Concrete island

22 The pavilion of doors

'Wake up! Are you all right?'

The grass seethed around him, the harsh stems whipping at his face. Maitland lay back in the late afternoon light, his arms outstretched;, feeling the sunlight warm the bones of his chest. The yellow light moved across the grass, as if covering the blades with ever thicker layers of lacquer.

'Wake _up__!' The young woman's shrill voice roused him. She knelt in the deep grass and touched his shoulder, her eyes peering down suspiciously.

'Listen, are you feeling okay?' She looked over her shoulder at Proctor, crouching uneasily by the entrance to the cinema basement. 'Proctor, what die hell have you been doing to him? I don't know – maybe we ought to stick him up on the road somewhere and let the police find him.'

'_No__!'

Maitland stretched out a claw-like hand. He held Jane's right arm in a fierce grip. 'No – I want to stay here. For the time being.'

'All right…' The girl rubbed a bruised nerve. 'Stay here. I warn you, though, I might decide to leave. You can have my room.'

Maitland shook his head, trying to calm the girl. His sleep had refreshed him, and he felt calm and clear-headed again. He remembered the endless journeys on Proctor's back across the island, and the multiplying fragments of his own name that had seemed to taunt and confuse him. Perhaps the fever had returned without him realizing it, or hunger had made him light-headed enough to try to kill Proctor. As for the young woman, she was spending less and less time on the island – he would have to think up some way of keeping her there.

'Jane, if you go, I'll die here. Proctor's already planning to bury me.'

The young woman's eyes were like those of a pensive child examining an unfamiliar creature. 'But your leg looks better to me. You were nearly walking this morning.' She stood up, shaking her head. 'I don't know. All right, I'll stay. I brought the wine. I'll give it to Proctor.'

'Not yet.' Maitland sat up, his mind alert. He pointed a hand at Proctor. 'I want him to bring his bed.'

'Where to? He's not going to sleep with us.'

'Here. Ask him to bring it here. And then I want him to build a shelter for me. I'll tell him how to do it.'

Two hours later, Maitland lay back in the small shack, a pavilion of rust, which Proctor had built around him out of the discarded sections of car bodies. A semi-circle of doors formed the sides, tied together by their window pillars. Above, two hoods completed a primitive roof. Maitland lay comfortably in the open doorway of the pavilion, watching with satisfaction as Proctor completed the last assembly. He had brought not only his bed for Maitland, but two patched quilts. He lifted Maitland on to the bed and arranged the quilts around him. Fragments of the tramp's finger-writing covered several of the door-panels, but Maitland decided to let these stay.

'He's done a good job.' Jane had sauntered around the pavilion as Proctor laboured back and forth. Smoking the cigarette she had rolled, she kept half an eye on the distant traffic. Maitland's shack was shielded from the motorway by the high grass and ruined outbuildings. 'At least as good as most of the speculative building that's going up these days. I can see that you're a real architect.'

She leaned against a door, talking to Maitland through a window after winding down the glass. 'Are you going to spend the night here?'

'No -this is my – summer house.'

'What about his wine? Shall I give it to him?'

Proctor was squatting patiently nearby, wiping the sweat off his face with an old towel. He held the dinner-jacket in his hands, as if nervous of putting it on in case this aroused Maitland's irritation. His eyes were fixed on the bottle of wine in Jane's hands. Maitland pointed to the derelict pay-box.

'Tell him to wait over there. Where I can't see him.'

'He's worked hard for you.'

'Jane…' Wearily, Maitland beckoned her away. His emaciated body was lit by the red light of the setting sun. 'I'm not concerned with him any more.'

He took the bottle from her and raised it to his lips. He drank steadily, barely tasting the harsh wine. Like a mendicant desert chief presiding over his barren kingdom, he squatted on the bed in the mouth of the rusty pavilion. He had now gone beyond exhaustion and hunger to a state where the laws of physiology, the body's economy of needs and responses, had been suspended. He listened to the traffic, his eye on the red disc of the sun sinking behind the apartment blocks. The glass curtain-walling was jewelled by the light. The roar of the traffic seemed to come from the sun.

