Millennium People

by J. G. Ballard

She brushed past me without a word, but I caught an odd scent from her body, a tang of tension and fear. She closed the door behind her with a strong wrist, and I could see the doorknob trembling under the nervous force of her hand.

  I drew a second curtain, and turned to the woman watching me from the bed, like a prostitute hired for a corporate client.

  ‘Sally? What are you doing here? Dear…?’

  ‘Hello, David. We didn’t think you’d come.’

  Sally sat beside the pillow, hands folded across her lap, eyes lowered against the light. She had brushed her hair, but there was a hint of sleep about her when I held her shoulders and kissed her cheek. She leaned passively against me, as if she had been roused from her bed and was not fully awake. I felt a rush of concern for her, the same affection that touched me whenever I entered the ward at St Mary’s. Despite everything, I was glad to see her again, and sure we would soon be together.

  ‘Sally, are you…?’

  ‘I’m all right. It’s you we need to worry about.’ She noticed my injured hand and held it up to the light, reading this new blood-line into my future. ‘You’re hurt, poor chap. I’m sorry, David. Your revolution failed.’

  ‘Chelsea Marina was only the start.’ I sat beside her on the bed, but she held herself stiffly, unsure of a man’s body too close to her own. ‘Sally, I tried to find you. On the answerphone you said you were –’

  ‘Touring with friends? I do that a lot, don’t I?’ She grimaced at herself. ‘Richard invited me to his cottage near the gliding school.’

  ‘Richard Gould? And you went?’

  ‘Why not? He’s a friend of yours.’

  ‘Just about. Was everything…?’

  ‘He’s sweet, and very, very strange.’ She stared at her hands, marked with my blood. ‘We went to the gliding school every afternoon. Yesterday he flew solo.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘So was Richard. Last night he explained his ideas about God. They’re rather frightening.’

  ‘They would be.’

  ‘Death, violence – is that how you see God?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He may be right. Was Vera Blackburn with you?’

  ‘She came at weekends. Do you know her? I like Richard, but she’s weird.’

  ‘She made our smoke bombs. That’s her world. Tell me, why did the police let you into Chelsea Marina?’

  ‘I drove my car. Richard wore his white coat and said he was my doctor. A beautiful, crippled woman – they can’t resist.’

  ‘Sally…’ I gripped her hands. ‘You’re beautiful but you’re not crippled. I’ll get you out of here and take you home.’

  ‘Home? Yes, I think we still have one. I was careless, David. I was careless with everyone, but especially with you. That accident in Lisbon – it seemed to tear up all the rules and I felt I could do anything. Then I met Richard and saw what happens when you really tear up the rules. You have to invent zero. That’s what Richard does. He invents zero, so he won’t be afraid of the world. He’s very afraid.’ She managed a bleak smile, and noticed my suit. ‘You’re all dressed up, David. Like the old days. You must be with the official party.’

  ‘The Home Secretary’s? You know about the visit?’

  ‘It’s why we’re here. Vera Blackburn knows everything. All those Home Office experts – they ought to meet Richard, he’d shut them up for good.’ A drop of blood fell from my hand onto her knee. She licked it, then thought over the flavour. ‘Salty, David – you’re turning into a fish.’

  In the bathroom I rinsed my palm, watching my blood wash away into the handbasin. Beside me was a glass cabinet filled with ophthalmic supplies, part of the huge stock of pharmaceuticals that might have turned Chelsea Marina into the central drug exchange of west London. The middle-class residents could have defended a narcotic Stalingrad, pooling their expertise and resources, street by street. Instead, they had thrown in the towel and left for their dachas in the Cotswolds and Cairngorms.

  But at least I now had Sally. I was impressed by how quickly she had freed herself from Richard’s spell, but perhaps she had taken what she needed from him and decided to leave. Gould had persuaded her that the Lisbon accident was senseless and inexplicable – her injuries and suffering were meaningful for just that reason. Free at last from her self-obsessions, she had thought first of her husband, and I was touched that she had come to Chelsea Marina in an attempt to rescue me.

  ‘Right, let’s go. We’ll say goodbye to Richard. Sally?’

