J.G. Ballard - Super-Cannes

I opened the passenger door and stepped behind him, then caught his shoulders when he fainted into my arms.

'Frank…? head between your knees… you're fine now.'

I drove the Range Rover onto the floor below, and stopped in the cool shadows among the parked cars. I steadied Halder against the seat, and let the icy breeze from the air-conditioning system play across his face.

'Mr Sinclair…?' With an effort he focused his eyes. 'I blacked out for a few seconds. Was it hot up there?'

'Like a furnace.' I searched for a radiophone. 'I'll call for a paramedic.'

'No.' Halder took the phone from me. 'I need a minute to cool off. I guess too much light on anything isn't a good idea.'

He grimaced to himself, accepting the embarrassment he had caused. The roof had been hot, but repressed emotions had played a stronger role. I waited as Halder recovered his poise, and thought of the bullet holes in the parapet.

David Greenwood's murder spree had ended on the exposed deck above our heads, when a faulty magazine had saved the Frenchwoman from becoming his last, unintended victim. The clocks in Eden-Olympia had stopped for two hours as the deranged doctor moved on, rifle in hand, the silence of death around him.

When he killed his victims he had probably heard nothing, not even the shots from his rifle. But on the roof of the car park a nervous guard had returned fire, and then Greenwood was back in real time, the sounds of police sirens and helicopters filling his head.

Halder adjusted the air-conditioning fan, and watched the sweat evaporate from his shirt. Trying to recover his self-possession, he removed the keys from the ignition lock. He waited for me to leave the driving seat, but I sat back, my hands gripping the wheel.

'Frank, you've been a huge help. Showing me the route in detail, and the scene-of-the-crime photos. It was good of you, but why do it?'

'I liked Greenwood. It's as simple as that. I wanted you to see it all from his point of view. Something happened on May 28, something that wasn't right.'

'And affected you badly. That's what our tour has really been about – you, not Greenwood.'

'Not exactly.'

'Zander knows you're here. He authorized the photographs.'

'Zander and Dr Penrose.'

'Why Penrose?'

'He was interested to see how you'd react. Looking the truth in the face, not some fantasy garbled together from rumours and maids' gossip.'

'So they assigned you to keep an eye on me. When did this start?'

'After you went to Riviera News. The manager's secretary called us. I was to pick you up there.'

'So that's why Meldrum kept me talking. You followed me to Antibes-les-Pins and Port-la-Galère. I'm surprised I didn't see you.'

'Among all those chic suntans? Not so chic as mine.' Halder patted his cheeks, trying to force the blood into his face. 'I parked on the corniche road. A security man tipped me off when you were leaving. He used to work at Eden-Olympia.'

'And now he's keeping an eye on the widows. Making sure they don't talk too much to amateur detectives. But why trail me to the Rue Valentin? Zander didn't know I'd be there.'

'I was working in my own time, Mr Sinclair. I heard from the other guards that a special action was booked for last night. I was concerned for you. When you took off after the girl I thought you might get into trouble.'

'I did. I can still feel the truncheons…' I felt my bruised shoulder, wondering how to explain to Halder the confusions of middle-aged sexual nostalgia. 'What were Zander and his posse doing in the Rue Valentin? Anything involved with David Greenwood?'

'Nothing. The Rue Valentin is one of their favourite workouts. They can beat the shit out of a few whores and transvestites and feel good about it. I guess that's better than raping the Third World.'

'That sounds a little harsh. You don't much like Eden-Olympia. Why not make things up with your father and go home?'

'Home?' Halder turned to stare at me, as if I had announced that the earth was flat. ' America isn't my home. My mother comes from Stuttgart. I'm German. Do you know Germany, Mr Sinclair?'

'I was stationed at Mülheim for three months. A great country. The future is going to be like a suburb of Stuttgart.'

'Don't knock it. I had a great time there. My mother worked at the base PX. The Air Force looked after her when my old man left for the States. He denied paternity and resigned his commission. I was friends with all the American kids and went to the base school until some of the parents complained. My mother really scared hell out of the general's wife.'

'She sounds a character.'

'One tough German Frau. The last of the old-style hippies. She taught me to masturbate when I was twelve, and how to roll a joint. I want her to come out here as soon as I get promotion.'

'I'm sure you will. They treat you with a lot of respect.'

'I want more. Places like Eden-Olympia have very high estimates of people. That means something when you're at the bottom of the ladder.'

'Remember that when you reach the top. All that rarefied air. There must be a temptation to feel like God.'

'God?' Halder smiled into his elegant hands. 'The people here have gone beyond God. Way beyond. God had to rest on the seventh day.'

'So how do they keep sane?'

'Not so easy. They have one thing to fall back on.'

'And that is?'

'Haven't you guessed, Mr Sinclair?' Halder spoke softly but with genuine concern, as if all our time together, the extended seminar he had been conducting with full visual aids, had been wasted on this obtuse Englishman. 'Madness – that's all they have, after working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. Going mad is their only way of staying sane.'

'And Eden-Olympia is happy with that?'

'As long as they stay well outside the business park. In fact, it does everything it can to help…'

After exchanging seats, we left the garage. I told Halder that I would walk back across the park, half-hoping that I might find some clue to Greenwood 's return route. Halder drove at a cautious pace down the spiral ramp, but I hesitated before stepping from the car.

'Halder – you're safe to drive? Think of that promotion.'

'It was hot on the roof, Mr Sinclair. I humiliated myself a little. That's all. I can give you a lift.'

'I'll walk. There's a lot to think about, most of it grim.' I gazed at the lines of office buildings rising from the park like megaliths of the future. 'Corbusier's Cité Radieuse – I'm sorry David Greenwood wasn't happy here.'

'He was pretty confused. At the end all his shadows ran up to greet him.'

'Even so.' Reluctant to leave Halder, I pointed to the manila envelope. 'I don't think he was confused. Those pictures show the murders were very carefully planned. Greenwood must have guessed that the victims would be photographed. Each murder scene is a kind of tableau. Bachelet with his crack pipe and stolen jewellery. Berthoud with his suitcase of heroin. Vadim and the kiddie porn. Each photograph isn't Greenwood 's crime scene – it's theirs.'

'Kiddie porn, drugs, fascist ideas… not exactly serious crimes these days.'

'But serious enough. And only the tip visible above the water. These bowling clubs, and the road accidents… something deeply criminal has taken root here. The senior people at Eden-Olympia think they're lords of the chateau, free to ride out and trample down the peasantry for their own amusement.'

'You're wrong, Mr Sinclair.'

'I can't believe Greenwood killed himself.' Ignoring Halder, I pressed on. 'I'm sure he gave himself up. He'd killed seven people and he needed to explain why. He wanted to go to trial.'

'That's a dangerous theory. Keep it to yourself.'

'He knew the police photographs would prove his case. Other witnesses would come forward and confirm what he'd seen. But he hadn't counted on the enormous power that Eden-Olympia controls, or the total ruthlessness. Somewhere near here, probably only a few hundred yards away, he surrendered to the security people chasing him. Almost certainly, they took him back to the villa and executed him there.'