Millennium People

by J. G. Ballard

  ‘And the name?’

  ‘Gould. Dr Richard Gould. You’re lucky, sir. Very few doctors forget their cars.’

  I stood beside the ancient Jaguar, parked by the perimeter fence in the line of uncollected vehicles. Many sat on flattened tyres, covered with bird droppings and speckled with oil from the aircraft flying into Heathrow.

  Next to the Jaguar was a pick-up truck with a frosted windscreen and damaged bumpers, perhaps the casualty of a road accident abandoned while the driver made his getaway. The Jaguar’s windows were thick with dirt but intact, and I could read the titles of the medical brochures stacked on the rear seat. Two small teddy bears sat together by the armrest, like children waiting for an overdue parent to return, button eyes hopeful but wary.

  I slid one of the keys into the lock, hoping that I had found the wrong car. But the lock turned, and I pulled open the driver’s door, freeing it from the seal of grime and dust. I eased myself into the seat and gripped the steering wheel. I could scent Gould’s presence in the shabby interior, with its worn leather, broken cigar lighter and overflowing ashtray. The glove drawer was stuffed with pharmaceutical leaflets, sample boxes of a new child sedative and an uneaten sandwich in a plastic wrapper, mummified by the airless heat.

  I turned the ignition key, and heard the faint answering click of an engine servo responding to a brief flow of current from an almost dead battery. On the passenger seat was a copy of a large-format paperback, the BBC’s edition of its television series A Neuroscientist Looks at God. I leafed through the full-colour photographs of Egyptian temples, Hindu deities and CT scans of frontal lobes. Among the contributors’ photos was a portrait of myself, taken in the White City studios only eighteen months earlier. Adjusting the rear-view mirror, I compared my drawn features and bruised forehead, my police line-up stare, with the confident and fresh-faced figure looking back at me from the glossy pages. I seemed youthful and knowing, practised patter almost visible on my lips.

  I smoothed the yellowing cover, and noticed a telephone number written in green ballpoint below the title. The defensive slope of the numerals, the smudges of ink in the scrawled loops, reminded me of another set of numerals penned by the same hand, the parking-bay number scribbled on the ticket I had shown to the Asian manager.

  As I stared at the book, thinking of Stephen Dexter, a shadow fell across the instrument panel. A man was strolling around the Jaguar, his face hidden by the dust and dirt on the windscreen. He tried to raise the bonnet, and then walked to the driver’s door and tapped on the window.

  ‘David, open up. Dear chap, you’ve locked yourself in again…’

  30

  Amateurs and Revolutions

  ‘RICHARD…?’ USING MY shoulder, I forced back the door and took his hand, glad to see him. ‘Locked myself in? God knows why.’

  ‘You’ll have to work that one out. It was always you, David…’

  Gould greeted me confidently and helped me from the Jaguar, waving to the teddy bears in the rear seat. He seemed calm and rested, glancing at the rows of parked cars like a colonel surveying his armoured cavalry. I was relieved that he looked so well. He wore the same frayed black suit, which I had last seen soaked by his sweat in the grounds of the bishop’s palace at Fulham. But the suit had been cleaned and pressed, and he had put on a white shirt and tie, as if he had come to the airport in order to apply for a job as a concourse doctor.

  We smiled at each other in the sunlight, waiting for the noise of a landing airliner to fade among the terminal buildings. Once again I was struck by how this restless and unsettled man could stabilize everything around him. Even as he sniffed at the kerosene-stained air I felt that he made sense of the world by sheer will, like a physician leading a one-man charity in a blighted corner of Africa, his presence alone giving hope to the natives. He watched the airliner land, and his tolerant gaze seemed to bless an infinity of arrivals lounges.

  ‘Richard, we need to talk. I’m glad you feel better.’ I stood with my back to the sun, and tried to see past his raised hand. ‘At Fulham Palace you were pretty shaky.’

  ‘I was tired out.’ Gould grimaced at the memory. ‘All those trees, they’re like surveillance cameras. It was a difficult day. That strange shooting.’

  ‘The Hammersmith murder? We were nearby.’

  ‘Right. They say she was a beautiful woman. It was good of you to help me.’ Gould leaned against the Jaguar and looked me up and down. ‘You’re drained, David. Chelsea Marina is hard on people. I hear there was a trial of strength last week.’

