Concrete Island Page 4

  Rain fell across Maitland’s neck. He swung himself back to the Jaguar. The sun was hidden by the darkening cloud. Already it was raining heavily over central London. As he stepped into the car the cloudburst broke across the island. The gusts of rain-filled air levelled the swirling grass. The cars moving along the motorway were lashed by the rain, their headlamps flaring in the liquid darkness.

  Maitland sat back in the rear seat, watching the rain hit the window glass three inches from his face. He stared passively at the storm, grateful that he had even the minimal shelter of this crashed car. The rain striking the bonnet danced back through the open windshield, the motes of spray hitting his face.

  ‘Come on!’ Deliberately striking his injured leg, Maitland opened the rear door. The dark rain lashed at his head, soaking his torn clothes as he pulled out his leg and struggled with the crutch, twice dropping it to the ground. As he swung himself across the breaker’s yard the whirling raindrops cut like shot through the thin fabric of his jacket and trousers. Maitland turned his head, catching the rain in his open mouth as he lurched along.

  He stumbled over the bald tyres and fell to his knees. Seizing the loose bonnet hood he had noticed earlier, he struggled back to his feet. Ignoring the rain stinging his cold skin, and the sodden bandage on his right hand, he dragged the hood towards the Jaguar, lifted it on to the bonnet and jammed it upside down through the open windshield.

  He stood back as the first water rilled down the greasy metal on to the instrument panel of the Jaguar. Leaning on the crutch, Maitland shouted soundlessly to himself, an exultant madman in the driving rain. His wet clothes clung to him like a dead animal. He climbed into the car and crouched over the front seat with the reservoir canister, steering the wavering stream of water that moved down the upturned hood. The rain slackened when there was little more than half a pint of bubble-filled water in the canister, but after five minutes began again in a steady torrent.

  By the time the storm ended, thirty minutes later, Maitland had collected a full canister of water. All this while, as he crouched forward in his soaked clothes, bruised hands fumbling across the front seat, Maitland talked aloud to himself, half aware that he was bringing both Catherine and Helen Fairfax into these monologues, sometimes mimicking their voices, allowing them to taunt him with his incompetence. To keep himself awake, he deliberately strained his injured leg, in some way identifying the pain with the image in his mind of these two women.

  ‘Good … nearly full, don’t cut your mouth on this damned plastic. Not bad – two pints of water, enough for a couple of days. Catherine wouldn’t be impressed, though … She’d see the whole thing as some kind of over-extended joke. “Darling, you always have driven rather too fast, you know…” I’d like to see her here, as a matter of fact, how long would she last…? Interesting experiment. Wait a minute, Maitland, they’d stop for her. Thirty seconds on that motorway and they’d be locked bumper to bumper all the way back to Westway. What the hell am I talking about? Why blame them, Maitland? The rain’s going off … must get away from this island before my strength goes. Head hurts, might be concussion … cold here, bloody leg…’

  As the sun came out again, its rays sweeping through the unkempt grass like the tines of an invisible comb, Maitland shivered in his soaked clothes. He drank frugally from the reservoir bottle. The rain-water was well aerated but tasteless, and Maitland wondered whether he had suffered some minor brain damage that had dulled his perception of taste. He knew that his physical strength was moving along a perceptible downhill gradient. Losing interest in the water which he had worked so hard to collect, he climbed from the car and opened the trunk.

  Maitland stripped off his jacket and shirt. The wet rags fell from his hands into the pool of muddy water at his feet. It was now little more than twenty-four hours since his accident, but the skin of his arms and chest had blossomed into a garden of bruises, vividly coloured weals and markings. Maitland put on the spare dress-shirt, and buttoned on the dinner-jacket, turning up the collar. He threw his wallet into the trunk and locked down the lid.

  Even in the sunlight he felt frozen. In an effort to warm himself, he forced the cork into the wine bottle and sipped at the Burgundy. For the next hour he hobbled between the breaker’s yard and the embankment, carrying all the tyres and fenders he could find. The area around the cars soon became a quagmire in which he slid about like a scarecrow in his mud-spattered dinner-jacket.

