by Colin Wilson
Glasp interrupted:
Sounds like ordinary sexual frustration!
I know. But what would have satisfied it? I suppose, if the girl had been alone, I might have made her acquaintance. I might have finally persuaded her to come to bed. But that wouldn’t satisfy it. It’s something far more violent and instantaneous than a desire for an affair. It’s a sudden longing for far more freedom than we possess. It’s an insight into freedom—that’s the reason it’s so overpowering. What’s more, it hasn’t much to do with ordinary lust. I once had a girl-friend . . . when I lived in a basement off the Marylebone Road. Well, one Sunday I made love to her more times than I would have thought possible—until I felt like a wet dish-rag. I got a feeling that I’d never want a woman again in all my life, that I’d emptied myself completely. Then I walked out of my front door to get the milk, and a girl came walking past overhead in a wide skirt that swayed open and showed me her legs and thighs. And, you know, I could have carried her off to bed whooping! I was astonished to realise that I hadn’t exhausted my desire. I’d just exhausted my desire for a particular girl. My appetite for women generally was untouched.
Glasp was frowning. He had not touched his wine since Sorme refilled the glass. He said:
I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove. I don’t see what you mean about an insight into freedom.
I can’t explain easily. But it has that effect. It’s a sort of vision of more life. It makes you feel as if you’ve been robbed of the powers of a god. It’s as if we are gods, as if we’re really free, but no one realises it. And it comes back to us occasionally through sex.
Glasp murmured: D. H. Lawrence and all that.
No, not just that. It’s not just the sexual orgasm that counts. I’ve got a friend—a journalist—who’s as indefatigable as Casanova at trying to seduce women. But he doesn’t actually enjoy going to bed with them. That part bores him. He just needs to feel the conquest, to feel that he can go to bed if he wants to. I can’t explain it . . . but I feel as if we ought to be gods, as if the freedom of the gods ought to belong to us naturally, but something’s taken it away.
Glasp said, smiling: You’ll make a good Catholic yet.
I doubt it. I just feel that our slavery to sex is just a need to regain something that is naturally ours. It would be an internal condition of tremendous intensity. There wouldn’t be any more sex crime then. It’d be a state of such inner power that other people would be superfluous. The need for a woman is only the need to regain that intensity for a moment. . . .
Glasp held up his hand to silence him. Sorme asked:
What is it?
Someone calling, Glasp said.
Sorme got up and went to the door. He heard the girl’s voice shouting:
Telephone! Mr. Sorme.
He called: Thank you.
He hurried downstairs, experiencing the warm sense of wellbeing that came from food and wine. The receiver was on the hall table. He said:
Hello?
Gerard? This is Austin.
Hello, Austin! How are you?
Very well, thanks. What are you doing now?
I’ve just finished supper. . . .
Are you free?
No. Oliver Glasp’s here.
Oh. . . .
Sorme could hear the disappointment in his voice. Wondering if it was dislike of Glasp, he asked:
What is it?
Nothing. When is he going?
Oh . . . in a couple of hours. He’s only just arrived.
Oh.
Why? Did you want me to come over?
Well, I did, rather. Can’t you get rid of him?
Not really. Not without being impolite. You know how touchy he is. Is it anything important?
No. I’d just like to see you. Could you come in a couple of hours?
Sorme said, sighing:
No, Austin. I’m dog-tired, and I’ve been falling asleep all day. When he goes I want to sleep.
I won’t keep you up all night, I promise.
On the point of yielding, Sorme thought of the prospect of getting to Albany Street, and felt a sudden certainty that he didn’t want to go. He said:
It’s not that. I’m really fagged out. I wouldn’t be good company if I came.
Nunne said, with scarcely concealed irritation:
Oh, all right!
Let’s make it tomorrow, or some time.
I’ll ring you again.
The line went dead. Sorme hung on for a moment, wondering if they had been cut off. He replaced the phone, and returned upstairs. He said:
That was Austin.
Glasp said:
Oh yes. What did he want?
Just to know how I felt. We had a late night last night.
Did he want to see you now?
He suggested it. I told him I couldn’t.
Glasp was bending over the case of records. He said:
I think you’ll find Mr. Nunne rather a demanding person before you’ve finished. . . .
Yes?
Glasp was sitting on the end of the bed; he had all the records spread over the counterpane. He said:
Like all weak men, he has to use his friends as crutches.
You think he’s weak?
Don’t you?
I’m . . . not sure.
You’ll find out, Glasp said.
He selected one of the records, saying:
Unless you’d like to go on talking, what about some Mozart?
Certainly. More wine?
No, thank you. And then, if you’re agreeable, let us adjourn to the nearest pub, where I can repay some of your hospitality with a little brandy. . . .
You don’t have to do that.
Nevertheless, I’d like to.
Glasp was affecting a curiously pedantic and stately manner of speaking. Sorme said, laughing:
That’s o.k. by me.
He put on the record, then relaxed in the armchair, closing his eyes. The events of the past twenty-four hours revolved round him as he listened; he felt as if they had happened to someone else.
