Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

  Nunne had ordered roast duck, cooked with paprika and cheese. When it arrived he stopped talking and gave full attention to the food, speaking only to reply to acquaintances who came past the table. When this happened Sorme did not look up; he was aware of being regarded with curiosity. He could almost feel the conjectures being made, and he ate quickly and mechanically to conceal the irritation.

  He had difficulty in dissuading Nunne from ordering a second bottle of wine. His motives were purely selfish; he knew that if he drank another half-bottle, he would be sick before the end of the evening.

  The rain had stopped when they left. Sorme walked contentedly beside Nunne, now feeling happier in the anonymity of the Soho crowd. His feelings about Nunne were mixed. He calculated that the meal he had just eaten was the most expensive he had eaten in his life. The sight of the six pound notes Nunne had dropped on to the waiter’s plate had shocked him; it represented a week’s food and rent. The most he had ever paid for a meal had been ten shillings. He felt a certain gratitude for Nunne’s generosity, now that he had ceased to suspect his motives. But a faint dislike rose in him periodically. There was something distinctly repellent about Nunne. It had to do with the combination of coarseness and femininity in him. The brown hair was long and silky, almost beautiful, a woman’s hair. The teeth were irregular and yellow­ish; two at the front were pointed, canine. When he looked closely at the face, no scars were visible; it was hard to determine what produced the pock-marked effect. When he had asked Nunne, as they drank coffee and vodka, Nunne had said briefly: Car accident, and drawn his finger along a faint, hardly per­ceptible line that ran across the left cheek, parallel with the jaw.

  What would you like to do now, Gerard?

  Do you think I might buy you a drink now?

  I see no reason why not, dear boy. Let’s go into the French, shall we, that is, if we can sit down.

  The pub was crowded. Nunne was immediately hailed by a short, leathery-faced drunk.

  Carl Castering, Nunne said. This is Gerard Sorme.

  The man seized Sorme’s hand, and looked into his face with the liquid eyes of a drunk.

  You’re very good-looking, Gerard. Don’t you think he looks like Rimbaud, Austin? Don’t you, though?

  Sorme allowed his hand to be caressed between two damp palms, then withdrew it. He asked Nunne:

  What will you drink?

  Straight scotch for me.

  Sorme asked the drunk: Will you have a drink?

  The leathery face turned to him coquettishly.

  Why, that’s awfully sweet of you. Yes, I will. Scotch and water.

  Sorme finally attracted the barmaid’s attention. He passed two whiskies back to Nunne and his friend. They stood, wedged together in the crush, holding their glasses tightly.

  Nunne said: Carl is one of the best photographers in London, Gerard.

  Castering leered at Sorme, then suddenly regarded him seriously:

  I would like you to sit for me, Gerard. Would you do that?

  Only if I’m present, Nunne said lightly.

  Why? Don’t you trust me with him?

  I was joking, Nunne said.

  He said to Sorme: Drink up and let’s find somewhere less crowded.

  Sorme obediently threw back the whisky. It no longer made his eyes water.

  Outside, Sorme asked him: Is he a friend of yours—Carl?

  Swine, Nunne said shortly. Masochist. But a damn good photographer.

  They walked slowly along Old Compton Street, keeping close to avoid being separated by the crowd. Outside the Cinerama theatre Nunne was saluted by the uniformed man who controlled the queue.

  You seem to know everyone.

  He worked as a chucker-out at a place I knew once.

  They stopped to look at the coloured pictures, displayed behind glass, that showed scenes from the film. Sorme, glancing up at Nunne, suddenly caught a look of revulsion and absorption. Nunne was staring at a photograph of a switchback car swooping over a hump. A pretty, plump girl stared at the camera, holding her dress over her knees, but the sides of the dress, caught by the wind, revealed the tops of her stockings and suspenders. Nunne turned away abruptly, saying:

  Let’s go, Gerard.

  Sorme said, laughing: I didn’t think you liked women.

  Nunne said: What do you mean?

  Nothing; you were staring at that girl as if she fascinated you. The look passed over Nunne’s face again, then disappeared. He said, smiling:

  She does. Come on.