  Around him the last of the day’s sunlight fell on the deep grass, drawing the stems even further into the air. This luxuriant growth seemed to Maitland an almost conscious attempt to inundate him. He set the tyres into the slope of the embankment, laboriously cutting the earth away with the crutch. The rain-washed soil liquefied around him in a soft avalanche. The fenders sank through the surface. As the first sounds of the evening rush-hour began, Maitland managed to climb half-way up the embankment, dragging the injured leg after him like a dying companion on a mountain wall.

  The traffic drummed over his head, no more than twenty feet away, an unceasing medley of horns and engines. At intervals the high face of an airline bus sped past, the passengers visible behind their windows. Maitland waved to them as he sat in the shifting mud.

  He was ten feet from the top, too exhausted to move forwards any further, when he saw that the palisade of wooden trestles had been replaced and strengthened. A few steps above his head, on the inverted beach that led up from the island, was the footprint of a steel-capped industrial boot, its stud-marks visible in the fading light. Maitland counted five other imprints. Had the highway maintenance staff repositioned the damaged trestles? The workmen had come down the slope, presumably looking for any injured driver or pedestrian at the time when he was hobbling about on the far side of the island.

  The sun fell behind the apartment blocks at White City. Giving up for the time being, Maitland crawled back to the car. As he clambered into the rear seat he knew that he was showing the first signs of fever. Hunched in the mud-stained dinner-jacket, he clutched at the wine bottle, trying to warm himself. The traffic moved through the dusk, headlamps flaring under the route indicators. The siren of a police car howled its way through the dusk. Maitland waited for it to stop, and for the police crew to come down the embankment with a stretcher. In his aching head the concrete overpass and the system of motorways in which he was marooned had begun to assume an ever more threatening size. The illuminated route indicators rotated above his head, marked with meaningless destinations, the names of Catherine, his mother and his son.

  By nine o’clock the bout of fever had passed. As the noise of the rush-hour receded, Maitland revived himself with several mouthfuls of wine. Sitting forward over the front seat, he stared at the rain-splashed instrument panel, concentrating whatever intelligence and energy were left to him. Somehow he could still devise a means of escaping from the island. Half a mile to the west, the lights were shining in the apartment blocks, where hundreds of families were finishing their evening meals. Any one of them would clearly see a fire or flare.

  Maitland watched the glowing arc of a cigarette butt thrown down the embankment from a passing car. At this point he realized that he was literally sitting on enough signal material to light up the entire island.

  7 The burning car

  CONTROLLING his excitement, Maitland looked down at the curved roof of the fuel tank. He pushed aside the overnight case and the tool-kit, and began to strike at the centre of the tank with the open jaws of the adjustable spanner. As the chips of paint stung his hands the exposed metal glinted in the darkness. The heavy-gauge steel inside its collision-resistant frame was too strong for him to perforate. Maitland dropped the spanner on to the muddy ground at his feet. A car approached through the tunnel of the overpass, its headlamps turning through the air twenty feet above his head. Maitland lowered himself to the ground and swivelled his head and shoulders under the rear fender. He searched for the stop-cock under the tank.

  How do you set fire to
a car, he asked himslf. The cliché of a thousand films and TV plays. As he sat against the trunk in the dim light he tried to remember a single detailed episode. If he opened the stop-cock the fuel would gush out on to the rain-sodden ground, evaporate and dilute itself within minutes. Besides, he had no matches. Some kind of spark was essential. Maitland looked over his shoulder at the dark hull of the car. He thought systematically about its electrical system – the high-voltage coil, the new battery, the distributor with its contact breaker … The car was alive with electrical points, even though the headlamp and brake-light circuit was out.

  The cigarette lighter! Clambering to his feet, Maitland pulled himself round to the driving seat. Switching on the ignition, he tested the dashboard lights, watching them glow in the darkness. He pressed in the cigarette lighter. Ten seconds later it jumped back against his palm. The red glow warmed his broken hands like a piece of the sun. He lay back as it faded, falling asleep for a few sconds.

