by Colin Wilson
Thank you very much. I’ll come over now.
On the bus, travelling down Holborn, he wondered what he wanted to say to the priest. It was some compulsion to unravel a knot; but his ideas about what he was unravelling were uncertain. He was balanced on the edge of an excitement that refused to be defined.
The Hungarian priest took him up, and left him at the end of the corridor. Father Carruthers was sitting in front of the fire, wearing a dressing-gown over pyjamas. Sorme was pleased by the warmth of his grip as he shook hands: he was secretly afraid of boring the old man.
I’m glad you came, Gerard. Sit down.
When Sorme was seated, and before he could speak further, the priest leaned forward, saying:
Did Stein ask you any questions yesterday?
Yes. We went and had a cup of coffee. . . .
Who suggested that?
He did.
The priest looked grave.
And he asked you about Austin?
Why, yes. How did you know?
The priest ignored him. He was staring past Sorme’s head out of the window. Something in his face kept Sorme silent; it was an expression he would never have associated with the priest, a mixture of power and concentration with detached regret, a summary. The silence lengthened. Glancing cautiously at his wrist-watch, Sorme noticed it was almost twenty to four. The priest looked at him; he seemed to have come to a decision. He said quietly:
I think you are a reliable person, aren’t you, Gerard?
I hope so, father.
The priest’s tone was clear and business-like.
In my profession, I am often obliged to make decisions that contravene the law—or, rather, ignore it. I have to work upon the assumption that individual souls are of value. The law judges a man by what he has done: I have to judge him by what he is. Do you understand?
Sorme nodded.
What I am going to tell you now will place us both in that position. . . .
He was silent: Sorme waited, with a foreboding. He anticipated what the priest was going to say and prepared himself for it.
On Thursday night, Franz Stein received information from the Hamburg police that gave him reason to suppose that Austin might be the Whitechapel murderer.
He stopped. Sorme sat there, surprised by his own calm. He asked finally:
Will they arrest him?
Not yet.
Why?
They have no evidence. It would be very difficult to find evidence at this stage. He is being watched all the time.
And is he . . . the killer?
He could be.
The questions piled up in him, obstructing one another like a cumulative accident on an arterial highway; he felt them escaping in the confusion. The priest watched him without speaking. Sorme said:
He’s not insane. I’m certain he’s not insane.
I don’t know.
But . . . is it sense? Do you . . . do you know what the Hamburg report said?
Yes. He is well known to the prostitutes who cater for sadists. And he is suspected of murder.
Murder?
Of a young male prostitute. There is no definite evidence. He is one of a dozen suspects.
Sorme said with sudden indignation:
But hell, father . . . ! That’s no reason to suspect a man . . . of mass murder, I mean, is it? Is that all? Is there anything else?
No, that’s all.
But in that case, it’s not so serious. Austin might be one of a hundred suspects. And he has one great fact in his favour. He’s queer. You say he’s suspected of killing a male prostitute. Surely that . . .
Quite. The evidence is slim. But there is evidence. If Austin is the murderer . . . and it is just possible, after all . . . if he is the killer, then he stands no chance of escaping detection now. The police are clever. They know there is no point in alarming him. If they had any evidence at all, they’d make an arrest. As it is, they will watch him to see if he provides evidence. If he drove to Whitechapel tonight and walked around the streets—even if he did nothing more—they might arrest him.
After a silence, Sorme asked:
Suppose he is the killer . . . what’d happen to him if they caught him?
The priest said softly, with precision:
They would hang him.
Are you sure, father?
Quite sure.
No chance of Broadmoor?
None whatever. Even if he was declared insane, he would be hanged. He has no past record of mental instability—no periods in asylums, or past convictions that might be interpreted as pathological. They would have to hang him, as they hanged Heath and Haigh and Christie—because the newspapers have headlined the murders until there is a widespread neurosis about them.
Sorme knew suddenly, without needing to ask, why the priest had confided in him. He felt an urgency of anger rising in him, a protest against the unreasonableness of it all, the stupidity and unfairness that was a force of nature, not a human failing, and was therefore somehow unchallengeable. He asked quietly.
What am I to do, father?
That is difficult. I want to ask you one thing: please do not tell Austin. There are other ways. If you see him often . . .
I’ve just had lunch with him!
Good. Well, there are ways. You might pretend to notice that you are being followed. You might invent someone who has asked you questions about Austin. But if you tell him, and he is finally caught and tried for murder, then you are an accessory. Do you understand?
I see. . . . You think he might tell?
He would, eventually. Sooner or later, he would feel the need to confess fully. I am assuming now that he might be the murderer.
Sorme said:
Father . . . I promise I won’t tell him outright.
Good.
But . . . I dunno quite how to put it . . . have you any idea of whether it’s likely . . . of whether Austin might be . . . ?
The priest shrugged.
How can I tell? I haven’t seen Austin for a long time.
His reply left Sorme baffled; he could feel himself become inarticulate as he tried to explain himself. He said:
But I don’t think it’s likely, you know! It’s just not likely!
Why?
