Lay Her Among The Lilies

as Pharaoh’s tomb.

Well, I expected that. But if I could I was going to get out of here. The thought of going

back to that charnel-house of a room gave me the shakes. I took hold of the door handle and

bent my strength to it. Nothing happened. It was like trying to push over the Great Wall of

China.

That wasn’t the way out.

I retraced my steps to the far end of the corridor and examined the mess-grill window.

Nothing short of a crowbar would have shifted it, and even with a crowbar it would have

taken hall a day to break out.

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

The next move was to find a weapon. If I could find something I could use as a cosh I had

only to hide myself near the main door and wait for someone to show up. Q.E.D. Even a

Malloy will get an idea sometimes.

I began to move along the corridor. The first door I tried was unlocked. I peered cautiously

into darkness, listened, heard my own breathing and nothing else, groped for the light switch

and turned on the light. Probably Quell’s room. It was neat and tidy and clean, and there was

no weapon in sight or nothing I could use for a weapon. A white uniform hanging on a

stretcher gave me an idea. I slid into the room and tried on the coat. It didn’t fit me any better

than a mole-skin would fit a Polar bear, so I dropped the idea.

The next room was also empty of life. Above the dirty-looking bed was a large coloured

print of a girl in a G-string and a rope of pearls. She smiled at me invitingly, but I didn’t

smile back. That made it Bland’s room.

I slid in and shut the door. A rapid search through the chest of drawers produced among

other things a leather-bound cosh with a wrist thong: a nicely-balanced, murderous little

weapon, and just what I warned.

I went across the room to a cupboard, found a spare uniform and tried on the jacket. It was

a fair fit, a little big, but good enough. I changed, leaving my pyjamas on the floor. I felt a lot

better once I was in trousers and shoes again. Pyjamas and bare feet are not the kit for

fighting. I shoved the cosh into my hip pocket, and wished I had a gun.

At the bottom of the cupboard I found a pint bottle of Irish whisky. I broke the seal,

unscrewed the cap and took a slug. The liquor went down like silk and exploded in my

stomach like a touched-off Mills bomb.

Good liquor, I thought, and, to make sure, had another pull at the bottle. Still very good.

Then I packed the pint in a side pocket and moved to the door again. I was coming on.

As I opened the door, I heard footsteps. I stood quieter than a mouse that sees a cat, and

waited. The hatchet-faced nurse came along the corridor, humming to herself. She passed

quite close to me, and would have seen me if she had looked my way, but she didn’t. She

kept on, opened a door on the other side of the corridor and went into a dimly-lit room. The

door closed.

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

I waited, breathing gently, feeling a lot better for the whisky. Minutes ticked by. A small

piece of fluff, driven by the draught from under the door, scuttled along the corridor

apologetically. A sudden squall of rain lashed against the grill-covered window. The wind

sighed around the house. I kept on waiting. I didn’t want to cosh the nurse if I could help it.

I’m sentimental about hitting women: they hit me instead.

The nurse appeared again, walked the length of the corridor, produced a key, unlocked the

main door before I realized what she was doing. I saw the door open. I saw a flight of stairs

leading to a lighted something beyond. I jumped forward, but she had passed through the

doorway and closed the door behind her.

Anyway, I consoled myself I wasn’t ready to leave yet. The door could wait. I decided I

would investigate the room the nurse had just left. Maybe that was where Anona was.

I eased out the cosh, resisted the temptation to take another drink and walked along the

corridor. I paused outside the door, pressed my ear to the panel and listened. I heard nothing

but the wind and the rain against the mess-grilled window. I looked back over my shoulder.

No one was peering at me from around the other doors. The corridor looked as lonely and as

empty as a church on a Monday afternoon. I squeezed the door handle and turned slowly. The

door opened, and I looked into a room built and furnished along the lines of the room in

which I had been kept a prisoner.

There were two beds; one of them empty. In the other, opposite me, was a woman. A blue

night lamp made an eerie light over the white sheet and her white face. The halo of fair hair

rested on the pillow, the eyes were studying the ceiling with the perplexed look of a lost

child.

I pushed the door open a little wider and walked softly into the room, closed the door and

leaned against it. I wondered if she would scream. The rubber-lined door reassured me that if

she did no one would hear her; but she didn’t. Her eyes continued to stare at the ceiling, but a

nerve in her cheek began to jump. I waited. There was no immediate hurry, and I didn’t want

to scare her.