  ‘The police put on a show. I think we fell into a trap.’

  ‘That’s no bad thing. It sharpens the focus. At least everyone rallied round.’

  ‘Absolutely. We manned the barricades together. The revolution finally started. We took on the forces of the state and fought them to a standstill. The police backed off, though why, no one knows.’

  ‘They were testing you. It used to be the proles who were pushed around, and now they’re trying the same bully-boy tactics on the middle class. Still, you won the day.’ Gould beamed at me like a proud parent listening to an account of a school sports match. ‘How was Boadicea?’

  ‘Kay? She drove her chariot into the fiery furnace. You would have been proud of her. It was really your show. You dreamed of it, Richard.’

  ‘I know…’ Gould gestured at the air, as if conducting the sunlight. ‘I have to concentrate on so many other things – the overall strategy, then Stephen Dexter. He could be dangerous.’

  ‘He was here.’ I raised my voice above the mushy drone of a Cathay Pacific jumbo sweeping in to land. ‘Stephen was in your car.’

  ‘When?’ Gould glanced over my shoulder, his attention sharpening. ‘Today? David – wake up.’

  ‘Not today. I found your ignition keys in his house this morning. There was a parking ticket date-stamped May 17. He must have taken your car and driven here a couple of hours before the Terminal 2 bomb. I think he –’

  ‘That’s right.’ Gould spoke matter-of-factly. ‘He drove the Jag to Heathrow. We need to warn him, before he goes to the police.’

  ‘Warn him? He left the bomb on the baggage carousel. He killed my wife. Why?’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine.’ Gould studied me, eyes moving around the abrasions on my face. He was less sure of me, as if the battle at Chelsea Marina had separated us. ‘How did Stephen get through security?’

  ‘He wore the cassock. The police would let a priest through if he said a passenger was dying. I saw the cassock at his house this morning, laid out on the bed like something from a black mass.’

  ‘Weird. I thought he’d lost his faith.’

  ‘He’s found another – sudden death. Vera was there, ransacking the place. She and Stephen may be in this together.’ I tried to rouse Gould. ‘Richard, you could be in danger. Stephen killed my wife, and then the television woman. You saw it happen…’

  ‘Yes. I saw her die.’ Gould’s voice had faded. Like a child trying to distract itself, he drew a stick-man in the windscreen dust. ‘Still, we can’t go to the police.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’re too close to everything.’ He pointed to my Range Rover, parked outside the entrance to the pound. ‘A security camera in Putney High Street caught us going by. It’s lucky they couldn’t read the licence number. We’re accomplices, David.’

  I tried to remonstrate with him, surprised for once by his passivity. A car was approaching along the perimeter road, a grey Citroën estate, moving slowly as if on patrol. It paused by the pound, a woman driver at the wheel. As she stared at us I recognized the vivid eye make-up and bony forehead, the faintly smirking mouth with its violet lipstick.

  ‘Vera Blackburn?’

  ‘Right.’ Gould waved to her and she moved on, resuming her patrol. ‘Lady Macbeth off to Wal-Mart.’

  ‘Richard, for God’s sake…’ Impatient with his offhand humour, I asked: ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Today? Vera drove me.
She enjoys the Heathrow run.’

  ‘You were sure I’d find the Jaguar? I take it our meeting isn’t a coincidence?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Gould held my arm to calm me. ‘I’m sorry, David. I hate tricking you. You’ve always been so straight – with everyone except yourself. I thought it was time to bring things to a head. All this police activity, the security people closing in. There’s a lot to talk over.’

  ‘I can guess.’ I caught a last glimpse of the Citroën. ‘So Vera was waiting for me at Stephen’s house? She knows I walk down to the marina every day.’

  ‘Something like that. You’re surprisingly punctual. It’s all that bourgeois conditioning, years of seeing that the trains run on time.’

  ‘She pretended to ransack the house, and planted the keys and ticket in the cassock. You assumed I’d find them.’

  ‘We hoped you would. Vera gave you a little help. The cassock was her idea.’

  ‘A nice touch. Women are shrewd at these things.’

  ‘Did you try it on?’

