The children in Running Wild – children of the 1980s, but compared in various parts of the novel with, among others, the Baader-Meinhof Group, the Viet Cong and the children of the House of Atreus – are trying to walk away from the plane crash that was the extraordinary wealth and comfort that some people acquired in Thatcher’s England, so soon after the previous plane crash of two devastating world wars. The parents of these children are types we have become all too familiar with – merchant bankers, stockbrokers, private doctors, entertainers, psychiatrists, media executives, company directors; all referred to in this book as ‘the miscreant super-rich’ (‘miscreant’ meaning also a heretic, an infidel, and so asking us to ask what the rich should be true to, or believe in?). They live in gated communities, which are themselves a sign of threat, however undefined (a contradiction that Ballard would write about with such percipience in Super-Cannes). Surveillance – what the narrator calls, in a memorable phrase, ‘surveillance of the heart’ – security and order are everywhere, continual, casual reminders of disarray and danger in the offing (the ‘community’ in Running Wild is described as ‘a warm, friendly, junior Alcatraz’). It is not merely, as Ballard both hints and insists, with his strange mixture of vision and bafflement, that the ways we protect ourselves sustain our dread; that our efforts to forget about our vulnerability make it more daunting. It is that we provoke the nightmares we fear, as if to get them over with. Or as if there is something implacably self-destructive about the way we live now.
The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography describes Ballard’s work, apparently straight-faced, as concerning ‘Eros, Thanatos, mass media and emergent technologies’. So much the better. The Life Instinct, the Death Instinct, and Technology. What seems finally to prompt the children to ‘massacre’ their parents is the significant fact that a BBC2 documentary is about to be made about their perfect community. The children use the technology they have to coordinate their attack. Propaganda and terrorism: the terrorists using the weapons of their oppressors. All this is a familiar story by now, but not quite so familiar by then. ‘Madness as a way of finding freedom’, the narrator suggests. Freedom, then, is still a value. But the children seem to use their new-found freedom, as it turns out – and Ballard leaves this just about uncertain – for further terrorist acts. They make an assassination attempt on Margaret Thatcher, who is never named but referred to as a ‘former prime minister’, now sometimes known as ‘the mother of her nation’ or ‘Mother England’. Another parent who knows best, another person who knows how we should live.
The parents in the appropriately chosen Pangbourne Village – all the names in Running Wild are there to be noted, not least Reading and the Reading police, about whom we read so much in this book – look after their children with assiduous love and care, and the children murder them all. This is at once some kind of joke, because Ballard is, like Swift, a kind of comic writer – the narrator clearly relishes the irony, so to speak, of it all – and some kind of prophetic warning (we don’t always know when Ballard is being arch because he so determinedly avoids being portentous: Ballard’s seriousness always has a strange lightness). It is always important in Ballard’s novels that we never quite know where the narrator stands; we know more about his suspicions than about what, if anything, he could be said to believe in. And this is what makes Ballard’s writing, and particularly perhaps Running Wild, so timely. Because Ballard is writing in the ruins left by those people who knew, and know, all too exactly what they believed and where they stood, the fascists, the communists, the born-again capitalists, whom he pointedly refers to, in shorthand, as ‘the way in which the twentieth century conducts its business’; the business that ran – and is still running – wild.
It is, of course, not news that the solutions to the problems of the twentieth century – ‘the way in which the twentieth century conducts its business’ – have indeed run wild. What is news, in Running Wild, is the way in which solutions can be so much worse than the problems they are attempting to solve. And how the official explanations, and the solutions to which they lead, all too easily sound like more of the problem. And in this sense Running Wild is a spoof detective novel; the hero who solves the crime, in the tradition of Poe’s Dupin and Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, is an unofficial detective, a ‘dangerous maverick’. He solves the crime with the kind of understanding we are led to believe a policeman or an everyday detective could never have. Indeed who did what to whom in this novel seems clear, though quite why it was done is not. The crime seems to be virtually solved very early on, and the book ends with the kind of comprehensive explanation we are familiar with from Poe and Conan Doyle (Running Wild is calculatedly not a whodunit, but asks instead the less simply blaming question, for what good reasons would anyone do such a thing? It is a mystery to be thought about, not merely a problem to be solved). The only difference is that in this case the complete explanation is given in the context of a novel that is above all suspicious of the Great Explainers (the Nazis, Margaret Mead, Margaret Thatcher, Piaget, psychiatry and antipsychiatry, Stalin’s Russia, not to mention Animal Farm and Citizen Kane, among others, are all referred to or alluded to, in this deliberately and excessively allusive book, for a good reason, and for good reasons). The parents of the murderous children were also great explainers and understanders of and to their children.
So if Running Wild is also, as it were, a (faux-)child-rearing manual, its counsel is peculiarly unsettling. If you are not willing to leave your children alone and guard their privacy, and to offer them your very conditional love, they will take their revenge. When rebellion is discouraged, (violent) revolution is encouraged. When all needs are supposedly met, more monstrous needs will emerge. The children ‘murdered the parents and other adults who stood in their way’ because they were never willing to properly stand in the way. These children, the psychiatrist-narrator is clear, wanted something realer than love, care and understanding. ‘What they were rebelling against was a despotism of kindness. They killed to free themselves from a tyranny of love and care.’ There are things that might matter more than the things we think matter most. Utopias are the folly of the omniscient, tyrannical promises that create the very thing they fear. Tyrannies might be the real problem, and they can take many forms – kindness and cruelty, understanding and determined ignorance, explanation and prejudice. Vice is virtue running wild.
So Running Wild, like all Ballard’s fiction, is never trite, but it satirises the tyranny of the trite (it isn’t saying, ‘learn to say no to your children’, or, ‘we need strong fathers’; it says, ‘be careful of how you wish’). Running Wild is obsessed by explanations because it is obsessed by our wish to believe, and how wild it makes us. And it is obsessed by how we go about believing our wishes. ‘A lot of my fiction is cautionary,’ Ballard has said, ‘it deals with possible end points or trends.’ Running Wild is one of Ballard’s very best cautionary tales, a virtual documentary of the trends and end points we are now having to live with.
London, 2014
From the Forensic Diaries of Dr Richard Greville, Deputy Psychiatric Adviser, Metropolitan Police
25 August 1988. Where to start? So much has been written about the Pangbourne Massacre, as it is now known in the popular press throughout the world, that I find it difficult to see this tragic event with a clear eye. In the past two months there have been so many television programmes about the thirty-two murdered residents of this exclusive estate to the west of London, and so much speculation about the abduction of their thirteen children, that there scarcely seems room for even a single fresh hypothesis.
However, as the Permanent Secretary impressed upon me at the Home Office this morning, virtually nothing is known about the motives and identity of the assassins.
‘I say “assassins”, Doctor Greville, but there may have been only one of them. I’m told