I opened the window to catch the sounds in my head, the rumble and burble of exhaust. But another noise drummed across the night air, coming from a football stadium half a mile away. Lighting arrays rose into the night sky, blurred by the heat and breathy vapour of the crowd.
I left the racetrack at the next turning, and joined the traffic moving past the stadium. The match had ended, and the crowd was spilling into the nearby streets. Men and women in St George’s shirts emerged from the exits and searched for their parked cars. High above the stadium, the electronic display screens faced each other at opposite ends of the ground, as the giant image of the match commentator addressed himself across the empty stands. Fragments of his voice boomed above the traffic and the cheers of rival supporters. He was a handsome, fleshy man with a salesman’s easy manner, a type I knew well from a hundred product launches, with an easy patter, a smile and a promise in every polished phrase.
A fist struck the roof above my head. The supporters crossing the road drummed on the cars, pounding out a tribal tattoo. Three men in St George’s shirts stepped in front of the Jensen, forcing me to halt as they slapped the bonnet. Two women followed them, wearing the same red and white shirts, arms linked in the friendliest way. They were good-humoured but oddly threatening, as if celebrating soccer as society’s last hope of violence. They walked along the line of parked cars, then stepped into a large BMW. Flashing their headlights in time to the jungle tattoo, they forced their way through the passing traffic and drove off at speed.
The commentator on the screens floated above the night, voice booming at the empty stands. Clips of muscular football action were crosscut with showroom displays of bathroom suites and microwave ovens. He was still at it when I set off northwards, his smile dying in the blur of arc lights, authentic in his insincerity.
5
THE METRO-CENTRE
LIKE ALL GREAT SHOPPING MALLS,
the Metro-Centre smothered unease, defused its own threat and offered balm to the weary. I stood in the sunshine fifty yards from the South Gate entrance, watching the shoppers cross the wide apron that surrounded the mall, a vast annular plaza in its own right. In a few moments they would be bathed in a light more healing than anything on offer from the sun. As we entered these huge temples we became young again, like children visiting the home of a new schoolfriend, a house that at first seemed forbidding. Then a strange but smiling mother would appear and put the most nervous child at ease with a promise that small treats would appear throughout the visit.
All malls subtly infantilized us, but the Metro-Centre showed signs of urging us to grow up a little. Uniformed stewards stood by the entrance, checking bags and purses, a response to the tragedy in which my father had died. An elderly Asian couple approached the entrance, and were quickly surrounded by volunteers in St George’s shirts. No one spoke to the couple, but they were stared at and shouldered about until a Metro-Centre security man intervened.
Tom Carradine, the public relations manager who turned up so cheerfully at the funeral, had arranged to meet me by the information desk. He was now leading the unit that offered assistance to the injured and bereaved. A printed plan that resembled a new share-issue prospectus had arrived by special messenger, outlining the many discounts and concessionary terms available at Metro-Centre stores, all on a sliding scale that strongly suggested one’s death in a terrorist attack hit the maximum pay-off.
After returning to London I had slept uneasily in my Chelsea flat, and was woken by an early phone call from David Carradine. He was helpful and concerned, eager to tell me everything he knew about the circumstances of my father’s death. If anything, he was rather too keen, talking about angles of fire and bullet velocities as if describing a computer game that had malfunctioned. He told me that the magistrates’ hearing had been postponed to the next day, given the extent of Christie’s arrest injuries and security fears after the police station riot.
I spent the day pacing the flat, irritated by its silent rooms. By now I had decided I would be present at the court. David Carradine would take me on a tour of the Metro-Centre, and I would then see Christie committed for trial. Already I was unsure about everything—the sight of Mrs Christie in my solicitor’s reception area, Sergeant Falconer warming milk for her child, Fairfax’s aggressive behaviour, virtually accusing me of being responsible for the giant mall on his doorstep. At the least, Christie’s committal would draw a firm line under all this suburban unreality.
Turning my back on the sun, I stepped through the doors at the South Gate entrance. In front of me was a terraced city, tiers of overhead streets reached by escalators and elevator pods. A stream of aerated water marked the edge of the entrance hall, bubbling under small bridges that led to miniature landscaped gardens, each an Eden promising an experience more meaningful than self-knowledge or eternal life. Stewards patrolled the area, and desk staff recruited volunteers into the Metro-Centre security force.
