Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

  Would you like some hot chocolate before I go to bed? I shall make some for myself.

  Thanks. I’d like some.

  She went into the bathroom; he heard the lock click. He stared at the door, shaking his head. Her changes of mood baffled him. He went downstairs slowly, toying with the idea of leaving, then abandoned it; she had already prepared the room.

  In the sitting-room, he helped himself to a sweet martini, and lay down on the settee, unlacing his shoes. He ate the remaining ham sandwich, and stared at the moving shadows on the ceiling. He remembered Miss Quincey’s face as she had talked about Austin, and experienced again a protective warmth. He thought with amusement: This family has a talent for inspiring affection. But they are all weak: Austin, Caroline, Gertrude. They need people.

  Strange, the element of love that has nothing to do with sex. I feel it for Austin, for Caroline. For Gertrude too. Less, perhaps, for Gertrude. Why is it supposed to be impossible to love more than one person?

  Still thinking about it, he fell into a light doze, lulled by the sound of running water from overhead.

  He woke up suddenly and half sat up. A moment later Gertrude Quincey came into the room, carrying a cup and saucer. She was wearing a blue dressing-gown, belted at the waist, and carpet slippers. Her hair was hanging loosely down her back; there was more of it than he realised. Without make-up, her face looked pale.

  What time is it?

  After midnight.

  I’ve been asleep.

  I know. I came in just now. I’m going to bed.

  Wait. Don’t go yet.

  She had set the cup down beside the settee. He reached out and took her hand before she could move away, and pulled it gently.

  It felt cold and slim. As she sat down, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. She made no movement to resist.

  You’re cold.

  I know. I always get cold after a bath.

  He tried to pull her down beside him, his hand on her waist. She resisted for a moment, then stood up. She said:

  I’ve left my chocolate outside.

  He listened as she went into the kitchen, then returned carrying her own cup. As she sat down beside him again, he felt a shock of pleasure. He had been certain she would sit in the armchair. He said:

  Put your feet on.

  No.

  Please.

  No, Gerard.

  He pulled at her waist, causing her to overbalance; as her body rested against him, he repeated:

  Please.

  She swung her feet up beside him, tugging at the bottom of the dressing-gown. Immediately, he pulled her closer and bent to kiss her. Her face turned away, and his lips met her neck. The flesh was cold. He made no attempt to force her, glad to feel her pressed against him, the coldness warming against his face. He kissed her ear and the side of her face, stroking the long hair with his free hand. She shivered against him, then seemed to die. Her eyes were closed. He reached out for the car rug that hung over the back of the settee, and pulled it over them, then lay beside her, closing his eyes, the satisfaction running through him in a faint tremor. In the darkness behind his closed lids he forgot she lay beside him, feeling a total evacuation of thoughts and impulses that left nothing but his body’s comfort. She had made no movement; only her breathing indicated she was alive. He was already half asleep when she stirred. She sat up, saying:

  We’d better drink this.

  He forced himself into a sitting position and took the cup from her. He drank it propped on one elbow, his shoulder against the cushion. It was lukewarm, and he drank it quickly. Neither spoke. As she took his cup, he lay down again; a moment later, she joined him. This time, she made no attempt to avoid his mouth as he kissed her. The thin lips excited him; he pressed them open slightly, breathing deeply. She was completely passive. His rising excitement brought a reaction of caution; he relaxed deliberately, and lay beside her again, pulling her against him. His left palm was flat against her back, enjoying the sensuous feel of the jaegar fabric that enclosed her body. The pleasure was a tension in him that resisted time; it was enough to feel her there. For a moment, his consciousness expanded and became complete, aware of his past, present and future as a unity, beyond self-doubt. When he looked at her face he knew she was not thinking, was deliberately refusing to think. He lay there watching the fire sink lower, and the hand of the electric clock moving from half-past twelve to one o’clock. Although she made no movement, he knew she was not asleep. He began to feel the desire to sleep in himself. He said softly:

  Let’s go to bed.

