Concrete Island by J. G. Ballard Page A

moved with the marred grace of an acrobat or punch-drunk sparring partner who had gone down the hard way. He continually touched his face, like a boxer flicking away the sting of a sharp blow.
    â€˜Well, Proctor, did you find them?’ Jane asked.
    The man shook his head. He bounced from one foot to the next like a child too busy to visit the lavatory.
    â€˜Locked,’ he announced in a gruff voice. ‘Too strong for Proctor.’
    â€˜I’m surprised – I thought you could break anything. We’ll look again tomorrow, in the daylight.’
    â€˜Yes – Proctor find them tomorrow.’ He peered over her shoulder at Maitland, and she stepped back reluctantly.
    â€˜Proctor, he’s nearly asleep. Don’t wake him, or we’ll have a corpse on our hands.’
    â€˜No, Miss Jane.’
    Proctor stepped forward with exaggerated caution. Maitland turned his head, realizing that the man was wearing his dinner-jacket. The silk lapels gleamed as they were bunched outwards by the tight fit.
    Jane had also noticed the garment.
    â€˜What the hell are you wearing that for?’ she asked sharply. ‘Are you going to a party, or just dressing for dinner?’
    Proctor giggled at this. He looked down at himself, not without dignity. ‘To a party. Yes … Proctor and Miss Jane!’
    â€˜God Almighty … Well, take it off.’
    Proctor gazed incredulously at her, his broken face in an expression of pleading and resentment. He clung to the points of the lapels, as if frightened that they would fly away.
    â€˜Proctor! Do you want to be seen straight away? They’ll spot you a mile off in that fancy dress!’
    Proctor hovered in the doorway, accepting the logic of this but reluctant to part with the jacket.
    â€˜Night only,’ he temporized. ‘At night no one will see Proctor’s jacket.’
    â€˜All right – at night only. Don’t let it go to your head, though.’ She pointed to Maitland, who lay half-asleep on the damp pillow. ‘I’m going out, so you’ll have to keep an eye on him. Just leave him alone. Don’t start fiddling around with him, or hitting him again. And I don’t want you in this room – sit at the top of the steps.’
    Proctor nodded obediently. Like an eager conspirator, he sidled backwards through the door and climbed the staircase. Woken by the clatter on the wooden steps, Maitland recognized the industrial boots whose prints he had seen on the embankment. He tried to rouse himself, frightened of being left alone with this punch-drunk resident of the island. He assumed now that the tramp had scaled the muddy slope and replaced the trestles, hiding all traces of his accident.
    As he muttered to the young woman she sat down on the bed beside him. A sweet, euphoric smoke filled the room, hanging in long decks around her face. She cradled Maitland’s head with unexpected gentleness.
    For five minutes she comforted Maitland, rocking his head and murmuring to him reassuringly.
    â€˜You’ll be all right, love. Try to sleep, you’ll feel better when you wake. I’ll look after you, dear. You’re sleepy, aren’t you, my baby? Poor bundle, you need so much sleep. Sleepy baby, my rock-a-bye babe…’
    *   *   *
    When she had gone, Maitland lay half-awake in his fever, conscious of the tramp in his dinner-jacket watching him from the doorway. All night Proctor hovered over him, his heavy fingers roving around Maitland’s body, as if searching for some talisman that eluded him. Now and then Maitland would smell the hot breath of rancid wine in his mouth, and wake to see Proctor’s broken face staring down at him. In the light of the paraffin lamp his scarred face seemed to be made of polished stone.
    A few hours before dawn Jane Sheppard returned. Maitland heard her calling out in the distance as she crossed the island. She dismissed Proctor, who