J. Ballard: Concrete island

Proctor lay face upwards, his face and shoulder covered by a rose-pattern quilt which Jane had taken from his den. The light wind uncovered the upper corner of the quilt, revealing part of Proctor's face. Maitland leaned forward and replaced the worn cloth.

Jane wiped her hands on the grass, catching her breath after helping to drag the body across the island. She was still white-faced, the sharp bones of her cheeks and forehead like knives below the skin. She reached out and touched Maitland, as if uncertain of his response.

Tm leaving now/ she said. 'The police will soon be here.'

Maitland nodded. 'Yes, you ought to leave now.'

'I'm not involved in this – it's between you and Proctor.'

'Of course.'

'What are you going to do with him?'

'Bury him – I'll find a shovel somewhere.'

Jane pushed at Maitland's shoulder, trying to wake him. 'Do you need any help? If you don't mind… funerals give me the shudders.'

'No…' Maitland's sunken eyes stared through the dirt on his face. 'Just leave me here.'

'What are you going to do? You can't stay.'

'Jane, I want to leave in my own way.'

She shrugged, getting to her feet. 'It's just that we talked about going together… suit yourself.' She gazed distastefully at Proctor. 'It was probably a heart attack. A pity – in his way he was good at acrobatics. What about food? I could bring some back for you.'

'That's all right. There is food here.'

'Where?' She followed his eyes to the wire-mesh fence. 'I don't think you should stay here any longer. I'll help you on to the embankment, we'll take a taxi.' When Maitland made no reply she pulled his shoulder. '_Listen!__ I'll call for help! They'll be here in half an hour!'

In a clear voice, Maitland spoke to her for the last time. 'Jane, don't call for help. I'll leave the island, but I'll do it in my own time.' He took out his wallet and handed her the bundle of greasy notes. 'Take all these, I won't need them. But promise me you will tell no one I'm here.'

With a grimace of regret, she put away the money. She dusted her knees and walked through the air-raid shelters towards the cinema basement.

Ten minutes later she had gone. Maitland watched her climb the embankment of the feeder road. He realized that there was no secret pathway – she walked straight up the slope, picking her way along a succession of familiar foot-holds, the suitcase in a strong hand. She stepped over the crash barrier. Within a minute a car stopped for her, and she was carried away among the trucks and airline coaches.

After an hour, when the police had failed to appear, Maitland decided that she had kept her bargain. He picked up the shovel the girl had thrown at his feet before she left. Leaving the crutch, he crawled through the grass, feeling his way with his outstretched hands, sensing the stronger vibrations of the tall grass growing from the churchyard.

It was late morning by the time Maitland had completed the burial. Exhausted by the effort of dragging the tramp's body among the shelters, Maitland lay on the bed in his pavilion of doors, watching the traffic move along the motorway. He had buried Proctor in the floor of the crypt, surrounding the grave with the metal objects taken from the Jaguar, and the overshoes, aerosol can and other gifts which he had made the tramp.

Despite his exertion and the fact that he had taken little food, Maitland felt a sense of gathering physical strength, as if the unseen powers of his body had begun to discharge their long-stored energies. His leg had been by no means as badly injured as he had believed. There was even a slight movement in the hip joint, and he would soon be able to walk without the crutch. He was glad that both Proctor and the young woman had gone. Their presence had brought out unwelcome strains in his character, qualities irrelevant to the task of coming to terms with the island.

As well as this new-found physical confidence, Maitland noticed a mood of quiet exultation corning over him. He lay calmly in the doorway of his pavilion, realizing that he was truly alone on the island. He would stay there until he could escape by his own efforts. Maitland tore away the remains of his ragged shirt, and lay bare-chested in the warm air, the bright sunlight picking out the sticks of his ribs. In some ways the task he had set himself was meaningless. Already he felt no real need to leave the island, and this alone confirmed that he had established his dominion over it.

A police car moved along the motorway, the co-driver watching the deep grass. Secure in his pavilion, Maitland waited for it to pass. When it had gone he stood up and gazed confidently across the island. He felt light-headed from hunger, but calm and in control of himself. He would collect food from the perimeter fence – and, perhaps, as a gesture in the direction of the old tramp, leave a token portion beside his grave.

In a few hours it would be dusk. Maitland thought of Catherine and his son. He would be seeing them soon. When he had eaten it would be time to rest, and to plan his escape from the island.