Free Concrete Island by J. G. Ballard Page B

much.’
    â€˜I’ve almost forgotten how to eat. There’s another number I want you to ring. Dr Helen Fairfax – do you mind?’
    â€˜No – but I’m not on the phone. Try to relax. You’re absolutely exhausted.’
    She sat on the bed, exploring his right hip with her firm fingers. She grimaced as she peered at the inflamed wound exposed through the rent in his trousers. ‘This looks nasty. I’ll try to clean it for you.’
    Her hands moved around his hips and groin as she tried to losen his trousers. The chocolate melting in Maitland’s stomach made him feel light-headed. ‘It’s all right. They’ll deal with it at the hospital.’
    He began to tell the young woman about his crash, eager to fix his nightmare ordeal in someone else’s mind before it vanished.
    â€˜I was trapped there for three days – it’s hard to believe now. My car went over the edge, I don’t think I was hurt at first. But I couldn’t get off. Nobody stopped! It’s amazing – I was starving to death on this traffic island. Unless you’d come I would have died there…’
    Maitland broke off. Jane Sheppard was sitting with her back to him, her hip pressing against his right elbow. Her hands worked away expertly at his trousers. She had extended the slit to the waistband, but the rubberized fabric was too strong for the pair of nail-scissors in her hand. Lifting his right buttock, she began to cut at the lining of his hip pocket.
    Maitland watched her remove his car keys from the pocket. She looked hard at them, turning over each of the three keys, and caught his eye. With a small laugh she put them on the packing case.
    â€˜You were uncomfortable…’ As if to make the explanation convincing, she slid her hand on to his buttock and massaged the bruised skin for a few seconds.
    â€˜So no one stopped? I suppose you were surprised. These days we don’t notice other people’s selfishness until we’re on the receiving end ourselves.’
    Maitland turned his head, his eyes meeting her level gaze. He stopped himself from picking up the keys. His sense of relief and exhilaration had begun to fade, and he looked around the room, establishing its reality in his mind. Part of himself was still lying out in the rain, listening to the invisible, endlessly drumming traffic. For a moment he was frightened that the room and its young tenant might be part of some terminal delusion.
    â€˜It’s kind of you to look after me. You have called the ambulance?’
    â€˜I’ve arranged for help, yes. A friend of mine has gone. You’ll be all right.’
    â€˜Where are we exactly – are we near the island?’
    â€˜The “island” – is that what you call it?’
    â€˜The traffic island. The patch of waste ground below the motorway. Are we near there?’
    â€˜We’re near the motorway, yes. You’re quite safe, Mr Maitland.’
    Maitland listened to the distant murmur of the traffic. He noticed that his wrist-watch had gone, but he guessed it to be somewhere near midnight – hard experience told him that the last westbound traffic was leaving central London.
    â€˜My watch must have fallen off. How do you know my name?’
    â€˜We found some papers, in a briefcase near the car. Anyway, you talk to yourself all the time.’ She paused, eyeing him critically. ‘You’re tremendously angry with yourself about something, aren’t you?’
    Maitland ignored this. ‘You’ve seen the car? The silver Jaguar?’
    â€˜No – I mean, yes, I did. You confuse me when you talk about the island all the time.’ Half-resentfully, as if reminding Maitland of his debt to her, she said, ‘I brought you here. You’re damned heavy, you know, even for a big man.’
    â€˜Where are we – the traffic…’ Alarmed, Maitland tried to sit up. The young woman