J.G. Ballard - Cocaine Nights

She waited while I emptied the wardrobe and then took over from me. She packed my shirts into the suitcases and folded my dressing-gown, smoothing the lapels as if brushing away all traces of her own skin.

'I'm sorry you're going.' She noticed her reflection in the mirror and stared expressionlessly at herself. 'In a way you've kept the place warm for Frank. Everyone seems to be leaving Estrella de Mar. Andersson is working at the Residencia boatyard. Hennessy and Betty Shand have opened an office at the shopping mall, the Keswick sisters are running a new restaurant 'You'll have to come too, Paula.'

'My patients at the Residencia don't need me as much as they did. No more insomnia, no migraines or depression. It's Estrella de Mar all over again. Even Bobby Crawford has gone. He's sub-let his apartment for the rest of the summer. Hennessy claims that Cabrera is looking for him.'

There was an odd note of hope in her voice, emphasized by her offhand manner. Had she leaked some tidbit concerning Crawford's activities to the Inspector, information about the burning of the speedboat and the dealers outside the Club Nautico disco?

'He's staying undercover at the Residencia. There's some small problem over… parking, I think. Bobby's always in such a rush, he forgets this isn't Spain in the 1960s. When I move into the house I'll be able to keep an eye on him.'

'Really? You're completely under his spell.' The combative sarcasm had returned. 'Charles, you're the last person to have any control over him.'

'Not true. Besides, I don't want to control him-he's done an amazing job. He's brought the Residencia Costasol back to life.'

'He's dangerous.'

'Only at first sight. Some of the things he does are a little wild, but they're necessary to wake people up.'

'Like shouting "fire" in a crowded theatre?' Paula stood next to the mirror, coolly appraising herself. 'He doesn't just shout "fire", he burns down the stage and the dress circle.'

'He's popular, Paula. Everyone likes him. People know he isn't out for himself- he's not making any money. He's simply a tennis pro. At first I thought he was some kind of gangster, with his fingers in a hundred criminal pies.'

'Isn't he?'

'No.' I turned towards her, trying to distract her from her mirror-image. 'The drugs, prostitution, gambling – they're means to an end.'

'Which is?'

'A living community. Everything you take for granted at Estrella de Mar. The Residencia is stirring – there'll soon be an elected council and a mayor. You can feel a real civic pride being born for the first time. Bobby Crawford created all that himself.'

'He's still dangerous.'

'Rubbish. Think of him as a glorified entertainments officer, on board a cruise liner filled with mental retardees. He steals from a cabin here, sets fire to curtains there, lets off a stink bomb in the dining room, and suddenly the patients wake up. They start taking an interest in the voyage and the next port of call.'

'Dear Charles…' Paula took my hand and drew me towards the mirror, speaking to my reflection as if more comfortable in this reversed world. 'You're obsessed with him. All that boyish charm, the fresh-faced young army officer rousing the shiftless natives.'

'What's wrong with that? It sounds a pretty fair description.'

'You've only seen the early stages, those stink bombs and apple-pie beds. How does he keep everything going once he's left the Residencia? He'll move down the coast, you know, to Calahonda and the other pueblos.'

'Will he?' I felt a curious pang at the thought of Crawford leaving. 'There's a lot to do still, he'll be here for a while. Everyone needs him – boyish charm and enthusiasm are pretty thin on the ground these days. I've watched him at work, Paula. He genuinely wants to help everyone. He's stumbled on this strange way of getting people to make the most of themselves. It's touching to see such simple faith. He's really some kind of saint.'

'He's a psychotic'

'Not fair. He gets carried away sometimes, but there's no viciousness in the man.'

'Pure psycho.' She turned her back on the mirror and stared critically at me. 'You can't see it.'

'No. All right, perhaps there's a faint strain of something odd. He had a lousy childhood-I sympathize with him there. He's the saint as psychopath, or the psychopath as saint. Whichever way, he's doing good.'

'And when this saintly figure moves on? What then? You'll find another beach redeemer?'

'We won't need to. Crawford's unique. If and when he goes everything will keep on running.'

'Will it? How?'

'The formula works. He stumbled on the first and last truth about the leisure society, and perhaps all societies. Crime and creativity go together, and always have done. The greater the sense of crime, the greater the civic awareness and richer the civilization. Nothing else binds a community together. It's a strange paradox.'

'But, Charles…' Paula stopped me as I lifted the suitcases from the bed. 'When he leaves, what will happen? What holds everything together?'

I knew that Paula was trying to lead me on, guiding me through an equation that I had refused to solve. 'Self-interest, I hope. Estrella de Mar seems to be doing all right.'

'Actually, I've a few more patients with insomnia. By the way, has he started a film club?'

'That's an odd question.' I hesitated, aware that we were both looking down at the bed. 'As a matter of fact, he has. He's put me in charge. How did you guess?'

'It wasn't a guess. This is the moment for Bobby Crawford to start a film club.'

A film club? I repeated Paula's almost too-clever question as I drove back to the Residencia. But Crawford's argument still convinced me. There came a point when the waking sleeper stepped from his bed and stared at himself in the mirror, and a film club provided that role. Nonetheless, the example of Paula's pornographic movie was a warning. When I recruited my members I would make sure that they were genuine enthusiasts of the lens, eager to add to the growing self-awareness of a community. Crawford's porno-films were too divisive. What had begun as a mischievous bedroom romp had turned into a sordid exploitation of a few distressed women, Paula among them. I missed her now, but she was still picking the scab of her hostility to Crawford. His energy and optimism, his open-eyed seizing of the day, irritated her in some way.

As I drove through the gates of the Residencia I was already thinking of the first film I would supervise, perhaps even script and direct. Ideas had begun to stir, prompted by the white geometry of the Costasol complex. I visualized a Last Year at Marienbad for the 1990s, a study of the waking of a community by a mysterious intruder, with a hint of Pasolini's Theorem…

Eager to settle into the villa, to test the water in the pool and return the serves of the tennis machine, I accelerated round the last bend and almost struck a slim, silver-haired man standing outside my gates. Braking hard, I slewed the car across the road and came to a jolting halt a few inches from the massive trunk of the eucalyptus tree that presided over the drive.

'Dr Sanger… I nearly hit you.' I switched off the engine and tried to steady my hands. 'Doctor, you look exhausted… are you all right?'

'I think so. Mr Prentice? I'm sorry.' He leaned against the offside wing, and then stepped away from the car, one hand reaching out to the sunlight. He was clearly distracted by more than one anxiety, and I assumed that he had lost his glasses or a set of keys. He glanced up and down the road and then peered into the rear seat of the Citroen, his lips moving as he silently mouthed a name.

'Can I help you?' Anxious for him, I stepped from the car. 'Dr Sanger…?'

'I'm looking for one of my patients. She may have lost herself. Did you see anyone as you drove here?'