J.G. Ballard - Super-Cannes

'At least there are no children,' I said. 'What is it?'

'Careful, Mr Sinclair…' Halder stepped around me and nodded to a cobbled side alley. A black Mercedes was parked against a wall, the aerial of a radio telephone rising from the rear deck.

'Frank? The car in the alley? What's special about it?'

'It's the Delages'.' Halder surveyed a film poster above a shuttered tabac. 'They're standing in the doorway next to the car.'

'There's nothing there…'

'Right by the Merc.' Halder lowered his head and let his eyes drift along the street. Away from Eden-Olympia he was a black man in a trenchcoat, with no secure place in the corridors of the night. At any moment the dark air could open like a trap and release a spasm of hate and violence.

Over Halder's shoulder I saw the Delages. They were leaning against each other in a doorway, her head against his chin, like clandestine lovers.

'They're watching the damned Mercedes. No one's going to steal it. Where's Jane?'

'It's all right, Mr Sinclair.' Concerned for my safety, Halder steered me from the path of an aggressive transvestite who shouldered past, looking down at us with an expression of contempt. 'I'll take over… she's here.'

A rear door of the Mercedes opened, and a young prostitute in high-heels and a sequinned shift dress stepped onto the cobbles.

She swayed against the open door, and closed it clumsily with her elbow. Tired by the effort, she leaned on the window, staring into her own fatigue. She seemed drugged by more than narcotics, but turned towards the Delages and made a brief, parodic curtsy. As she straightened her skirt I saw the sequins glitter in the streetlights.

'Jane…?' I spoke loudly enough for her to hear me, but she was smiling in an unfocused way at the men who passed the alley.

'Frank, I can see her. What's she playing at? It looks like a stage act.'

'I don't think it is…'

'No?' I stepped on a discarded cigarette that glowed near my feet. As its embers flared and died, the air around me seemed to lighten. My anger had passed, and I felt responsible for myself for the first time in months. 'Wait here while I bring the Peugeot. I want to get her away before the action starts.'

'Move fast, Mr Sinclair.'

The Delages stood in the doorway beside the Mercedes, arms around each other, watching Jane like concerned foster parents at an amateur-dramatic performance where their much-loved ward was making her début. Simone followed Jane with her familiar devoted gaze, showing the same shy affection that I had noticed at their first meeting. Alain nodded to her, unsure of Jane but still confident in her, the senior bureaucrat glad to put aside his distractions to encourage a family friend, willing her to succeed. Looking across the night air at this dangerous couple, I imagined their Roman predecessors, administrators of colonial Provence, sitting in the arena at Nimes and watching a favourite slave bravely meet her end. Wilder Penrose's feat was not to have driven the Delages mad but to have made them appear sane.

Halder caught up with me and held my arm as I stepped into the Peugeot. 'Mr Sinclair… I can get her for you. They've always wanted me to…'

'Thanks, but you'll be their target for ever. They can write me off as a spoilsport husband.'

I stopped the Peugeot outside the entrance to the alley. Jane was still leaning against the Mercedes, handbag swinging like a signalman's lamp. Her eyes stared at nothing, but every few seconds she seemed to wake as she forced herself to breathe.

She failed to recognize me, or her car, and gestured towards the interior of the limousine, inviting me to her boudoir. The Delages nodded from the doorway, not realizing who I was, faces hidden inside the collars of their coats.

A young Frenchman in black trousers and white shirt stopped beside the Peugeot. A smell of stale cooking fat clung to his clothes, and I guessed that he was an off-duty waiter ready to spend his tips. He surveyed Jane like a seasoned racegoer, intrigued by the combination of this back-alley novice and her powerful car.

Assuming that the Delages were her pimps, he strolled towards Jane, nodding with approval at her waif-like body.

I left the Peugeot and strode towards the alley. The Delages were watching the rear seat of the Mercedes, where Jane and her client sat together, as close but as distant as strangers on a scenic railway. The Frenchman unzipped his fly. With one hand he hunted through his wallet, while the other held Jane's thigh, trying to keep her attention as she lay rigidly against the headrest, a passenger frozen in the last seconds before a collision.

'Paul… over here.' Seeing me, Alain Delage beckoned me to the doorway and made room for me beside Simone. 'I'm delighted you came. We thought…'

He was pleased to see me, glad that I had made the effort to turn up, a valued co-investor. Simone drew me into the doorway, stepping back to allow me the best view. Pressed against her, I noticed that she wore no scent or make-up, as if cleansing her senses and preparing her palate for this most savoury of dishes.

I pulled away from them and leaned against the roof of the Mercedes. Calmly, I said: 'I'm glad I came. What exactly is going on?'

'Paul?' Alain was surprised by my studied but aggressive tone. 'It's Jane – she said she told you. She wanted to try it out…'

'It's interesting for her.' Simone took my arm reassuringly. 'Like all wives…'

Inside the Mercedes the Frenchman had his wallet between his teeth. He gripped Jane's wrists, trying to restrain her as she struggled against him, small fists striking the roof of the car.

When I opened the door he swore and released Jane. He stuffed his wallet into a hip pocket and sprang from the rear seat with a shout of anger. He tried to strike me, but I caught his arm and threw him heavily across the bonnet. He swayed to his feet, thought better of attacking me and strode off, gesticulating at a streetlamp.

The Delages watched as I drew Jane from the car. They seemed disappointed but resigned, accepting that I had committed a modest social gaffe, an investor so caught up by the drama that he had mounted the stage to rescue the leading actress. Already Simone had opened the rear door and was brushing the seat, sweeping away the loose sequins from Jane's dress.

Jane embraced me as we stood by the Peugeot, a shocked child waking from a bad dream. She touched the bruise on her cheek and tried to wipe the lipstick from her mouth. Under the make-up her face was toneless, and I sensed that she still failed to grasp what had happened to her. 'Paul, you came…' Her hands gripped my shoulders. 'Something went wrong. It didn't feel like a game any more.'

I held her close to me, closer than I had held her since arriving at Eden-Olympia. 'Jane, dear – it never was a game…'

She was asleep when I parked behind Halder's Range Rover.

He stood by the door and watched me brush the hair from her face. She woke briefly and stared into my eyes with a kind of dazed surprise, as if I were an old friend from her medical school who had strayed into a blind corner of her life.

Halder surveyed the passing cars, the elderly drivers and broad-shouldered transvestites. The Delages had driven off in the Mercedes, resigned to their spoilt evening. Halder's gaze included me in its candid sweep, and I realized that he held me responsible for everything that had happened to Jane.

'She's all right, Mr Sinclair. You can take her home to London.'

He looked down at the Peugeot's keys that I had placed in his hand. 'You'd like me to drive?'

'Yes. But not back to Eden-Olympia.'

'That's very wise. You're in danger there.'

'I know. It took me a long time to realize it. Frank, I want you to head for Marseilles. Get Jane to the British Consul.'