Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

  He became aware of the coldness of the room. He sat there, scowling into space, trying to analyse the fear. It was difficult, but he was certain it had to do with his own identity. He thought about the words that had come into his mind as he had stood there. Absurd. Arbitrary. He said aloud: It is because I might be anyone or anything. Or not exist at all. But if I didn’t exist . . . I. Exist. They mean the same thing.

  He began to walk up and down the room, thinking in words, as if talking. It was elusive. I. My own. The legitimate me recognises nothing as its own. All is alien. Even existence. I must disown existence too. If I exist, I am trapped.

  A new idea came to him. Limitedness. I don’t want limits. It is limits that are alien to me. The universe, space, time, being. Nothing must be limited. I am god. I am yesterday and today. I am the god Tem, maker of heaven, creator of things which are. If I am not, life is meaningless.

  He took down a volume on forensic medicine, and stared at a photograph of a man who had been killed in a railway accident. It failed to revive the vastation. The death in the book no longer represented reality. Like Baudelaire and de Sade, it was still two moves away from reality.

  After washing and drying the liqueur glasses, he walked to Kensington High Street and caught the tube. He was glad of the lunch-hour crowds. Silence and the sense of uncertainty had left him tired.

  . . . . .

  The Scotswoman opened the door; when she saw him, her face tightened. He said quickly:

  The father is expecting me.

  He was. It’s time for his rest now.

  He was irritated by her manner, but repressed the resentment, saying politely:

  I’m sorry. I’ll come back again another day.

  She hesitated, then stood back and opened the door:

  Come on inside, an’ I’ll see how he feels.

  He said quietly: Thank you. He kept his voice lowered in case Maunsell was downstairs; he had no particular wish to see him at the moment. The woman went upstairs without bothering to show him into the waiting-room. He was glad she didn’t waste words. When he approached the glass-panelled door, he heard a murmur of voices from outside. He stood in the dark hallway, leaning against the banister. The woman appeared on the stairs, beckoning him up.

  He can’t spare more’n a few moments. He should be asleep. He’s been at it all day.

  I won’t keep him long, Sorme promised.

  As soon as he encountered the faint disinfectant smell in the corridor, he was reminded of his talk on the previous day; a feeling of anticipation came over him as he reached the door. It disappeared immediately when he saw the priest, the curiously ugly face above the pyjama jacket; instead, he experienced the same slight disappointment he had felt on first meeting him.

  Father Carruthers was sitting in the armchair by the fire. A plaid rug and an eiderdown were wrapped around the lower half of his body.

  Come and sit down. How are you?

  Sorme laid the raincoat on the bed, and sat in the other armchair.

  I’m fine, father. I’m expecting Austin back today or tomorrow.

  Good. You’ve heard from him?

  He’s phoned me twice since yesterday.

  The priest grunted, and regarded him steadily. Sorme realised what he was thinking. He said:

  They weren’t just social calls. He seems to have something on his mind. Has he always been inclined to get excited over nothing, father?

  In what way?

  Well . . . being strange and secretive. Acting like a conspirator. I’m a little worried. . . .

  I’ve never known it. In what way is he strange?

  Sorme told the story of the phone calls, and ended by describ­ing the flat.

  While he talked he was aware of having the priest’s complete attention.

  The priest asked finally:

  I would like to know your exact reason for speaking to me of all this.

  The question embarrassed Sorme. He considered his answer carefully. He said slowly:

  Austin fascinates me. And I don’t fully know why he fascinates me. And . . . well, I like him. Do you see?

  He said this almost defiantly, because he could think of no other way of expressing it. The priest smiled, and the ugliness dissolved in the benevolence that flickered at Sorme.

  I understand.

  Besides . . . that flat of his . . . it made me feel I know him a lot better. And that I want to know him a lot better.

  The priest closed his eyes. He talked with his face turned towards the fire, as if talking to himself.

