Concrete Island by J. G. Ballard

exploited herself.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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…’
    â€˜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…’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Is your car worth a lot of money?’
    â€˜No – it’s a write-off. I set fire to it.’
    â€˜I know. We watched that. Why not leave it here?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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 naïve corruption.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜It’s all there – count it. Go on! Count it!’
    Maitland opened the wallet and glanced at the bundle of damp notes. Calming himself, he started again.
    â€˜Jane, I can help you. What do you want?’
    â€˜Nothing from you.’ She had found a piece of gum and was chewing on it aggressively. ‘You’re the one who needs help. You were screwed up by being on your own too much. Let’s face it, you’re not really unhappy with your wife. You like that cool scene.’
    Maitland waited for her to finish. ‘All right, maybe I do. Then help me get away from here.’
    She stood in front of him, blocking his path to the door, eyes furious.
    â€˜You’re making these assumptions all the time! No one owes you anything, so stop all this want, want, want! You crashed your car because you drove too fast, now you’re complaining about it like a child. We only found you last night…’
    Maitland avoided her fierce gaze, and pulled himself along the wall to the doorway. This deranged young woman needed someone to be angry with – the old tramp was too dim, but he himself, starving and half-crippled by a broken leg, made the perfect target. The first show of gratitude was enough to set her going …
    As he passed her she stepped forward and took his arm. She slipped it around her small shoulders. Like a dance-hall instructress leading a helpless novice, she steered him towards the stairs.
    Maitland stepped into the bright sunlight. The long grass seethed around his legs, greeting him like