James Ballard: The Subliminal Man

“But, Robert, what does it really matter?” Judith asked as Franklin sat inertly in the lounge the next morning. “I know it’s tragic for his wife and daughter, but Hathaway was in the grip of an obsession. If he hated advertising signs so much why didn’t he dynamite those we can see, instead of worrying so much about those we can’t?”

Franklin stared at the TV screen, hoping the program would distract him.

“Hathaway was right,” he said simply.

“Was he? Advertising is here to stay. We’ve no real freedom of choice, anyway. We can’t spend more than we can afford; the finance companies soon clamp down.”

“You accept that?” Franklin went over to the window. A quarter of a mile away, in the center of the estate, another of the signs was being erected. It was due east from them, and in the early- morning light the shadows of its rectangular superstructure fell across the garden, reaching almost to the steps of the French windows at his feet. As a concession to the neighborhood, and perhaps to allay any suspicions while it was being erected by an appeal to petty snobbery, the lowest sections had been encased in mock-Tudor paneling.

Franklin stared at it numbly, counting the half-dozen police lounging by their patrol cars as the construction gang unloaded prefabricated grilles from a couple of trucks. Then he looked at the sign by the supermarket, trying to repress his memories of Hathaway and the pathetic attempts the man had made to convince Franklin and gain his help.

He was still standing there an hour later when Judith came in, putting on her hat and coat, ready to visit the supermarket.

Franklin followed her to the door. “I’ll drive you down there, Judith,” he said in a flat voice dead voice. “I have to see about booking a new car. The next models are coming out at the end of the month. With luck we’ll get one of the early deliveries.”

They walked out into the trim drive, the shadows of the great signs swinging across the quiet neighborhood as the day progressed, sweeping over the heads of the people on their way to the supermarket like the dark blades of enormous scythes.