Cocaine Nights

by J. G. Ballard

  Life in the Costasol complex, everything that Crawford and I had worked for, would come to an end as the frightened British residents, fearful of losing their residence permits, abandoned their clubs and societies and retreated into the twilight world of satellite television. A social experiment of the most ambitious and idealistic kind would fade in the settling dust of another moribund sun-coast resort.

  I started the tennis machine, and listened to the first ball as it exploded from the barrel, thinking of a harder projectile that might be fired from a different weapon…

  David Hennessy was at his desk on the ground floor of the sports club, scanning the computer screen while Elizabeth Shand stood behind him. The accumulating totals seemed to light up the tailored business suit into which she had changed, dressing the sleek fabric with a sheen of pesetas. I realized that the Costasol festival had ended, and that the profit-taking had begun. The tourists were leaving the plaza, and the cafés around the shopping mall were almost empty, the few patrons gazing out at a sea of litter and fading petals. The tennis courts and swimming pool of the sports club were deserted, and the members had left early to prepare for the evening's private parties. Wolfgang and Helmut stood by the draining pool, watching as the Spanish groundsmen changed the water and the waiters straightened the tables.

  'Charles…?' Hennessy stood up to look more closely at me. He had put aside his avuncular clubroom manner and now resembled a shrewd accountant faced with an extravagant and thoughtless client. 'That was generous of you, dear chap – helping Sanger with the girl. Was he right to take her, though…?'

  'She is his patient. And she obviously needed help.'

  'Even so. The two of you turned a bit of horse-play into a medical emergency. Not exactly good for the members, would you think?'

  'Never mind. You put an end to a nasty scene.' Elizabeth Shand picked up a scab of dried blood on my shirt, grimacing with distaste as if reminded of the messy and unreliable fluid coursing through even her cool veins. 'Bobby did so much to help her, but these kindnesses are never appreciated. You took her back to Sanger's bungalow?'

  'He's looking after her. She's asleep now.'

  'Good. Let's hope she remains asleep and gives us all a chance to calm our nerves. I must say Sanger's dedication to that damaged child is touching. Of course, I knew her father, another of those doctors with wandering hands. I only pray that Sanger can restrain himself.'

  'I don't think he will.'

  'Really? I feared as much. There's something deeply unsavoury about the thought. I always suspected that psychiatry was the ultimate form of seduction.'

  I joined her at the window, and looked down at the grass verge scarred and trampled by the tourists. 'I talked to him before I left-I think he may go to the police.'

  'What?' Elizabeth Shand's make-up seemed about to crack. 'Report himself for professional misconduct? David, what would the General Medical Council make of that?'

  'I can't imagine, Betty.' Hennessy raised his hands to the heavens. 'I don't suppose the contingency has ever arisen. Are you sure about this, Charles? If the news got out it would cause a good few problems here. The London tabloids would have a field day.'

  'This has nothing to do with Laurie Fox,' I explained. 'It's Bobby Crawford he's concerned about. Sanger loathes everything we've done here. I'm fairly certain he's going to lay the whole operation out in front of Cabrera.'

  'How silly of him.' Elizabeth Shand gazed calmly at Hennessy, unsurprised by what I had told her. She rested her hand on my shirt and began to pick again at the dried blood. 'That's rather worrying, Charles. Thank you for letting us know.'

  'Betty, it's more than a possibility. The scene in the pool pushed him over the edge.'

  'It probably did. He's a curious man, with all those difficult moods. Why the girls like him I can't imagine.'

  'We do need to head him off.' Trying to sound a more urgent note, I said: 'If Sanger sees Cabrera there'll be an army of detectives here, pulling up every floorboard.'

  'We don't want that.' Hennessy switched off the computer and stared at the ceiling with the distracted expression of someone faced with a difficult crossword clue. 'It's a bit of a poser. Still, the party tonight should clear things up.'

  'Exactly.' Elizabeth Shand nodded vigorously. 'A good party solves all sorts of problems.'

  'Shall I invite him?' I asked her. 'You could have a friendly word with him, reassure him that everything will settle down once Bobby leaves for Calahonda.'

