Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

  She said:

  If it was Austin, there’d be nothing we could do.

  He looked at her, and recognised the incipient defeat in her eyes. He said quickly:

  Maybe.

  You don’t think it is, do you?

  He resisted the impulse to turn the question aside; it sprang from a desire to protect her, and the time for protecting her might be limited. He said deliberately:

  My sweet, it’s no use ignoring it. He could be the killer. It is possible. I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want it to be true. My imagination won’t face it. But if it is true, we’ll have to face it.

  He could follow the sequence of emotions in her eyes: in­credulity, a sharpness like pain, then the transfer of attention from the meaning of his words to the expression on his face, less uncompromising than the words; and, finally, an adjustment, a hope. He said:

  I don’t know what to feel either. I don’t know if I can condemn him. How do we know what’s lawful and what’s not? You assume sex is wicked because the Bible condemns fornication. But the experience makes it hard to believe. Last night, I could almost feel you trying to readjust your values—trying to make up your mind whether you were being sinful or not. . . .

  She said: Making love isn’t the same as killing.

  Again, he was surprised by the control she had acquired in a few hours, the ability to adjust to new facts.

  That’s true. Anyway, I’m not trying to defend the urge to kill. I’m only trying to understand it without over-simplifying it. For instance, couldn’t you imagine a murder that comes out of a need to express your freedom?

  She said patiently:

  That wouldn’t make any difference. Nobody has a right to express his freedom by killing someone.

  I’m not talking about rights. I’m talking about the question of responsibility. Look, sweet, let’s assume for a moment that Austin is the killer. How far would he be responsible for the murders? If your cat makes a mess on the carpet, you spank it and throw it outside—you hold it responsible. But if you know the cat’s suffering from something she ate, you don’t hold her respon­sible . . . you assume she couldn’t help it. Well, isn’t it the same with murder? How do you know the killer hasn’t reached a degree of boredom and self-contempt and misery that make it almost impossible not to kill? It becomes an overpowering appetite to regain his freedom. . . .

  She shook her head.

  I don’t understand. What has it got to do with freedom?

  Don’t you see? A man can become the prisoner of his own self-contempt. Take the Christie case, for example. He’s a weak-looking, inoffensive little man who suffers from sensitive nerves. He develops a sexual neurosis—you know they nicknamed him ‘Can’t-do-it Christie’ in Leeds? Well, sex ought to be a freedom from your personality, and the sexual neurotic can never possess that freedom—except in sexual fantasies. And a point finally comes where the fantasies aren’t enough. The imagination fails. Then he kills, and suddenly he has everything he wanted—a real woman lying at his feet. And for a moment, there’s a supreme freedom, a feeling of contact with eternity—he becomes a fragment of eternity. Then the tragic return to earth—an unconscious woman lying at his feet. He used to gas them, you know. And a feeling: My God, what am I going to do when she wakes up? Then back to the world of nagging worries and pettiness—strangling her, hiding the body under the floor-boards, worrying about the smell. Don’t you see what I mean? Without the self-contempt, the exhaustion and pettiness, there’d be no murder. He kills for the same reason the saint practises meditation and the poet writes about nature. It’s an escape from personality. And De Quincey becomes a drug-addict, and Poe becomes a drunk. Without the sensitivity, the escape wouldn’t be necessary. They want a greater intensity of life, and the only gate left open is murder. . . .

  He looked at her with pity; she was listening, but without comprehension. When he stopped talking, she only stared past his head at the wallpaper. The insight overwhelmed him: she can never understand. She knows only categories and chapters from the Book of Kings. She can never know real good or evil; the knowledge would wreck her.

  It was the answer to his interest in her; the insight brought disappointment and tenderness. A woman’s world, a world of people. Without Kali, the insane mother, infinity of destructive­ness and creativeness. He said:

  We’d better go. It won’t do any good to sit here.