  They walked back to the car.

  Where now, Gerard?

  Sorme said, dubiously: I’d like a little quiet.

  So would I. What about my flat?

  Where is it?

  Near Portland Street station.

  I’d rather stick to somewhere closer to my way home. I ought to think of getting back.

  Where do you live?

  Hendon. Until tomorrow.

  Of course. All right, we’ll head that way. I know rather a good little pub in Hampstead we might go to. Quiet.

  Hampstead? Is that on the way?

  Certainly. We can cut over to the Hendon Way. Straight route.

  They moved slowly along Old Compton Street. Nunne blew the horn; it emitted a gentle, warning note. Nunne said, grinning: Excellent invention this. I can adjust the tone and volume of the horn. Loud and blatant for the open road; gentle and, as it were, coaxing for London crowds. Come on, shift, you stupid bastards, or I’ll turn the cow-catcher on. This is the only part of London that reminds me of Hamburg’s Reeperbahn. Do you know Ham­burg, Gerard?

  Sorme said abstractedly: No. He had been staring at his watch for half a minute without registering the time. It was ten past nine.

  As they passed Chalk Farm station, Nunne said suddenly:

  I know. Let’s go to my aunt’s place. She’ll give us a drink.

  Who’s your aunt?

  You’d like her. Her name’s Gertrude, and she’s not really my aunt, but she’s terribly sweet. She lives all on her own in a house in the Vale of Health, and never sees anyone. She likes me to drop in. Unless she’s holding a meeting.

  What kind of a meeting?

  Jehovah’s Witness. It’s her only vice. But she’s really rather sweet.

  Sorme said with dismay: You’re not serious, are you?

  Why not?

  About her being a Jehovah’s Witness?

  Oh yes, quite serious about that.

  But—I mean—they’re quite up the wall, aren’t they?

  Couldn’t say, dear boy. I don’t know a thing about them. She’s never tried to convert me. Anyway, we don’t have to stay if you can’t bear her. But she’ll give us a drink, anyway.

  Sorme relaxed into the seat. He had a feeling that he would not get home early after all, and he was too drunk to care deeply. The prospect of changing his lodgings, which had worried him for a week past, now seemed unimportant. He closed his eyes and tried to calculate how much he had drunk. The car braked suddenly, throwing him forward.

  Nunne said: Sorry, old boy. I get used to driving my other car, and it brakes gentler than this. Smashed it up last week.

  The road was completely deserted. On one side of it the Heath rose steeply; Sorme stepped out and slammed the door. The cool air wakened him; the car-heater had come close to sending him to sleep. Nunne was groping in the leather pocket behind the door; an electric torch clicked in his hand. Sorme followed him through the gateway, into complete blackness. About fifty yards away a light was burning in a doorway, trees shed rain from their leaves as the wind rocked them; Sorme turned his face up to catch the wet drops. He said dreamily:

  Does your aunt enjoy living in the middle of nowhere?

  She hates it, actually. She’s always threatening to move nearer town, but the Heath’s so lovely in the summer.

  The light that burned in the porch was a square lantern, with a pointed electric bulb inside it. Nunne rang the doorbell. A moment later, a light appeared behind the glas
s panes that covered the upper half of the door. A woman’s voice called: Who is it?

  Austin.

  Austin!

  The door was opened by a small, slim woman.

  This is Gerard Sormes, Gertrude. Gerard’s a writer.

  Do come in. I was just thinking about going to bed.

  Don’t worry. We shan’t stay all night.

  I didn’t mean that. Stay as long as you like.

  She led them into a long, comfortably furnished sitting-room.

  Are you hungry? Have you had supper?

  Yes, thanks. An hour ago.

  Would you like a drink?

  Rather!

  You know where it is. Help yourself. I’m having some cocoa.

  She switched on the electric fire, and went out. Nunne opened the sideboard, and took out a bottle of whisky. Sorme glimpsed an array of bottles in the cupboard; he asked:

  Does your aunt entertain a lot?

