Polystom by Adam Roberts

he unlocked the door and opened it. The collapsed mess of an old dress on the floor, topped with a sprawl of glossy black silk, was Beeswing’s supine body. Stom stepped over to her, and then stood, uncertain whatto do. Behind him, the door swung shut with a small groan, an uncanny and mournful noise. Its inside was spattered with blood. Polystom turned his wife’s body over with his hand to see her hair clogged with her own plasticky half-dried blood, and pour-marks and spots of red over her face.
    They moved her to another bedroom, and called for a doctor, who came flying over the Western Mountains that same afternoon.
    ‘A terrible mix-up,’ Stom explained. ‘She got into some sort of fugue state in the Yellow Room. Couldn’t open the door, and became hysterical – ran at the door head down.’
    ‘Not once,’ said the doctor, ‘but several times. This sort of concussion is a serious business, of course, but probably not fatal. Have a servant watch her as she comes round; tell her not to move about too much. Bed-rest for her until the swelling around the temples goes down. A week at least, probably two.’
    In the dark hallway outside, as Nestor sorted out the matter of fee, the doctor beckoned to Stom. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said. ‘I wanted to tell you. There’s a clinic, extremely well appointed, charming views over an ice-lake, on the moon of Rhum. Heated centrally throughout by means of hot-water piping,’ he added, folding his payment into his pocketbook, as if this architectural detail were particularly important. ‘I’ve referred a couple of hysterical wives and daughters there. I don’t say send her straight off, you understand, but keep it in mind. Eh?’
    ‘I will,’ said Stom softly. He went through the ritual of bidding the doctor farewell at the front door like a drugged man. He felt as stunned as if it had been
he
who had banged his head against the door. Of course the clinic was out of the question; it would be an unacceptable blow to his status, to his pride, if he were compelled to take that course, and if it became widely known. And anyway, her episode had been a one-off. Surely it had been a one-off.
    He left a woman in Beeswing’s room, and went to his snug. It took several drinks before he began to feel more like himself. How could she do it?
Why
would she do such a thing? It passed beyond his comprehension. He tried to imagine himself, poet-like, into her body, but the effort was greater than his imagination could make. To put one’s head down, as if bowing, as if in homage to something, and then sprint as fast as one could, to build up as much acceleration as was possible in the small space,
knowing
that one was about to thunder head-first into a solid wooden door? It was almost monstrous, the willpower required.
    The impulse to leave the house was strong upon him again. Maybe it would be better for him to go. Fly away; visit his uncle. Cleonicles had not been able to attend the wedding, and Stom hadn’t seen him since. Maybe a few days on the moon would be the best thing. Maybe he could return from such a little away-trip to a calmer, clearer sense of things between the two of them. The rightness of the idea seized him, with its deeper promise of removal from a source of pain, and he leapt up. He rushed through to his own bedroom, and started packing a satchel to carry with him. Uncle Cleonicles would have some advice for him, some guidance on how to resolve this sorry situation.
    A serving girl was at his doorway. ‘Mistress is awake, sir,’ she said in a small voice.
    ‘Oh,’ said Stom, still thinking he could dash out. But it would be better to see her first. Better to let her know that he was going away, going partly to give her time to think through her own foolishness.
    He traipsed through to the little bedroom where his wife lay, her head grown huge with bandages, inflated. She lay perfectly still, her arms straight at her sides, her eyes looking directly