  I waited for Sally to stand up, but she leaned against the pillow and stroked the bedspread, studying the moiré patterns.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She pointed to the door. A strong hand was turning the knob, testing the mortice bolt. ‘We’re locked in. We need to be careful, David.’

  I glanced at my watch, surprised by how much time had passed. At the entrance to Chelsea Marina the police were moving the barricades. ‘Sally, the Minister will be here soon. There’ll be an army of police. Richard and Vera Blackburn won’t stay.’

  ‘They will stay. Dear, you don’t realize what’s happening.’ She looked at me in the kindly way of a wife waiting for a naive husband to get the point. ‘Richard is dangerous.’

  ‘Not any more. That phase is over. All those fantasies…’

  ‘It isn’t over. And they aren’t fantasies. Richard’s just starting. You know he left the bomb at Heathrow?’

  ‘He told you that? It must have frightened you.’ I tried to take her hand, but she moved it away from me across the bedspread. ‘It’s a nonsense. Like this television presenter in Hammersmith. He claims he murdered her. For God’s sake, I was parked in the next street. I saw him five minutes later. He would have been covered in blood.’

  ‘No.’ Sally was watching the door. ‘He did shoot her.’

  ‘It never happened. He needs to think about violence, the more pointless the better. I’ve tried to help him.’

  ‘You have. He’s going to kill more people. Yesterday we went to a rifle range near Hungerford. I sat in the car with Vera. She told me he’s a very good shot.’

  ‘That must make her proud. Hard to believe, though.’ I left Sally and walked to the door, then pressed my head against the wooden panel. The living room seemed empty, the silence broken by the chiming of the mantelpiece clock. ‘Sally…you mentioned Hungerford?’

  ‘It’s off the M4. Richard rented the cottage there. A pretty little place. It’s where he wants to end his days.’

  I stared at the door as police sirens sounded in the King’s Road, a wake-up call to more than the sleeping. I remembered that someone else had ended his days at Hungerford.

  ‘David? What is it?’

  Feet moved across the roof, almost directly above my head, the sounds of a sunbather settling himself on a mat. Or a marksman adjusting his sights. Hungerford? A young misfit named Michael Ryan had shot his mother dead, then strolled through the town shooting at passers-by. He had killed sixteen people, picking them off at random, set fire to the family home and shot himself. The murders were motiveless, and sent a tremor of deep unease across the country, redefining the word ‘neighbour’. No one, not even a family member, could be trusted. A new kind of violence had been born, springing from nothing. After the last shots at Hungerford, the void from which Michael Ryan emerged had closed around him, enfolding him for ever.

  ‘Sally…’ Two police motorcyclists were driving down Beaufort Avenue. They stopped by the roundabout, their radios crackling. Uniformed constables walked along the pavement, scanning the empty houses. ‘That blue canvas bag – what was in it?’

  ‘Richard kept his gliding kit there.’ Sally stood up and walked around the bed, eyes on my footprints in the carpet. ‘Do you think –?’

  ‘What about a weapon? A shotgun or…?’

  Sally said nothing, listening to the sounds from the roof above our heads. I lifted the shade from the standard lamp behind the door. Gripping the chromium shaft, I snapped the plug from its wall socket.


  ‘No…’ Sally held my arm before I could drive the shaft into the door. ‘David, there’s going to be a shooting.’

  ‘You’re right. A meaningless target, like a liberal Home Secretary…’

  ‘Or you!’ Sally tried to wrest the lamp-shaft from my hands. ‘Richard knew you were coming.’

  ‘He won’t kill me. I like him. What would be the point?’

  The question died on my lips. A line of official vehicles was entering Chelsea Marina, black saloons from the government car pool. The motorcade moved down Beaufort Avenue at walking pace, the passengers gazing at the silent windows and torn banners. Within a minute the procession would reach Cadogan Circle, then turn left below the windows from which I was watching.

  ‘Sally…’ I tried to push her away from the door. ‘If they find us here –’

  ‘They’ll think we’re prisoners. We’ll be safe, David.’

  ‘No.’ I wrenched at the door handle. ‘I owe it to Richard.’

