Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

  Why should I? I’m not suffering from any illness. Besides, I suspect all psychologists of being fools and quacks. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me. Nothing that’s not wrong with all the human race, anyway.

  Then why do you want to speak to a priest?

  Sorme contemplated the grotesque, gnome’s face, and groped for an answer. He said finally:

  Not because I think I’m ill, anyway.

  The priest laughed:

  All right, we’ll accept that. So you’re not ill. But you feel you are frustrated, somehow. Is that it?

  Yes. But not personally or sexually.

  A sense of misunderstanding and failure to contact irritated Sorme. It was the assumption underlying their conversation that disturbed him: the assumption that there was something wrong with him.

  When you say sexually, you mean physically?

  Yes, I suppose so.

  I see. . . .

  The priest nodded, staring at his interlaced hands.

  Well, well. I can see why Father Grey was so puzzled by you. It’s difficult to learn anything from you.

  I’m sorry, father. . . .

  Let me try another question. What would you say is the centre of your interest in life? What do you really want?

  The feeling of lack of contact became stronger; he had abso­lutely no inclination to try to express himself to the priest. While he was aware of the pale eyes watching him, he felt rebellious and annoyed. He made an effort to forget the priest and the vacuum that seemed to exist between them, to concentrate only on the ideas to be expressed. He stared into the fire, saying slowly:

  I’d say all my life centres around an idea. An idea of a vision. I don’t mean . . . the kind of vision the saints saw. Not that kind. Another sort.

  Can you explain yourself more clearly?

  I . . . I can give you an example of what I mean. Sometimes I wake up in the night with a sort of foreboding. Then I feel arbitrary. I feel somehow absurd. I feel, Who am I? and What am I doing here? I feel we take life too much for granted. We take our own existences for granted. But perhaps it’s not natural to exist. It happened the other night. You realise how much you normally take for granted, and feel a sudden terror in case you’ve no right to take anything for granted. Do you know what I mean, father?

  He looked at Carruthers, and was immediately aware of having captured his attention. He began to feel better. The priest said:

  I understand. Go on.

  That’s one aspect of it. Then there’s another, that I think is completely different. A couple of months ago I picked up a girl in a café. I know her slightly—she studies at the Slade School. I went back and slept with her, and everything was fine. But the second night I slept with her, something odd happened. Quite suddenly, I didn’t want her. I don’t know quite why. I just lay there at the side of her, and felt a complete lack of desire to make love to her.

  The priest said amiably:

  That must have been embarrassing.

  Yes. But that’s the odd thing. I lay there feeling embarrassed, and wishing I could understand what was the matter. I felt ashamed and irritable. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the girl. It was some other feeling conflicting with it. So I lay there, trying to discover what the other emotion was. And suddenly I felt a tremendous excitement. It was so strong that I felt I’d never want to sleep again. It didn’t correspond to anything in particular. It made me think about mathematics. I thought: I am lying here in the middle of London, with a population of three million people asleep around me, and a past that extends back to the time when the Romans built the city on a fever swamp. . . . I can’t explain what I felt. It was a sense of participa­tion in everything. I wanted to live a million times more than anybody has ever lived. Do you know what I mean, father?

  I think so.

  It was an excitement, you see. I was suddenly aware of how many people and places there are outside myself.

  But you just mentioned mathematics. Why mathematics?

  Well . . . because I thought about mathematics. At least, I didn’t begin thinking about mathematics. I was feeling irritated with the girl, and the idea that she wanted me to make love to her. Then I thought about something I’d read that day in a book on witchcraft. About a woman named Isobel Gowdie, who claimed she had sexual intercourse with demons while her husband was asleep beside her. . . .

  What made you think of that?

  This girl I was sleeping with. She’s a completely spoilt, neurotic girl, a nymphomaniac. I suddenly felt sick of her luke­warm little titivations, her everlasting sexual itch. She had sex for the same reason that she chain-smoked. Boredom. Then I remembered Isobel Gowdie. At least sex meant something to her. She wanted to be possessed by the devil. She was probably bored stiff on a Scottish farm in the middle of nowhere. So she invented demons and devils.