  What you tell me of this flat is new to me. And to some extent it is a surprise to me. But, after all, there is perhaps no reason to be surprised. It probably explains why Austin stopped coming here. Romanticism is a dubious refuge, but it is not a dangerous one. And no one remains in it for a long time.

  Sorme interrupted: You think he’ll come to the Catholic Church eventually?

  I think that it is not impossible.

  Sorme considered this, staring into the fire. The eyes in the white, invalid’s face remained closed. He said:

  Romanticism. . . . I see your point. That accounts for de L’Isle-Adam and Huysmans and the rest. But what about the crime photographs? And de Sade.

  You have answered yourself. De Sade—another romantic. Sadistic pictures. . . .

  I don’t know that they were sadistic. They were just revolting.

  For the sadist, the revolting causes pleasure.

  Is Austin a sadist, father?

  He asked the question quickly, and without thinking. Almost immediately he wondered if he had gone too far. The priest’s eyes opened and regarded him; the voice said calmly:

  Shall we say . . . he has tendencies. . . .

  Sorme said bluntly:

  Look here, father. If you think I’m talking out of turn, tell me so flatly. I don’t want to pry.

  The priest said, smiling:

  Yesterday, I hardly knew you. Today, you know a great deal more about Austin, and I know you a little better. I think we can speak frankly.

  Sorme felt relieved; the removal of the ambiguity made him more relaxed. He smiled broadly:

  Thank you, father. That’s kind of you. You see, I do feel a sort of tentative responsibility for Austin. I felt rather touched when he said I was the only person he could trust.

  Quite.

  But I don’t understand at all. Those women’s clothes, for instance. . . .

  Where are they now?

  Sorme said with sudden alarm:

  I left them downstairs in the hallway.

  That doesn’t matter. They’ll be quite safe.

  Sorme scowled at the palms of his hands. He said hesitantly:

  Father, I’m going to tell you what I’ve got on my mind, and if you think it’s tosh, just tell me so.

  I will.

  Well, look here, it’s like this. . . . Yesterday morning, two policemen tried to interview an old man in the house where I live . . . about the East End murders. Now I’m sure they had no special reason—no real suspicions of him. He was just an odd sort of crank, and perhaps he’s been in some sort of trouble with them before for a sexual offence, and he’s probably one of dozens they’d interview. Now Austin’s asked me to get some women’s clothes out of his flat. Supposing he’s expecting the police to want to interview him about the murders? Supposing he’s known to them as a man with sadistic tendencies? Does that make sense?

  The priest said:

  You don’t seriously think that Austin might be involved in these murders?

  Good lord, no! Of course not. But the police wouldn’t leave any stone unturned, would they? And the clothes belong to a woman. What do you think?

  It is possible . . . it is possible. But that would not explain Austin’s secrecy.

  Why not? It might. Anyway, perhaps he is in some sort of trouble. After all, a man with perversions can land in trouble pretty easily. Perhaps it isn’t the police he’s worried about. It could be that someone’s blac
kmailing him. . . .

  He stopped, with a sense that such speculation was futile. The priest’s eyes flicked up to his face and were lowered again.

  You may be right, but the best way to find out is to wait until Austin comes back, and ask him. It is not at all improbable that the police might question him in connection with the White­chapel murders—if he is known to them as a sexual invert. In cases of sadistic murder they spread their net very wide. They have to, since there is no other way.

  How do you mean, father?

  In the average murder, someone has a motive, and it is simply a matter of finding it. In a sexual crime—unless the criminal is caught in the act—the police have nothing to go on. I was in Düsseldorf at the time of the Kürten murders. The number of suspects the police interviewed over three years ran into hundreds of thousands. So it is not at all impossible that Austin may be one of those questioned.

  Sorme said, smiling:

  Or me . . . or anybody else?

  Quite.