  Sally released the lamp-shaft and stepped back, watching me with weary patience as I stabbed at the door panels. She reached into the breast pocket of her shirt. On her open palm lay a door key.

  ‘Sally?’ I took the key from her. ‘Who locked the door?’

  ‘I did.’ She stared into my face, unembarrassed by her ruse. ‘I’m trying to protect you. That’s why I went to Hungerford with Richard. I’m your wife, David.’

  ‘I remember.’ I pushed the key into the lock. ‘I have to warn Richard. If the protection unit see him with a rifle they’ll shoot him dead. This may be another fantasy, some Hungerford obsession inside his head…’

  Giving up on me, Sally rubbed her skinned knuckles and turned to the window. ‘David, look…’

  The motorcade had stopped in Beaufort Avenue. The Home Secretary and two senior officials emerged from his limousine. Joined by experts from the other cars, they stood on the pavement and peered at the first of the gutted houses, as if the charred gables would reveal the inner truth of the rebellion. Solemn words were exchanged, and heads nodded sagely. A television crew filmed the occasion, and an interviewer waited, microphone in hand, to question the Minister.

  ‘David? What’s happening?’ Sally took my arm, her lips fretting. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Grappling with the inconceivable. They should have come three months ago.’

  ‘Those cars driving in – they look strange…’

  Headlamps flashed behind the stationary motorcade. The police motorcyclists patrolling Beaufort Avenue stopped in the centre of the road, and blocked the approach of a dusty Volvo labouring under the luggage tied to its roof rack. The woman driver pressed on, forced to stop alongside the Minister’s limo. Behind the Volvo three more cars, equally battered, pushed through the entrance gate, and I noticed a sandy-haired man in a check sports jacket ordering away the police who tried to halt them. Major Tulloch, as always, had seized his opportunity.

  ‘David, who are they? The people in the old cars?’

  ‘I think we know…’

  ‘Squatters? They look like hippies.’

  ‘They aren’t squatters. Or hippies.’

  The Home Secretary had also noticed the newcomers. Officials and experts turned their backs on the burnt-out house. An alert police inspector relayed a message from the Volvo’s woman driver, and the Home Secretary visibly lightened, for a moment standing on tiptoe. After a glance at the TV camera, he beckoned the motorcyclists aside. Raising his arms, as if on traffic duty, he waved the Volvo forward.

  ‘David? Who are these people? Homeless families?’

  ‘In a way. They’re residents.’

  ‘Of where?’

  ‘This estate. They live here. The people of Chelsea Marina are coming home.’

  I watched the Volvo set off down Beaufort Avenue. The convoy of returning cars followed, dust-caked and loaded with dogs and children, broken wing-mirrors taped to windscreen pillars, bodywork dented by miles of highland driving. I guessed that a group touring Scotland or the West Country had held a campfire conclave and decided to return home, perhaps suspecting that the Home Secretary’s visit was a signal that the demolition bulldozers would arrive soon afterwards.

  Smiling cheerfully, the Home Secretary stepped into the rear seat of his limousine. He waved to the returnees, who hooted their horns in reply, while a Great Dane barked from an open tailgate.

  As the echoes reverberated around Cadogan Circle I almost missed the sound of a rifle shot from the roof above my head. The Home Secretary’s car stopped sharply, its windscreen starred by a snowflake of frosted glass. There was a moment’s silence, and then police and experts scattered behind the cars, crouching against the walls of the empty houses.

  A helicopter appeared in the sky over the Thames, spotlight playing across the roofs of Chelsea Marina. I waited for a second shot, but the returning families had confused the sniper, almost certainly saving the Home Secretary. Shielding him with their bodies, his bodyguards pulled him from the limousine and bundled him across the pavement towards the front door of a nearby house.

  ‘Sally…’ I held her against me, feeling her heart beating against my breastbone, for once in time with my own. Feet ran across the roof, and a loudspeaker blared from the helicopter, a warning drowned by sirens and motorcycle engines.

  ‘David, wait!’ Sally gripped my arm, the wife of a foolish husband coming slowly to his senses. ‘Let the police catch him.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll be careful. I need to be…’

  She watched me as I unlocked the bedroom door. The living room was empty. My laptop lay on the sofa, but the blue canvas bag had vanished with Richard Gould. Raising my hands in an attempt to reassure Sally, I left the flat and crossed the hall. I ran down the staircase, past the deserted landings and open doors, and reached the entrance lobby as the helicopter hovered above the Circle.