. . . . .
The night was icy cold. As he came out of the Kentish Town tube, he wrapped his scarf closer round his throat, and buttoned the raincoat under his chin. Glasp had seemed completely drunk when he caught the train, but he had refused Sorme’s offer to go as far as Moorgate with him. He felt warm inside, and pleasantly tired, but not drunk.
As he was halfway up the first flight of stairs, the phone began to ring. He turned and retraced his steps. The door from the basement opened, and he called:
It’s o.k., Carlotte. I’ll answer it.
The voice said: Could I speak to Mr. Sorme, please?
Speaking!
Gerard? I didn’t recognise your voice! This is Bill.
Hello, old boy. Where are you?
I’ve just come on to the paper for the night. We’re going out to do a news story on this Greenwich murder. Would you like to come?
What sort of a story?
Oh, you know the sort of thing. . . . We go around with the police patrol and take photographs. Interested?
Well . . . I dunno. I would be, but I’m deadly sleepy, I didn’t get into bed till eight this morning. . . .
All right. Well skip it then. We’d got a spare seat in the car if you wanted to come. You know the photographer, Ted Billings?
Oh yes. Well look here, thanks a lot for asking me, and any other night I’d be delighted. . . . But I really am all in. But listen, Bill. If anything important crops up, let me know. I’d be quite interested to be on the spot. It’s just that I’m so sleepy at the moment. . . .
O.k., old boy. Don’t worry. I’ll call you some other night. Just thought you might like to come. See you later.
As he undressed he regretted being so tired. He would have enjoyed accompanying Payne on the story. He even wondered whether the thought of it might not keep him awake.
As soon as he climbed into bed, he knew better. A tide of warmth
caressed him. He chewed and swallowed the last of an alkaline tablet he had taken as a precaution against a hangover, and pressed his face closer into the pillow. The thought of Caroline passed through his mind, arousing a feeling of pleasure that arose partly from the memory of asking her to stay the night, and the realisation that, even if she had accepted, he would have been incapable of making love. It was also anticipation.
. . . . .
He woke up and stared at the door. For a moment he was uncertain whether it was not the climax of some dream that had wakened him so abruptly. As he listened, he heard a murmur of a voice. He peered at the luminous dial of his watch in the dark: it looked like six o’clock. He turned over, and buried his face in the sheet. A moment later he heard footsteps on the stairs. He raised his head, listening. Someone knocked on his door. He called:
Yes?
The door opened slightly. A man’s voice said:
Someone on the phone for you. You’re Mr. Sorme, aren’t you?
Yes . . . thanks. My God . . . what an hour! I’m awfully sorry. . . .
He pulled on his dressing-gown, and went outside. The man was going downstairs ahead of him. He was saying:
Phone’s right opposite my door. He woke me up.
I’m really terribly sorry. . . .
He was thinking: F—— that bloody Austin!
He said: I can’t tell you how sorry I am. . . .
Chap said it was an emergency. . . .
He went towards the phone, thinking: I’ll tell him he’ll get me chucked out if he goes on like this. . . . Six o’clock . . . bloody fool.
He snatched up the phone, and restrained an impulse to shout into it. He said, controlling his voice:
Hello?
Hello, Gerard. This is Bill Payne.
Bill! What do you want?
You told me to ring you if anything happened. There’s been a double murder in Whitechapel. . . .
His hair stirred, as if he had received an electric shock. For a moment he let the phone drop to his side, and heard Payne’s voice talking in the distance. After a moment, he raised it again, and heard the voice:
. . . that was an hour ago. So, if you want to get over you’d better come right away.
Where is it?
Mitre Street. It’s on the left, near Aldgate station. There’s a little café about two doors away from the station. I’ll meet you in there.
He said—O.k. I’ll be with you as soon as I can get over.
He replaced the phone and sat on the edge of the table. The cold made no difference. It seemed that the beating of his heart must be audible to everyone in the house.
CHAPTER TWO
In spite of two pairs of gloves, his hands were numb before he reached Holborn; he pulled off the left-hand glove and rode with the hand in his trouser pocket, pressed into the hollow of his thigh. The streets of the City were deserted. The cold had wakened him, yet he felt an internal exhaustion that was almost a luxury, as if all his emotions had been short-circuited. It made him feel strangely free. Before he arrived at the end of Leadenhall Street he had forgotten his reason for riding out so early. The sight of an old man, crouched in a bus shelter, covered with an overcoat, started a train of thought on the difficulty of human life, and on the human tendency to increase its difficulty by useless movement. The thought that, in three hours’ time, these streets would be crowded with people who possessed no motive beyond the working day, no deep certainties to counterbalance the confusion, made him grateful for the silence of the streets, and the inner silence of his own exhaustion.
He recognised Payne, standing by the entrance to the Underground. He was lighting a cigarette and stamping to warm his feet. Sorme called: Hi, Bill!
Hello, Gerard. Glad you made it.
