J.G. Ballard - Super-Cannes

'Frances… try to relax. No one followed me.' I wanted to embrace her, but she stepped away from me and clasped the telescope with her hand. I knew that she was thinking of everything except myself. Tapping the telescope, she watched the taxi leave with the two widows.

'The chauffeurs' wives?' I asked. 'What were they doing here?'

'They wanted to see the chapel – it's dedicated to the souls of travellers. I collected them from the station at Antibes.'

'Did I spoil it for them?'

'I doubt it – why?'

'They looked at me…'

'They're very suspicious. Word gets around. You've been seen at some of the ratissages. They think you're part of Eden-Olympia.'

'I am.'

'That's why I'm here.' She managed a strained smile, reassuring herself that we were still close friends. 'Paul, I had to get away. That dreadful business with Zander. I ran to the nearest exit.'

'I felt the same.' I tried to find her eyes under the dipping brim of the straw hat. 'Where did you go?'

'Menton. A small hotel near the old town. There's a friend I had to see, a retired judge. I needed his advice.'

'I hope you take it. Everything at Eden-Olympia is starting to slide off the table.'

'Only now?' She studied me in a distracted way. 'You've had a long time to accept that.'

'Not true. I've been waiting for the right moment.'

'Waiting? That's too easy. You can wait for ever.'

We walked through the trees to the slip road beside the lighthouse, where I had parked the BMW. When she took the keys from me I noticed her frayed nails and raw fingertips.

'You're sure no one followed you?' she asked. 'The man outside the cyber-café?'

'Meldrum? No. He was keeping an eye out for the Jag. Journalists don't like to pay parking charges.'

We sat in the car, in the shadowy space under the roof, and Frances gripped the steering wheel as if to brace herself before a collision. Trying to calm her, I moved her hands to her lap.

'Frances, why would Meldrum want to follow me?'

'He probably smells a story. Someone at Antibes-les-Pins might have seen the accident. The apartments are close to the beach.'

'No one there ever looks at the sea. Besides, Meldrum works for Eden-Olympia. They own a large piece of the radio station.'

'Even so. If it pays him enough, he'll play both ends against each other. He wants a really big story he can sell to the news agencies. I think I can give him one…'

She nodded to herself and stared up at the lighthouse, patiently waiting for it to come to her aid and bathe the darkness of the Côte d'Azur in its searching rays. The weeks she had spent in Menton had made her both insecure and more resolute. I thought of the elegant but unconfident woman I had met at the orthopaedic conference, and realized that nothing had changed. We had started an affair, but our time together had been stolen from Eden-Olympia and would have to be returned.

I said: 'If Meldrum trailed me to Antibes-les-Pins he was very professional. I didn't see him.'

'You weren't looking. Some concierge will have tipped him off. A lot of high-powered people keep their girlfriends at Antibes-les- Pins.'

'But why were you there?'

'Isabel Duval told me she was seeing you. She didn't say why.'

'You're in touch with her?'

'I always have been. There are still one or two people I can trust.' She raised her chin, showing something of her old determination. 'I needed to see you, and I didn't want to use the phone or e-mail. Jane might have mentioned it to Wilder Penrose. Anyway, that old Jag is an easy car to trail. I had to meet the widows so I parked in the garage and used the spare keys to leave a message.'

'You were following me…? For some reason, it feels odd.'

'Poor man. You're so naive, I think it's why you've survived.' A shadow of affection crossed her face. 'People have been following you since you came to Eden-Olympia. Once in a while try looking in the rear-view mirror.'

'I will. My mind's been rather foggy – too many painkillers. You'll be glad to hear I've given them up.'

'Good. You look a lot sharper. Who prescribed the painkillers?'

'Jane. Her own special cocktail. Isabel Duval had them analysed for me. Mostly a strong tranquillizer.'

'She's keeping you sedated, so you won't ask too many questions. I like Jane, but… think about it, Paul.'

'I have.' I turned to face Frances. She had relaxed a little, no longer unsettled by my presence, and I guessed that she was ready to speak frankly to me. 'All right, Frances. Why are we here? It's an odd place to meet.'

'I wanted to see you. I even missed you. La Garoupe is far away from Eden-Olympia and all those big Mercs and gangster drivers. Besides, I was taking the widows here.'

'But why La Garoupe? Their husbands were shot dead in my garden, along with Jacques Bourget – not one of them, I'm ready to bet, by David Greenwood.'

'The widows know that. They wanted to see the shrine to Bourget's friend, a junior manager at Eden-Olympia.'

'The man who died in a hit-and-run accident? David was passing by and looked after him. It was quite a coincidence.'

'It wasn't an accident. Or a coincidence. David wouldn't talk about it but he felt very guilty. It was the early days of the ratissages and he hadn't realized what was happening. The chauffeurs were assigned to drive the cars and they didn't like what they saw. That's why they joined David, along with Jacques Bourget. They'd all seen men run down for fun, and wanted to expose what was going on.'

'By taking over a private TV station?'

'A lot of important conferences are held at Eden-Olympia. There's a direct link to TF1 and CNN. They were going to broadcast a complete exposé and force the Interior Minister to act.'

'So you knew about the killings in advance?'

'No.' Frances took my hand and pressed it to her throat, as if to prevent herself from gagging. I could feel her larynx trembling, a sub-vocal rosary. 'I didn't know, believe me. But I guessed something was going to happen when David said he'd stored his rifle and ammunition with Philippe Bourget. I told him not to hurt anyone, but he wanted revenge.'

'For what they'd done to Bourget's friend?'

'No. He wanted revenge for what Eden-Olympia had done to him.'

Frances rapped the steering wheel with her fist, rousing herself to action. Chin raised, she stared through the windscreen at the Riviera coastline, a battle commander about to launch a beachhead but unsure of the underwater defences.

'Frances… what did Eden-Olympia do to David? He was happy here, running the refuge, lending his Alice library to the teenagers.'

'Alice? That's ironic.' Frances pushed up the brim of her hat. 'David wasn't happy. He hated himself, so much that it spilled over and he started to hate me.'

'Why did he kill all those people – Dr Serrou, Bachelet, Olga Carlotti? Frances, you know why.'

'Yes, I do.' She sounded almost offhand. 'I'm the only one who does. No one else is sure. Not even Wilder Penrose. That's why they used you.'

'They used me?'

'Yes, you. Paul Sinclair, the bored ex-pilot who'd lost his flying licence and was looking for a new way up into the clouds. Married to an oddball young doctor. The ultimate marital hot mix.'

'They knew nothing about me when they recruited Jane. I published aviation books.'

'But the headhunters passed on your background details, and Eden-Olympia seized its chance. Penrose and Professor Kalman and Zander decided to conduct an experiment. They ran a special trial designed to explain what went wrong with David. You were their laboratory rat.'

'All I did was lie around the pool and smoke a little pot with Jane.'

'Just what they wanted. You had time on your hands, and they knew you'd soon be bored. Bored enough to take part in their weekend games. Why did they put you in David's house? Didn't that strike you as odd?'