  There was a light tap on the door. Sorme started violently. A woman wearing an apron came in.

  Mr. Bryce and Mr. Jennings have arrived, father.

  What, already? All right, ask them to wait just a moment, would you, please?

  As she went out, Sorme stood up.

  I’d better go, father.

  Sit down again for a moment. They’re early. They can wait. What you’ve been saying interests me very much. Have you ever spoken to anyone else about these things?

  No, father.

  I’d like you to come back and talk to me again. I’m not asking you because I think you need to talk to me—although perhaps you do. But what you say has a great deal of interest to me. Have you read my book on St. John of the Cross?

  No, father.

  It’s over there, I think. Bottom shelf. Take it away with you, and look through it, if it doesn’t bore you too much. The chapter on the vision of God should interest you particularly. These experiences you speak of . . . I’m inclined to think that they’re the root of all visionary insights.

  Sorme opened the glass doors of the bookcase, and found the slim, black-bound volume. The desire to get away had risen in him again, but this time it was for a different reason. He was suspicious of the relief he was beginning to feel in talking to the priest.

  Can you come back tomorrow?

  I think so, father.

  Good. I’ll expect you. Give Austin my regards if you see him.

  He’s in Switzerland at the moment.

  He took the priest’s outstretched hand, and was surprised at its warmth. The flesh looked desiccated and cold.

  Tell Mrs. Doughty to send the two men up, please.

  Certainly. Goodbye, father.

  Goodbye.

  Outside the door he stood still for a few moments, frowning towards the plaster image of the Virgin at the end of the badly lit corridor. Then he recollected the copy of the book he still held, and slipped it absent-mindedly into his pocket. He walked slowly towards the stairhead, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. The housekeeper startled him by appearing suddenly from a doorway on his right. She asked curtly:

  Is he ready now?

  Yes. He says will you send them up.

  He went quickly down the stairs. The street door stood open. He went out, groping for his bicycle clips. Behind him someone called: Hey, Gerard!

  Hello, Robin! Sorry. I’d forgotten you.

  You don’t have to rush off, do you?

  I have to go in a few minutes, he said untruthfully.

  Well, come on in for a moment.

  He followed Maunsell back into the reception-room. The fire was still burning. Maunsell closed the door by nudging it with his backside, asking:

  Well, how did you get on with him?

  Oh, fairly well.

  Did you tell him about your disgraceful sex life?

  A little. He talked about St. John of the Cross. Then someone interrupted us.

  He must have talked about St. John of the Cross for a bloody long time! You’ve been gone half an hour.

  I’m not keeping anything from you, really.

  Aren’t you?
Really? All right, I’ll believe you.

  Tell me, Robin. You say you don’t know Austin Nunne at all?

  Not much. I’ve seen him a couple of times.

  Oh. You don’t know anything about him?

  No. Not much anyway.

  Do you know if he’s queer?

  Yes. . . . I think so. Why? Don’t you know?

  Yes. I think he is. I just wondered. . . .

  Wait. I do know something. You mustn’t tell anyone, though.

  No, of course not.

  I gather he’s a bit of a sadist.

  How did you gather that?

  I overheard something Father Carruthers said to Dr. Stein one day after Mrs. Nunne had left.

  What did he say—can you remember?

  No. It was just an impression I got. I may be wrong. But for heaven’s sake keep it to yourself. If anyone ever accused me of telling you, I’d deny it.

  Of course. I won’t tell anyone. Who’s this Dr. Stein?

  Oh, a friend of Father Carruthers. They used to be at theological school together. Stein’s a psychiatrist. Why?

  Nothing. I’m just very curious about Austin, and about any­one who’s interested in him.

  I see. You’re not falling in love with him, are you?

  For Christ’s sake! Are you serious?

  Well, I don’t know. I’d say there’s a definite touch of homo­sexuality in you. It’ll burst out one day. Probably surprise you.

