More Than Human

I went out and closed the door. All the way down to the police station I grinned. They’d take my report on Miss Kew and like it. And sometimes I laughed, thinking about this Stern, how he’d figure the loss of an afternoon and the gain of a thousand bucks. Much funnier than thinking about him being dead.

What the hell is morality, anyway?

Part Three: Morality

‘What’s he to you, Miss Gerald?’ demanded the sheriff.

‘Gerard,’ she corrected. She had grey-green eyes and a strange mouth. ‘He’s my cousin.’

‘All Adam’s chillun are cousins, one way or the other. You’ll have to tell me a little more than that.’

‘He was in the Air Force seven years ago,’ she said. ‘There was some – trouble. He was discharged. Medical.’

The sheriff thumbed through the file on the desk before him. ‘Remember the doctor’s name?’

‘Thompson first, then Bromfield. Dr Bromfield signed the discharge.’

‘Guess you do know something about him at that. What was he before he did his hitch in the Air Force?’

‘An engineer. I mean, he would have been if he’d finished school.’

‘Why didn’t he?’

She shrugged. ‘He just disappeared.’

‘So how do you know he’s here?’

‘I’d recognize him anywhere,’ she said. ‘I saw… I saw it happen.’

‘Did you now.’ The sheriff grunted, lifted the file, let it drop. ‘Look, Miss Gerald, it’s not my business to go advising people. But you seem like a nice respectable girl. Why don’t you just forget him?’

‘I’d like to see him, if I may,’ she said quietly.

‘He’s crazy. Did you know that?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Slammin’ his fist through a plate glass window. For nothing.’

She waited. He tried again. ‘He’s dirty. He don’t know his own name, hardly.’

‘May I see him?’

The sheriff uttered a wordless growl and stood up. ‘Them Air Force psychos had any sense, they’d’ve put him where he would never even get near a jail. This way.’

The walls were steel plates like a ship’s bulkhead, studded with rivets, painted a faded cream above and mustard colour below. Their footsteps echoed. The sheriff unlocked a heavy door with one small high grating and slid it aside. They stepped through and he closed and locked it. He motioned her ahead of him and they came into a barnlike area, concrete on walls and ceiling. Built around it was a sort of balcony; under and over this were the cells, steel-walled, fronted by close-set bars. There were perhaps twenty cells. Only a half dozen were occupied. It was a cold, unhappy place.

‘Well, what did you expect?’ demanded the sheriff, reading her expression. ‘The Waldorf Plaza or something?’

‘Where is he?’ she asked.

They walked to a cell on the lower tier. ‘Snap out of it, Barrows. Lady to see you.’

‘Hip! Oh, Hip!’

The prisoner did not move. He lay half on, half off a padded steel bunk, one foot on the mattress, one on the floor. His left arm was in a dirty sling.

‘See? Nary a word out of him. Satisfied, Miss?’

‘Let me in,’ she breathed. ‘Let me talk to him.’

He shrugged and reluctantly unlocked the door. She stepped in, turned. ‘May I speak to him alone?’

‘Liable to get hurt,’ he warned.

She gazed at him. Her mouth was extraordinarily expressive. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I’ll stay in the area here. You yell if you need help. S’help me I’ll put a slug through your neck, Barrows, if you try anything.’ He locked the barred door behind the girl.

She waited until he stepped away and then went to the prisoner. ‘Hip,’ she murmured. ‘Hip Barrows.’

His dull eyes slid in their sockets until they approximated her direction. The eyes closed and opened in a slow, numb blink.

She knelt beside him. ‘Mr Barrows,’ she whispered, ‘you don’t know me. I told them I was your cousin. I want to help you.’

He was silent.

She said, ‘I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t you want to get out?’

For a long moment he watched her face. Then his eyes went to the locked door and back to her face again.

She touched his forehead, his cheek. She pointed at the dirty sling. ‘Does it hurt much?’

His eyes lingered, withdrew from her face, found the bandage. With effort, they came up again. She asked, ‘Aren’t you going to say anything? Don’t you want me to help?’

He was silent for so long that she rose. ‘I’d better go. Don’t forget me. I’ll help you.’ She turned to the door.

He said,’Why?’

She returned to him. ‘Because you’re dirty and beaten and don’t care – and because none of that can hide what you are.’

‘You’re crazy,’ he muttered tiredly.

She smiled. ‘That’s what they say about you. So we have something in common.’

He swore, foully.

Unperturbed, she said, ‘You can’t hide behind that either. Now listen to me. Two men will come to see you this afternoon. One is a doctor. The other is a lawyer. We’ll have you out of here this evening.’

He raised his head and for the first time something came into his lethargic face. Whatever it was was not pretty. His voice came from deep in his chest. He growled, ‘What type doctor?’

‘For your arm,’ she said evenly. ‘Not a psychiatrist. You’ll never have to go through that again.’