  ‘The cassock? I was tempted. Let’s say I’m in the wrong priesthood.’ I watched Gould smile to himself, like a schoolboy relieved that the truth had come out. ‘Is Stephen Dexter still alive?’

  ‘David…?’ Gould turned to me in surprise. ‘He’s gone to ground somewhere. He won’t kill himself. Believe me, he feels much too guilty. What happened in Terminal 2 nearly restored his faith.’

  ‘What did happen? You know, Richard.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Gould hung his head, staring at his scuffed shoes. ‘I wanted to tell you, because you understand, you can see what we’re doing…’

  ‘I don’t understand the Heathrow deaths. Killing people? For heaven’s sake…’

  ‘That’s a problem. It’s a deep river to cross. But there’s a bridge, David. We’re trapped by categories, by walls that stop us from seeing around corners.’ Gould pointed to the wrecked pick-up truck. ‘We accept deaths when we feel they’re justified – wars, climbing Everest, putting up a skyscraper, building a bridge.’

  ‘True…’ I pointed towards Terminal 2. ‘But I can’t see a bridge there.’

  ‘There are bridges in the mind.’ Gould raised a white hand, gesturing me towards the runway. ‘They carry us to a more real world, a richer sense of who we are. Once those bridges are there, it’s our duty to cross them.’

  ‘By blowing apart a young Chinese woman? Was Dexter involved in the Heathrow bomb?’

  Gould seemed to slump inside his shabby suit. ‘Yes, David. He was involved.’

  ‘He planted the bomb?’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘David…’ Gould bared his uneven teeth. ‘I’m not being evasive. You have to see the Heathrow attack as part of a larger picture.’

  ‘Richard! My wife died in Terminal 2.’

  ‘I know. That was a tragedy. First, though…’ He turned his back, staring at the rusting cars, then swung to face me. ‘What do you think has been going on at Chelsea Marina?’

  ‘A middle-class revolution. The one you worked for. No?’

  ‘Not really. The middle-class protest is just a symptom. It’s part of a much larger movement, a current running through all our lives, though most people don’t realize it. There’s a deep need for meaningless action, the more violent the better. People know their lives are pointless, and they realize there’s nothing they can do about it. Or almost nothing.’

  ‘Not true.’ Impatient with this familiar argument, I said: ‘Your life isn’t pointless. Once you’re cleared by the GMC you’ll be walking the children’s wards again, designing an even better shunt…’

  ‘Feel-good caring. I get more out of it than they do.’

  ‘Gliding? You booked a course of lessons.’

  ‘I cancelled them. Too close to occupational therapy.’ Gould shielded his eyes, watching an airliner lift itself from the runway. It braced its wings against the sky, a titanic effort of steel and will. As it rose over Bedfont and turned towards the west Gould waved admiringly. ‘Heroic, but…’

  ‘Not pointless enough?’

  ‘Exactly. Think of all those passengers, every one of them buzzing like a hive with plans and projects. Holidays, business conferences, weddings – so much purpose and energy, so many small ambitions that no one will ever remember.’

  ‘It would be better if the plane crashed?’

  ‘Yes! That would mean something. An empty space we could stare into with real awe. Senseless, inexplicable, as mysterious as the Grand Canyon. We can’t see the road for all the signposts. Let’s clear them away, so we can gaze at the mystery of an empty road. We need more demolition jobs…’

  ‘Even if people are killed?’

  ‘Yes, sadly.’

  ‘Like Heathrow? And the Hammersmith murder? As a matter of interest, did Dexter shoot her?’

  ‘No. He was nowhere near.’

  ‘And Terminal 2?’ I took the parking ticket from my wallet and held it in front of Gould’s face. ‘He arrived in your car two hours before the bomb exploded. What was he doing when it went off?’

  ‘He was sitting in the Jag.’ Gould peered at me, curious why I was so slow to grasp the truth. ‘He might even have been thinking about you.’

  ‘Richard!’ Angrily, I punched his shoulder. ‘I need to know!’

  ‘Calm down…’ Gould rubbed his arm, then reached into the Jaguar and retrieved the copy of A Neuroscientist Looks at God. He thumbed through the pages and found my photograph, smiling at my confident expression. ‘Stephen drove me to Heathrow that morning. I had some…business to deal with.’

  ‘Medical?’

  ‘In a sense. His job was to wait here.’

