J. Ballard - Concrete island

She put her strong hand to Maitland's forehead and held it there, then briskly pulled out the primus stove and carried it into the sunlight at the bottom of the stairwell.

'Your fever's gone. We were worried about you last night. You're the sort of man who has to test himself all the time. Do you think you crashed on to this traffic island deliberately?' When Maitland regarded her patiently she went on, 'I'm not joking – believe me, self-destruction is something I know all about. My mother pumped herself so full of barbiturates before she died that she turned blue.'

She lit the primus and set three eggs boiling in the pan. 'You must be hungry – I bought some things for you at the supermarket.'

Maitland sat up. 'What day is it?'

'Sunday – the Indian places around here are open every day. They exploit themselves and their staffs more than the white owners do. But that's something you know all about.'

'What's that?'

'Exploitation. You're a rich businessman, aren't you? That's what you claimed to be last night.'

'Jane, you've being naive – I'm not rich and I'm not a businessman. I'm an architect.' Maitland paused, well aware of the way in which she was reducing their relationship to the level of this aimless domestic banter. Yet there was something not entirely calculated about this.

'Did you call for help?' he asked firmly.

Jane ignored the question, setting out the modest meal. The brightly coloured paper cups and plates, and the paper table cloth she spread carefully across the packing case, made it resemble a miniature children's tea party.

'I… didn't have time. I thought you needed some food first.'

'As a matter of fact, I'm starving.' Maitland unwrapped the packet of rusks she handed to him. 'But I've got to get to a hospital. My leg needs looking at. There's the office, and my wife – they must wonder where I am.'

'But they think you're away on a business trip,' Jane retorted quickly. 'They probably aren't missing you at all.'

Maitland let this pass. 'You told me you'd called the police last night.'

Jane laughed at Maitland as he hunched in his ragged clothes on the edge of the bed, his blackened hands tearing apart the packet of rusks. 'Not the police – we're not very fond of them here. Proctor isn't, anyway – he has rather unhappy memories of the police. They've always kicked him around. Do you know that a sergeant from Notting Hill Station urinated on him? You don't forget that kind of thing.'

She waited for a reply. The sulphurous smell of the cracked eggs intoxicated Maitland. She steered a steaming egg on to his paper plate, leaning across him long enough for him to register the weight and body of her left breast. 'Look, you weren't well last night. You couldn't have been moved. That terrible leg, the fever, you were completely exhausted, raving away about your wife. Can you imagine us stumbling about in the dark, trying to carry you up that slope? I just wanted to keep you alive.'

Maitland broke the boiled egg. The hot shell stung the oil-filled cuts in his fingers. The young woman squatted on the floor at his feet, shaking out her red hair. The contrived way in which she used her body confused him.

'You'll help me afterwards to get away from here,' he told her. 'I understand your not wanting the police involved. If Proctor-'

'Exactly. He's terrified of the police, he'll do anything to avoid bringing them here. It's not that he's ever done anything, but this place is all he's got. When they built the motorway they sealed him in – he never leaves here, you know. It's pretty remarkable how he's survived.'

Maitland crammed the dripping fragments of the egg into his mouth. 'He nearly killed me,' he commented, licking his fingers.

'He thought you were trying to take over his den. It was lucky I came along. He's very strong. When he was sixteen or seventeen he used to be a trapeze artist with some fly-by-night circus. That was before they had any safety legislation. He fell off the high wire and damaged his brain. They just threw him out. Mental defectives and subnormals are treated appallingly – unless they're prepared to go into institutions they have absolutely no protection.'

Maitland nodded, concentrating on the food. 'How long have you been in this old cinema?'

'I don't really live here,' she answered with a flourish. 'I'm staying with some… friends, near the Harrow Road. I used to have my own study as a child, I don't like too many people around me-you probably under-stand.'

'Jane-' Maitland cleared his throat. Eating the hard rusks and scalding egg had opened a dozen sore places in his mouth. His gums and lips, the soft palate, stung from the unaccustomed bite. He looked down unsteadily at the young woman, realizing the extent of his dependence on her. Seventy yards away the traffic moved along the motorway, carrying people to their family lunches. Sitting over a primus stove with her in this shabby room for some reason reminded him of the first months of his marriage to Catherine, and their formal meals. Although Catherine had furnished the apartment herself, virtually without consulting Maitland, he had felt the same dependence on her, the same satisfaction at being surrounded by strange furniture. Even their present house had been designed to avoid the hazards of over-familiarity.

He realized that Jane had spoken the truth about saving his life, and felt a sudden debt to her. He was puzzled by her mixture of warmth and aggression, her swerves from blunt speaking to outright deviousness. More and more, he found himself looking at her body, and was irritated by his own sexual response to the offhand way in which she exploited herself.

'Jane, I want you to call Proctor now. You and he can carry me up the embankment and leave me there. I'll be able to stop a driver.'

'Of course.' She looked frankly into his eyes, giving him a small smile. A hand stroked the hair behind her neck. 'Proctor won't help you, but I'll try – you're awfully heavy, even if you have been starving. Too many expense-account lunches, terrible tax evasion goes on. Still, you're supposed to get some kind of emotional security from over-eating…'

'Jane!' Exasperated, Maitland drummed with his blackened fist on the packing case, scattering the paper plates on to the floor. I'm not going to call the police. I won't report either you or Proctor. I'm grateful to you -if you hadn't found me I would probably have died here. No one will find out.'

Jane shrugged, already losing interest in what Maitland was saying. 'People _will__ come…'

'They won't! The breakdown men who tow my car away won't give a damn about anything here. The last three days have proved that to me a hundred times over.'

'Is your car worth a lot of money?'

'No -it's a write-off. I set fire to it.'

'I know. We watched that. Why not leave it here?'

'The insurance people will want to see it.' Maitland looked at her sharply. 'You _saw__ the fire? Good God, why didn't you help me then?'

'We didn't know who you were. How much did the car cost?'

Maitland gazed into her open and childlike face, with its expression of naive corruption.

'Is that it? Is that why you're in no hurry to see me go?' He put a hand reassuringly on her shoulder, holding it there when she tried to push it away. 'Jane, listen to me. If you want money I'll give it to you. Now, how much do you want?'

Her question was as matter-of-fact as a bored cashier's. 'Have you got any money?'

'Yes, I have – in the bank. There's my wallet in the car, with about thirty pounds in it. You've got the keys, get there before Proctor does. You look fast enough on your feet.'

Ignoring his hostility, she reached into her handbag. After a pause she took out the oil-stained wallet. She tossed it on to the bed beside Maitland.