  Not much. She mixes with two lots. A sort of Hampstead literary crowd—most awful lot of goddam squares you ever saw—and her soul-savers. They’re about as bad. She takes care never to invite them here on the same evenings.

  Why?

  When her soul-savers come, she hangs up a banner: Beware the Demon Drink—over the booze cupboard. When the literary crowd descends, she has to hire a navvy to cart them home in a wheelbarrow.

  The woman came in again, carrying a cup on a tray. She asked:

  How is your mother, Austin?

  In excellent condition, thanks. She’s coming to London next week.

  Will she be staying with you?

  She’ll be at my place. I shan’t be there, though. Going to join some friends at St. Moritz.

  She sat down opposite them. There was something about her that Sorme found very attractive. He would have guessed her age to be about forty. In some way, she managed to give the impression of being well-dressed without seeming to care about her appearance. The tweed skirt was well-cut, but it had started to come unzipped at the waist. The mouth and chin were firm, slightly schoolmistressy. But there was something curiously anonymous about her: she was the kind of person he would not have noticed if she had sat opposite him on the tube.

  I didn’t catch your name.

  Sorme. Gerard Sorme.

  Nunne said: I thought it was Sormes.

  No.

  What do you write, Mr. Sorme?

  Sorme said embarrassedly: Austin shouldn’t have introduced me as a writer. I’ve only ever published a few poems in magazines.

  Are you a Catholic?

  He said with surprise: No, why?

  I wondered. . . .

  Nunne said: He’s an atheistic freethinker, with inclinations to Catholicism. Aren’t you, Gerard?

  Austin, behave yourself!

  She smiled at Sorme, as if excluding Nunne from the con­versation.

  You’re not a freethinker, are you?

  No . . . I don’t suppose so.

  What are you then? Nunne asked.

  Gertrude said reproachfully: Austin, do behave yourself. Have you been drinking?

  Certainly not. Not much anyway. Another, Gerard?

  Sorme said hastily: No thanks. I haven’t finished this.

  Nunne had given him a tumbler half full of neat whisky, and he was wondering whether he could find some opportunity to pour it back into the bottle.

  I really don’t think you ought to, Austin. It can’t be good for your tummy.

  Nunne stood up, a little unsteadily:

  No doubt you’re right, Gertrude. ’Scuse me, dears.

  He went out of the room. Sorme watched her eyes following him.

  He really is rather drunk, isn’t he? She asked him.

  I dare say he is. I am, a bit.

  You don’t look it. Are you used to drink?

  No.

  I didn’t think so. Have you known Austin long?

  For some reason, a sense of shame made him reluctant to tell her. He said:

  Not very long.

  You mustn’t let him lead you into bad habits!

  I don’t expect so.

  What religion were you brought up in?

  I don’t know. C. of E., I suppose. But I never had to go to church or Sunday school. I hated both.

  And have you any religious beliefs?

  The bare minimum.

  And what are they?

  Sorme heard Nunne’s footsteps outside the door. He said smiling:

  I’ll tell you some other time.

  Nunne came in again. He said cheerfully:

  I thought Friday was your meeting night?

  It is. It’s over now.

  Oh. And how’s old Brother Horrible?

  Who on earth are you talking about?

  Fatty. Tartuffe with the butcher’s complexion. What’s his name?

  Really, Austin! You get worse. What have you got against Brother Robbins?

  Nunne sat beside Sorme again, having refilled his glass. He said, winking:

  He’s after you, Gertrude.

  Nonsense!

  I saw it in his eye. He’s thinking what a nice match you’d make. Nice cuddly little wifey.

  Sorme noticed with surprise that she had coloured. He stood up, saying: Excuse me.

  It’s upstairs, Nunne said, second on the left.

  The hall and stairs were carpeted with blue pile that made his footsteps noiseless. There were two prints of paintings by Munch on the stairs. In the warmth and haze of the alcohol, it seemed one of the most charming houses he had been in.

