Concrete Island (11 page)

Replacing the paper bag, Maitland weighed the matchbox in his hand. His eyes moved swiftly around the room. From the packing case he pulled out the paraffin stove. He swirled the contents in the half-light, listening to the soft liquid sound.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, Maitland hobbled on the crutch towards the ruined outhouse. The red blanket was draped over one shoulder, and in his free hand he carried the paraffin stove. He pulled himself on to the roof and sat down on the shallow tiled slope, arranging the stove and blanket beside him. After making certain that neither Proctor nor the young woman was approaching, he tied a corner of the blanket to the crutch, and soaked the loose end of the woollen fabric in the paraffin from the stove.

Along the motorway the flow of Sunday afternoon traffic was intermittent. Maitland watched, matchbox in hand, controlling his eagerness. A line of saloon cars appeared, hemmed in behind an airline coach and a fuel tanker moving abreast through the overpass tunnel.

Maitland struck two of the matches and lit the blanket. The warm paraffin ignited with a soft purr, the low flames caressing the worn fabric. Black smoke lifted into the air. Maitland stood up, balancing on one leg, and began to semaphore with the burning blanket. He choked on a billow of acrid smoke and sat down, lifted himself up again and waved the blanket to and fro.

As he expected, Proctor and the young woman soon appeared on the scene. The tramp moved through the grass in a low crouch, like some wary beast, his scarred hands parting the blades. His crafty but stupid eyes were fixed on Maitland as if he were a trapper's quarry ready to be staked and skinned. By contrast, Jane Sheppard strolled sedately along the uneven ground, as if she had no interest in Maitland's attempt to escape.

‘I thought you two would turn up!' Maitland shouted. ‘Right, Proctor?'

He climbed down from the roof of the outhouse and waved the burning blanket in Proctor's face, making the tramp grunt and curse. Maitland lunged forward at him, choking on the smoke, dropped to one knee and picked up the paraffin stove. As Proctor snatched at the blanket, tearing away a ragged square of burning wool, Maitland dashed the stove on to the ground and swung the blanket through the spilt liquid.

Moving on all fours, Proctor circled Maitland cautiously. The young woman reached the outhouse, dividing the grass with her small hands. Waving away the smoke in her face, she shouted at Proctor:

‘Put it out! Never mind him! They'll see the smoke!'

The charred blanket fell from the end of the crutch. Maitland scooped up the bundle of smoking rags, but Proctor lunged forward and snatched the blanket away. He stamped out the flames, kicking the loose soil over the smouldering fibres.

Maitland leaned weakly on the crutch. He waved at the passing cars, but no one had stopped or even noticed this brief episode. He turned to face Proctor. The tramp picked up a worn half-brick and circled Maitland like a boxer. Maitland darted forward, striking Proctor on the shoulder with the crutch. His rising blood pressure pumped against the loose sutures of his skull, but landing this single blow exhilarated him. His left foot slipped on the broken flagstones around the outhouse. He caught his balance and whirled the crutch through the air.

Crouching down, shoulders below his hips, Proctor evaded the swinging crutch with a ducking movement of his bull-necked head. His white face, like a dried pumpkin, was without expression as his eyes measured Maitland's long legs and arms.

‘Stop it…!'

Holding her red hair to the nape of her neck like a bored housewife settling a street fracas, Jane Sheppard stepped up to Maitland. She seized the metal pipe, trying to lower it to the ground. ‘For heaven's sake…' She gazed at Maitland with her severe child's eyes. ‘Aren't you carrying things a little too far?'

Maitland glanced at the scanty traffic behind him. Proctor was squatting beside a bank of nettles, the half-brick waiting in his hand. They would not risk killing him here in the open. Three derelicts burning an old blanket would attract no attention, but a brutal fight might arouse the interest of an off-duty policeman.

‘Proctor,' Maitland said, pointing the crutch at Jane. ‘She has the keys, you know. The keys to my car.'

‘What?' The young woman glared at Maitland, genuinely outraged. ‘What keys are you talking about?'

‘Proctor…' The tramp was watching. ‘The keys to the trunk of my car. My wallet was in there.'