  For a moment she lay still, then stirred and pulled her legs clear of the blanket. He let her go out of the room first, then stood up and stretched. The empty cups were on the rug; he picked them up and placed them on the table. Then he went out of the living-room, turning off the light. As he passed Caroline’s room, he went in and turned off the electric fire.

  Her door was closed. It opened when he pushed it; the room was in darkness. From the bed, her voice said:

  Please go away, Gerard.

  He said gently:

  Don’t be silly.

  He undressed in the darkness, and climbed into bed beside her. She was wearing a thin nightgown, like the one he had seen in Caroline’s room; its contact with his naked flesh was a shock that destroyed his calm. His hand felt the curve of her thigh, over the buttock; he began to kiss her. When she pulled away, he said:

  Wouldn’t you have been disappointed if I’d slept in Caroline’s room?

  Her voice was a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard:

  I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t think when I invited you . . .

  I know you didn’t. But just now, when I came up? Did you still want me to sleep in Caroline’s bed?

  I . . . don’t know.

  He recognised the voice of a woman refusing to think. He started to take the nightdress off.

  No, please. You mustn’t.

  Let me take it off. I want you naked.

  You . . . can’t. It’s never happened before.

  All right, I won’t. But let me take it off.

  She moved her body to allow him to free it, and he dropped it on to the floor. As he felt her body against him he knew nothing could stop it. In spite of her fear and his promise it would happen, and their bodies knew it. He felt her yielding, becoming passive against him, as he moved.

  . . . . .

  The dawn was showing through the curtains. He looked at her through the grey light and saw her eyes were open.

  How do you feel, sweet?

  Still alive.

  Why, did you think it would kill you?

  For a while, yes.

  He kissed her, and experienced a pressure of tenderness that took him by surprise. He looked down at her face, the hair spread loosely against the pillow. He said:

  It’s a funny thing . . .

  What?

  I think . . . I’m a little in love with you.

  She said: Good.

  Her arms closed around him, pressing him against her; he kissed her cheek, and the hair above her ear. He said:

  It’s so silly, sweet. What are we going to do?

  What do you want to do?

  Stay like this for six months. Just like this.

  You can’t. You’d get cramp.

  I know. And you’d get tired. And I’d lose my hair. What do you want to do?

  She kissed his ear, caressing the stubble on his jaw with her left hand.

  Whatever you want to do.

  Don’t you feel . . . guilty about . . . what’s happened?

  No.

  What do you think Brother Robbins’d say?

  I don’t care.

  He let her warmth draw him down, feeling the tenderness that was a kind of annihilation. It was like kissing her for the first time. The night had made her into a different person. He said into her ear:

  It’s a funny thing . . . it’s never been like this before.

  Hasn’t it? Ho
w is it different?

  It . . . feels as though I’m in love with you.

  Good.

  You keep saying ‘good’. Is it all that good?

  She nodded, her face against his hair, her body moving gently. He said:

  You know, Thomas Mann said the words of the marriage service are nonsense: These two shall be one flesh. Because sex depends on strangeness, on curiosity. But it’s not true. Two people can become one flesh. . . .

  You ought to stop philosophising, Gerard.

  He said, laughing:

  I expect you’re right.

  He lay beside her, his arm around her shoulders, looking at the ceiling.

  Tell me something, sweet.

  What?

  Why didn’t it ever happen before? To you, I mean.

  I don’t know. It just didn’t.

  Didn’t you ever want it to?

  It wasn’t that. It was . . . Oh, let’s not talk about it now.

  All right.

  It’s not that I don’t want you to know. But not now.

  All right.

  I’ll tell you some time. It’s not that I want to hide anything.

  No. You wouldn’t have anything to hide, anyway. You’re not the type.

  Neither are you.

  He said:

  Hmm. I don’t know about that. There are one or two em­barrassing episodes. . . .

