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.Thisbattered piece of tubing was his first tool - and weapon, he reflected, thinking of Proctor.The tramp had not yet put in an appearance, but Maitland scanned the grass and nettlebanks, certain that he was lurking somewhere in the undergrowth.His confidence returning, Maitland climbed down from the roof of the outhouse.Hesteadied himself on the crutch, standing upright again.His trousers hung in rags from thewaistband, but he felt strong and determined.When he pressed his skull he could feel barbsof pain at the loosened sutures.The concussion and fever had cleared, leaving him with nomore than a light continuous headache.Maitland looked up at the motorway embankments.He knew that he was probablystrong enough to climb the earth slopes, but Proctor would be watching him, waiting forMaitland to make a move.Another physical confrontation with the tramp would set him backseveral days.Somehow he must get the girl to help him.She alone had any authority overProctor.Maitland swung himself back to the ruined cinema.Pressing through the grass, hereached the stairwell and lowered his injured leg down the steps to the basement room.He sat on the bed in the half-light, breaking the rusks in his hands.The child's foodcut his mouth, and he chewed carefully on the sharp spurs of sweet toast.He reached outwith the crutch and pulled the girl's suitcase towards him.He searched through the dressesand underwear, thinking that she might, conceivably, own some small weapon.At the bottom of the case, in the debris of make-up tubes, hairpins and used tissues,was a packet of fading snapshots.Curious about her background, Maitland spread thephotographs out on the bed.One showed a strong-faced adolescent girl, clearly Jane,standing protectively beside a faded middle-aged woman with glazed eyes on the frayedlawn of a small sanatorium.In another she was visiting a fairground, arm-in-arm with aheavy-set man twenty years older than herself.Maitland assumed that the man was herfather, but a wedding photograph showed Jane, proudly six months pregnant, standing in achurch beside the man, the fey-looking mother hovering in the background like a derangedghost.A second man appeared in the series, a dapper figure of about fifty in an old butwell-made suit, posed beside a white Bentley in the drive of a large Victorian house.Herfather, Maitland decided, or perhaps another middle-aged lover.What had happened to thechild?Maitland gathered the photographs together and put them back into the case.Froman empty tissue-box he took out a brown paper bag.Inside it were the materials of apot-smoker's kit - scraps of burnt silver foil, detached filter stubs, loose tobacco from brokencigarettes, a small block of hashish, cigarette papers and a roller, and a box of matches.Replacing the paper bag, Maitland weighed the matchbox in his hand.His eyesmoved swiftly around the room.From the packing case he pulled out the paraffin stove.Heswirled the contents in the half-light, listening to the soft liquid sound.Ten minutes later, Maitland hobbled on the crutch towards the ruined outhouse.Thered blanket was draped over one shoulder, and in his free hand he carried the paraffinstove.He pulled himself on to the roof and sat down on the shallow tiled slope, arranging thestove and blanket beside him.After making certain that neither Proctor nor the youngwoman was approaching, he tied a corner of the blanket to the crutch, and soaked the looseend of the woollen fabric in the paraffin from the stove.Along the motorway the flow ofSunday afternoon traffic was intermittent.Maitland watched, matchbox in hand, controllinghis eagerness.A line of saloon cars appeared, hemmed in behind an airline coach and afuel tanker moving abreast through the overpass tunnel.Maitland struck two of the matches and lit the blanket.The warm paraffin ignited witha soft purr, the low flames caressing the worn fabric.Black smoke lifted into the air.Maitland stood up, balancing on one leg, and began to semaphore with the burning blanket.Hechoked on a billow of acrid smoke and sat down, lifted himself up again and waved theblanket to and fro.As he expected, Proctor and the young woman soon appeared on the scene.Thetramp moved through the grass in a low crouch, like some wary beast, his scarred handsparting the blades.His crafty but stupid eyes were fixed on Maitland as if he were atrapper's quarry ready to be staked and skinned.By contrast, Jane Sheppard strolledsedately along the uneven ground, as if she had no interest in Maitland's attempt to escape.'I thought you two would turn up!' Maitland shouted.'Right, Proctor?'He climbed down from the roof of the outhouse and waved the burning blanket inProctor's face, making the tramp grunt and curse.Maitland lunged forward at him, chokingon the smoke, dropped to one knee and picked up the paraffin stove.As Proctor snatchedat the blanket, tearing away a ragged square of burning wool, Maitland dashed the stove onto the ground and swung the blanket through the spilt liquid.Moving on all fours, Proctor circled Maitland cautiously.The young woman reachedthe outhouse, dividing the grass with her small hands.Waving away the smoke in her face,she shouted at Proctor: 'Put it out! Never mind him I They'll see the smoke!'The charred blanket fell from the end of the crutch.Maitland scooped up the bundle ofsmoking rags, but Proctor lunged forward and snatched the blanket away.He stamped outthe flames, kicking the loose soil over the smouldering fibres.Maitland leaned weakly on the crutch.He waved at the passing cars, but no one hadstopped or even noticed this brief episode.He turned to face Proctor.The tramp picked upa worn half-brick and circled Maitland like a boxer.Maitland darted forward, striking Proctoron the shoulder with the crutch.His rising blood pressure pumped against the loose suturesof his skull, but landing this single blow exhilarated him.His left foot slipped on the brokenflagstones around the outhouse
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