Lay Her Among The Lilies

Slowly the eyes moved along the ceiling to the wall, down the wall until they rested on me.

We looked at each other. I was aware I was breathing gently and the cosh I held in my hand

was as unnecessary as a Tommy gun at a choir practice. I slid it back into my pocket.

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

She studied me, the nerve jumping and her eyes widening.

“Hello, there,” I said, cheerfully and quietly. I even managed a smile.

Malloy and his bedside manner: a talent to be discussed with bated breath by his

grandchildren; if he ever had any grandchildren, which was doubtful.

“Who are you?” She didn’t scream nor try to run up the wall, but the nerve kept on

jumping.

“I am a sort of detective,” I said, hoping to reassure her. “I’m here to take you home.”

Now I was closer to her I could see the pupils of her blue eyes were like pin-points.

“I haven’t any clothes,” she said. “They’ve taken them away.”

“I’ll find you some more. How do you feel?”

“All right.” The fair head rolled to the right and then to the left. “But I can’t remember who

I am. The man with the white hair told me I’ve lost my memory. He’s nice, isn’t he?”

“So I am told,” I said carefully. “But you want to go home, don’t you? “

“I haven’t a home.” She drew one long naked arm from under the sheet and ran slender

fingers through the mop of fair hair. Her hand slid down until it rested on the jumping nerve.

She pressed a finger against the nerve as if to hide it. “It got lost, but the nurse said they were

looking for it. Have you found it?”

“Yes; that’s why I am here.”

She thought about that for some moments, frowning.

“Then you know who I am?” she said at last.

“Your name is Anona Freedlander,” I said. “And you live in San Francisco.”

“Do I? I don’t remember that. Are you sure?”

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

I was eyeing her arm. It was riddled with tiny scars. They had kept her drugged for a long

time. She was more or less drugged now.

“Yes, I’m sure. Can you get out of bed?”

“I don’t think I want to,” she said. “I think I would rather go to sleep.”

“That’s all right,” I told her. “You go to sleep. We’re not ready to leave just yet. In a little

while: after you’ve had your sleep, we’ll go.”

“I haven’t any clothes, or did I tell you that? I haven’t anything on now. I threw my

nightdress into the bath. The nurse was very angry.”

“You don’t have to bother about anything. I’ll do the bothering. I’ll find you something to

wear when we’re ready to go.”

The heavy lids dropped suddenly, opened again with an effort. The finger slid off the nerve.

It wasn’t jumping any more.

“I like you,” she said drowsily. “Who did you say you were?”

“Malloy. Vic Malloy: a sort of detective.”

She nodded.

“Malloy. I’ll try to remember. I have a very bad memory. I never seem to remember

anything.” Again the lids began to fall. I stood over her, watching. “I don’t seem to be able to

keep awake.” Then after a long pause and when I thought she was asleep, she said in a faraway

voice: “She shot him, you know. I was there. She picked up the shot-gun and shot him.

It was horrible.”

I rubbed the tip of my nose with my forefinger. Silence settled over the room. She was

sleeping now. Whatever the nurse had pushed into her had swept her away into oblivion.

Maybe she wouldn’t come to the surface again until the morning. It meant carrying her out if

I could get out myself. But there was time to worry about that.

If I had to carry her I could wrap her in the sheet, but if she insisted on walking, then I’d

have to find her something to wear.

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

I looked around the room. The chest of drawers stood opposite the foot of the bed. I opened

one drawer after the other. Most of them were empty; the others contained towels and spare

bedding. No clothes.

I crossed the room to the cupboard, opened it and peered inside. There was a dressing-gown, slippers and two expanding suit-cases stacked neatly on the top shelf. I hauled one of

them down. On the lid were the embossed initials A.F. I unstrapped the case, opened it. The

contents solved my clothes problem. It was packed with clothes. I pawed through them. At

the bottom of the case was a Nurse’s uniform.

I dipped my fingers into the side pockets of the case. In one of them I found a small, blue-covered diary dated 1948.

I thumbed through it quickly. The entries were few and far between. There were several

references to ‘Jack’, and I guessed he was Jack Brett, the naval deserter, Mifflin had told me

about.

24.1 Movie with Jack. 7.45.

28.1 Dinner L’Etoile. Meet Jack 6.30.

29.1 Home for week-end.

5.2 Jack rejoining his ship.

Nothing more until March 10th.

10.3 Still no letter from Jack.

12.3 Dr. Salzer asked me if I would like outside work. I said yes.

16.3 Start work at Crestways.

18.3 Mr. Crosby died.

The rest of the diary was a blank as her life had been a blank since that date. She had gone

to Crestways presumably to nurse someone. She had seen Crosby die. So she had been locked

up in this room for two years and had drug shot into her in the hope that sooner or later her