  They wouldn’t worry me.

  I’m not so sure. One of them would.

  Why?

  Oh, never mind. . . .

  Does it concern me? If it doesn’t, I don’t want to know.

  Well, it does, in a way.

  She lay perfectly still. She asked:

  It’s not Austin, is it?

  Austin? Why should . . . ? You don’t think . . . No! Is that what you mean?

  I’m sorry. I know it’s silly.

  He kissed her face, laughing.

  Poor sweet! You think you’ve got a sexual gymnast?

  No. I didn’t think that. But how can it concern me if it isn’t Austin?

  She pulled away to look at his face. She said suddenly:

  It isn’t Caroline, is it?

  He found it difficult to answer immediately. She repeated:

  Is it?

  I’m afraid it is.

  Oh Gerard! But . . . you only met her a week ago.

  I know.

  But . . . what happened? Surely . . . it can’t have developed far in a week?

  We have, haven’t we?

  Do you mean . . . ? Have you?

  I’m afraid I have.

  But when? And how? How did it happen?

  He pulled away from her, propping himself on his elbow, where he could see her face. He said tiredly:

  My sweet, it’s no good asking me how it happens. She’s a pretty girl. On the first evening I took her out, she told me she’d like me to become her lover. . . . I didn’t object. I suppose it’s very wicked, but I didn’t feel like being virtuous . . .

  She lay there, looking at him. Her eyes seemed unusually large, and her lips very full. She asked:

  Are you in love with her?

  He gave the answer she wanted:

  No.

  Is she in love with you?

  I don’t suppose so. She may be infatuated with me. But next week it’ll be some actor or writer.

  She said slowly:

  I don’t know quite what to say. . . . So, you’re Caroline’s lover as well as mine?

  I was Caroline’s lover, technically speaking.

  And you’ve decided not to be any more?

  He said firmly:

  Now listen, sweet. Let’s get this clear. I’ve told you this because it’s no good keeping it a secret. Anyway, I’d rather you knew. If you want to throw me out and tell me never to come back . . . well, I’d expect it. Would you rather I hadn’t told you?

  No. I suppose I’d have to know eventually. But what do you want me to do now?

  He lay down again, pulling the blanket over his shoulder.

  I don’t know, sweet. You’d better think about it.

  He stared out of the window, then at the dressing-table that was clearly visible in the dawn light. After a moment, she said:

  I don’t understand Caroline. Does she often do things like this?

  No. At least, she hasn’t . . . gone quite so far.

  But . . . she asked you to become her lover?

  Don’t put all the blame on her. It takes two to climb into bed. Anyway, there’s no point in making excuses. I’m afraid it’s happened now.

  When she did not reply, he turned over and looked at her; immediately, he had to restrain an impulse to put his arms round her. He said:

  Well . . . am I thrown out?

  Do you want to be?

  No.

  She smiled at him; it was sad and brief.

  Then I don’t suppose you are.

  He leaned over and kissed her eyelid, and tasted the salt on the lashes. He said.

  Poor sweet. I’m sorry, I really am. But . . . what are we going to do?

  About what?

  Well, about Caroline. I’m supposed to see her tonight. And, anyway, what ought I to do about her? I shall have to stop seeing her. But you can see the difficulties.

  Do you want to stop seeing her?

  Yes.

  She laughed suddenly.

  You really are silly. Why on earth did it have to be my niece?

  I’m sorry sweet, I really am. . . .

  Supposing you changed your room? Moved up to Hampstead? I know a room . . .

  I couldn’t do that. It’d seem like cowardice. The only alterna­tive I can think of is to write to her and say I’ve gone abroad.

  Why not? You could go to Paris or Rome for a few weeks. She’ll find somebody else while you’re away.

  Oh, I wouldn’t really go abroad. I couldn’t afford that. But I could go home for a few months—to Yorkshire. I wouldn’t feel so bad if I’d really gone far away.