  He stood up. She rose automatically, and followed him to the door. At the top of the stairs he turned and kissed her; there was no response in her mouth. He went on down the stairs, thinking: I wonder if a woman exists who doesn’t have her roots in limits and self-doubt? Probably not. But the search is not finished yet.

  . . . . .

  As they drove past Houndsditch, he said:

  I wonder where the murder took place? We should have asked Macmurdo.

  Why?

  Oh . . . curiosity. Turn left at the traffic lights. Let’s go up Commercial Street and see if we can find out.

  How would you find out?

  Oh, there’d be a crowd, probably. Morbid curiosity.

  How revolting.

  Any sign of being followed yet?

  She glanced in the driving mirror.

  I don’t think so. I can’t tell. . . . There’s too much traffic.

  Turn off by the church across the road. No, hold on a minute. I think we’ve found it.

  As they drew level with the church, he could see the crowd at the corner of Brushfield Street, opposite the market. He said:

  Stop here for a minute.

  He edged his way into the crowd, peering on tiptoe over their heads. The attention seemed to be focused around an entry a dozen yards along the street. The concrete platform of the market­place was packed with men and women who stared at the small group of policemen outside the entrance. There was no am­bulance.

  He made his way back to the car. He said:

  Nothing much visible. We’ll have to get a midday paper.

  A small man in stained white overalls edged out of the crowd, and walked past them. Sorme said:

  Excuse me. . . . What’s happening? What are they all waiting for?

  The man said: Doncher know? Another murder.

  Sorme said, with simulated astonishment:

  But I thought they’d caught him!

  Everybody did. But it don’t look like it, does it?

  What happened? Do you know?

  The man said:

  Not much. They found her in a room. Cut to pieces.

  He shrugged, then turned and walked away. Sorme got into the car. He asked:

  Did you hear?

  Yes. It sounds horrible.

  Sorme said: He may be exaggerating. You know how rumours get around. What’s the time now?

  Half-past nine.

  We’ll go back via Fleet Street. We’ll catch the early editions in half an hour.

  She revved the engine.

  Where to now?

  Let’s call on Oliver.

  As the car drove along Hanbury Street, he said:

  I must say, this is quite a piece of luck for Oliver. They won’t have much time to bother about him now. Anyway, they can’t have taken the charge very seriously or they wouldn’t have allowed him police bail. . . . Right here. You’ll have to go down to the White­chapel Road. It’s a one-way street.

  At the end of Durward Street, he said:

  Would you mind waiting here for about ten minutes? I’ll try to be quick. But I doubt whether Oliver feels very sociable. . . .

  No. I quite understand. Don’t worry.

  The front door stood open. He rapped with his knuckles, calling into the room:

  Anyone home?

  There was no reply. He mounted the stairs cautiously, still blinded by sunlight, surrounded by the familiar smell of paraffin in the darkness. He groped his way to the door and knocked. Glasp’s voice called:

  Hello?

  He opened the door and went in. Glasp was lying on th
e bed, fully clothed. Sorme said:

  Hello. How are things?

  All right, Glasp said. How did you get here?

  Gertrude Quincey drove me in the car. She’s waiting at the end of the street. I just came in to see how you are.

  He sat on the stool near the oil-stove. He said:

  Have you heard anything?

  They’ve dropped the charge.

  Good! Congratulations! When did you hear?

  A couple of hours ago.

  Sorme said:

  Well, what’s the matter? You don’t seem very cheerful about it. Why did they drop it? Has Christine turned up?

  Yes.

  Good. And have they examined her?

  No.

  Why not?

  Glasp said tiredly:

  Look, Gerard, do you mind not asking so many questions?

  Sorme looked at him; he was staring at the ceiling. The silence lengthened. Sorme said:

  O.k. I’m going now. You’re sure everything’s all right?

  Glasp looked at him, raising his head. He propped the pillow under his head, and heaved himself up slightly, resting his shoulders against the brass rails of the bed. He said:

  She admitted she’s not a virgin, anyway. But it was the cousin who lives with them. And he’s admitted it too. So they dropped the charge.