  He switched on a light, and found himself in a small bedroom, containing a single bed. There was a large framed photograph of a blonde girl on the dressing-table. He peered at it with interest, then kissed his lips at it. He backed out of the door and went into the bathroom. A lineful of damp clothes hung across it; he had to duck under them to reach the lavatory. He murmured softly: I should seduce her and come and live here. Perfect conditions for working.

  He washed his hands at the basin, humming quietly.

  When he turned away, he walked immediately into a wet towel. He wiped his face on his hand, and reached up to touch a blue nylon waist slip. Water dripped down his sleeve. He swore under his breath, smiling.

  When he came into the sitting-room again, Nunne said:

  I think we’d better go, Gerard. Gertrude wants to go to bed.

  Of course.

  Are you going to finish your whisky?

  I don’t think I will. I’ve had rather a lot.

  I didn’t think you were. So I’ve finished it for you.

  She said, laughing: You really are disgraceful, Austin. I don’t know how you manage to drive that car. Do be careful.

  Tush! Did you ever know me to have an accident?

  It’s a miracle! she said.

  Nunne heaved himself to his feet. He seized her and planted a kiss on her forehead. Sorme regarded her, smiling. He would have liked to do the same. Nunne said:

  Good night, dear aunt. Lock the doors now. Make sure old Brother Barrel-belly’s not under the bed.

  She turned to Sorme:

  You will come again, won’t you? You can find your way here.

  I’m not so sure that I can, he said, smiling.

  I’ll give you the address.

  She tore a sheet of headed notepaper from a pad in the bureau and scribbled on it. He slipped it into his back pocket.

  Goodbye. Do make Austin drive carefully.

  Sorme shook her hand; her grip was as firm as a man’s.

  She called from the front doorstep:

  Keep to the right of the drive. There’s a pool of water there.

  Nunne’s torch wavered erratically over the ground. Sorme kept close to him to avoid stumbling. As they emerged into the street, Nunne said:

  She likes you, dear boy. I got a little lecture on corrupting you. I think she wants you for her Bible class.

  Not for her literary evenings?

  Oh, perhaps. I don’t know. I should think from he
r ques­tions . . .

  His voice trailed off. He opened the car door, and collapsed into the driving seat.

  Ouf! That’s better. . . . Well, where now? It’s only ten past ten. We’ve still time for another drink. Or you could come back to my place and have a couple.

  No! Really, it’s quite impossible. I must get back. Any other night but this.

  Ah yes. You’ve got to move in the morning. How will you do it?

  Take a taxi.

  Would you like me to pop over and help you?

  No, no. Don’t bother.

  Nunne lit a cigarette, and tossed the match out of the window. His headlights suddenly lit up the road. The car surged forward jerkily, then stalled. He said:

  Sod it. Left the bloody hand-brake on.

  Sorme said: Look, drop me on the Edgware Road, and I’ll get a bus home. Or better still, drop me off at Hampstead under­ground.

  No, no. I’ll take you home. You’re not letting Gertrude’s comments on my driving worry you, are you?

  No . . .

  Good. I’m a perfectly safe driver, even when I can’t see for scotch.

  What about your other car . . . ?

  Oh, that wasn’t my fault. . . . Somebody built a wall in the middle of the road.

  Didn’t they nab you for drunken driving?

  Fortunately I wasn’t drunk. That was the trouble. Morning after. I felt like hell.

  Nunne’s driving seemed neither better nor worse for the drink. He turned off the engine and allowed the car to free-wheel down the hill to Golders Green, singing mournfully:

  Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles . . .

  Sorme said: Was your aunt ever married?

  She’s not my aunt.

  Was she ever married?

  No. Gertrude is a most mysterious case. No one knows all the facts. She had a father.

  A what?

  A father. You know some people have got a mother who won’t let them off the dog-lead? Well, she had a father.

  Why should that stop her from marrying?

  How should I know, dear boy? Use your imagination. If it’s as lurid as mine, you can think up all sorts of reasons.

  Sorme suppressed the comments that rose to his lips. Nunne was not the person to make them to. Nunne startled him suddenly by saying:

  Anyway, I doubt whether she’d be any good in bed.

  Sorme glanced at him. The cigarette was hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. He said: