Cocaine Nights. J. G. Ballard

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       2 The Fire at the Hollinger House

      ‘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.’

      ‘Danvila, yes …’ Frank played with his cigarette packet. ‘Sweet man, I think I’ve rather shocked him. And you, too, I dare say.’

      The friendly but knowing smile had reappeared, and he leaned back with his hands behind his head, confident now that he could cope with my visit. Already we were assuming our familiar roles first set out in childhood. He was the imaginative and wayward spirit, and I was the stolid older brother who had yet to get the joke. In Frank’s eyes I had always been the source of a certain fond amusement.

      He was dressed in a grey suit and white shirt open at the neck. Seeing that I had noticed his bare throat, he covered his chin with a hand.

      ‘They took my tie away from me – I’m only allowed to wear it in court. A bit noose-like, when you think about it – could put ideas into the judge’s mind. They fear I might try to kill myself.’

      ‘But, Frank, isn’t that what you’re doing? Why on earth did you plead guilty?’

      ‘Charles …’ He gestured a little wearily. ‘I had to, there wasn’t anything else I could say.’

      ‘That’s absurd. You had nothing to do with those deaths.’

      ‘But I did. Charles, I did.’

      ‘You started the fire? Tell me, no one can hear this – you actually set the Hollinger house ablaze?’

      ‘Yes … in effect.’ He took a cigarette from the packet and waited as the policeman stepped forward to light it. The flame flared under the worn hood of the brass lighter, and Frank stared at the burning vapour before drawing on the cigarette. In the brief glow his face seemed calm and resigned.

      ‘Frank, look at me.’ I waved the smoke aside, a swirling wraith released from his lungs. ‘I want to hear you say it – you, yourself, personally set fire to the Hollinger house?’

      ‘I’ve said so.’

      ‘Using a bomb filled with ether and petrol?’

      ‘Yes. Don’t ever try it. The mixture’s surprisingly flammable.’