  ‘Catherine … Catherine…’ Murmuring her name aloud, he deliberately provoked himself to keep awake, playing on any feelings of guilt, hostility or affection he could rouse. Carrying the wrench, he clambered from the car. He slung aside the water-course, lifted the Jaguar’s bonnet and peered into the engine compartment.

  ‘Fuel pump … right.’ Maitland hammered with the wrench at the glass cone on the pump. On the fifth blow, when he was ready to give up, the glass fractured. Maitland smashed away the pieces as the gasolene spilled over the engine and dripped on to the ground. Intoxicated by the smell of the raw fuel, Maitland leaned over the engine, head swaying with relief and exhaustion. He tried to calm himself. Within minutes he would be saved, probably be on his way to hospital …

  Maitland climbed back into the driving seat and switched on the ignition. The lights of the instrument panel, a faint glow in the cabin, were reflected in the lapels of his mud-smeared dinner-jacket. From the dashboard locker he took out his London route map, and folded it into a two-foot-long spill. Satisfied, he turned the ignition key and activated the starter motor. As the servo whined, turning over the engine, the car rocked from side to side. Fed by the reservoir of fuel in the float chambers of the carburettors, the engine almost coughed into life. As he released the starter Maitland could already smell the fuel being drawn from the tank by the pump and flooding through the broken glass cap. He listened to it splashing on to the ground below the car. He ran the starter motor for thirty seconds, until the cabin of the car was filled with the fumes.

  ‘Careful now … a lot of electrics around … roast to a crisp inside here…’

  He turned on the ignition and pressed in the cigarette lighter, steering his legs on to the ground through the door. When the lighter jumped out he plucked it from the dashboard, pivoted in his seat and lit the spill. He threw away the lighter and propelled himself on to the ground, the crutch in his left hand, the burning spill held in the air above his head.

  When he was six feet from the car he lay down in the damp grass. Fuel dripped from the wet engine, forming a pool between the wheels. Shielding his face with one arm, Maitland tossed the burning map under the car.

  A violent ball of flame erupted in the darkness, briefly illuminating the semi-circle of cars in the breaker’s yard. The engine blazed hotly, burning fuel dripping from its glowing sides. Pools of scattered fuel burned themselves out around the car. In the flame-light he could see the high wall of grass around the yard, the blades inclined forwards like the members of an eager audience.

  The dark, heavy smoke of burning gasolene lifted around the Jaguar’s engine through the open bonnet. Already the first cars were slowing down as they emerged from the overpass tunnel. Two drivers cruised together along the motorway, watching the vivid flames. Maitland lifted himself on to the crutch and swung himself towards them. He fell over twice, but each time pulled himself back on to his feet.

  ‘Stop…! Slow down…! Wait a minute…!’

  An aircraft swept overhead, its navigation lights pulsing in the rain-clouded sky. The pilot was throttling back on his final approach to London Airport, and the noise of the four huge turbofans drowned out the thin sounds of Maitland’s voice. Leaping along like an animated scarecrow, he watched the cars move away. Already the flames were subsiding as the last of the fuel burned itself away. Far from being the sustained conflagration he had hoped for, the fire burning in the engine compartment already resembled a large stove, an open brazier of the type used by scrap-metal workers. From the foot of the embankment all that was visible was a bright glow that illuminated the hulls of the overturned wrecks.

  Hoarse and exhausted, Maitland reached the embankment in a hobbling run, carried a few steps up the slope by his momentum. He tottered back on to the level ground as a large American saloon slowed down, almost stopping directly above him. The driver, a young man with blond shoulder-length hair, was eating a sandwich. He gazed down at Maitland as the last flames lifted from the Jaguar. When Maitland gestured pleadingly, unable to shout any more, the young man waved back, tossed away the sandwich and pressed hard on the accelerator, carrying the long car into the darkness.

