An epilogue of sorts to "Gently With the Innocents"

"Why would anyone do that?"

The question was uncharacteristically soft, almost shy. George turned to regard his companion, absentmindedly rolling a cigarette in his fingers.

He knew what John was asking. He had expected the question, would have been more worried if it hadn't been asked. But what he hadn't anticipated was that John would expect an answer. He had realised that they would need to bring this up sooner or later, because despite what he might think John was too young to deal with a case like this on his own. Maybe George was too young, too. Or maybe they were both too human.

He had realised they'd talk about it. He would have started the conversation, if John hadn't. It was necessary. But he hadn't realised that John would turn to him like this, hesitant about whether it was alright to bring this up, but wanting an answer. Not a philosophical discourse, not vague reassurances. John wanted an answer; he wanted George to tell him what it was that drove people to systematically torment children for their own pleasure's sake.

George knew very well that John was aware that it was the sort of question nobody could answer satisfyingly. He didn't hold any illusions that John was so in awe of him that he thought his wisdom would give answers. John was simply scared and confused and still young enough to hope that someone would provide him with answers and truth, but too old to fully believe it.

And George now realised that he wanted John to continue believing it, or at least hoping. He realised that he wanted to give John those answers, wanted to explain away the cruelties of the world. And he hated admitting to himself that he couldn't.

He sighed.

"I don't know, John", he admitted silently. The young man glanced at him, before he too sighed and rose to leave. George hesitated, not sure if stopping him would do more good than harm but not wanting to let him go. He decided.

"John."

His sergeant turned around by half, obviously not really wanting to. George indicated that he should take a seat again with a movement of the head. John sighed – more for show than real annoyance, George thought – but obeyed.

They sat in tense silence for a moment before John broke it, again too quiet and shy.

"There's nothing good come out of it, is there?" he said, "Us finding out, I mean. It just brought everyone a load of trouble."

George stayed silent. It was something he had learned long ago, to patiently wait for a suspect or conversation partner to speak in response to silence instead of questions. It was much more revealing.

"Why do you do it?"

Hardly an unexpected question. But still not easy to answer. George had several prepared answers that he knew word by word, most of them meaningless and placid. John had probably heard them all before, though, and probably even given them. So in this case George would be completely honest, not just honest enough to not be lying.

"I don't know, really", he said, "All the usual reasons, I suppose. I wanted to do good. And I believed very strongly in the law. My father was a lawyer."

"But you don't now?"

George shrugged.

"I've questioned my beliefs many, many times during my years as a policeman. Sometimes I've asked myself whether the law really has any power to prevent evil and sometimes I've asked myself whether it does more evil than it stops."

The atrocities he had encountered during his years on the force had led him to question more than that. The existence of goodness, the existence of God, the point of living. But John didn't need to hear that. Besides, George wasn't quite sure if he wanted to share such intimate things with the young sergeant.

"But you still believe in it?" John asked, a note of pleading in his voice. "You still believe in us? The police, I mean. You believe we do good, right?"

George sighed heavily. Could he really tell John that this case had made him doubt that there was any point to their work at all? The man had already given up the chance to an inspector's position because of the case, and George didn't want him to become any more disillusioned. The thought almost made him smile. Since when had protecting his sergeant's innocence and peace of mind become important to him?

"Gov?" John's voice was more insistent now, almost demanding, "There is a point to what we do, isn't there?"

Was there? George didn't know anymore, really. What did it matter that they uncovered truths of the past when they were unable to stop the evils going on around them? Was there really a point in helping society take revenge on those who broke its rules? But he couldn't tell John that.

"Yes, I believe there is, John", he said. It wasn't a lie. He did, mostly, or at least wanted to believe so. And the fact that he stayed on the force, year after year no matter what doubts afflicted him, meant that on some level of consciousness he did feel that what he did mattered. "We prevent crimes and we uncover the truth. That does mean something."

"Why couldn't we prevent this?"

Smiling sadly George threw a glance at John, who was looking thoroughly dispirited. Some people would say the man was cocky and overconfident, and George agreed with them a lot of the time, but John was also insecure of his own value. He knew he was good at what he did, but he didn't know whether that mattered to anyone.

"You were hardly born, John."

"I meant the police force!" John snapped, "Why didn't anyone do something?"

"Well, first of all the force of the past isn't the same as today. We might have been useless back then without being useless now. Things are changing", George said. "And as for the apathy of the surroundings... well, people probably didn't want to notice. It's the same reason cops ignore corruption within the force. No-one wants to see misdeeds in their own group."

