Chapter II.XII

When mister inspector finally told the prisoner his long narration - starting with the incident with the grocery store's pickpeanut and ending with his last conversation in the office of the mister chief inspector Schaeymoure, Galbraith wiped the sweat from his forehead and licked his dry lips. The prisoner was still sitting opposite him on his uncomfortable wooden chair, with his hands folded in front of him. Feeling the expectant gaze of mister inspector on himself, Jordan shuddered all over and raised his right hand to his deathly pale face.

- What's wrong, aren't you feeling very well? - Galbraith asked with sympathy.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Jo sniffed and inhaled noisily. The inspector felt a little uneasy at the sight of the crying criminal, and he involuntarily turned his gaze to the surface of the table at which they had been sitting all this time. At the same time, he wondered what in his story could upset this twenty-six-year-old man so much.

- Delia... - Jordan's whisper reached his ears.

"Well yes, exactly", thought Galbraith, "It's all because of the girl, the same one who landed him behind bars". With this thought, mister inspector again raised his head to his interlocutor.

- I see, - he began, - that some parts of my story upset you. Sorry for this, but these are facts.

Speaking these words, the inspector mentally reproached himself "How can you, a policeman, stoop to the point of apologizing to a criminal?"

- The truth hurts, I know, - Jordan muttered quietly, blowing his nose into his sleeve.

- I really don't like this state of affairs myself, - Galbraith continued. - But you can rest assured...

Mister inspector suddenly interrupted his speech - he thought it would be very strange if the policeman gave the child molester a promise to bring justice to the child murderer. But the first words of this speech had an effect on the interlocutor - Jo suddenly stopped sniffling and fixed his eyes, red and wet with tears, on Galbraith.

- You will do your best to, - he said with anguish. - So that the child's soul can be avenged?

- I wonder at you... - the inspector began, but the prisoner did not let him finish.

- I want Delia not to feel abandoned in the next world. Do you understand me, mister inspector?

Having blurted out these words in despair, Jo then dropped his head into his hands - this plea clearly exhausted him. Galbraith continued to sit silently in his chair, not knowing what to answer to his interlocutor. A minute passed, but Jordan showed no signs of life, and Galbraith thought that the prisoner had fallen asleep. The inspector rose from the table, preparing to leave the interrogation room, but as soon as he took a few steps from the table, Jo suddenly opened his eyelids and, with a quiet groan, grabbed his chest with his hand. When Galbraith quickly walked to the door, which was just behind mister Thurlow, and, throwing it open, came face to face with a grim policeman holding a rubber baton - it was a guard who was assigned to monitor what was happening. The inspector immediately turned to him:

- Take this man back!

Clumsy and elderly man gave the inspector some kind of mocking glare:

- I hope mister did not die of boredom, listening to the cruel excuses of this vile p... - he began.

- Joke me here! - inspector threatened him with his finger and quickly left that boring room.

Guard, muttering under his breath "These are what the nerves need to listen...", slowly walked up to the chair behind which mister Thurlow was sitting, and, tensed slightly, grabbed him by the shoulders with both hands. Jo, whose eyes were feverishly rolling in their sockets, tried to instinctively throw off the fingers that grabbed him, but the guard, with incredible agility for his size, tore the prisoner from the chair and led him back to the cell.

The supervisor, standing next to the door leading to the cell, opened it for the guard, who pushed mister Thurlow inside. A couple of moments later, the heavy steel door slammed shut, and the sound of the heavy steps of both servant of the order died down in the corridor. Now this man was securely cut off from the other people. But twenty-six-year-old Jordan Thurlow no longer cared about what was happening in this world. He continued to lie on the floor in an uncomfortable position, staring blankly at the wall. It was unbearably stuffy in the cell, so he automatically opened his mouth wider in order to inhale at least a little air.

Little by little Jo lost track of where he was, and then suddenly the cheerful cries of children reached his ears. He hardly opened his eyes and was stunned in silent amazement - around him there was a grass-covered hillock. The midday sun was shining above his head, the birds were singing cheerfully, and ripe orange fruits hung from the branches of the apricot tree under which he lay. Getting to his feet, Jo slowly - as if every step he took was an unbearable burden for him - wandered to the side where the excited hubbub of kids could be heard. After a few steps he involuntarily stopped. What he saw shocked him to the core.

Along a well-trodden path straight towards him was approaching a small procession of five people. Ahead of all walked, moving her long legs wide in red shoes, young black-haired woman with bob hairstyle - her cream-coloured corduroy dress gave her figure a slightly pompous seriousness, making her look like a primary school teacher. Behind her, like a brood of little ducklings, walked four kids - two boys and two girls. They were barefoot and dressed in colourful dresses, pants and shirts. The children, judging by their pretty faces, were between seven and ten years old, no more. The boys, squinting at the bright sun, stayed a little behind, the girls, on the contrary, rushed forward and, cheerfully exchanging glances at each other, constantly tried to overtake their adult mentor.