete and past Dimitri towards the roof’s edge. For the accounts, for any standard paperwork, Graham might well have let it go, or left it all to Dimitri who was conscientiously chasing after every sheet. But within the paperwork was the review he’d received from David, his worst ever; a source of shame which Dimitri must not see. He gave chase too and recognised the crucial, stapled sheets as Dimitri snatched at them; catching the batch just before it left the roof. He’d return it dutifully, now that he’d proven himself, beaten Graham in the chase again. As the invader in his life, the monster, teetered on the brink, an impossible thought occurred to Graham. But not a thought from nowhere; from everywhere, and everything. And if the thought was impossible, the feeling was not. And the desire was not. And the actualisation would not be. Graham did not look down as his arms folded, as his shoulder bunched up. The hands were quicker than the eye. And quicker than the mind, for an impossible thought might yet be acted upon, before it could be thought. The unthinkable was not un-doable. Dimitri had shown no urgency to move from the edge and Graham rushed the few steps, cannoning into him with his right shoulder.

“At least I’m still stronger than you, Young Turk!” he bawled, as he forced Dimitri over. His victim didn’t even turn; Graham never saw the expression on his face as he was hit, as he fell.

Graham had no desire to look down but he did anyway, couldn’t turn away from the spectacle, from the grim fascination. From the mess. People were already starting to spill out from neighbouring offices and his own block; disbelieving shrieks were already drifting upwards. And soon eyes, too, would turn upwards. Of course he couldn’t possibly get away with it; he was under no illusions about that, there could be no question about what had happened.

“Let them know. Let them all recognise that I killed him,” Graham crowed softly to himself, “I’m not ashamed.” But that wasn’t all they’d say. They’d crave explanation, they’d invent motives. They’d say that he was hateful, deranged. Worse, they’d say that he was jealous. And worst of all, accentuating his inadequacy more than direct criticisms of himself could, they’d eulogise over Dimitri. They’d sob and say that he was too good to die in such a way, to have had his light extinguished by a crazed, inferior oaf. Of course Dimitri had predicted it, must have planned all this, so that he could assure his final victory over Graham. It was implausible how long he’d stayed on the ledge; it wasn’t credible that he’d not meant it all to transpire. Graham didn’t subdue the whimper that issued from his being, he almost wept from sheer desperation; he’d been outdone again and there was no escape. Except one. That fool Dimitri must have thought him incapable, wouldn’t have seen this escape coming.

“It all ends now and I’ll frustrate him at the last,” Graham thought as he jumped, his conscious mind working feverishly to drown out the lurking feeling that, even now, Dimitri had led and he had followed.