J.G. Ballard - Cocaine Nights

'Frank, of all the places to pick you choose the Costa del Sol!' I would exclaim. 'Estrella de Mar? I can't even imagine it…'

Amiably, Frank always replied: 'Exactly, Charles. It doesn't really exist. That's why I like the coast. I've been looking for it all my life. Estrella de Mar isn't anywhere.'

But now nowhere had at last caught up with him.

When I reached the Los Monteras Hotel, a ten-minute drive down the coast from Marbella, there was a message waiting for me. Senor Danvila, Frank's lawyer, had called from the magistrates' court with news of 'unexpected developments', and asked me to join him as soon as possible. The over-polite manners of the hotel manager and the averted eyes of the concierge and porters suggested that whatever these developments might be, they were fully expected. Even the players returning from the tennis courts and the couples in towelling robes on their way to the swimming pools paused to let me pass, as if sensing that I had come to share my brother's fate.

When I returned to the lobby after a shower and change of clothes the concierge had already called a taxi.

'Mr Prentice, it will be simpler than taking your own car. Parking is difficult in Marbella. You have enough problems to consider.'

'You've heard about the case?' I asked. 'Did you speak to my brother's lawyer?'

'Of course not, sir. There were some accounts in the local press… a few television reports.'

He seemed anxious to steer me to the waiting taxi. I scanned the headlines in the display of newspapers beside the desk.

'What exactly happened? No one seems to know.'

'It's not certain, Mr Prentice.' The concierge straightened his magazines, trying to hide from me any edition that might reveal the full story of Frank's involvement. 'It's best that you take your taxi. All will be clear to you in Marbella…'

Senor Danvila was waiting for me in the entrance hall of the magistrates' court. A tall, slightly stooped man in his late fifties, he carried two briefcases which he shuffled from hand to hand, and resembled a distracted schoolmaster who had lost control of his class. He greeted me with evident relief, holding on to my arm as if to reassure himself that I too was now part of the confused world into which Frank had drawn him. I liked his concerned manner, but his real attention seemed elsewhere, and already I wondered why David Hennessy had hired him.

'Mr Prentice, I'm most grateful that you came. Unfortunately, events are now more… ambiguous. If I can explain-'

'Where is Frank? I'd like to see him. I want you to arrange bail – I can provide whatever guarantees the court requires. Senor Danvila…?'

With an effort the lawyer uncoupled his eyes from some feature of my face that seemed to distract him, an echo perhaps of one of Frank's more cryptic expressions. Seeing a group of Spanish photographers on the steps of the court, he beckoned me towards an alcove. 'Your brother is here, until they return him to Zarzuella jail in Malaga this evening. The police investigation is proceeding. I am afraid that in the circumstances bail is out of the question.'

'What circumstances? I want to see Frank now. Surely the Spanish magistrates release people on bail?'

'Not in a case such as this.' Senor Danvila hummed to himself, switching his briefcases in an unending attempt to decide which was the heavier. 'You will see your brother in an hour, perhaps less. I have spoken to Inspector Cabrera. Afterwards he will want to question you about certain details possibly known to you, but there is nothing to fear.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Now, what will they charge Frank with?'

'He has already been charged.' Senor Danvila was staring fixedly at me. 'It's a tragic affair, Mr Prentice, the very worst.'

'But charged with what? Currency violations, tax problems…?'

'More serious than that. There were fatalities.'

Senor Danvila's face had come into sudden focus, his eyes swimming forwards through the thick pools of his lenses. I noticed that he had shaved carelessly that morning, too preoccupied to trim his straggling moustache.

'Fatalities?' It occurred to me that a cruel accident had taken place on the notorious coastal road, and perhaps had involved Frank in the deaths of Spanish children. 'Was there a traffic accident? How many people were killed?'

'Five.' Senor Danvila's lips moved as he counted the number, a total that exceeded all the possibilities of a humane mathematics. 'It was not a traffic accident.'

'Then what? How did they die?'

'They were murdered, Mr Prentice.' The lawyer spoke matter-of-factly, detaching himself from the significance of his own words. 'Five people were deliberately killed. Your brother has been charged with their deaths.'

'I can't believe it…' I turned to stare at the photographers arguing with each other on the steps of the courthouse. Despite Senor Danvila's solemn expression, I felt a sudden rush of relief. I realized that a preposterous error had been made, an investigative and judicial bungle that involved this nervous lawyer, the heavy-footed local police and the incompetent magistrates of the Costa del Sol, their reflexes confused by years of coping with drunken British tourists. 'Senor Danvila, you say Frank murdered five people. How, for heaven's sake?'

'He set fire to their house. Two weeks ago – it was clearly an act of premeditation. The magistrates and police have no doubt.'

'Well, they should have.' I laughed to myself, confident now that this absurd error would soon be rectified. 'Where did these murders take place?'

'At Estrella de Mar. In the villa of the Hollinger family.'

'And who were the victims?'

'Mr Hollinger, his wife, and their niece. As well, a young maid and the male secretary.'

'It's madness.' I held Danvila's briefcases before he could weigh them again. 'Why would Frank want to murder them? Let me see him. He'll deny it.'

'No, Mr Prentice.' Senor Danvila stepped back from me, the verdict already clear in his mind. 'Your brother has not denied the accusations. In fact, he has pleaded guilty to five charges of murder. I repeat, Mr Prentice – guilty.'

'charles? danvila told me you'd arrived. It's good of you. I knew you'd come.'

Frank rose from his chair as I entered the interview room. He seemed slimmer and older than I remembered, and the strong fluorescent light gave his skin a pallid sheen. He peered over my shoulder, as if expecting to see someone else, and then lowered his eyes to avoid my gaze.

'Frank-you're all right?' I leaned across the table, hoping to shake his hand, but the policeman standing between us raised his arm with the stiff motion of a turnstile bar. 'Danvila's explained the whole thing to me; it's obviously some sort of crazy mistake. I'm sorry I wasn't in court.'

'You're here now. That's all that matters.' Frank rested his elbows on the table, trying to hide his fatigue. 'How was the flight?'

'Late-airlines run on their own time, two hours behind everyone else's. I rented a car in Gibraltar. Frank, you look 'I'm fine.' With an effort he composed himself, and managed a brief but troubled smile. 'So, what did you think of Gib?'

'I was only there for a few minutes. Odd little place – not as strange as this coast.'

'You should have come here years ago. You'll find a lot to write about.'

'I already have. Frank-'

'It's interesting, Charles…' Frank sat forward, talking too quickly to listen to himself, keen to sidetrack our conversation. 'You've got to spend more time here. It's Europe 's future. Everywhere will be like this soon.'

'I hope not. Listen, I've talked to Danvila. He's trying to get the court hearing annulled. I didn't grasp all the legal ins and outs, but there's a chance of a new hearing when you change your plea. You'll claim some sort of mitigating factor. You were distraught with grief, and didn't catch what the translator was saying. At the least it puts down a marker.'