  ‘Job? What exactly? Taking communion in a car park?’

  ‘He had a phone call to make.’ Gould pointed to the scrawled digits in green ballpoint. ‘Call the number, David. You’ve got your mobile. It should explain a lot.’

  I took out the mobile and waited until the airport was silent. Gould leaned against the car, picking at his nails, a mentor already bored with a once promising pupil. I stared at the numerals on the BBC paperback and dialled.

  A voice spoke promptly. ‘Heathrow Security…Terminal 2. Hello, caller?’

  ‘Hello? Sorry?’

  ‘Terminal 2 Security. Can I help you, caller?’

  I rang off and gripped the phone like a grenade. The air around me was clearer. The lines of parked cars, the chain-link fencing and the tail fins of taxiing aircraft had drawn closer, part of a conspiracy to attack the sky. Heathrow was a huge illusion, the centre of a world of signs that pointed to nothing.

  ‘David?’ Gould looked up from his nails. ‘Any answer?’

  ‘Terminal 2 Security.’ I thought back to the Bishop of Chichester’s mobile that I had found in Joan Chang’s car outside Tate Modern. ‘Why would Stephen ring them?’

  ‘Go on. Think about it.’

  ‘His job was to make the warning call. While someone else planted the bomb. There had to be enough time for the security people to clear everyone out of Terminal 2.’

  ‘But there was no warning call. The police were certain about that.’ Gould nodded encouragingly. ‘Stephen never rang security. Why not?’

  ‘Because the bomber was supposed to call Stephen once he’d set the device. But the bomber didn’t call.’

  ‘Exactly. So…?’

  ‘Stephen assumed there was some kind of delay.’ I noticed the paperback in my hand and tossed it into the car. ‘He sat here, reading about God and the neurosciences. Then he heard the explosion. He guessed the device had gone off before the bomber could reach him. He switched on the car radio and learned about the casualties. He must have been appalled.’

  ‘He was.’ Gould pushed himself away from the car and made a half-circle around me. ‘He was deeply shocked. In fact, he never got over it.’

  ‘So that’s when he lost his faith. He left the car here and somehow went back to Chelsea Marina. Poor man
– but how did he justify being involved in a bomb attack?’

  ‘It was part of Kay Churchill’s anti-tourism campaign. It was supposed to close Heathrow for days and make people think about the Third World. They’d cancel their holidays and send the money to Oxfam and Médecins Sans Frontières.’ Gould raised his pale hands to the sun. ‘A tragic mistake. There was meant to be a warning. We didn’t intend to kill anyone.’

  ‘Who was the bomber? Vera Blackburn?’

  ‘Far too nervy.’

  ‘Kay? I can’t see her doing it.’

  ‘Never. Stephen and I drove here alone.’

  ‘You and Stephen arrived together? So you were the bomber?’ I turned to stare at Gould, as if seeing him for the first time, this shabby little doctor with his strange obsessions. ‘You killed those people…and my wife.’

  ‘It was an accident.’ Gould’s eyeballs tilted upwards under their lids, as they had done in the park at Fulham Palace. ‘No one was meant to die. You were at the NFT, David, you’ve left fire bombs in video stores. I didn’t know your wife was on the plane.’

  ‘You planted the bomb…’ I turned away, my fingers touching the dust on the Jaguar’s windscreen, as if this film of dirt and aviation grease could shield me from what I had learned about Laura’s death. With an effort, I controlled my anger. I needed Gould to speak freely, even at the cost of telling the truth. I was shocked and depressed by myself. For months I had been the dupe of a small coterie at Chelsea Marina. I knew now why Kay had always been uneasy over my growing involvement with Gould. Surprisingly, I still felt concerned for him.

  ‘David?’ Gould looked into my face. ‘You’re shaking. Sit in the car.’

  ‘No thanks. That Jaguar – I know how Dexter must have felt.’ I pushed him away, and then caught his sleeve. ‘One question. How did you get in? Security in the baggage area is tight.’

  ‘Not so tight on the arrivals side. An architect at Chelsea Marina works for a firm carrying out airport maintenance. He supplied me with an identity pass. I put on my white coat and doctor’s badge. The bomb was in my medical case. A low-yield device, I thought. But Vera gets carried away – it’s all that anger.’