Concrete Island (17 page)

Confused by the sight of the vehicle, Maitland fumbled in the air for the crutch. He whispered hoarsely, a reflex cry for help. Their heads briefly visible above the balustrade, the driver and two workmen were walking towards a second repair vehicle parked three hundred yards along the road.

Shaking with excitement, Maitland picked up the crutch and swung himself forwards. Ten feet behind him, a black-suited figure darted from the deep grass. As Maitland turned, tripping over a rusty sheet of galvanized iron, he recognized Proctor. The tramp ran forward, arms outstretched above his head. Under the dinner-jacket he wore the ragged leotard. Leaping over the discarded tyres in the grass, he ran towards the coil of rope hanging six feet from the ground.

‘Proctor! Leave it!'

Maitland seized the crutch and lurched forward, beating the ground in an attempt to frighten Proctor away. But the old acrobat had already leapt into the air. He caught the loose coil, swung free and pulled himself upwards hand over hand. His powerful arms moved like pistons, his feet twisted around the loose end of the rope in a running hold.

Almost speechless with fear, Maitland struck at the swinging rope with the crutch. Once Proctor escaped, the young woman would soon abandon him. He was certain that her offer to call for help the previous evening had been no more than a ruse. The moment she reached the embankment she would have vanished, to be followed almost immediately by the tramp. Left alone on the island, Maitland would survive no more than a few days.

Proctor climbed on to the balustrade. Confirming Maitland's fears, he glanced down at him, a crafty grin on his face.

‘Proctor! Come down!'

Lifting himself on his strong hands, Proctor swung his legs over the balustrade. He scanned the empty roadway. With a wave to Maitland, he unwound the ropes holding the workman's cradle and lowered the wooden platform on its steel frame. He seized the guy-ropes attached to the winch on the repair truck, sidestepped over the balustrade and leapt on to the cradle.

As Proctor lowered the cradle towards the ground Maitland realized that the tramp, far from trying to elude him, was in fact attempting to help Maitland escape. Still trying to impress Maitland with his expertise as a sometime trapeze artist, he swung the cradle from side to side.

‘Great, Proctor…' Maitland muttered to himself. ‘I'm very impressed. Now, come down.'

But Proctor was no longer aware of Maitland. Twenty feet above the ground, he swung the cradle in ever wider arcs. His powerful body radiated confidence in every movement. He tore off the dinner-jacket and tossed it away towards the ground whirling below him. With an expert flip he jumped from the cradle at the top of its swing and caught the metal frame in his strong hands. Jack-knifing his body, he propelled the cradle through the air. At the top of the next swing he swivelled in the air, reversed his hands and propelled the cradle back again. His creased face was transformed by a child-like smile.

A voice shouted from the road. The cab door slammed. A moment later the engine of the repair vehicle roared into life. Hanging from the swinging cradle, Proctor looked up uncertainly. Already the coils of rope attached to the winch were tightening, the loops racing around his shoulders. Maitland waved the crutch at the tramp, signalling him to jump. The repair vehicle was moving off, its driver unaware that Proctor was entangled in the loose lines attached to the winch.

The driver accelerated, changing his gears. Before Proctor could free himself he was jerked backwards off the cradle. The guy-ropes ran around him, tightening across his waist and neck. Trussed like a carcass in an abattoir, he hung above the cradle. Legs kicking as he grappled with the ropes, he was carried backwards through the air.

The repair vehicle picked up speed, its engine drowning Maitland's shouts. Proctor hung helplessly as it moved above him, carrying him towards the nearest concrete pillar. When his body struck the pillar it thudded like a punchbag against the massive column. Unconscious now, he hung limply from the rope around his neck. He was carried through the air below the overpass, until the ropes became entangled in the angular frame of a route indicator.

There was a whiplike snap as the ropes parted. The repair vehicle carried on. Proctor's garotted body fell to the damp ground below.

24 Escape

T
HE
rush-hour traffic moved along the motorway. The hard roar of engines drummed across the island. Shielded by the high grass, Maitland and Jane Sheppard sat beside Proctor's body. The roofs of the air-raid shelters rose around them like the backs of ancient animals buried asleep in the soil.

Proctor lay face upwards, his face and shoulder covered by a rose-pattern quilt which Jane had taken from his den. The light wind uncovered the upper corner of the quilt, revealing part of Proctor's face. Maitland leaned forward and replaced the worn cloth.

Jane wiped her hands on the grass, catching her breath after helping to drag the body across the island. She was still white-faced, the sharp bones of her cheeks and forehead like knives below the skin. She reached out and touched Maitland, as if uncertain of his response.

‘I'm leaving now,' she said. ‘The police will soon be here.'

Maitland nodded. ‘Yes, you ought to leave now.'

‘I'm not involved in this – it's between you and Proctor.'

‘Of course.'

‘What are you going to do with him?'

‘Bury him – I'll find a shovel somewhere.'

Jane pushed at Maitland's shoulder, trying to wake him. ‘Do you need any help? If you don't mind … funerals give me the shudders.'

‘No…' Maitland's sunken eyes stared through the dirt on his face. ‘Just leave me here.'

‘What are you going to do? You can't stay.'

‘Jane, I want to leave in my own way.'

She shrugged, getting to her feet. ‘It's just that we talked about going together … suit yourself.' She gazed distastefully at Proctor. ‘It was probably a heart attack. A pity – in his way he was good at acrobatics. What about food? I could bring some back for you.'

‘That's all right. There is food here.'

‘Where?' She followed his eyes to the wire-mesh fence. ‘I don't think you should stay here any longer. I'll help you on to the embankment, we'll take a taxi.' When Maitland made no reply she pulled his shoulder. ‘
Listen!
I'll call for help! They'll be here in half an hour!'

In a clear voice, Maitland spoke to her for the last time. ‘Jane, don't call for help. I'll leave the island, but I'll do it in my own time.' He took out his wallet and handed her the bundle of greasy notes. ‘Take all these, I won't need them. But promise me you will tell no one I'm here.'

With a grimace of regret, she put away the money. She dusted her knees and walked through the air-raid shelters towards the cinema basement.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later she had gone. Maitland watched her climb the embankment of the feeder road. He realized that there was no secret pathway – she walked straight up the slope, picking her way along a succession of familiar foot-holds, the suitcase in a strong hand. She stepped over the crash barrier. Within a minute a car stopped for her, and she was carried away among the trucks and airline coaches.

After an hour, when the police had failed to appear, Maitland decided that she had kept her bargain. He picked up the shovel the girl had thrown at his feet before she left. Leaving the crutch, he crawled through the grass, feeling his way with his outstretched hands, sensing the stronger vibrations of the tall grass growing from the churchyard.

It was late morning by the time Maitland had completed the burial. Exhausted by the effort of dragging the tramp's body among the shelters, Maitland lay on the bed in his pavilion of doors, watching the traffic move along the motorway. He had buried Proctor in the floor of the crypt, surrounding the grave with the metal objects taken from the Jaguar, and the overshoes, aerosol can and other gifts which he had made the tramp.

Despite his exertion and the fact that he had taken little food, Maitland felt a sense of gathering physical strength, as if the unseen powers of his body had begun to discharge their long-stored energies. His leg had been by no means as badly injured as he had believed. There was even a slight movement in the hip joint, and he would soon be able to walk without the crutch. He was glad that both Proctor and the young woman had gone. Their presence had brought out unwelcome strains in his character, qualities irrelevant to the task of coming to terms with the island.

As well as this new-found physical confidence, Maitland noticed a mood of quiet exultation coming over him. He lay calmly in the doorway of his pavilion, realizing that he was truly alone on the island. He would stay there until he could escape by his own efforts. Maitland tore away the remains of his ragged shirt, and lay bare-chested in the warm air, the bright sunlight picking out the sticks of his ribs. In some ways the task he had set himself was meaningless. Already he felt no real need to leave the island, and this alone confirmed that he had established his dominion over it.

A police car moved along the motorway, the co-driver watching the deep grass. Secure in his pavilion, Maitland waited for it to pass. When it had gone he stood up and gazed confidently across the island. He felt light-headed from hunger, but calm and in control of himself. He would collect food from the perimeter fence – and, perhaps, as a gesture in the direction of the old tramp, leave a token portion beside his grave.

In a few hours it would be dusk. Maitland thought of Catherine and his son. He would be seeing them soon. When he had eaten it would be time to rest, and to plan his escape from the island.

ALSO BY J. G. BALLARD

The Drowned World

The Voices of Time

The Terminal Beach

The Drought

The Crystal World

The Day of Forever

The Venus Hunters

The Disaster Area

The Atrocity Exhibition

Vermilion Sands

Crash

High-Rise

Low-Flying Aircraft

The Unlimited Dream Company

Hello America

Myths of the Near Future

Empire of the Sun

Running Wild

The Day of Creation

War Fever

The Kindness of Women

Rushing to Paradise

A User's Guide to the Millennium
(nonfiction)

Cocaine Nights

Super-Cannes

CONCRETE ISLAND
. Copyright © 1973 by J. G. Ballard. All rights reserved. For information, address Picador 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ballard, J. G.

Concrete Island.

ISBN 0-312-42034-X

I. Title

PZ4.B1893Co3       (PR6052.A46)

823'.9'14
73-87699

First published in the United States by Farrar, Straus and Giroux

First Picador Edition: October 2001

eISBN 9781466856622

First eBook edition: October 2013