"You do."

It was said very quietly and John wasn't looking at George, instead studying a spot on the floor. George smiled wryly; he recognised the undercurrent of resentment in the comment, disliking George for his proneness to point out flaws, but he also recognised the admiration. And the question.

"I don't want to, John, but someone has to. Otherwise things like this can happen."

They went silent. John slowly pulled out a packet of cigarettes and began fiddling with it, taking inordinately long time to get a cigarette out. It was obvious he wasn't quite satisfied with the answers he had got, but was unsure how to continue. George wouldn't help him, partly because he didn't know what John wanted to know and partly because he had no answers to offer.

"You didn't answer my question", John finally broke the silence.

"Why anyone would do that?" George repeated, "I can't answer that. If you really want to know you should ask a psychologist."

"They'll just say it's their childhood..." John muttered, lighting the cigarette and taking a long draft.

"Maybe it is."

John shrugged, clearly not finding the theory very believable. George threw him an exasperated look.

"John, you can't ignore the answers you don't like and wait for one you do like. It doesn't work that way."

The younger man nodded slightly, whether to show he understood or that he agreed George couldn't tell. He pushed his hair out of his eyes with a jerky movement before speaking again, now even more hesitantly and a note of fear in his voice.

"I just... I don't want them to be the same as me", he said, "I mean... I don't want to believe that maybe... maybe it could've been me."

"'Did he who make the lamb make thee?'" George quoted softly.

"What?"

"Blake. It's from "Tyger, Tyger." You probably read it in school."

"Probably", John agreed, without conviction.

"No-one knows", George clarified, "You won't get any clear answers to that kind of questions. I can tell you that I don't believe in evil people, but I can also point you to many others who do. You'll just have to form your own opinion."

George wasn't sure whether he would have preferred to give John a clear answer, telling him what was right and wrong, or if this was better. He had always preferred those of his teachers who didn't stifle him with their own opinions, but as he realised that John might reach a different conclusion than he, he realised the appeal in just giving straight answers. Especially as he felt very much that John was too young, too inexperienced to make complex ethical judgements. He respected John's intelligence and he truly believed that with a bit of guidance the man could turn into a more than fine investigator, but he didn't feel entirely comfortable with letting the younger man roam freely in these ethical landscapes. He simply didn't trust John to make rational and thought-through decisions.

"I guess."

John had hardly got the words out before he stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes tiredly. George chuckled.

"Not been sleeping well lately?" he asked, a note of concern in his voice overriding the benevolent amusement. He did worry about John, more than he should, really, and wanted to make sure he took care of himself. Wanted to see to it that he was all right.

"Not really. This case, you know..."

George knew. There were always cases that kept you up at night. It was a sign that you were still human, that you weren't becoming part of what you tried to fight. The pain was the proof you were still sane.

"I know", he said, "Try not to think about it too much. Learn to live with it."

It wasn't useful advice. George wasn't even sure it was good advice. Was acclimatising yourself to a life of sleepless nights and days filled with the dreg of mankind something desirable, or even harmless? John nodded.

They were silent. A muted conversation could be heard from some way down the corridors, the constables on night duty, and George vaguely wondered whether they had reason to doubt the vocation they had chosen. Probably not.

"Go home now, John", George finally said. His sergeant threw him a glance George couldn't quite interpret before he shrugged and rose. He half-consciously straightened his jacket and swept his hair out of his face. Then he expectantly waited for George to follow his lead, head tilted in silent question when he didn't.

"You're not coming, gov?" he asked. George shook his head.

"No, not yet", he said. John remained hesitant, standing in place but his gaze going between George and the door. George smiled mildly and indicated with a motion of the head John was indeed dismissed. John opened his mouth to speak, to ask confirmation, but George interrupted. "Go home, John."

This time the kid obeyed. As he reached the door he turned to look at George and he seemed to consider for a moment. Then he nodded a good-bye and left.

George remained sitting on the bench, and he became aware of dimly missing the presence beside him at the same time as he let the soothing quiet of solitude wash over him. John was a good kid. He slowly lit a cigarette and made a decision to get up and go home when he had smoked it. He certainly couldn't be said to lack flaws, and he infuriated George a lot of the time, but he was a good kid.

George finished the cigarette and after a moment's hesitation lit another one, leaning back against the wall and sighing deeply.

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