Maitland sat forward, handing the wine to Jane Sheppard as he stared hard at the apex of the island. For a brief moment he had seen the familiar white-haired figure of the old man with the light motorcycle, moving along the eastbound carriageway. His white hair had been bathed by the setting sun as he and his machine had appeared in a gap between two streams of traffic. Maitland tried to find him again, but gave up as vehicles clogged all lanes of the motorway. He remembered his previous state of terror on first seeing the old man. This time, by contrast, he felt reassured.

'Proctor's still waiting for his wine.'

The young woman stood in front of him, swaying aggressively, one hand holding the bottle by its neck. Most of the wine had gone, and Maitland realized that she had been drinking beside him for at least ten minutes. In her ugly euphoria, his silence only provoked her.

'You're a shit. Are you dying? Don't die here.'

Maitland watched her as she smoked her cigarette. She tossed her hair with a flourish, challenging Maitland's fascination with the sinking sun.

'You think you're going to leave here. Let me tell you, you're not. You imagine you can just he here, thinking all day. No one gives a damn what you think. You – you're no one.'

Maitland drifted away from her, dimly aware of her voice drumming through the darkening air. He was convinced that his body was no longer absorbing anything he ate or drank -the wine formed a cold lake within his stomach.

The girl struck his face with her hand, trying to hold his attention.

'Who are you going to hate next?' she asked aggressively. 'Aren't you being a little selective? You humiliate me with this kind of conversation. Take my word, I know more about beds than you do. I think you're a lousy middle-aged creep and I'm not going to pay your fucking bill. God – lunatic man you are. You're demented.'

Maitland turned his head, following her as she stalked up and down outside the pavilion, ranting to herself. She swayed about to some music in her head, and he knew that she was talking to someone else.

'I'm not dancing around this flat, I'm shuffling. It doesn't matter, it's so good. Let's keep our cool and we'll be separated by tomorrow afternoon. It's beautiful music, actually. Listen, I don't need anyone to like me. I'm past it. Don't be a child. How great that you and I are finished. I never want to see you again. I regard our relationship as ended. Please do not ring me on the telephone. Please do not interfere with my professional relationships. This is a beautiful record. It's great for sexual intercourse. You ought to try it sometime.'

In a moment of lucidity she stared down at Maitland through the reddening light, recognizing him before anger clouded her mind again.

'You'll get yourself run over, baby. Thank God you'll soon be out of my life. You ought to live in an oriental bazaar. I loved you dearly and you buggered it up. Just twelve hours and you'll be gone. Who wants relationships? You bore me right now. You never had any love and affection as a child. Don't commit any acts of violence tonight. There are lots of nice children here. Why are you such a shit? That fucking American girl. She's a whore. So conceptual. She's so brilliant. I know…'

Her voice ended. She fumbled on the ground for the wine bottle she had dropped, picked it up and threw it with a cry at Proctor, who was crouching in the fading light beside the pay-box. The bottle smashed against the wooden shutters. The glass fragments gleamed like crazed eyes.

Proctor moved from one fragment to the next, licking the pieces with his scarred lips. Maitland listened passively to the young woman when she began to taunt him with her promiscuity, almost as if she believed that he was the father of her dead child.

Maitland stood up and stepped over to her. Holding off her strong arms, he pulled her shoulders against his chest. He soothed and comforted her, brushing the wet hair from her face. When she had calmed, he steered her towards the entrance to the basement.

They sat on the bed together in the warm room. She choked briefly into her hands, her eyes clearing. Reviving, she turned urgently to Maitland.

'Look, you mustn't stay here any longer. You're a bag of bones. Your mind – you need a doctor. I'll telephone your wife right now, they'll come and get you this evening…'

'No.' Calmly, Maitland took her hands. 'Don't call her. Do you understand?'

'All right.' She nodded reluctantly. 'Listen, rest in here tonight. I'll help you on to the road tomorrow. We'll take you to a hospital.'

'Fine, Jane. We'll stay together.' Maitland put his arm around her shoulders. 'I don't want anyone to know I'm on the island.'

She leaned wearily against his chest.

'Proctor wants to leave. He asked me to take him with me.'