Sorme leaned the bicycle against the wall and groped in the saddlebag for its chain.
I thought you were going to wait in the café?
I’ve only been out here a minute. I wanted a breath of air. You leaving your bike here?
I expect so. It’ll be o.k.
Good. Come on, then.
Where is this place?
Mitre Square. It’s on the other side of Houndsditch.
What happened?
Don’t know yet. Another woman found. And, half an hour before, they found another one over in Berner Street . . . that’s on the other side of the Commercial Road.
The killer’s been having a gala night!
This’ll cause some trouble, you see, Gerard. It’ll be the biggest manhunt England’s ever seen. The police daren’t let him get away with another.
Have you seen the bodies?
I got a look at the one in Mitre Square. The other one’s been taken away.
What time was it found?
This one? Only about an hour ago. We were just on our way back to the office when we got the flash. We got here before anyone else got on the scene.
Thanks for ringing me.
That’s o.k. This kind of thing can be very useful to a writer. As a matter of fact, it’s the first murder I’ve ever been engaged on so closely. But it’s fantastic, you know, Gerard. He must have killed the woman in Berner Street, and then come straight on down here, and killed again within fifteen minutes.
Have you phoned your story through?
Of course! We nearly got a scoop. First on the scene, photographs and everything.
Sorme had a sense of speaking in an excited babble; there were a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but they crowded one another out of his mind. He said:
Tell me about it in detail. Tell me exactly what happened.
I can’t. We don’t know the full story ourselves yet.
I mean—tell me what’s been happening to you all night.
In a moment. We’re nearly there.
How was she killed?
This one? Throat cut. But she’d been mutilated pretty badly.
How?
Her face slashed and stabbed all over.
Christ!
Payne said shortly: Made me feel pretty sick.
They turned into a narrow street; looking up at the sign, Sorme saw its name—Duke Street. Payne said:
Ugh! They’ve started to crowd already.
In the faint light, they could see people crowded halfway up the street. Payne said:
We’d better go round the other way. There’s only a narrow alley leading into the square from this side.
Sorme asked: What do you think will happen now? It’s bound to cause a panic.
There’s no telling. I’ve got a suspicion the Government wants the papers to keep the murders in the headlines to distract attention from the international situation.
That’s an interesting idea! You think it might be the Foreign Office behind the murders?
Wouldn’t be surprised! They say it’s full of sexual perverts . . . not the kind that are interested in women, though.
They turned off Aldgate again, and into the street that ran parallel with Duke Street. It was a narrow street, and the crowd blocked it from pavement to pavement.
Payne said resignedly:
You won’t see much, I’m afraid. You should have come with me last night.
Fear and excitement stirred his intestines. The street was silent; its stillness produced an atmosphere of tension and foreboding. As they came nearer, he realised that people were talking to one another in low voices, standing in groups. One of the largest groups was made up of photographers with flashlight cameras. Payne approached these. He asked:
Anything happened, Ted?
A short, plump man with a red face said:
Hello. Back again? No—nothing yet.
His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a heavy overcoat. Outside this, knotted around his neck, he wore a woollen scarf with bands of colour like a school-scarf.
Macmurdo here yet?
Yes. Came ten minutes ago. He’s in there.
He nodded towards the rope barrier that separated the street from the square. G
et a picture?
Yes. He didn’t like it.
About time he got used to it! one of the photographers said. He spat into the gutter.
Sorme approached the barrier. It was not difficult to get close; the crowd was not packed tightly. There was nothing to see. On the left-hand side of the square was a tall warehouse, labelled “Kearley and Tonge”. The only exit from the square seemed to be a narrow alleyway in the far right-hand corner. The police were crowded in this corner; two of them were doing something with a tape-measure, crouched on the pavement. Between the legs of the police, Sorme could see the body, covered with a cloth.
Somewhere on the far side of the square a woman began to howl; it was not a scream, but a harsh cry from the throat. The people standing near Sorme began to take an interest. One of them said:
’Ello! Somebody recognised her?
A woman answered: No. Nobody’s been near it.
The howling stopped suddenly. Payne came over to him.
Any idea what it was, Gerard?
No. It came from the alley over there.
Payne approached one of the policemen standing by the rope barrier; he held out his Press card, asking:
Can I go across?
No. I’m afraid you can’t, sir. My orders is to let no one across. Not till the pathologist comes.
Is that what they’re waiting for?
That’s right.
Who is it? Simpson?
I dunno, sir. All I know is, ’e’s being a ruddy long time.
Another policeman came over from the group in the corner. Payne asked him:
Any idea what the yelling was about?
The policeman, a middle-aged sergeant, said indifferently:
Just some woman havin’ ’ysterics.
One of the men standing near the barrier pressed forward belligerently. He said:
I should bladdy well think so too. What are you blokes doin’ for your wage packets, I’d like to know?
A fat woman, wearing a shawl over her head, said:
Now, Bert, don’t start gettin’ nasty. They’re doin’ their best.