  'No… I think not.' She picked away the last of Laurie Fox's blood. 'In fact, make sure you don't invite him.'

  'He'd enjoy the party.'

  'He will, anyway. You'll see, Charles…'

  Scarcely reassured, I left the sports club and set off across the plaza, hoping to find Crawford and persuade him to take a more combative line with Elizabeth Shand. The festival had ended, and the last tourists had left the bars and cafés and returned to their cars beside the beach. I walked across the fading petals and confetti as a few helium balloons floated in a desultory way above the litter, hunting their own shadows.

  The floats that had so entertained the crowds were drawn up in the supermarket compound, where half a dozen small children romped around them. Leading them in their game of hide and seek was Bobby Crawford, still tirelessly pouring out his energy and enthusiasm. As he leapt around the abandoned tableaux, arms wreathed in the tattered bunting, pretending to search for a squealing little girl who had hidden herself under the piano, he seemed like a forlorn Peter Pan trying to stir the remnants of his never-land into a second life. His Hawaiian shirt was stained with dust and sweat, but his eyes shone as eagerly as ever, driven by that dream of a happier world that had sustained him from childhood. In a sense he had turned the Costasol residents into children, filling their lives with adult toys and inviting them out to play.

  'Charles…?' Delighted to see me, he held the little girl in his arms and jumped from the float, the children hunting around him. 'I've been looking for you-how is Laurie?'

  'She's all right, sleeping quietly. Sanger gave her a sedative. She's better off there.'

  'Of course she is.' Crawford seemed surprised that I might have thought otherwise. 'For weeks I've been telling her to go back to him. She'd burned herself out, Charles, she needed to feel angry and depressed again – Sanger's the man for that. I couldn't help her, though God knows I tried.'

  'Listen, Bobby…' I waited for him to calm himself, but he was still watching the children, ready to join them in another game. 'I'm concerned about Sanger. I'm fairly certain that he's going to -'

  'Cabrera?' Crawford waved to the children as they ran off to join their parents by the supermarket entrance. 'I'm afraid he will, Charles. I've known it for a long time. He's an unhappy psychiatrist, and the police are the only way he can get back at me.'

  'Bobby…' Anxious for him, I tried to distract him from the little girl waving to us. 'Is Sanger the reason why you're leaving the Residencia?'

  'Good God, no! My work here is done. You can run the show by yourself, Charles. It's time for me to move down the coast. There's a whole world waiting out there, filled with people who need me.' He held my shoulder and surveyed the litter-strewn scene around him, with its faded bunting and drifting balloons. 'I have to dream for them, Charles, like those Siberian shamans – during times of stress, to give the tribe some sleep, the shaman dreams their dreams for them 'But, Bobby… Sanger may cause trouble. If he goes to Cabrera the Spanish police will overrun the Residencia and undo everything you've achieved.'

  'You're worried, Charles-don't be.' Crawford was smiling at me like an affectionate brother. 'We'll talk about it at the party. Believe me, everything will be fine. We'll play a couple of sets this evening and you can show me the new backhand you've been practising.'

  'Sanger is serious – I spoke to him an hour ago.'

  'The party, Charles. There's nothing to fear. Sanger won't harm us. I've dealt with psychiatrists before-they're only interested
in their own flaws, and spend their lives looking for them…'

  He waved for a last time to the children driving away in their parents' cars, and then leaned against the float behind him, tearing a handful of petals from the floral sign of 'The End'. He watched them flutter to the ground. For once he seemed tired, exhausted by the responsibilities he had borne, and numbed by the vastness of the task that lay ahead of him, the endless coasts waiting to be brought to life.

  Reviving himself, he slapped my shoulder. 'Think of the future, Charles. Imagine the Costa del Sol as another Véneto. Somewhere here a new Venice might be born.'

  'Why not? You've given them every chance, Bobby.'

  'The important thing is to hold them together.' Crawford took my arm as we strolled back to the sports club. 'Things may happen that will surprise you, even shock you, Charles. But it's vital that we stay together, and keep the memory alive of everything we've done. Sometimes it's necessary to go too far just to stay in the same place. Be with you in an hour – I can't wait to see that backhand…'

  I was practising on the court when the telephone rang, but I ignored the call and concentrated on the barrage of balls from the tennis machine, returning them deep to the baseline. The telephone drilled away in the empty house, its sound magnified by the lines of gilt chairs.