As I passed the desk, a steward offered me a leaflet urging every customer to become one of the eyes and ears of the shopping mall. Two middle-aged men, a trio of off-duty secretaries and several youths in baseball caps signed their forms and were given badges to pin to their lapels. Consumer announcements broke through the background music, emphasizing that airport security ruled.
Surprisingly, no one was embarrassed by the uniformed guards and their volunteer auxiliaries. As the martial music blared, they straightened their backs and walked more briskly, like Londoners during the Blitz. In front of me was a married couple with a child in a pushchair, and without thinking I found myself in step with them.
Breaking my stride, I paused by one of the bridges, and noticed that the white paint on the rail had begun to flake. The stream splashing among the artificial rocks had lost its direction. Eddies of scum circled aimlessly, exhausted by the attempt to return to the main channel. Even the floor of the entrance hall, worn down by a hundred thousand heels, revealed a few cracks.
Despite these portents, Tom Carradine was unfailingly optimistic. Barely out of his teens, he was smiling, friendly and crushingly earnest, with the pale skin and overly clear eyes of a cult recruiter. As he sprang from the crowd and took my hand I guessed that I was the first bereaved relative to visit the Metro-Centre, and that he had already decided how to make my visit a success.
‘We’re delighted to have you with us, Mr Pearson.’ He shook my hand warmly, appreciating that I had crossed a desert to reach this air-conditioned oasis. ‘We hope you’ll visit us again. Here in the Metro-Centre we’re great believers in the future.’
‘As I am, Tom . . .’
He guided me towards a nearby travelator, and nodded approvingly when I mounted the walkway without stumbling. He waved genially to the shoppers, his hands beating time to the music. At exactly fifteen-second intervals he turned a huge smile on me, like a safety light illuminating an underground garage.
‘I like the music,’ I commented. ‘Though maybe it’s a little too martial. Somewhere in there I can hear the Horst Wessel song.’
‘It’s good for morale,’ Carradine explained. ‘We like to keep people cheerful. You know . . . ?’
‘I know. Has business fallen off at all . . . since the shooting?’
Carradine frowned, unable to grasp the concept of a trade downturn, from whatever cause. ‘At first, just a little. Out of respect, of course. But our customers are giving us wonderful support.’
‘They’ve rallied round?’
‘Absolutely. If anything, I think it’s brought us all together. I know you’ll be pleased to hear that, Mr Pearson.’
He spoke forcefully, unblinking eyes fixed on mine. I took for granted that he distrusted me, above all for having a father who had allowed himself to be killed, like the member of a congregation with the bad manners to drop dead beside the high altar in the middle of evensong. Death had no place in the Metro-Centre, which had abolished time and the seasons, past and future. He probably knew that I was hostile to the mall, another middle-class snob who hated glitter, confidence and opportunity when they were taken up too literally by the lower orders.
In an almost combative way, he launched into a tour guide’s patter, describing the huge dimensions of the Metro-Centre, the millions of square feet of retail space, the three hotels, six cineplexes and forty caf
é
s. ‘Did you know,’ he concluded, ‘that we have more retail space than the whole of Luton?’
‘I’m impressed. Still . . .’ I pointed to the shops on either side of the travelator, filled with familiar brands of jewellery, cameras and electrical goods. ‘. . . You’re selling the same things.’
‘But they feel different.’ Carradine’s eyes seemed to glow. ‘That’s why our customers come here. The Metro-Centre creates a new climate, Mr Pearson. We succeeded where the Greenwich dome failed. This isn’t just a shopping mall. It’s more like a . . .’
‘Religious experience?’
‘Exactly! It’s like going to church. And here you can go every day and you get something to take home.’
I watched his eyes tilt upwards as he listened to his words echo inside his head. He was barely an adult, but already a middle-aged fanatic in the making. I assumed he had no life outside the Metro-Centre. All his emotional needs, his sense of self, were satisfied by this huge retail space. He was naive and enthusiastic, serving a novitiate that would never end. And I had helped to create him.
The travelator reached the end of its journey, carrying us into the heart of the Metro-Centre. We were now in the central atrium, a circular concourse where shoppers strolled to the escalators that would carry them to the upper retail decks. A diffused aura filled the scented space, but now and then the beam of a concealed spotlight caught my eye. I felt that I was on the stage of a vast opera house, surrounded by a circle and upper circle packed with spectators. Everything seemed dramatized, every gesture and thought. The enclosed geometry of the Metro-Centre focused an intense self-awareness on every shopper, as if we were extras in a music drama that had become the world.
‘Tom? What is it?’
