J. Ballard - Concrete island

Maitland stared into the trunk. Little remained apart from the car's tool-kit, a gift he was reluctant to make. The tools might still prove useful in an escape.

'It looks as if there's nothing left, Proctor. A wheel brace won't be much use to you.'

Proctor gestured thickly, his face a planet of creases, Like a hungry child unable to accept the reality of a bare cupboard, he was working himself up to a climax of expectation. His face moved through a conflict of expressions – greed, patience, need. Hopping from one foot to the other, he jostled against Maitland, and nudged him in a not altogether friendly way.

Disturbed by this display, an ironic revenge on his own kindness towards the tramp ~ how much more docile Proctor became with a stick beating his neck -Maitland reached into the cardboard wine carton. Two bottles of the white Burgundy remained. He had intended to keep them both for himself, using Jane to buy the cheap Spanish claret for the tramp.

'All right, Proctor. You can have one of these. But don't drink it till this evening.'

He handed the bottle to the tramp, who seized it tightly, arms shaking with excitement. For a moment he seemed to be unaware of Maitland and the crashed car.

Maitland watched him quietly, fingering the crutch.

'You need me to ration it for you, Proctor – don't forget that. I've changed the whole economy of your life. Wine with your meals, you dress for dinner – you're all too eager to be exploited…'

As he rode back to the air-raid shelter, Maitland looked up at the high causeway of the overpass. After the days of rain the concrete had soon dried out, and the white flank crossed the sky like the wall of some immense aerial palace. Below the span were the approach roads to the Westway interchange, a labyrinth of ascent ramps and feeder lanes. Maitland felt himself alone on an alien planet abandoned by its inhabitants, a race of motorway builders who had long since vanished but had bequeathed to him this concrete wilderness.

'Free to go now…' he murmured to himself. 'Free to go…'

Resting in the sun, he sat against the wall of the airraid shelter, the yellow shawl wrapped around him. Proctor squatted on the ground a few feet away, preparing to open his bottle of Burgundy. First, he went through a brief but careful ritual, which he performed with all the meat cans and biscuit packs" that Maitland gave him. He scraped the label from the bottle with his knife and tore the fading paper into shreds. After giving the tramp the three-year-old copy of _Life__ which he had found in the trunk of the Jaguar, hoping that the large photographs might turn Proctor's mind to the world beyond the island, Maitland had seen the magazine transformed into a pile of minutely ground confetti.

'You don't like words, do you, Proctor? You're even forgetting how to speak.'

The same was true of Proctor's sight. He was not going blind, Maitland was convinced, but simply preferred to rely on his scarred fingers and his sense of touch within the secure realm of the island's undergrowth.

Maitland turned towards the caisson of the feeder road, with its white concrete surface on which he had written his confused messages.

He snapped his fingers, charged with the sudden conviction that he would soon escape. Lifting the crutch like a schoolmaster, he pointed it at Proctor.

'Proctor, I'm going to teach you to read and write.'

As he sat on the damp ground beside the caisson, Maitland watched Proctor working away like a happy child at the concrete surface. Within half an hour the reluctant pupil had become an eager apprentice. Already the wavering letters of his first alphabet had become strong and well-formed. Using both hands, he struck at the concrete slope, slashing his A's and X's side by side.

'Good, Proctor, you've learned quickly,' Maitland congratulated him. He felt a surge of pride in the tramp's achievement, the same pleasure he had found in teaching his son to play chess. 'It's a great invention – why don't we all write with both hands at once?'

Proctor gazed delightedly at his work. Maitland handed him two more of the cosmetic crayons he had taken from Jane Sheppard's room. Proctor held Maitland's arm, as if to reassure him of his seriousness as a pupil. To begin with, when Maitland had chalked up the first few letters of the alphabet, the tramp had refused even to look at them, cringing away as if they threatened some terrifying curse. After ten minutes of persuasion he had overcome his fear, and the lower surface of the caisson was covered with streaky letters.

Maitland pulled himself alongside Proctor. 'It doesn't take long, does it – all these years you've wasted… Now, let me show you how to write a few words. What do you want me to start with – circus, acrobat?'

Proctor's lips moved noiselessly. Shyly, he stuttered, P… P… Proct-or…'

'Your own name? Of course, I didn't think. It's a unique moment.' Maitland patted him on the back. 'Now watch. I want you to copy these in letters three feet high.'

He took the crayon from Proctor and wrote; MAITLAND HELP 'P… P… Proctor…' he repeated, moving his fingers along the letters. 'That's your name. Now copy it in really large letters. Remember, it's the first time you've written your name.'

Eyes watering with pride, the tramp stared at the letters Maitland had chalked up, as if trying to engrave them for ever on his fading mind. He began to scrawl the letters across the concrete with both hands. Each word he started in its centre, moving outwards to left and right.

'Again, Proctor!' Maitland shouted above the roar of a truck climbing the feeder road. In his excitement the tramp was garbling the letters together into an indecipherable mass. 'Start again!'

Carried away by his own enthusiasm, Proctor ignored him. He scribbled away at the concrete-, mixing up the fragments of Maitland's name, happily chalking the letters in streamers down to the ground, as if determined to cover every square inch of the island's surface with what he assumed to be his name.

Satisfied at last, he tottered away from the wall and sat down beside Maitland, beaming up at his handiwork.

'God Almighty…' Maitland leaned his head wearily against the crutch. The ruse had failed, partly because he had not taken into account Proctor's blubbery gratitude.

'Very good. Proctor – I'll teach you some more words.' When the tramp finally settled down Maitland leaned forward, whispering with deliberate archness, 'New words, Proctor – like "fuck" and "shit". You'd like to be able to write those. Wouldn't you?'

As Proctor tittered nervously Maitland wrote carefully: HELP CRASH POLICE He watched while Proctor reluctantly transcribed the words. He worked with only one hand, using the other to cover the letters he had written, as if frightened that he might be caught. He soon broke off, and rubbed away the message with the back of his hand, spitting on the coloured concrete.

'Proctor!' Maitland tried to stop him. 'No one will see you!'

Proctor threw the crayons on to the ground. He glanced with continuing pride at the straggling fragments of Maitland's name, and sat down in the grass. Maitland realized that Proctor had been only briefly amused by writing the obscene words on the wall, and was refusing to take part any further in what he considered to be a childish exhibition.

Exhausted now, his will fading, Maitland clung to Proctor's shoulders as they moved back and forth across the island. Bent beast and pale rider, they wandered through the seething grass. At intervals Maitland recovered and sat up, clutching the metal crutch. Trying to keep himself awake, he berated and beat Proctor at the slightest stumble or hesitation. The tramp laboured on, as if this pointless travel around the island was all that he could think of in his efforts to revive the injured man. At times he deliberately exposed the now inflamed scar on his neck, offering it to Maitland in the hope that abusing it would revive him.