  'Charles…?'

  'What is it? Who's this?'

  'Paula. I'm calling from the Club Nautico.' She seemed self-controlled but oddly strained. 'Can you come over?'

  'I'm playing tennis. When exactly?'

  'Now. It's important, Charles. It's vital that you be here.'

  'Why? There's the party this evening. Can't it wait till then?'

  'No. You must come now.' She paused and muffled the telephone, speaking to someone beside her, and then continued: 'Frank and Inspector Cabrera are here. They need to see you.'

  'Frank? What is it? Is he all right?'

  'Yes. But they must see you. It's about the Hollinger fire. We're in the basement garage at the Club. We'll wait for you here. And, Charles…'

  'What is it?'

  'Don't tell anyone you're coming. And bring those spare car keys. The ones I saw this morning in your office. Cabrera is very interested in them…'

  27 An Invitation to the Underworld

  The club Nautico had closed for the day, its awnings furled over the silent balconies, a house of secrets hoarding its memories from the sun. I left the Citroen in the car park and walked down the ramp to the basement garage. During the drive from the Residencia Costasol I had tried to prepare myself for the face-to-face meeting with Frank, all too aware of how much everything had changed between us. We had ceased to be the brothers bonded together by their unhappy mother, and in a larger sense had ceased to be brothers at all.

  In my hand I held the car keys that I had found in the orchard above the Hollinger house. As I crossed the gloomy basement I watched them glitter in the trembling light of a defective neon tube. For Frank to have been released from prison on the eve of his trial, even into the custody of Inspector Cabrera, suggested that vital new evidence had emerged, contradicting his confession and incriminating the true murderer.

  I stood at the bottom of the ramp, surprised to find that there were no uniformed police guarding the garage. A dozen cars were parked in the numbered bays, Frank's dusty Jaguar against a corner wall with its police stickers peeling from the windshield.

  Then I noticed that the car parked next to the Jaguar was Paula Hamilton's small BMW. She watched from the driver's seat as I walked towards her, her hands gripping the steering wheel as if ready to make a quick getaway, her slim face almost jaundiced in the yellow light. A man sat beside her, head hidden behind the sun vizor. He wore a motor-cyclist's leather jacket, of a kind Frank would never have owned, perhaps lent to him from the prison stores.

  'Frank… you're free. Thank God!'

  When I reached the BMW I felt all my old affection surge back. I smiled through the insect-scored glass, ready to embrace him as the doors opened. Paula stepped from the car, face pinched in the stuttering light, her eyes avoiding me. From the passenger seat Gunnar Andersson extended his bony knees, hands clasping the roof while he lifted himself on to his feet. He buttoned the leather collar across his throat and walked around the rear of the car. He took his place behind Paula and stared sombrely at the keys in my hand, his sallow cheeks even more gaunt in the cement half-light.

  'Paula – where's Frank?'

  'He's not here.' Calmly, she met my eyes. 'We needed to talk to you.'

  'Then where is he? In his apartment? What about Cabrera?'

  'They aren't here. Frank's in Zarzuella prison, waiting for the trial tomorrow.' She tried to smile in the glare of defective neon. 'I'm sorry, Charles, but we had to get you here.'

  'Why? What is all this?' I stared around me, trying to see through the windows of the parked cars, still certain that Frank was sitting in the rear seat of an unmarked police vehicle. 'This is absurd – we can talk at the party tonight.'

  'No – you mustn't go to the party!' Paula held my wrist and tried to shake me, as if rousing a sedated patient. 'Charles, for heaven's sake… Cancel the party!'

  'I can't. Why cancel it? The party's celebrating Bobby Crawford's farewell.'

  'It won't be just Crawford's farewell. Can't you understand? People are going to die. There'll be a huge fire.'

  'Where? At the villa? Paula, that's absurd-no one wants to harm Crawford.'

  'It's not Crawford they're after. The fire will be at Sanger's bungalow. They'll kill him and anyone else there.'