Because . . . well, because one’s friends don’t usually turn out to be murderers, I suppose.
The priest smiled.
Mine have.
Really?
On two occasions. However, that’s beside the point. After all, it can hardly come as a surprise to you that Austin should be suspected. You have spoken to me about your own suspicions.
Yes . . . but I think I know him better since then. He’s mixed up, I know. He’s almost the original crazy mixed-up kid. But he’s also gentle and good-tempered and generous. These qualities just don’t go with a killer.
The priest said:
And yet you showed no surprise when I told you of the Hamburg murder. Were you certain that was not Austin either?
I . . . I don’t know. I don’t think . . . it’s likely. But . . . well, how can I tell? I don’t know the circumstances. It’s possible. A foreign city, an attempt to con him or rob him in the night . . . and Austin’s enormously strong, I’d guess. It could happen and still not mean a thing. . . .
And supposing it was not like that? Supposing it was ordinary sadistic murder? How would you feel about it then?
I don’t know, but it wouldn’t necessarily make any difference. I’d still want to know why before I decided. I mean I’d want to get inside Austin’s skin and feel as he did when he . . . did it.
Why?
Because . . . you can’t judge anything otherwise. Besides, it’s not so hard to understand. Sometimes you don’t really do things—another part of you does them, and you’re only a spectator. I could put myself in the skin of a sadist all right.
Could you?
I . . . think so.
Have you ever caused suffering . . . physical suffering?
<
br /> I suppose so. I used to kill chickens at Christmas when I was a boy. But I didn’t particularly enjoy doing it. And I once drowned a mouse that I found in my waste bucket, and poured boiling water on it as it swam around. But that was because I was afraid it’d take hours to die. I wouldn’t do that now.
Why?
It’d make me feel sick. Besides, there’s an instinct in me that hates killing.
The priest said quietly and conclusively:
Then you could not place yourself in the mind of a sadist, could you?
That doesn’t follow. A sadist’s a sexual killer, isn’t he? That makes it different. Most people can sympathise to some extent with a sex crime.
Can they?
I . . . think so. I can, anyway. I think many people have a permanent feeling of being sexually under-privileged. But I’d have to think about it. It’s not easy.
Do you think of yourself as sexually under-privileged?
Yes, but that’s only the negative side of it. I think it’s a kind of vision . . . of complete fullness of life that underlies it. After all, the sexual impulse isn’t so important. I sometimes wish I could outgrow sex altogether. . . . I know that sounds odd, but it’s true.
It doesn’t sound at all odd, especially not to me. A man doesn’t have to be a saint to rise above sex. A great many scientists and mathematicians have done it, and a large proportion of the philosophers.
I know, father, I know. But it’s not as simple as that. You can’t just decide to exchange sex for the life of the mind or whatever it is. I used to have a Freudian friend whose favourite phase was ‘Everybody’s neurotic’. I used to think he was a fool, but I’m beginning to see his point. What’s a neurosis, after all? It’s a pocket of unfulfilled desire—any kind of desire. And human beings work on unfulfilled desires—there’s nothing else.
Except habit.
Yes; but habit only keeps us living. Desire keeps us moving forward. And we all want to keep moving, so we all cultivate our desires. You know something, father. I’ve been so confused for the past five years because I didn’t want enough. I thought I could live off Plato and Beethoven, and found I couldn’t. But it’s not because there’s anything wrong with Plato or Beethoven. It’s me—I’m not ready for them. But don’t you see, father, I shouldn’t be aware of sexual problems if I hadn’t tried to leave them behind. And I’m sure it’s the same with Austin. If he’s a sadist, it’s because he’s torn in two. I don’t know Austin as a sadist. I know him as a rather generous dilettante who likes ballet and music and philosophy. I think it’s the same with him as with me. You know, father, Shaw said we judge an artist by his highest moments and a criminal by his lowest. But what happens when a man’s a mixture of the two? You can’t sentence the criminal half to death and let the artist go free, can you? Especially when you know he wouldn’t be a criminal if he wasn’t an artist.
You think the criminal should be allowed to kill other human beings?
No, father. God forbid! I just think that . . .
He felt suddenly deflated. He finished lamely:
. . . it’s more important to cure him than punish him.
I agree. The problem with Austin is whether he’s curable. . . .
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter-past four. Sorme said:
I’d better go. I’ll try to find Austin.
Be careful, Gerard. You don’t want to be sent to prison as an accessory.
No, father.
The priest said, smiling:
Not to mention me.
I promise.
Before you go . . . would you mind asking Father Rakosi if there’s anyone waiting for me downstairs?
All right, father.
He met the Scotswoman as he opened the door. She said:
The man’s gone. He waited ten minutes, then said he was going for a walk.
The priest said: Good. I’m tired. Could I have a cup of tea, Mrs. Doughty?
Sorme went out into the rain and the falling dusk, feeling a stifled impatience with his sense of unreality. He felt as if he had just been acting in a play.
He half-recognised the man who was approaching him across the road; a moment later, he saw it was Glasp.
Hi, Oliver! Where are you going to?
He sensed immediately a certain moroseness in Glasp’s manner. Glasp said:
I was waiting for you.
There was a suggestion of a threat in his voice, that Sorme failed to understand.
How did you know I was here?
That woman told me. I was waiting to see Father Carruthers.
I see! That was you, was it? Well, what are you going to do now?
Glasp hesitated. Sorme looked at him closely, puzzled. Glasp said:
I didn’t know you were a close friend of Father Carruthers.
I’m not. But I’ve seen him several times.
They stood on the edge of the pavement. Sorme laid a hand on Glasp’s arm.
Come and have a cup of tea. We can’t stand here in this downpour.
Glasp accompanied him into Farringdon Road without speaking. They walked to the café where Sorme had been with Stein. Glasp was wearing the most threadbare and shabby overcoat Sorme had ever seen, and it was soaked with rain. He was also hatless; his red hair clung to his skull and forehead in strands; the rain made it look deep brown.
The café was warm, and almost empty. They sat near the window, where the steamed surface was like a wall between them and the gathering dusk. In normal circumstances, Glasp’s moroseness would have worried Sorme, but the excitement of his talk with the priest made him now indifferent to it. He drank his tea and thought about Nunne, wondering where he was now, trying to recollect any words or actions that might add weight to his suspicions.
He had almost emptied his cup before Glasp spoke:
What do you find to talk about with him?
With . . . ? Oh, Father Carruthers. Oh . . . various things. Nothing that would interest you.
No?
I don’t think so.
He had caught the suspicion in Glasp’s face. He said:
Why? Did you suppose we were talking about you?
Weren’t you?
No. Why on earth should we? You get some extraordinary ideas!
His tone was less restrained than his words; it implied: What makes you suppose we give a damn about you? Glasp coloured and drank a mouthful of tea in a gulp; Sorme immediately felt remorse. He said:
I’ve been talking over . . . some rather important subjects. . . . I can’t be more explicit.
Austin, Glasp said. It was not a question but a statement.
Yes.
Glasp said abruptly:
I’m sorry if I got the wrong idea. But . . . I’ve had one or two doses of people getting officious about me. And Father Carruthers used to be a member of the Reform-Oliver Society.
Not at all. Are you going to see him now?
No. I won’t go back.
Won’t he wonder where you are?
It doesn’t matter. He’s probably glad to escape a session. . . .
What are you doing now?
Going back home.
Why don’t you come back with me? Have a meal and talk.
As he said it, he was almost certain Glasp would refuse. He was surprised to see Glasp hesitating, and the moment brought an intuition of his fundamental loneliness. Glasp said:
I’ve already had one meal with you.
There’s not much, Sorme said. But there’s enough for two, anyway. You may as well.
All right. Thanks.
The prospect of the ride in the Underground, with a change at Tottenham Court Road, so depressed him that he hailed a passing taxi as they came into Holborn. Glasp said:
You’re picking up Austin’s habits!
Sorme said: Never mind. I don’t want to mess about in this rain.
He repressed his own sense of rashness by reflecting that Austin had paid for his lunch, and probably saved the pri
ce of the taxi.
. . . . .
He left Glasp to make the tea, and went downstairs to phone Nunne. There was no reply from the flat; the girl on the switchboard asked if she could take a message. Sorme declined, and returned to his room. The thought that the line might be tapped brought a sense of danger, and the realisation that the call might easily be traced back to his own address. The memory of his hesitation, as he had waited for a reply, the uncertainty whether to warn Nunne that he had something urgent to tell him, constricted his throat with a sense of a close escape.
Glasp was not in the room when he returned. He drew the curtains, looking towards the lights of the Kentish Town Road, wondering if the police thought it worth while to keep a watch on him too. He sat in the armchair, and indulged in a fantasy in which he was arrested with Austin as an accessory before the fact. He imagined the Public Prosecutor describing his excursions with Nunne into Spitalfields, his acting as a decoy to lure a woman into some alleyway. He remembered suddenly that he had told Stein that his acquaintance with Nunne had been very short, and he was amused by the sense of relief that took him unaware. When Glasp came back into the room, he was startled, having completely forgotten about him. Glasp said:
Look here, what about skipping tea? Come and have a drink with me?
Sorme looked at the clock.
Well . . . all right. That’s a good idea.
He could sense that Glasp was concerned about accepting his hospitality for a second time in three days; this worried him. He had no wish to make Glasp feel under obligation to him; accepting a drink from Glasp seemed an opportunity to disperse the awkwardness. He touched Glasp’s overcoat, that hung on the back of the door, dripping water on the floor.
You’d better borrow my raincoat. We’ll put this in the kitchen to dry.
That’s all right. I’ve worn it wetter than that.
Yes, but . . . it’d better dry out. Come to think of it, I’ve got a plastic mac somewhere in here.
He rummaged in an unpacked cardboard box in the bottom of the wardrobe, and found the macintosh, tied in a tight parcel. Glasp sat huddled over the fire, his knees apart, steam rising from his trousers. He had combed his hair; it was slicked back in a glossy wave, looking brilliantined. He said: