Millennium People. Iain Sinclair

the Astronomer Royal had once scanned the imperial heaven. Perhaps the airliner was bringing back to London the last delegates to the Celebration conference, skins toned by the Florida air, minds numbed by the babble of podium-speak.

      In my secretary’s office that morning I had scanned the e-mail summaries of the papers. The confident claims for the new corporate psychology seemed to float above the world like a regatta of hot-air balloons, detached from the reality of modern death that the mourners at the west London crematorium had gathered to respect. The psychologists at the Adler were trying to defuse the conflicts of the workplace, but the threats from beyond the curtain-walling were ever more real and urgent. No one was safe from the motiveless psychopath who roamed the car parks and baggage carousels of our everyday lives. A vicious boredom ruled the world, for the first time in human history, interrupted by meaningless acts of violence.

      The airliner soared over Twickenham, undercarriage lowered, confident that firm ground waited for it at Heathrow. Still unsettled by Laura’s death, I imagined a bomb exploding in the cargo-hold, scattering the scorched lectures on the psychology of the new century across the rooftops of west London. The fragments would rain down on blameless video shops and Chinese takeaways, to be read by bemused housewives, the fading blossom of the disinformation age.

      My colleagues at the Adler, uncomfortable in their dark suits, stood in small groups as the organ voluntary sounded from the chapel’s loudspeakers. Henry Kendall was talking to the funeral director, a suave figure in morning dress with the air of a senior concierge who could always supply tickets to the most sought-after shows, in this world or the next.

      Henry, I was glad to see, had recovered from his moments of despair outside Ashford Hospital. He had shaved off his beard, clearing away the past now that he faced a future without Laura. He had grown the beard soon after the start of their affair, and I always suspected that this was an ill omen. He had aged rapidly during his time with Laura, and already he looked younger, with the keen edge to his eye that he had first brought to the Adler.

      I nodded to Professor Arnold, the Institute’s director, an affable but shrewd man with the mind of a small-claims lawyer, well aware that he was surrounded by rivals eager to take his job. Laura’s death had unsettled them all, reminding them how much she had once despised them. She would have been amazed by the presence of her former colleagues – ‘grey men with hang-ups they cling to like comfort blankets,’ she once remarked – and would have laughed the lid off her coffin if she had heard the straight-faced tributes to her. For years she had nagged me to leave the Adler and set up in practice on my own, claiming that my loyalty to the Institute concealed a refusal to grow up. During our last years together, I needed the security that the Adler offered, and when she resigned to set up a consultancy of her own I knew that our marriage was over.

      But then security was not something that Laura ever pretended to offer. I remembered her sharp humour and the depressions that showed a warmer and more interesting side, and the sudden enthusiasms that made everything seem possible. Sadly, I was far too stable and cautious for her. Once she deliberately provoked me into slamming a door in her face. A torrent of blood sprang from her strong nose, about which she had always been sensitive. Strangely, it was the blood on the face of the injured woman by the baggage carousel that had first made me think of Laura.

      Leaving the mourners, I strolled along the display of flowers, each a burst of colour that reminded me of another explosion. The bomb in Terminal 2 had detonated as the baggage on a BA flight from Zurich was reaching the carousel. There had been no warning, and no organization claimed responsibility for all the deaths and injuries. Nothing explained why these passengers had been targeted, a group of bank couriers, holidaymakers and Swiss wives visiting their London-based husbands. Laura had been speaking to an urban-studies seminar run by Nestlé. She died in the intensive-care unit at Ashford Hospital, half an hour before our arrival, her heart torn by a shard of the timing mechanism that had set off the bomb.

      I strolled back to the chapel, leaving the flowers to shine their last at the afternoon sun. The mourners were returning to their cars, ready for the consoling Montrachet that Professor Arnold would offer in lieu of a wake. Henry Kendall stood on the chapel steps, talking to a thickset man with pale ginger hair who wore a sheepskin coat over his suit. I had seen him in the back row when I entered the chapel, scanning the mourners as if familiarizing himself with the men in Laura’s life. He left when I approached, and walked briskly to his car.

      ‘David…’ Henry held my arm. He seemed affable and confident, relieved that more than the funeral was over. ‘I’m glad you came.’

      ‘It went well.’ I gestured at the departing mourners. ‘Short, but…’

      ‘Laura would have hated it. All those bogus last words. I’m amazed everyone turned up.’

      ‘They couldn’t keep away. She’d frightened the wits out of all of them. You look…’

      ‘Fine, fine…’ Henry turned from me, a hand feeling his cheek. He was searching for his beard, aware that his handsome face and all its insecurities were open to the air. Not for the first time, I suspected that it was nothing more than his looks, and a certain passivity, that Laura found attractive. In his eyes we had always been rivals, and he was puzzled whenever I failed to follow up a chance of weakening his position. His affair with Laura was in part an attempt to flush me out. I liked him, but I could afford to, knowing that he would never become director of the Adler.

      I pointed to the man in the sheepskin coat, now sitting alone in the car park, large hands resting on the steering wheel. ‘Who is he? Some old flame of Laura’s?’

      ‘I hope not. Major Tulloch, ex-Gibraltar Police. A bit of a bruiser. He’s attached to the Home Office, in some kind of antiterrorist unit.’

      ‘He’s looking into the Heathrow bomb? Any news?’

      ‘Hard to make out. Intelligence people always know less than you think. He wanted to talk to you before the service, but you looked a little preoccupied.’

      ‘Weren’t you?’

      ‘Yes and no.’ Henry smiled shiftily, still testing me out. ‘According to Tulloch they’ve found a suspicious poster near the baggage reclaim in Terminal 2.’

      ‘Connected with the bomb?’

      ‘It’s possible. Someone crammed a bag into an air shaft behind a lavatory cubicle. Only fifty feet from the bomb.’

      ‘It might have been there for months. Or years.’

      Henry gazed at me patiently, nodding to himself as if confirming something that Laura had once said about me. ‘Yes, but one can be too sceptical. Some things we have to take at face value. There was a tape protesting against holiday flights to the Third World. You know, sexual tourism, concreting over native habitats. The marina culture.’

      ‘In Switzerland?’

      ‘Who knows?’ Aware that he had unsettled me, Henry lowered his voice. ‘Do you want to talk to Tulloch? The Home Office values our expertise.’

      ‘On violent death? I don’t think I have any.’

      ‘They’re worried about new terrorist groups. Thrill-seekers with a taste for random violence. There’s been a spate of bombings recently, mostly hushed up. In fact, Tulloch asked if I’d like to work for them. Unofficially, that is. Join demos, stand back and observe, map the emerging psychology.’

      ‘Go undercover?’

      ‘Semi-undercover.’

      ‘Will you?’ I waited for him to reply. ‘Henry?’

      ‘Hard to say. In a way I owe it to Laura.’

      ‘You owe her nothing. There are hundreds of these groups. “Defend the Killer Whale.” “Save the Smallpox Virus.”’

      ‘Exactly, where would you start? Tulloch admits there’s an element of danger.’

      ‘Really? Keep clear, Henry.’

      ‘Sound advice. Perhaps too sound.’ As we