  I turned away from her, unsettled by her fierce gaze, still hoping that Cabrera would step through one of the nearby maintenance doors. When I stared at Andersson, waiting for him to speak out and contradict her, he began to nod slowly, lips repeating her words.

  'Paula, tell me…' I freed my wrist from her strong grip. 'When did you hear about this fire?'

  'Gunnar told me this afternoon. They all know about it. Everything's planned – that's why they've closed the Club Nautico.'

  The Swede stood behind Paula, his gothic features barely visible in the greasy air. When he nodded, his head was bowed.

  'That's impossible!' I drummed my fist against the windshield of Paula's car. 'I spoke to Crawford an hour ago. No one could have planned anything so quickly.'

  'They've known for weeks.' Paula tried to calm my hands, holding them against her breasts. She spoke clearly, in a strained but matter-of-fact voice. 'It's all arranged – the party is just the cover. They've prepared explosives, some sort of petrol bomb set off by marine detonators. Charles, it's all true. They're taking advantage of you.'

  'I can't believe it…' I pushed past Paula, ready to confront Andersson, but he stepped away and stared at me across the roof of Frank's car. 'Andersson – is this true?'

  'Completely.' The Swede's eyes, which had retreated into their deep orbits, now emerged briefly. 'I didn't hear who the target was until this morning. They needed some help with the fusing system-Mahoud and Sonny Gardner. While Sanger was out looking for Laurie they broke into the crawl space below the bungalow and then fitted the bomb under the floorboards of Sanger's bedroom. They didn't tell me, but I think there's gasoline in the sprinkler system – within minutes everything will be ash.'

  'And who's in charge of all this – Crawford?'

  'No.' Reluctantly, Paula shook her head. 'He'll be miles away in Calahonda. Drinking with friends at the new tennis club.'

  'But you say he planned everything?'

  'Not exactly. In fact, he knows almost nothing about the details.'

  'Then who does? Mahoud and Sonny Gardner didn't dream this up themselves. Who's behind it all?'

  Paula wiped the smudge left by my fist on her windscreen. 'There's no single person. They're in it together – Betty Shand, Hennessy, the Keswick sisters, and most of the people you saw at Bibi Jansen's funeral.'

  'But why do they want to kill Sanger? Because he's going to the police?'


  'No, they didn't think of that. No one even knew until today, when you talked to Betty Shand and Hennessy.'

  'Then what conceivable motive is there? Why pick Sanger as the target?'

  'For the same reason they picked the Hollingers.'

  Paula steadied me when I swayed against the car, suddenly dizzied by the trembling light. I realized for the first time that I was involved in a conspiracy to kill the psychiatrist. Paula squeezed my arms, trying to pump the chilled blood back to my heart.

  'All right…' I leaned against Frank's car, and waited until my breath was even. 'You can tell me now, Paula – why were the Hollingers killed? You've always known.'

  Paula stood beside me, waiting until I calmed myself. Her face was composed, but she seemed to speak from behind a mask, like a tour guide at some macabre historical site.

  'Why were they killed? For the sake of Estrella de Mar and all that Crawford had done for us. To stop everything falling apart when he left. Without the Hollinger fire Estrella de Mar would have sunk back into itself and turned into just another brain-dead town on the coast.'

  'But how does that explain all those deaths? Five people were murdered.'

  'Charles…' Paula turned to Andersson, hoping that he would help her, but the Swede was staring at the instrument panel of the Jaguar. Controlling herself, she continued: 'A great crime was needed, something terrible and spectacular that would bind everyone together, seal them into a sense of guilt that would keep Estrella de Mar going for ever. It wasn't enough to remember Bobby Crawford and all the minor crimes he committed – the burglaries and drugs and sex-films. The people of Estrella de Mar had to commit a major crime themselves, something violent and dramatic, up on a hill where everyone could see it, so we'd all feel guilty for ever.'

  'But why the Hollingers?'

  'Because they were so visible. Anyone would have done, but they had the big house on the hill. They'd begun to cause trouble for Betty Shand, and threatened to bring in the Spanish police. So the finger pointed to them. Tant pis.'

  'And who did start the Hollinger fire? Not Crawford?'