  You really are a fool!

  You see. I bet I’m right.

  Garn!

  Maunsell said, chuckling:

  You see. . . . I bet I’m right.

  I’ve got to go.

  You are a cow. When are you coming again?

  Tomorrow probably. Father Carruthers asked me to look in again.

  I say! He’s taking you under his wing!

  Maybe.

  Well, come in early and see me first. Will you?

  All right. I may not come at all. I’ll phone first.

  Good. I always answer the phone.

  Sorme stood with his hand on the door-knob; he asked:

  Can’t you remember exactly what it was that Father Carruthers said to this man Stein?

  Maunsell looked alarmed:

  No! For heaven’s sake! Don’t mention it to anyone. I may be wrong. He might easily have been talking about someone else.

  Sorme realised that Maunsell regretted telling him; he said casually:

  Don’t worry. I’m not really interested. See you tomorrow.

  All right. Come early.

  Maunsell let him out of the door, saying: Bye-bye, my dear.

  Sorme lifted his foot on to the crossbar of the bicycle to clip his trousers. He felt suddenly exhausted and discouraged.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As he wheeled the bicycle into the yard it began to rain. He covered it over with the tarpaulin. The light in the basement flat was on; as he turned away to leave the yard the curtain stirred and the girl looked out. He grinned and nodded, and her face disappeared abruptly. As he was about to insert his key in the front door, it opened. He said:

  Thanks, Carlotte.

  I’m glad you came. I’m going out. There’s a message for you.

  Really?

  Someone rang you from Switzerland. He’s going to ring back this evening.

  Switzerland!

  He rang just after you left. He’ll ring back about seven.

  Thanks very much. Has everything quietened down now?

  Yes. Only we’ve had two reporters here.

  Reporters, eh? What did they want?

  Oh, details about the fire. Mrs. Miller talked to them. I think she likes the idea of getting into the papers.

  Mmmm. That’s interesting. Did she tell them about me?

  I don’t think so. Why?

  I was hoping to get the George Medal.

  He saw, from her blank expression, that she didn’t understand. He felt too tired to explain. As he advanced to the foot of the stairs, he asked:

  Where’s Mrs. Miller now?

  Back in her own house. Why?

  Nothing. I’m just delighted.

  This time she laughed. He noted the bouncing of her breasts as she passed underneath him, and was disturbed by it. He thought: Why do I always want a woman most when I’m nervously exhausted? His legs ached as he mounted the stairs. In his room, he lit the gas, set the kettle on it, and sank into the armchair, yawning. His thoughts revolved round the German girl. The idea of making her his mistress was more appealing than it had been earlier. He put this down to his tiredness thinking: the body’s exhaustion inflames the imagination.

  The kettle began to steam. He reached out to the thermos on the table and found it half full of cold tea. He was too lazy to go to the lavatory to empty it. He shook it up, then poured the tea down the sink, turning on both taps to wash away the leaves.

  What the hell could Austin be phoning me for? Where did he get the number? Soon find out. He looked at his watch: it was ten-past five. Two hours. I must eat. Hungry. But after tea and a rest. The steam rose from the flask as he poured water into it. Like Vaslav. I am god. Wonder if he is a sadist? They need to beat somebody. Must ask him.

  The hot tea and the heat of the gas-fire were too much for him. He retreated to the bed. As he drank he began to feel sleepy, and thought irritatedly: Why should I feel sleepy? I didn’t get up till eleven. Nervous shock, perhaps. He resisted the impulse to lie down and close his eyes, and felt immediately overwhelmed by the desire to sleep. He stood up, and looked vaguely around the room for something to do. There was a case on top of the wardrobe, still not unpacked; he opened it on the bed, and began sorting out ties and handkerchiefs. In the bottom of the case he found the three Van Gogh prints, slightly corrugated with damp, that had been pinned on the walls of his old room. He selected the space over the mantelpiece for the Field of Green Corn. The Starry Night he placed at the head of the bed, where he could see it every time he faced the wall in bed. He pinned the Cornfield with Crows in the centre of the opposite wall near the door. He stood opposite the Field of Green Corn for a long time, trying to recapture a mood, without success. He concentrated, staring at it:

  To renew the fiery joy and burst the stony roof . . .