  She said hesitantly.

  If you liked . . . we could go to Paris. For Christmas and the New Year. And even then, we needn’t come back here. I know a cottage in the Lake District. . . .

  He bent over her and kissed her.

  Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t take your money.

  Why not? If you were married to me you’d take it. . . .

  She stopped suddenly. For a moment, he hardly noticed; her nearness was sending excitement through him, radiating from the hand that could feel the smoothness of her thigh. He said:

  Do you want me to marry you?

  She shook her head.

  I don’t care. I want to do whatever you want to. . . .

  You’re sweet. . . . But that’s no answer.

  But we can leave London, Gerard. Why can’t we do that?

  He resisted the impulse to embrace her again, moving his body away from her. He said:

  I’ll tell you the main reason, sweet. I couldn’t walk out on Austin.

  What has Austin got to do with it?

  I . . . can’t explain.

  But . . . I don’t understand. Is Austin in some sort of trouble?

  He looked at her puzzled face, and felt again her basic un­certainty of him. He said:

  Listen, sweet, let’s get up and make some coffee. And I’ll try to explain to you. But let me think about it for a while.

  Without speaking, she slipped out of the bed; he stared with admiration at the slim, firm body as she moved across the room. She snatched the dressing-gown from the hook on the door, and bent to switch on the electric fire. Then he was alone, listening to the rain that had started to drum gently on the windows.

  He rolled over, and felt the warm area left by her body; it evoked a feeling of warmth and pity. He threw back the bed­clothes and stepped on to the carpet. The air was cold; he pulled on his shirt hurriedly, standing near the fire, thinking: Am I in love with her? Is it possible after one night?

  He belted his trousers, then stopped, warming his han
ds and knees. That’s the trouble with being self-divided. You can never tell. I feel as if I’m in love with her now. What about tomorrow?

  Caroline. She’s sweet, but it’s not the same. She’s bound to know about Gertrude eventually. Anyway, it wouldn’t be wise to tie up with Gertrude permanently. In ten years’ time, she’ll be nearly fifty; I still under forty.

  He stared at the photograph of her on the dressing-table; she was in nurse’s uniform, and looked about ten years younger. The eyes had the same expression he had noticed earlier in bed; they were wise and somehow startled. He thought: But I’m in love with her. Right now. Even if it only lasts until tomorrow.

  The kitchen felt warm; the coffee percolator was bubbling on the stove. He bent over her and kissed her forehead. Her skin was clear and healthy; he was glad of that. He said:

  You look like Lorelei with your hair down your back.

  I don’t feel like Lorelei.

  She laughed, and ran her fingers through her hair.

  How do you feel?

  Strange. I’m not used to sitting in my dressing-gown in front of a man.

  That’s o.k. You look superb. You look even better naked.

  No. I don’t.

  He pulled back the dressing-gown, and kissed the tip of her breast.

  You do. You’ve got a wonderful body. Like . . . a young girl.

  He stopped himself on the point of saying: Like a sixteen-year-old. But she noticed the hesitation, and smiled at him, her eyes suddenly mischievous. He said, laughing:

  I think you’re a thought-reader.

  I don’t have to be . . . with you.

  He said:

  Don’t you really care . . . about Caroline?

  Of course I care. I’d rather it hadn’t happened. But it’s no use wishing it hadn’t happened. And anyway . . . it’s in the past now, isn’t it?

  He put his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him as she went past. He said:

  Yes. And I don’t care.

  She placed a coffee cup in front of him, and poured hot milk into it, catching the skin in a strainer.

  But what about Austin?

  Ah yes . . . Austin.

  He waited until she was seated opposite, pouring the coffee.

  Well, I’m afraid Austin’s likely to be in trouble with the police.

  Why? What has he done?

  He spooned sugar into the cup, staring at the table-cloth. It was difficult to express it gently.

  Well . . . you remember you told me once that he liked smashing dolls as a child?