‘That's nonsense.' The young woman turned to leave. ‘Come on, let's go.'

‘You couldn't unlock the trunk, could you, Proctor?' Maitland hobbled forward, the metal crutch held out like a lance. Proctor's eyes were moving between the girl and Maitland. ‘There was thirty pounds in my wallet.'

‘Proctor, ignore him! He's insane, he'll call the police.' Confused and angry, she picked up a large brick and offered it to Proctor.

‘The two of you searched me last night, Proctor,' Maitland said quietly. He was only six feet away from the tramp, well within range of a bull-like rush. ‘You know damn well I haven't been back to the car – you keep an eye on me all the time.'

As Jane waited impatiently for Proctor to strike him, Maitland took the wallet from his pocket. He spread the pound notes in a greasy fan in front of Proctor's face. ‘Who gave it to me, Proctor? Who took it from the car? Here, take one…'

The tramp stared mesmerized at the pound notes. He turned to look at Jane, standing with more stones in her hands, her face a mask of confused hostility.

‘No one's ever given you anything before, have they, Proctor?' Maitland said. ‘Go on, take it.'

As the tramp's scarred hand closed shyly over the damp banknote Maitland leaned exhausted against the crutch.

*   *   *

Wary of each other, the three of them made their way back to the cinema. The young woman took Maitland's arm and helped him through the grass, muttering angrily to herself. Proctor followed them, carrying the tattered blanket and the paraffin stove. His creased face was without expression. As Maitland climbed down the staircase he saw that Proctor was crouching like a nervous animal, unsure whether to assert his dominion over the island.

14 A taste of poison

‘W
HAT
the hell were you playing at?' The young woman steered Maitland on to the bed with a hard hand. Her strong body was livid with temper. ‘You're supposed to be a sick man! I'm not interested in fighting over a wallet. I've a damned good mind to pack up and leave you here before you cause any more trouble.'

‘He tried to kill me,' Maitland said. ‘You were egging him on.'

‘I wasn't. Anyway, Proctor's half blind. That was our blanket you set fire to.'

‘Your blanket. I'm not staying here tonight.'

‘Nobody wants you to.' The girl shook her head with unfeigned indignation. ‘That's real capitalist gratitude! I saved you from Proctor just now, and you tell him about the wallet. That was pretty smart of you, giving him money. It won't do you any good – Proctor never leaves this place and as far as I know there's nowhere here to spend it.'

Maitland shook his head. ‘It wasn't smart at all. Poor old man, I don't think he knew how to take it.'

‘The only thing he's been given is other people's shit. Don't get any ideas about him being your friend for life. If I left you alone with him you'd soon miss me.'

Maitland watched her pacing about restlessly. Her repeated references to leaving the island worried him. He was not yet ready to deal with Proctor on his own.

‘Jane – sooner or later, you'll have to help me. My friends and family, the police, my office, they're bound to find out what happened here. They must be looking for me now.'

‘
Your
family…' The girl had taken this isolated phrase from its context, putting a peculiar emphasis on it. ‘What about my family?' She swung away and snapped, ‘I haven't taken a penny from you – tell them that!'

*   *   *

Tired and cold, Maitland lay back against the damp pillow. The young woman moved around the dimly lit room. She straightened her suitcase, and re-hung her clothes. The afternoon light was fading, and Maitland regretted that he had burned the blanket. He realized that he had gained a small advantage over the girl and Proctor. Already he was playing these two outcasts against each other, feeding their mutual distrust.

Yet for the time being he was the young woman's prisoner, and a prey to whatever devious whims might flick through her mind. In an odd way she seemed to enjoy their relationship. Her attitude towards him varied from tenderness and good humour to a sudden vengeful anger, almost as if he represented two different people for her. After hanging her clothes she lit the stove and made Maitland a drink of condensed milk and hot water. She held his head in her arm, crooning reassuringly as he drank from the plastic cup, half-working her plump breast against his forehead as if feeding her own baby. A minute later, in an abrupt change of mood, she pulled herself away sharply, jarring Maitland's head. She began to prowl irritably around the room, and turned up the paraffin lamp in a complaining way as if blaming Maitland for the falling afternoon light.