  For everything that lives is holy, life delights in life.

  And Nunne. And the old man. And a sadistic killer of four women. My body is not ill—it is my soul that is ill. Contempt. What else is there to feel? Not my body, but my soul. Poor Vaslav. He died.

  The sleepiness came back and he restrained it. Dirt. Fatigue. This room. Not anonymous, my room, a prison. The wind blew a gust of rain against the windows. But it is my consciousness. Sick and exhausted, I choose it. I choose it. It is mine. Violence. That’s it. I contain violence. I don’t want to be soothed. The violence is in the muscles, in the throat. When it explodes, I become myself. Everything that lives is holy.

  He noticed the fading warmth on his shins. The flames of the gas-fire were low. He groped in his trouser pockets for a shilling. In the back pocket he found a folded slip of paper; written across it in a neat feminine hand: Gertrude Quincey; phone any day after five. He searched the pockets of his jacket without finding a coin. Pulling on his raincoat, he went downstairs. On his way back into the house again, five minutes later, he stopped by the hall telephone and smoothed out the paper on the coin-box. Her voice answered almost immediately. He pressed Button A, saying:

  Hello. This is Gerard Sorme speaking.

  Gerard who? Oh, Austin’s friend! Hello! How are you?

  I’m fine. I thought I’d like to take you up on that offer to come over some time when you’re not busy.

  Yes, please do. Would you like to come to tea?

  Well . . . perhaps. Are you going to be home this evening?

  There was a perceptible hesitation. Finally she said:

  Yes. . . . What time?

  He wondered why she sounded so dubious, and felt chilled:

  I don’t mind
. Make it some other time if this evening’s not convenient. Would you prefer to make it next week?

  He had decided abruptly that if she put him off he would not contact her again. But her voice answered quickly:

  No, do come this evening. I was simply wondering whether anyone else is likely to come. But I don’t think so. Come round at about seven, if you like.

  Thank you. I can’t make it at seven. Austin’s ringing me.

  I thought he was abroad?

  He is. He’s ringing me from Switzerland.

  Really! Well, come afterwards then. I’ll expect you.

  She hung up while he was still thanking her. Again he had difficulty in suppressing the irritation. He went upstairs swearing under his breath. All people are swine. In his room, he put two shillings in the gas, and relit it. He poured more tea from the flask, and tasted it. It was too strong. He put on the record of Prokoviev’s fifth symphony and lay on the bed. Before the first side was half-played, he had fallen asleep.

  . . . . .

  He woke up suddenly in the dark, and peered at his watch. The luminous hands seemed to be indicating eight o’clock. He fumbled to the light-switch. It was precisely eight o’clock. The room was hot. He slipped his feet into slippers and hurried down­stairs. There was no one about. He went down to the basement flat and knocked. When no one replied, he opened the door a fraction; the room was in darkness. He swore obscenely under his breath. As he started back up the stairs, the phone started to ring. He snatched it before it had time to ring a second time. The woman’s voice said:

  Is Mr. Sorme there, please?

  Speaking.

  Oh! This is Gertrude Quincey. Are you coming over?

  Yes. I’m awfully sorry, but I fell asleep. I think Austin must have rung and got no reply. No one seems to be in.

  Oh dear. . . .

  Don’t worry. I’ll start out immediately. See you in half an hour.

  Good. I’d put some food out for you. . . .

  Thanks awfully. See you soon.

  He hung up, and glared at his watch. His hair felt tousled and his eyes were still myopic with sleep. Almost immediately the phone began to ring again. A woman’s voice said:

  Is Mr. Sorme there?

  Speaking.

  Would you hold on a moment? I have a personal call from Switzerland for you.