J.G. Ballard - Cocaine Nights

'There's no conceivable reason. The Hollingers were the last people he'd have tried to harm. Frank's so gentle, far more innocent than you, I'd guess. Or me. If I had the nerve I'd light a dozen bonfires here.'

'You don't sound too keen on Estrella de Mar?'

'Let's say I know more about the place than you do.'

'Then why stay?'

'Why indeed…' She leaned back against the sailboard, one hand holding its keel, her black hair silhouetted against the white plastic, the pose of a fashion model. Already I sensed that she was looking on me with more favour, for whatever reasons of her own, and revealing an almost flirtatious side of herself. 'There's my work at the clinic. It's a cooperative practice, and I'd have to sell my investment. Besides, my patients need me. Someone has to wean them off the Valium and Mogadon, teach them how to face the day without a bottle and a half of vodka.'

'So what Joan of Arc was to the English soldiery you are to the pharmaceutical industry?'

'Something like that. I've never thought of myself as Joan. Not enough voices.'

'And the Hollingers? Did you treat them?'

'No, but I was great friends with Anne, their niece, and helped her through a bad overdose. Same thing with Bibi Jansen. She was in a coma for four days, very nearly snuffed it. Heroin overdoses shut down the respiratory system, and that isn't good news for the brain. Still, we saved her-until the fire.'

'Why was Bibi working at the Hollingers?'

'They saw her in the intensive care unit, lying next to Anne, and promised to look after her if she pulled through.'

I leaned over the rail, listening to the dull beat of the disco music, and noticed the dealers hanging about near the entrance. 'They're still there. So a lot of drugs are moving around Estrella de Mar?'

'What do you think? Be honest, what else is there to do in paradise? You catch the psychoactive fruit that falls from the tree. Believe me, everyone here is trying to lie down with the serpent.'

'Paula, isn't that a little too cynical?' I took her arm and turned her to face me. I thought of her strong, swimmer's body as we wrestled on Frank's bed. In a real sense it was I who was the interloper. During their nights together she and Frank had made his bed their own, and I was now intruding among the pillows and their ghosts. 'You can't hate the people here that much. After all, Frank liked them.'

'Of course he did.' She checked herself and bit her lip, abashed by her sharp tongue. 'He loved the Club Nautico, and made a big success of it. It's practically the nerve centre of Estrella de Mar. Have you seen the pueblos along the coast? Zombieland. Fifty thousand Brits, one huge liver perfused by vodka and tonic. Embalming fluid piped door to door…'

'I dropped by-ten minutes was all I could take. The sun doesn't shine there, only satellite TV. But why is Estrella de Mar so different? Someone here winds up the clocks.'

'That was Frank. Before he came the place was pretty drowsy.'

'Art galleries, theatre clubs, choral societies. Its own elected council and volunteer police force. Maybe there are a few drug-pushers and wives who like to practise their streetwalking, but the place feels as if it's a real community.'

'So they say. Frank always claimed that Estrella de Mar is what the future will be like. Take a good look while it lasts.'

'He's probably right. How did he do all this on his own?'

'Easy.' Paula grinned to herself. 'He had one or two important friends who helped him.'

'You, Paula?'

'Not me. Don't worry, I keep the medicine cabinets locked. I love Frank but the last place I want to be is in the next cell at Zarzuella prison.'

'What about Bobby Crawford? He and Frank were very close.'

'They were close.' Her hands tightened around the rail. 'Too close, really. They should never have met.'

'Why not? Crawford seems very likeable. A little too manic sometimes but enough boyish charm for an entire chorus line. Did he have too much power over Frank?'

'Never. Frank used Bobby. That's the key to everything.' She stared at the Hollinger house, and with an effort turned her back on the dark ruin. 'Listen, I have to call in at the Clinic. Sleep well, if you can stand that disco music. The night before the fire Frank and I hardly got a wink between us.'

'I thought you said that your affair was over?'

'It was.' She stared boldly at me. 'But we still had sex together…'

I followed her to the door, eager to see her again but unsure how best to raise the subject. During our conversation she had deliberately left a number of doors ajar for me, but I assumed that most of them would lead to dead-ends.

'Paula, one last point. When we were struggling on the bed you said something about not wanting to play a game any more.'

'Did I?'

'What game did you mean?'

'I don't know. Adolescent horse-play? I never was keen on debaggings and that sort of thing.'

'But that wasn't horse-play. You thought you were being raped.'

She gazed at me patiently and held my hand, noticing the infected splinter wound that still contained part of Crawford's racket. 'Nasty. If you come to the Clinic I'll see to it. Raped? No. I mistook you for someone else…'

After closing the door I returned to the balcony and looked down at the swimming pool. The disco had closed, and the dark water seemed to draw all the silences of the night into itself. Paula emerged from the restaurant, taking the long route to the car park, handbag bouncing jauntily against her hip. She twice waved to me, clearly keen to hold my attention. Already I envied Frank for having touched the affections of this quirky young doctor. After grappling with her on Frank's bed it was all too easy to imagine us making love. I thought of her in the intensive care unit, among the comatose stockbrokers and cardiac widows, and the special intimacy of catheters and drips.

When her headlamps set off into the night I pushed myself from the rail, more than ready for sleep. But before I could step back there was a sudden flurry of foliage behind me as someone lunged through the giant ferns. A pair of violent hands seized my shoulders and hurled me against the rail. Stunned by the assault, I sank to my knees as a leather strap tightened around my throat. A hard breath, damp with the smell of malt whisky, filled my face. I gripped the strap and tried to free my neck, but felt myself swung to the tiled floor like a steer roped and decked by a skilled rodeo rider.

A foot kicked the balcony table against the chairs. The strap fell away, and the man's hands gripped my throat. Powerful but sensitive, they controlled the air I was able to gasp during the brief moments when the fingers eased their pressure. They searched the muscles and vessels of my neck, almost playing a melody with my death.

Barely breathing, I clung to the rail as the lighthouse beacon faded and the night closed inside my head.

'Five murders are more than enough, Mr Prentice. We have no wish for a sixth. I make the point officially.'

Inspector Cabrera raised his stocky arms to the ceiling, ready to bear any weight rather than the problems I posed for him. Already I represented one seminar too many to this thoughtful young detective, as if I had personally decided to test to destruction all the lessons in the psychology of victimhood given to him by his instructors at the police academy.

'I understand, Inspector. But perhaps you'd speak to the man who attacked me. I appreciate your coming here.'

'Good.' Cabrera turned to Paula Hamilton as she fretted with the orthopaedic collar around my neck, asking her to witness his formal warning. He spoke tersely to me. 'Your brother's trial is in three months' time. For the present go back to England, go to Antarctica. If you stay, you may provoke another death – this time your own.'