  Sorme stood up. He said:

  Look, father, I’m not going to keep you any longer. I know you’re supposed to be resting. Thanks for listening to me. I had to talk to somebody about it or bust.

  You were right to come to me. But some time you must come here to talk about yourself.

  Thank you, father.

  One more thing. I have a friend—a German doctor—who is working with Scotland Yard. When you have talked to Austin—if you think he needs help—get him to contact me. Dr. Stein might be able to save some trouble.

  Thanks, father. I’ll do that.

  He picked up his coat, and opened the door. As he did so, he remembered a question he had forgotten to ask:

  By the way, father, do you know a painter named Glasp?

  Yes.

  Austin has some paintings by him on his walls. How old is he?

  I . . . I’m not sure. About twenty-six or so.

  Twenty-six? He must be very talented. Two of the paintings are dated nineteen forty-eight. That means he’d be about seventeen when he did them.

  He is very talented—or he was. He is also very poor, and he’s been in a mental home twice. Perhaps Austin will introduce you to him.

  Do you know where he lives, by any chance?

  I’m afraid not. I haven’t seen him for some years. Father Rakosi may have his address. Austin is sure to.

  He’s a Catholic?

  Yes.

  The door opened as he stood with his hand on the knob. It was the Scotswoman.

  Time for your rest, father.

  Sorme said:

  I’ll come again soon, if I may, father. Goodbye.

  Goodbye.

  In the hall, he encountered the Hungarian priest. He said:

  Pardon me, Father Carruthers said you might know the address of a painter called Glasp.

  Yes. Do you want it?

  If it’s no trouble, please.

  Wait just a moment. I can get it for you.

  He went into a room next to the waiting-room; a moment later, he reappeared with a notebook:

  It is number twelve Durward Street.

  Sorme wrote it down in his own address book. He asked:

  Where is it?

  East one, White­chapel.

  Do you know his Christian name?

  The priest looked surprised:

  You do not know him?

  No. I’ve seen some of his paintings. I thought I might go and see him some time.

  I see. You will not find him sociable. His name is Oliver. He is not easy to talk to.

  Sorme slipped his address book into his pocket.

  Thank you, father. Maybe I’ll write him a letter. Good afternoon.

  Outside, he looked around automatically for his bicycle, until he remembered he had travelled by Underground. He walked towards Chancery Lane station, swinging the leather grip. Glasp’s Christian name had confirmed his suspicion that the obscene drawings had been sketched by him: they were initialled O.G. But this in itself meant nothing. It was only another frag­ment of the jigsaw puzzle that fitted around Nunne.

  He had thought so much about Nunne that Nunne’s reality was becoming shadowy. He thought: I am negative. That’s the trouble. I am negative, and I am interested in Nunne because he is positive. I am like a stagnant pond. And Nunne is a stone that has disturbed the scum.

  He walked towards Kingsway, and the mood of gloom and self-­irritation deepened. He was aware that, to some extent, this was because he had not eaten since breakfast. The faint intoxication induced by the liqueurs was beginning to wear off too.

  In the Underground he came close to falling asleep. He wiped the tears out of his eyes with his handkerchief, and immediately yawned again.

  Tired. That’s the trouble. I’ll eat and sleep when I . . . oh, damnation.

  He remembered Caroline, and that he was due to meet her in two hours. The thought depressed him. He considered phoning her and telling her that he couldn’t make it, but the idea troubled him even more than the thought of being at Leicester Square by six o’clock. Finally, he left the train at Camden Town, and went to a ready-made tailors to buy trousers.

  Before he had been with her for a quarter of an hour he realised he liked her, that he was going to enjoy the evening. There was no kind of constraint between them. He observed that this was because she took him for granted, as if it was the tenth time he had taken her out and not the first. She treated him casually, like an intimate of long standing. It was something he had noticed also in Austin’s manner.