Carradine had turned from me. He was staring at one of the glass elevators that climbed the floors nearest to us. On the third level, between the elevator and the railings of the pedestrian walkway, was the open hatch of a fire-control station, the brass nozzle of a high-pressure hose pointing towards us. Uncomfortable to be with me, Carradine buttoned and unbuttoned his jacket. I assumed that it was from this sniper position that my father and his fellow victims had been shot, among the sock and cosmetic counters, the vintage wine stores and laptop clinics.
Surprisingly, now that I was here, in the centre of the killing ground, I felt completely calm. Surrounded by this cave of transient treasures, guided by this nervous public relations man, death lost its power to threaten, measured in nothing more fearful than bust sizes and kilobyte capacities. The human race sleepwalked to oblivion, thinking only about the corporate logos on its shroud.
‘Mr Pearson? I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking . . .’
‘It’s all right, Tom. No need to worry.’ Trying to calm the young manager, I placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘The hatchway on the third floor. I take it the shots came from there?’
‘That’s correct.’ Carradine steadied himself with a visible effort of will. He stiffened his neck and breathed deeply to a count of six. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this reconstruction. He spoke rapidly, as if reading from a press handout. ‘Two bursts of fire, at 2.17 p.m., before anyone realized what had happened. Witnesses say everyone stopped and listened to the echoes, thinking they were more shots.’
‘And then?’
‘Then? Total panic. All the down escalators were full, people on the upper floors were fighting to get into the lifts. It took us three days to identify all the shopping bags left behind. You can imagine the scene, Mr Pearson.’
‘Sadly, I can.’
‘Two people died instantly—Mrs Holden, a local pensioner, and a Mr Mickiewicz, a Polish visitor. Your father and fifteen others were wounded.’ Carradine clenched his fists, ignoring the shoppers who paused to listen to him, under the impression that he was leading a conducted tour. ‘It was so crowded, Mr Pearson. You have to understand the gunman couldn’t miss.’
‘That must have been his idea. The lunchtime surge.’ I gazed around the concourse, and imagined a gunman opening fire at random. ‘It’s surprising more people weren’t hit.’
‘Well . . .’ Carradine nodded ruefully as a middle-aged woman with two heavy shopping bags strained forward to whisper to him. ‘The bears were hit.’
‘The bears?’
‘The Three Bears . . . the Metro-Centre mascots. People were very affected . . .’
Carradine pointed to the centre of the concourse. On a circular plinth stood three giant teddy bears. The father bear was at least fifteen feet tall, his plump torso and limbs covered with a lustrous brown fur. Mother and baby bear stood beside him, paws raised to the shoppers, as if ready to make a consumer affairs announcement about the porridge supply.
‘Impressive,’ I said. ‘Completely bear-like. They look as if they can speak.’
‘They can’t speak, but they can move. They dance to the music. “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” was their favourite.’ Soberly, Carradine added: ‘We switched off the motors. Out of consideration . . .’
‘Sensitive of you. And the bears were hit? I’m glad they weren’t seriously injured.’
‘It was a close thing.’ Carradine pointed to the rounded abdomen of the mother bear, and to the left ear of the father bear. Darker squares of fur had been stitched over the original fabric, giving both creatures a rather rumpled look, as if they had been scuffling over the breakfast table. ‘Our customers were very upset. They sent in hundreds of letters, get-well cards . . .’
Without thinking, we had walked over to the bears. I noticed the cards decorating the plinth, many carrying messages in adult handwriting. There were flowers, a row of miniature teddy bears, one wearing a tiny St George’s shirt, and a dozen jars of honey and treacle.
Listening to myself, I said: ‘It’s almost a shrine.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Let’s move on.’ I beckoned Carradine away from the stuffed trio, though I was aware that my sympathy for the bears had brought us closer together. ‘It’s a pity about the bears, but they seem to be well cared for. Now, which of these escalators did my father take?’
‘He didn’t take an escalator, Mr Pearson.’
‘Sergeant Falconer said he was going up to the third floor. He bought his tobacco from a shop . . .’
‘Dunhill’s. But not that morning. He took the staircase to the exhibition area.’
A mezzanine deck jutted over the concourse between the ground and first floors, reached by a staircase with white rails. There was an observation platform where shoppers could rest and look down on the crowds below. A section of the mezzanine was a public gallery, hung with dioramas of new housing estates and science parks.
‘We donate the space to local businesses,’ Carradine explained. ‘It’s part of our public education programme.’