  Through the whirlwind of noise I heard two brief bursts of gunfire from the basement garage.

  34

  A Task Completed

  SHADOWS RACED ACROSS the basement walls, kinetic murals in a deranged art gallery. I pushed back the fire door and stepped onto the cement floor. The helicopter was landing in the service area behind the apartment building, and I could see its tail rotor through the open doors of the access ramp. Only one car was parked in the garage, Sally’s adapted Saab, hidden behind a row of wheeled bins near the rubbish chute.

  I walked across the floor as the shadows of the helicopter blades fled past, swerved away and then returned to overtake me. Almost deafened by the vibrating concrete, I approached the Saab, which was lit by the helicopter’s spotlight shining through the transom windows.

  In the white glare I saw that a man was crouched over the Saab’s steering wheel, his left arm and shoulder supported by the brake and gear levers. His right arm hung through the window, as if signalling a sudden turn. Behind him a woman lay across the rear seat, bony forehead on the arm rest.

  Gould and Vera Blackburn had died together in the car. Vera was sprawled face-down over the tartan rug, her tight skirt exposing her thin, schoolgirl legs. She had been shot in the back, and her blood had pooled inside a fold of her patent leather jacket, dripping onto the floor carpet. In her last moments she had clawed at the rug with both hands, tearing the nails from her fingers.

  Richard Gould sat in the front seat, a single bullet wound in his white shirt. The damp puncture mark, almost colourless in the glare of the landing helicopter, seemed like a rosette pinned to the chest of a brave but impoverished civilian wearing his only suit. I touched his outstretched arm and felt his skin, warmer now than it had been in life. I noticed his frayed collar and the crude stitching of his repair work unravelling against his neck.

  Clasping his hand for the last time, I steered it into the car. The blood had drained from his face, and he seemed years younger than the troubled physician I had known. But his chipped teeth were like an exposed confidence trick, cheap dentistry bared in the frankest of gri
maces. To the end, Richard Gould had concealed his thoughts but displayed his wounds.

  He sat among the Saab’s invalid controls, small hips twisted as he tried to avoid the bullet fired at him. His left hand fumbled at the brake lever, and his knees were trapped by the metal couplings below the steering wheel. As he died, his body had contorted itself, trying to assume a desperate geometry that would mirror his mind, returning him to the handicapped children and Down’s teenagers who were his true companions.

  Trying to meet his eyes, I stared into his chalk-white face, now as toneless and untouched by the world as an autistic child’s. His eyes were fixed on the trembling needle of the revolution counter, and I realized that the Saab’s engine was on, its exhaust drowned by the helicopter. I drew Gould’s hand from the ignition and turned the key, as if switching off the respirator in an intensive-care unit.

  The heavy clatter of the helicopter’s fans filled the garage. Deafened by the din, I looked up to find a tall man in motorcyclist’s leathers standing between the Saab and the refuse bins. His face was hidden by the visor of his helmet, a window crossed by the rotating shadows, which moved more slowly now that the helicopter had landed. He wore a clergyman’s dog collar, and without thinking I assumed that he had arrived on his Harley in order to pronounce the last rites on the dead couple.

  In his hand he carried a heavy crucifix carved from a black and polished stone, and offered it to me as some kind of explanation for the deaths. Then the helicopter’s spotlight left the garage to search the first-floor windows, and I saw that the crucifix was an automatic pistol.

  ‘Dexter!’ I stepped away from Gould and walked around the car. ‘You found the gun? I think they shot themselves. Or…’

  Dexter’s face emerged from the confused light, as blanched as pain, so expressionless that I was sure he had spent the past months draining all emotion from himself, his mind set on the one task that lay in front of him. He stared at me calmly, scarcely aware of Gould and Vera Blackburn, and his gaze turned to the helicopter we could see through the transom windows. Pointing the pistol at me, he watched the light in the same way that Gould had followed the sun through the high branches at Bishop’s Park.