  The restaurant was in a basement in the King’s Road: it was entered through a coffee bar. Half a dozen voices called her name as soon as they came in, and a bearded youth, wearing a duffle-coat, flung his arms around her and kissed her, crying:

  Alloa, me luv, it’s grand ter see yer!

  She introduced him to Sorme, saying: This is Frank. He’s playing Verlaine in the play we’re doing.

  The young man had a plump, immature face; his beard was scanty and silky. Sorme found it hard to imagine anyone less like Verlaine. The youth said:

  Howdy, pardner? Ah hope you ain’t a fightin’ man, ’cause ah ain’t brought ma six shooters. Coffee for both of you?

  We’re having a meal downstairs, Caroline said. We may see you afterwards.

  Come to the party. It’s on the bomb-site opposite the art school. Bring a bottle of wine.

  We might do that, she said. They pushed their way through the crowd of youths and girls who lined the counter and the high stools along the walls. Sorme heard someone say:

  There’s Miss Beddable for Nineteen Fifty-eight.

  The downstairs was divided into two halves by a lattice screen, and lit by table lamps made from Chianti bottles. When an olive-skinned waiter hurried towards them, he expected him to address Caroline by her Christian name. But he only said:

  Table for two, sir?

  The menu cards were enormous, almost as large as a sheet of newspaper.

  Some of this stuff’s rather expensive.

  Don’t worry. I robbed my money box this morning.

  She surveyed the menu, and asked finally:

  Do you like escargots?

  He admitted that he had never tried them.

  Let’s both have some. Do you like garlic?

  Love it.

  Good. Shall we be pigs and have a dozen each?

  When the snails arrived, she instructed him in the use of the small tongs, and insisted that he drink the melted butter from the shell, after the soft, black body had been extracted and eaten. They had another gin and lime, followed by a bottle of hock. He began to feel relaxed and slightly irresponsible. He admitted to her:

  I wasn’t looking forward to this evening at all.

  No. Why not?

  I was a little nervous that we wouldn’t get along. Do you know something? I haven’t taken a girl out for the past five years.

  Good Heavens! What did you do? Take a monastic vow?

  No. Just stayed in my room,
mostly. Or in the British Museum Reading Room.

  But why? You’re not shy. . . .

  No. I was looking for something . . . if you see what I mean.

  She asked, smiling: For what?

  The roast chicken arrived, and gave him time to consider his answer. He said finally:

  The same thing Rimbaud was looking for. A vision.

  She said immediately: I’ve been trying to read a book about him, but it’s full of French quotations. He wanted to derange his senses or something, didn’t he?

  Yes.

  Did you try that?

  No. I tried some disciplines. But nothing happened.

  And what do you intend to try now?

  Funnily enough, I’m closer to it now than ever before. Do you know what a catalyst is?

  No.

  It’s a thing that causes a chemical reaction without getting altered itself. You make sulphuric acid gas by heating oxygen and sulphur dioxide. But you have to heat them over platinised asbestos. Otherwise nothing happens. But the platinised asbestos doesn’t change. Well, Austin has been like platinised asbestos for me. I had a lot of elements inside me that didn’t mix. I had a lot of knowledge that didn’t mean anything to me. Since I met him last Friday, I’ve started feeling alive for the first time in years.

  She asked, pouting:

  Don’t I come in anywhere?

  Of course you do. If it hadn’t been for Austin, I wouldn’t have met you, would I?

  How did you meet Austin?

  He told her while he ate. He was still telling her after the meal, when they went upstairs for coffee. Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and turned her head towards him, whispering:

  You know, I’m a little tipsy.

  She swayed backwards slightly, and he put both hands around her waist to steady her. She gripped them in hers for a moment and pulled them tight, then released them. He was feeling too well-fed and somnolent to be excited by the gesture, but it increased the sense of comfort and certainty he felt with her. As they drank coffee, she asked suddenly:

  Do you think Gertrude’s attractive?

  He stared hard at his cup, and said critically:

  Yes . . . she’s attractive.