  Sorme said: Good lord!

  Glasp shrugged, then dropped his head back on to the bed. Sorme said finally:

  That must be quite a . . . shock. How do you feel about it?

  Glasp’s voice was level, without emotion:

  She’s not my daughter. Why should I worry?

  Sorme stood up; he said, without conviction:

  That’s the sensible attitude to take. There’s nothing very surprising in it. You don’t feel annoyed, do you?

  No.

  And you’ll keep on seeing her?

  How can I? They wouldn’t let her.

  But . . . she’ll want to keep on seeing you.

  Perhaps.

  Sorme stood at the door, hesitating to go out. Something about Glasp’s listlessness irritated him. He said:

  Surely it’s nothing to worry about? This probably happened before you met her. You’re giving her something she never had before. Surely this makes no difference?

  Glasp turned his head to look at him. He said:

  Look, Gerard, I don’t know what I feel about it. I feel as if I’ve fallen down ten flights of stairs. I’m not even sure what I felt about her. Perhaps that’s what I wanted all the time. . . . I don’t know. I just can’t understand it. Why should she want to do it? I’d like to talk to her. . . . She even said she’d marry me once. I know it’s stupid. But I felt I understood her . . . and I just don’t understand.

  You probably understand her better than her parents—or this cousin. Anyway, you can’t drop the girl just because of this. It’s just the thing you’re trying to save her from. The slum back­ground. . . .

  Glasp said: Perhaps.

  I’d better leave you. You’ll feel better later. Shall I come over later?

  If you like. Not today.

  All right. Don’t let it worry you. Goodbye, Oliver.

  He closed the door quickly, glad to leave the room. Glasp’s self-pity annoyed him; compared with the problem of Austin, it seemed trivial.

  She was smoking a cigarette. She said:

  You haven’t been long.

  No.

  How is he?

  He’s all right. The police have dropped the case against him. So we can go and collect the bail money if you like. . . .

  Have they? Good. I was sure they would. Is he pleased?

  The car started; she backed into Durward Street and turned. He said:

  No. He irritates me. They discovered that the girl’s not a virgin, but her cousin’s responsible. . . .

  How appalling!

  And he’s working himself up into a state about it.

  Why? Is he angry?

  I don’t know what he is. The man’s a fool. Do you want to go to the police station to collect the money?

  Not now. It can wait. I expect they’ll be busy, anyway.

  They turned again into the traffic of the White­chapel Road, and drove towards the city. He sank into the seat, scowling out of the window. He said:

  I thought Oliver was a talented artist. But now I’m beginning to wonder. . . . He’s too emotional. What does it matter whether the girl’s a virgin or not? She’s still the same girl.

  Is he very upset?

  I can’t tell. I think he’d been building her up as a symbol of innocence and all that kind of thing. The world of adults ex­hausts him, so he turns to children. Then when he discovers the children are subject to the same kind of corruptions, he goes all gloomy and suicidal. . . . At least Austin’s a bit more grown-up.

  But why should it make any difference to him? I don’t see the connection. He should be glad they’ve dropped the case.

  He said irritably:

  God knows. He’s a typical romantic. I’ve come to the con­clusion that the twentieth century’s suffering from a romantic hangover. People like Oliver can’t see straight. Everything has to be morbid to interest him. . . . Oh, never mind. Maybe I’m being unfair. Turn down Fenchurch Street. . . .

  In Fleet Street, they stopped to buy an Evening Standard. The headline read: Search for Missing Parson Continues. He glanced down at the ‘latest news’ column; there was no mention of the murder. He tossed the newspaper into the back seat.

  No good. Probably they didn’t discover the body until late this morning. Let’s go and have a quick drink. I need one.

