J. Ballard - Concrete island

Maitland gathered himself together. The fever had begun to subside. He remembered the violent attack in the air-raid shelter, and being dragged into the open evening air, but the pain of these blows had been dissolved by the young woman's first words. In the context of his ordeal on the island even this shabby room – in a decaying neighbourhood somewhere near the motorway, he assumed – took on all the style and comfort of a riverside suite at the Savoy. As the young woman sat down on the bed he took her hand, trying to express his gratitude to her.

'Are we…' he began through his bruised mouth. 'Are we near the island?' He added, realizing that she might not be aware of this, 'I crashed my car… Jaguar… I went off the motorway.'

The young woman chewed pensively on a stick of gum, watching Maitland with her sharp eyes.

'Yes, we know. You're lucky that you're still alive.' She placed her strong hand on his forehead, feeling his temperature. 'Were you ill before the crash? You've got quite a fever, you know.'

Maitland shook his head, glad to feel the pressure of her cool palm. 'No -it started later. Yesterday, I think. My leg… it's broken.'

'Good. I thought so. Poor man, I'll give you something to eat.'

As Maitland waited, she reached into her handbag and took out a bar of milk chocolate. She peeled back the silver foil, broke off several of the squares and placed the first one between Maitland's lips.

While the warm chocolate dissolved in his mouth, Maitland was able to see the young woman's face for the first time. She stood up and peered at herself in the travelling mirror hanging from the wall. Bar of chocolate in one hand, she paced up and down the narrow floor. Lit by the paraffin lamp behind her, her red hair glowed like a wild sun in the shabby room, shafts of light cutting through the home-set waves that rose above her high forehead. She was about twenty, with an angular, sharp-witted face and strong jaw. She was good-looking in an almost wilfully tatty way. Her manner towards Maitland, as she fed the soft chocolate to him, each square fingerprinted by her thumb, was brusque and deferential at the same time. Possibly she resented having to look after this well-to-do man who had been brought to her meagre room, realizing that he would soon leave for surroundings that were very much more comfortable. Yet something about her tone, the confident intonations of her voice, suggested to Maitland that she had come from a rather different background. With her faded jeans and combat jacket, surrounded by the Manson and Black Power posters, she looked like the prototypal drop-out, but this impression in turn was belied by the mass of cheap cosmetics, the tarty hair-do and garish clothes hanging from the suitcase lid, the make-believe equipment of a street walker.

Revived by the water and chocolate, Maitland massaged his mouth with one hand. At any moment the ambulance attendants would arrive, he would be carried away to a hospital bed in Hammersmith.

'You called the ambulance? They'll be coming soon. I'd like to thank you…?'

'Jane -Jane Sheppard. I haven't done very much.'

'I've almost forgotten how to eat. There's another number I want you to ring. Dr Helen Fairfax – do you mind?'

'No – but I'm not on the phone. Try to relax. You're absolutely exhausted.'

She sat on the bed, exploring his right hip with her firm fingers. She grimaced as she peered at the inflamed wound exposed through the rent in his trousers. 'This looks nasty. I'll try to clean it for you.'

Her hands moved around his hips and groin as she tried to loosen his trousers. The chocolate melting in Maitland's stomach made him feel light-headed. 'It's all right. They'll deal with it at the hospital.'

He began to tell the young woman about his crash, eager to fix his nightmare ordeal in someone else's mind before it vanished.

I was trapped there for three days – it's hard to believe now. My car went over the edge, I don't think I was hurt at first. But I couldn't get off. Nobody stopped! It's amazing – I was starving to death on this traffic island. Unless you'd come I would have died there…'

Maitland broke off. Jane Sheppard was sitting with her back to him, her hip pressing against his right elbow. Her hands worked away expertly at his trousers. She had extended the slit to the waistband, but the rubberized fabric was too strong for the pair of nail-scissors in her hand. Lifting his right buttock, she began to cut at the lining of his hip pocket.

Maitland watched her remove his car keys from the pocket. She looked hard at them, turning over each of the three keys, and caught his eye. With a small laugh she put them on the packing case.

'You were uncomfortable…' As if to make the explanation convincing, she slid her hand on to his buttock and massaged the bruised skin for a few seconds.

'So no one stopped? I suppose you were surprised. These days we don't notice other people's selfishness until we're on the receiving end ourselves.'

Maitland turned his head, his eyes meeting her level gaze. He stopped himself from picking up the keys. His sense of relief and exhilaration had begun to fade, and he looked around the room, establishing its reality in his mind. Part of himself was still lying out in the rain, listening to the invisible, endlessly drumming traffic. For a moment he was frightened that the room and its young tenant might be part of some terminal delusion.

'It's kind of you to look after me. You have called the ambulance?'

'I've arranged for help, yes. A friend of mine has gone. You'll be all right.'

'Where are we exactly – are we near the island?'

'The "island" – is that what you call it?'

'The traffic island. The patch of waste ground below the motorway. Are we near there?'

'We're near the motorway, yes. You're quite safe, Mr Maitland.'

Maitland listened to the distant murmur of the traffic. He noticed that his wrist-watch had gone, but he guessed it to be somewhere near midnight – hard experience told him that the last westbound traffic was leaving central London.

'My watch must have fallen off. How do you know my name?'

'We found some papers, in a briefcase near the car. Anyway, you talk to yourself all the time.' She paused, eyeing him critically. 'You're tremendously angry with yourself about something, aren't you?'

Maitland ignored this. 'You've seen the car? The silver Jaguar?'

'No – I mean, yes, I did. You confuse me when you talk about the island all the time.' Half-resentfully, as if reminding Maitland of his debt to her, she said, 'I brought you here. You're damned heavy, you know, even for a big man.'

'Where are we – the traffic…' Alarmed, Maitland tried to sit up. The young woman stood at the foot of the bed, her red hair inflamed by the paraffin lamp. She stared at Maitland like a down-at-heel witch who by some confused alchemy had conjured an over-large victim into her lair and was unsure how best to exploit the possibilities of the cadaver.

Unsettled by her calm gaze, Maitland glanced around the room. In one corner, supporting a metal basin filled with wet underwear, were three circular cans, each the size of a film reel.

Projecting like horns from the wall behind the girl's head were the brackets of some kind of winding device. Maitland looked up at the ventilator shaft, and at the Astaire and Rogers publicity poster.

Jane Sheppard spoke quietly. 'Go on. What is it? You're obviously straining to realize something.'

'The cinema…' Maitland pointed to the ceiling. 'Of course, the basement of the ruined cinema.' He lowered his head wearily on to the stale pillow. 'My God, I'm still on the island…'

'Stop talking about the island! You can leave any time you want, I'm not keeping you here. It may not be good enough for you, but I've done what I can. If it hadn't been for me you wouldn't be around any more to complain!'