‘Jane…' Maitland pulled out his oil-stained wallet. ‘Do you want this money? You could use it to get away from here.' He held out the wallet, feeling a sudden surge of concern for the girl.

‘I don't want to get away from here. Why should I?' She turned her head with a flourish, watching him suspiciously.

‘Jane, be serious. You can't stay in this place for ever – where's your family? You were married, weren't you?' Maitland pointed to the suitcase, adding frankly, ‘I looked through your photographs. Your husband – what happened?'

‘Mind – your – own – damn – business.' She spoke in firm, quiet tones. Her fingers stiffened like rods. ‘God Almighty, I came here to get away from all these moral attitudes.' She blundered around the room, as if searching for an exit from Maitland's nagging. ‘People are never happier than when they're inventing new vices.'

‘Jane, say I promised you five hundred pounds – would you help me to leave?'

She glanced at him cannily. ‘Why so much? That's a lot of money.'

‘Because I want us both to get away from here. I think we need each other's help. I'll give you five hundred pounds – I'm serious.'

‘Five hundred pounds…' She appeared to consider his offer, mentally counting each one of a stack of bills. Abruptly she turned on him, gesturing with her pot-smoker's brown paper bag. ‘Have you any idea how long that would rent a house for a homeless family?'

‘Jane – you're part of a homeless family. Your child –'

Maitland gave up. He lay back wearily as Jane spread out her kit. For a minute she sat slackly on the edge of the bed, ignoring Maitland's hand which he placed reassuringly on her arm. Her eyes stared at the shabby wall. Mechanically, she prepared two cigarettes, and wrapped away the kit in its paper bag. Rattling the matchbox as if to revive herself, she lit the first of the cigarettes. She inhaled deeply on the sweet smoke, holding it in her lungs for several seconds. Satisfied, she lay down next to Maitland, nudging him to move over. She pulled her combat jacket over them, smiling wanly to herself as she gazed at the Astaire and Rogers poster.

Maitland felt his mind swaying under the effects of the smoke. The young woman's strong body pressed against his own as the bed sank in its centre. Her arm rose and fell. She lifted the cigarette to her lips, and offered him a draw. Trying to keep himself alert, and frightened of falling asleep, Maitland fixed his eyes on the fading light coming down the stair well. His fever was returning with the cold evening air.

The young woman smiled at him, taking his hand lightly. Her strong-jawed face lay like a child's in its bower of red hair. She released the smoke from her mouth and steered it towards him with her hand.

‘Nice…? You know, you could have got away from here, if you'd wanted to.'

‘How?'

‘Right at the beginning…' She inhaled on the cigarette. ‘If you'd really tried, you could have done.'

‘Tried?' With a grimace Maitland recalled his ordeal in the rain. He rubbed his chest, covered by no more than the grimy dress-shirt. ‘It's cold in here.'

The young woman stretched her arm across him. ‘You could have got away,' she repeated. ‘Proctor doesn't realize this, but you made it easy for him. Do you know that we both thought you might have been here before?'

She gazed through the smoke at Maitland, and stroked the oil-smeared ruff of his shirt. He watched her without speaking. Her tone was in no way jeering or hostile, but at the same time she seemed to be testing both him and herself, exploring through Maitland some failure in her own past. With an unerring eye for the defects of others, she had seen that he would accept this role.

Had he, in fact, deliberately marooned himself on the island? He remembered his refusal to walk through the overpass tunnel to the emergency telephone, his childish insistence that a rush-hour driver stop for him, the anger that had poured out … he had sat in that empty bath as a child, screaming with the same resentment.

Deciding to play the girl's game, he said, ‘Jane, you owe it to yourself to leave here – by staying on the island you're just punishing yourself.'

‘Big deal – I don't get that.' Her eyes glinted in her cold, euphoric face. ‘Anyway, it's easier than coming to terms with something. I was never very good at patching up quarrels – I wanted to go on simmering for days. That way you can really hate…'

She smoked the last of the cigarette. When she had finished it she placed her hand on Maitland's stomach. Moving her head, she kissed him on the mouth.

‘Don't tell me I touched a nerve?' she asked.