Concrete Island by J. G. Ballard

stood at the foot of the bed, her red hair inflamed by the paraffin lamp. She stared at Maitland like a down-at-heel witch who by some confused alchemy had conjured an over-large victim into her lair and was unsure how best to exploit the possibilities of the cadaver.
    Unsettled by her calm gaze, Maitland glanced around the room. In one corner, supporting a metal basin filled with wet underwear, were three circular cans, each the size of a film reel.
    Projecting like horns from the wall behind the girl’s head were the brackets of some kind of winding device. Maitland looked up at the ventilator shaft, and at the Astaire and Rogers publicity poster.
    Jane Sheppard spoke quietly. ‘Go on. What is it? You’re obviously straining to realize something.’
    â€˜The cinema…’ Maitland pointed to the ceiling. ‘Of course, the basement of the ruined cinema.’ He lowered his head wearily on to the stale pillow. ‘My God, I’m still on the island…’
    â€˜Stop talking about the island! You can leave any time you want, I’m not keeping you here. It may not be good enough for you, but I’ve done what I can. If it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t be around any more to complain!’
    Maitland brought a hand to his face, feeling the sweat pour from his skin. ‘Oh my God … Look – I need a doctor.’
    â€˜We’ll call a doctor. You must rest now. You’ve been over-exciting yourself for days, deliberately, I think.’
    â€˜Jane, I’ll give you some money. Help me up on to the road and stop a car. How much money do you want?’
    Jane stopped pacing up and down the room. She looked back cannily at Maitland. ‘Have you got any money?’
    Maitland nodded wearily. Communicating the simplest information seemed to tax this intelligent but devious woman. Clearly she suspected everything around her.
    â€˜Yes – I’m well off … a senior partner in a firm of architects. You’ll be paid all you want, without any questions. Now, have you sent for help?’
    Jane ignored this. ‘Have you any money here – say five pounds?’
    â€˜In my wallet – it’s in my car, in the trunk. I’ve got about thirty pounds. I’ll give you ten.’
    â€˜In the trunk…’ Jane pondered this, and with a deft movement of her hand picked up the keys. ‘I’d better look after these.’
    Too tired to move, Maitland stared at the Charles Manson poster. Again he found himself losing the will to survive. He needed to sleep on the warm bed with its smell of cheap scent, in this windowless room deep in the ground. Far above, he heard the grass seething in the night wind.
    Heavy boots clattered down the staircase, barely waking him. Jane stepped forward aggressively. Deferring to her, the visitor stood outside the door, a scarred hand shielding his small eyes from the paraffin lamp. As he panted from the exertion of moving his burly body down the steps, Maitland recognized the harsh, phlegmy breathing of the man who had attacked him.
    The man was about fifty years old, plainly a mental defective of some kind, his low forehead blunted by a lifetime of uncertainty. His puckered face had the expression of a puzzled child, as if whatever limited intelligence he had been born with had never developed beyond his adolescence. All the stresses of a hard life had combined to produce this aged defective, knocked about by a race of unkind and indifferent adults but still clinging to his innocent faith in a simple world.
    Ridges of silver scar tissue marked his cheeks and eyebrows, almost joining across the depressed bridge of his nose, a blob of amorphous cartilage that needed endless attention. He wiped it with his strong hand, examining the phlegm in the paraffin light. Though clumsy, his body still had a certain power and athletic poise. As he swayed from side to side on his small feet Maitland saw that he