Concrete Island by J. G. Ballard Page B

out with the crutch and pulled the girl’s suitcase towards him. He searched through the dresses and underwear, thinking that she might, conceivably, own some small weapon.
    At the bottom of the case, in the debris of make-up tubes, hairpins and used tissues, was a packet of fading snapshots. Curious about her background, Maitland spread the photographs out on the bed. One showed a strong-faced adolescent girl, clearly Jane, standing protectively beside a faded middle-aged woman with glazed eyes on the frayed lawn of a small sanatorium. In another she was visiting a fairground, arm-in-arm with a heavyset man twenty years older than herself. Maitland assumed that the man was her father, but a wedding photograph showed Jane, proudly six months pregnant, standing in a church beside the man, the fey-looking mother hovering in the background like a deranged ghost.
    A second man appeared in the series, a dapper figure of about fifty in an old but well-made suit, posed beside a white Bentley in the drive of a large Victorian house. Her father, Maitland decided, or perhaps another middle-aged lover. What had happened to the child?
    Maitland gathered the photographs together and put them back into the case. From an empty tissue-box he took out a brown paper bag. Inside it were the materials of a pot-smoker’s kit – scraps of burnt silver foil, detached filter stubs, loose tobacco from broken cigarettes, a small block of hashish, cigarette papers and a roller, and a box of matches.
    Replacing the paper bag, Maitland weighed the matchbox in his hand. His eyes moved swiftly around the room. From the packing case he pulled out the paraffin stove. He swirled the contents in the half-light, listening to the soft liquid sound.
    *   *   *
    Ten minutes later, Maitland hobbled on the crutch towards the ruined outhouse. The red blanket was draped over one shoulder, and in his free hand he carried the paraffin stove. He pulled himself on to the roof and sat down on the shallow tiled slope, arranging the stove and blanket beside him. After making certain that neither Proctor nor the young woman was approaching, he tied a corner of the blanket to the crutch, and soaked the loose end of the woollen fabric in the paraffin from the stove.
    Along the motorway the flow of Sunday afternoon traffic was intermittent. Maitland watched, matchbox in hand, controlling his eagerness. A line of saloon cars appeared, hemmed in behind an airline coach and a fuel tanker moving abreast through the overpass tunnel.
    Maitland struck two of the matches and lit the blanket. The warm paraffin ignited with a soft purr, the low flames caressing the worn fabric. Black smoke lifted into the air. Maitland stood up, balancing on one leg, and began to semaphore with the burning blanket. He choked on a billow of acrid smoke and sat down, lifted himself up again and waved the blanket to and fro.
    As he expected, Proctor and the young woman soon appeared on the scene. The tramp moved through the grass in a low crouch, like some wary beast, his scarred hands parting the blades. His crafty but stupid eyes were fixed on Maitland as if he were a trapper’s quarry ready to be staked and skinned. By contrast, Jane Sheppard strolled sedately along the uneven ground, as if she had no interest in Maitland’s attempt to escape.
    â€˜I thought you two would turn up!’ Maitland shouted. ‘Right, Proctor?’
    He climbed down from the roof of the outhouse and waved the burning blanket in Proctor’s face, making the tramp grunt and curse. Maitland lunged forward at him, choking on the smoke, dropped to one knee and picked up the paraffin stove. As Proctor snatched at the blanket, tearing away a ragged square of burning wool, Maitland dashed the stove on to the ground and swung the blanket through the spilt liquid.
    Moving on all fours, Proctor circled Maitland cautiously. The young woman reached the outhouse, dividing the grass with her