J. Ballard - Concrete island

Her voice ended. She fumbled on the ground for the wine bottle she had dropped, picked it up and threw it with a cry at Proctor, who was crouching in the fading light beside the pay-box. The bottle smashed against the wooden shutters. The glass fragments gleamed like crazed eyes.

Proctor moved from one fragment to the next, licking the pieces with his scarred lips. Maitland listened passively to the young woman when she began to taunt him with her promiscuity, almost as if she believed that he was the father of her dead child.

Maitland stood up and stepped over to her. Holding off her strong arms, he pulled her shoulders against his chest. He soothed and comforted her, brushing the wet hair from her face. When she had calmed, he steered her towards the entrance to the basement.

They sat on the bed together in the warm room. She choked briefly into her hands, her eyes clearing. Reviving, she turned urgently to Maitland.

'Look, you mustn't stay here any longer. You're a bag of bones. Your mind – you need a doctor. I'll telephone your wife right now, they'll come and get you this evening…'

'No.' Calmly, Maitland took her hands. 'Don't call her. Do you understand?'

'All right.' She nodded reluctantly. 'Listen, rest in here tonight. I'll help you on to the road tomorrow. We'll take you to a hospital.'

'Fine, Jane. We'll stay together.' Maitland put his arm around her shoulders. 'I don't want anyone to know I'm on the island.'

She leaned wearily against his chest.

'Proctor wants to leave. He asked me to take him with me.'

Shortly after dawn, the first sunlight shone on to the traffic island through the concrete pillars of the overpass. Leaning on the metal crutch, Maitland moved down the central valley. As he swung himself along the uneven ground he searched the high embankments with the sharp eyes of a gamekeeper on the lookout for an escaping poacher.

For an hour he had been patrolling the island, and the dew from the grass soaked his ragged trousers. As the last of the all-night trucks laboured along the motorway he rested outside the bolted door of Proctor's shelter. He looked up at the complex shadows and geometries formed by the route signs and overhead wires, lamp standards and concrete walls. A solitary car moved along the westbound carriageway, and Maitland raised the crutch and waved to it. Despite all his disappointments during his long struggle to escape from the island, he still clung to the hope that a passing driver would suddenly stop for him.

Maitland left the shelter and swung himself towards the sunlight emerging below the overpass. Fifty yards from the wire-mesh fence he let out a gasp of surprise, dropping the crutch into the damp grass.

A municipal repair vehicle was parked in the centre of the deserted span. Only the roof of the driver's cab and the telescopic platform were visible above the concrete balustrade, but Maitland could see that workmen would soon be climbing over the side to repair the underside of the span, where sections of the cement were flaking away. A workman's cradle hung from the balustrade. Ropes trailed over the edge, one coil reaching to within six feet of the ground.

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.

The 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.