  The saloon bar was empty; it was the same room in which Sorme had spoken to Bill Payne on the previous day. He drank a pint of bitter ale while Gertrude Quincey examined a road atlas to determine the best route to Leatherhead. He noted with interest the ease with which she drank a double Scotch straight. The beer and the sunlight gave him a sense of well-being. Miss Quincey closed the atlas. He said:

  Do you think it’s worth going straight to Leatherhead? Wouldn’t it be better to try the Kensington place first?

  Do you think it’s worth it?

  Perhaps not. I doubt whether he’d stay in London if . . . if he knew anything about it.

  All right.

  He smiled at her.

  How do you feel?

  She touched her empty glass with the tip of her finger.

  Better, thank you.

  But . . . about all this?

  She glanced around and saw that the barman was beyond the range of her voice.

  Unreal. I can’t believe it’s serious. I feel somehow . . . as if you, and Austin, and the police, were practising some kind of elaborate confidence trick on me.

  He said sympathetically:

  I know. I feel the same. I think maybe all real murders are like this—unless you’re directly involved. It’s only in novels that the detective stumbles on clues and bodies all over the place. In real life the murders take place off-stage, and it’s all messy and unbelievable.

  He finished his beer.

  We’d better go. For all we know, the police may be there before us. Do Austin’s family know the Leatherhead address?

  Yes, of course.

  I wonder if they gave it to Macmurdo?

  Shall I ring and find out?

  That might be an idea.

  He watched her go out of the bar, and again felt surprise at the calm with which she accepted the situation. He ordered another half-pint of beer, and stood at the bar to drink it, think­ing: I shall never understand women. Are they all like that? One day she’s a Jehovah’s Witness and the next she’s my mistress and an accessory after the fact. No sense of incongruity. The ancients were right. Widow of Ephesus, Helen of Troy. Maybe it’s just lack of vitality.

  She was away for a long time. She came back with the brisk casualness of a woman who has been out to powder her nose, and stood in front of him, waiting.

  He said: Another drink
?

  No, thank you.

  He finished his beer and they went outside.

  Well?

  No. His parents haven’t heard from the police.

  Are you sure? Did you ask them?

  No. Not directly. I just asked where I could find Austin. They said he might be at Oxford with some friends. I said someone had sent a letter for him care of me, and that someone had been telephoning me to enquire after him.

  Good! What did they say?

  It was his mother. . . . She said she couldn’t understand it, and that as far as she knew he wasn’t in any sort of trouble. I told her that I thought it might be a bookmaker or someone he owes money to. . . .

  He said with admiration:

  You’re a born intriguer!

  She smiled briefly:

  It looks as if no one has been making enquiries from her, then.

  Strange. Why did Macmurdo tell us he had?

  I don’t think he did. He only said that Austin wasn’t with his parents. Perhaps they’ve been keeping watch on them.

  The car turned left, towards the Embankment. He said:

  This sounds pretty odd.

  I didn’t know whether to give them any kind of warning. It suddenly seemed ridiculous. . . .

  The best thing would be to find Austin. How long should it take us to Leatherhead?

  About an hour, if the traffic isn’t too bad.

  Approaching Westminster Bridge, he checked his watch with Big Ben. The river looked like a sheet of rayon in the sunlight; it was difficult to believe in murder in the unexpected warmth.

  . . . . .

  She said:

  Austin is here.

  He sat up and stared at her. She had not spoken since they left Merton.

  Where?

  Here, in Leatherhead. That was his car outside the hotel.

  Are you certain? I didn’t see a red car.

  It wasn’t a red one. It was the grey MG.

  He turned, peering out of the rear window. It was impossible to make out a parked car among the traffic.

  Hadn’t we better turn and make sure?

  There’s no need. I am sure. I recognised the number. It’s one of his father’s cars that he borrows sometimes.

  But supposing he’s in the hotel?

  I don’t think so. He’ll probably be at the cottage. But I’ll go back to the hotel while you go to the cottage.