Concrete island

16 The food source

They set off along the central valley towards the overpass. Maitland swung himself clumsily on the metal crutch, wishing that he could disconnect his right leg and throw it away. Proctor scurried ahead, his body bent horizontally at the waist, always below the level of the grass canopy. He deliberately sought out the areas of deepest growth, as if he were most at home in the invisible corridors that he had tunnelled in his endless passages around the island.

They approached the wire-mesh fence below the overpass. As they emerged from the grass, like swimmers coming ashore, Proctor gazed uncertainly at the concrete parapets around them. The magnified roar of the traffic unsettled him, and he seemed almost bemused now that he had left the sanctuary of the island and its green swaying ocean. Maitland noticed that the tramp moved his head as if he could barely focus on any distant object and, like a bird, relied on being able to react to brief sharp movements against the background of a static visual field. Watching him, Maitland visualized the half-blind acrobat, irises occluded by gathering cataracts, no longer able to see the surrounding traffic streams and living alone in this forgotten world whose furthest shores were defined only by the roar of automobile engines, the humming of tyres and squeal of brake linings. For Proctor, as Maitland had seen already, the deep grass was his vital medium. His scarred hands felt the flexing stems, reading their currents as they seethed around him. He thought of Proctor emerging from his den in the seconds after the crash, feeling the impact of the Jaguar jarring through the grass in a series of warning ripples…

Proctor nudged his arm. Darting into the oily shadows below the overpass, he scuttled towards the southern end of the wire-mesh fence. He climbed the shallow slope of the embankment and lay on his stomach, his face pressed against the fence. He turned and beckoned to Maitland, pulling him up the slope.

Lying beside the tramp, Maitland watched him force his scarred fingers through the steel mesh. In the dim light Maitland could see an amorphous mass of gleaming mucilage which lay in a three-feet-high heap across a stack of truck tyres. The nearest edge of this sludge-pile was already oozing through the mesh. Pressing his fingers through the fence, Proctor picked at the slices of wet bread, lumps of fatty meat and vegetable scraps embedded in the greasy avalanche.

This illicit garbage dump, Maitland assumed, was used by a local restaurant or food mart. Proctor unclipped the mess-tins from his belt. He showed their polished interiors to Maitland, indicating how clean they were. Already he had reclaimed two slices of wet bread and a nub of beef gristle. Although forbidding himself to eat now, he licked his fingers appreciatively. He urged Maitland forward, sliding a mess tin across to him.

Maitland stared at the fragments in Proctor's tin. He knew now where Proctor had found their meal that morning. Yet he felt no sense of revulsion, but only a flat pity for the tramp. Despite his own injuries, the insult to Proctor's body seemed far greater.

Trying to devise some means of rescuing both the tramp and himself, he waited for Proctor as the macerated food gleamed in the tacky light below the overpass.

When they returned to Proctor's den the rain had ended. Maitland sat against the shelter, watching the passing traffic. The rush-hour had ended, but a steady stream of cars and buses moved through the sunlight.

Proctor squatted down happily to this early lunch, eyeing the scraps of food in both mess-tins. After an elaborate pause he made his decision, handing Maitland the larger portion. With his clasp knife he cut the cork from the wine bottle and sat next to Maitland, beckoning him to eat. Despite this generosity, he obviously has no intention of sharing the wine with Maitland.

'Mr Maitland, eat,' Proctor said firmly, already tucking into the scraps with a strong appetite. 'It's good food today, good for Maitland's leg.'

He lifted the wine bottle to his lips.

Within ten minutes Proctor was drunk. Although he had swallowed little more than a third of the bottle, even this small quantity of alcohol had bolted through his brain, kicking away its fragile supports. He rolled from side to side, gabbling happily to himself and twisting his face into grotesque expressions. He slid over to Maitland when he saw the untouched food and gesticulated blearily.

'Do you want this, Proctor?' Maitland asked. 'I bet it was tasty.'

The tramp rolled about, dribbling the wine from his mouth. He went through a pantomime of reassuring Maitland that he would never take his food, but a moment later he had seized the mess-tin and was cramming the soggy fragments into his mouth. He touched Maitland on the arm and shoulder at various points, as if identifying him in his clouding mind. He sat close to Maitland, clearly glad to have him as a friend.

'It's good here on the island, isn't it, Proctor?' Maitland said. He felt a surge of affection for the tramp.

'It's good…' Proctor nodded muzzily. Most of the wine was running down the furrows of his cheeks and chin. He put an arm around Maitland's shoulders, testing this new friend.

'When are you going to leave here, Proctor?'

'Aah… never leave here.' Proctor lifted the bottle to his mouth, then lowered it and gazed sadly at the ground. 'There's nowhere for Proctor to go.'

'I suppose that's true.' Maitland watched Proctor stroke his arm. 'Isn't there anyone who could look after you – any family or friends?'

Proctor stared blankly into the air, as if trying to fathom this question. He leaned across Maitland, seizing his shoulders like a drunk in a bar, and said with crafty humour, 'Mr Maitland is Proctor's friend.'

'Right. I'm your friend. I have to be, don't I?' As the tramp pawed at his arm, Maitland felt the full extent of his insecurity, the fear that his last hiding place, appropriately in the centre of this alienating city, would be taken from him. At the same time, Maitland guessed that the tramp's mind was beginning to fade, and that he dimly perceived that he needed help and friendship.

'Proctor needs a… friend.' He coughed out a spray of wine.

'I guess you do.' Maitland clambered to his feet. He disengaged his left leg from Proctor's embrace. Proctor rolled back against the shelter, smiling to himself over the bottle of wine.

Maitland hobbled away, crossing the central valley to the higher ground on the northern side of the island. The sight of the traffic dulled his hunger. He felt faint and unsteady, but his nerves were calm. He surveyed the green triangle which had been his home for the past five days. Its dips and hollows, rises and hillocks he knew as intimately as his own body. Moving across it, he seemed to be following a contour line inside his head.

The grass was quiet, barely moving around him. Standing there, like a shepherd with a silent flock, he thought of the strange phrase he had muttered to himself during his delirium: I am the island.

Ten minutes later, as he reached the breaker's yard, an orange Toyota estate car emerged from the tunnel of the overpass. It cruised along the west-bound carriageway, its bright bodywork gleaming in the sunlight. Through the balustrade Maitland saw the face of the driver, a blonde-haired woman with a high-bridged nose and firm mouth. Her small but strong hands were held together at the top of the steering wheel in a characteristic pose.

'Catherine…! Stop…!' Maitland shouted into the air. The car, unmistakably his wife's, slowed as it approached the rear of an airline bus. Unsure whether he was seeing an hallucination brought on by his hunger, Maitland swung himself rapidly through the grass. He stopped to wave the crutch, stumbled and fell to the ground. By the time he picked himself up, shouting angrily at the grass, the car had accelerated away.

Maitland turned his back to the motorway. Almost certainly, Catherine had been visiting the office, presumably to discuss his disappearance with his two partners. This meant that none of them realized he had crashed on to a small patch of waste ground literally within view of their windows.

Gripping the metal crutch, Maitland swung himself towards the air-raid shelter. Somehow, before his strength gave out, he would force himself up the embankment.

Fifty feet from the shelter, he heard Jane Sheppard call out, 'Go on, Proctor – now! It's none of his business. Put it on before he comes.'