  Maitland sat wearily on the embankment. Clearly this young driver had assumed that the burning car was part of some tramp’s celebration, or a small fire lit to provide an evening meal. Even from where he himself was sitting it was by no means clear that a car was burning at all.

  It was now ten o’clock, and the first lights were going out in the high-rise apartments. Too tired to move, and trying to decide where he could spend the night, Maitland lowered his eyes. Ten feet away from him was the white triangle of the discarded sandwich. Maitland stared at it, the pain in his injured leg forgotten.

  Without thinking, he crawled towards the sandwich. He had not eaten for thirty-six hours, and found it difficult to focus his mind. He looked down at the two slices of bread, held together around their filling of chicken and salad cream by the semi-circular impress of the young man’s teeth.

  Seizing the sandwich, Maitland devoured it. Intoxicated by the taste of animal fat and the moist texture of buttered bread, he made no effort to remove the grains of dirt. When he had finished the sandwich he licked the last drops of salad cream from his blackened fingers and searched the slope for any pieces of chicken that might have fallen out.

  Picking up the crutch, he took himself back to the Jaguar. The flames had died down, and the last smoke from the engine rose through the dark air. A light rain was coming down, the drops hissing on the cylinder head.

  The front of the car had been gutted. Maitland climbed into the back seat. Drinking steadily from the bottle of Burgundy, he gazed at the burnt-out instrument panel and steering wheel, and the front seats charred through to their springs.

  Despite his failure in setting fire to his car, Maitland felt a quiet satisfaction that he had found the discarded sandwich. Small step though this was, it stood in his mind as yet another success he had won since being marooned. Sooner or later he would meet the island on equal terms.

  He slept steadily until dawn.

  8 The messages

  THE morning sunlight crossed the instrument panel of the car, creeping through the coils of blackened wiring. Around the smoke-streaked windows the tall grass swayed in the warm air. In these first minutes after he had woken, Maitland lay against the rear seat, looking through the smeared glass at the motorway embankment. He brushed at the mud caked across the lapels of his dinner-jacket. It was eight ten a.m. He was surprised by the complete silence of the surrounding landscape, the uncanny absence of that relentless roar of rush-hour vehicles which had woken him the previous morning. It was almost as if some idle-minded technician responsible for maintaining the whole illusion of his marooning on the island had forgotten to switch on the sound.

  Maitland stirred his cramped body. His swollen leg lay alongside him like the limb of some partly invisible companion. By contrast, the rest of his once-heavy physique had shrunk during the night. The bones of his shoulders and rib-ca
ge pointed through his bruised skin, as if trying to detach themselves from the surrounding musculature. Maitland ran his torn nails through the light beard beginning to cover his face. Already he was thinking of the chicken sandwich he had eaten before falling asleep. The bland, fatty taste of meat and salad cream still clung to his teeth.

  Maitland sat forward over the front seat, peering down at the springs that protruded through the charred leather. Although he was now far weaker physically, his mind felt clear and alert. He knew that whatever he decided to do in his attempt to escape from the island, he must not exhaust himself. He remembered the hostility he had felt for his injured body, and the calculated way in which he had abused himself in order to keep going. From now on, he must relax a little, husband his self-confidence. It might take several hours to devise a means of escape, perhaps another day.

  His basic needs, a few of which he could meet, were for water, food, shelter, and some kind of signalling device. He would never be able to escape from the island unaided – the embankments were too steep, and even if he could winch himself to the top he would be barely conscious by the time he climbed the balustrade. Tottering across the road, he might easily be killed by a passing truck.

  Maitland pushed back the door and picked up the crutch. Even this small effort made his head swim. He leaned against the seat as the blades of crushed grass sprang through the open door, reaching into the car against his leg. The resilience of this coarse grass was a model of behaviour and survival.

  Maitland vomited emptily against the door, watching the globes of silver mucus drip on to the carpet. He lifted himself unsteadily on to the crutch and leaned against the car, doubting whether he would be able to stand for long. The mud-smeared dinner-jacket flapped around him in the light wind, several sizes too large for his gaunt shoulders.