Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

  Ooh, can we have the radio on, aunt? There’s a recording of Dylan Thomas reading his own poetry at ten-fifteen.

  Sorme looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past. He said:

  Maybe I ought to go anyway. You go to bed early, don’t you?

  You don’t have to go, Miss Quincey said. I don’t always go to bed at ten o’clock! The other night was an exception.

  Caroline asked: Don’t you like Dylan Thomas, Gerard?

  I’ve never read him, Sorme said. He stood up. I think I’d better be off anyway.

  He would have welcomed spending another hour with either of them alone, but to have them both together was frustrating. He sensed obscurely that he was making headway with Miss Quincey; and that she wanted him to stay.

  You’re not going early because of me, I hope? Caroline said.

  Not at all. You wouldn’t drive anyone away, I assure you.

  Thanks!

  I’ve got a book that might interest you, Miss Quincey said. I think you ought to read it.

  Who’s it by?

  Well, our books are always issued anonymously, but I do happen to know who wrote this one. It’s by Brother Macardle of Manchester. I’ve met him. He’s a brilliant man—a biochemist.

  She was searching through the bookcase as she spoke. She said:

  I . . . can’t see it. It must be upstairs. I won’t be a moment.

  Sorme followed her out of the room, and took his raincoat from the hat-stand. He went back into the sitting-room to put it on. Caroline looked at him, chewing. She said:

  I’m sorry you’ve got to go.

  Maybe we can meet again?

  I’d love to. I’d like you to tell me about your book.

  He belted the raincoat.

  When are you free?

  Almost any evening—and just occasionally in the afternoon.

  He was being deliberately casual, yet listening hard for the sound of Miss Quincey on the stairs, afraid she might come back too soon. He asked:

  Are you free tomorrow evening?

  I . . . think so. If I’m not, where can I contact you?

  He gave her his phone number, and she wrote it in a notebook which she took from her handbag. He asked:

  Where shall I see you?

  Where do you live?

  Camden Town.

  Miss Quincey’s step sounded on the stairs. She said quickly:

  Six o’clock at Leicester Square Underground?

  That’s fine.

  She was returning the notebook to her handbag as Miss Quincey came into the room. He felt absurdly tense and em­barrassed. Caroline, looking completely unhurried, bit into the sandwich. Miss Quincey held out a green-bound book to him.

  Have you got a copy of the Bible?

  Er . . . yes, of course.

  It’s not of course. Most people haven’t.

  No?

  No. I soon found that out when I did some door-to-door work with Brother Robbins. We visited thirty houses in one road in Putney, and only two had a Bible.

  He slipped the book into the inside pocket of his raincoat. It was not large.

  You’ll find it marked in many places. It’s one of the best books we’ve ever published, I think. It gives you everything we believe in a nutshell. If you intend to write about us, you ought to base it on that. But you’ll need a Bible to refer to as well.

  Thanks. . . . Er . . . when shall I see you again?

  In front of Caroline, he felt his phrasing was preposterously ill-chosen.

  You ought to read that first. No, I don’t really mean that. You’re very welcome whether you’ve read it or not. Come any time. Not over the week-end though.

  Later this week?

  Yes. . . . Not Wednesday or Friday, though, unless you want to attend a meeting. And Thursday I’ve got some people coming. You could come tomorrow if you wanted to.

  Not tomorrow. I think I’m doing something.

  Then it will have to be next Monday at the earliest. Will that be all right?

  Yes, that’s fine. . . .

  He turned at the door. Caroline was still eating.

  Goodbye.

  Bye-bye, Gerard.

  He deliberately refrained from calling her ‘Caroline’, feeling a constraint in Miss Quincey’s presence.

  At the front door he said:

  Look here, I feel rather guilty about this. . . .

  About what?

  About coming here and eating your food. I don’t want you to feel that . . . well, you know . . .

  Oh nonsense. I know you don’t. There’s always food here whenever you want to come in. Don’t feel guilty.

  He said: Perhaps I might take you out for a meal one evening?

  She smiled, shrugging, then suddenly met his eyes, and seemed to colour slightly. She said briskly:

  Well, we can talk about that.

  He took her hand.

  Good night.

  Good night, Gerard.

  To his surprise she took his hand in both hers, and squeezed it. He turned away quickly, and hurried down the drive. She called:

  Can you see all right?

  Yes, thank you.

  The dark closed around him as the door clicked to.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She yielded immediately, and with no sign of sur­prise. When he tried to press her backwards on to the settee, she pushed him away gently, saying: Not here. Someone might come. He asked: Where then? She smiled, and nodded towards the bedroom. Before she was through the door, she had begun to pull her dress over her head. He slammed the door and locked it. He said happily:

  My god, sweet, you’ve got a superb body.

  Someone hit the door behind him, banging it hard. He was surprised; there had been no one in that room a moment before. She looked alarmed, and reached for her slip, which she had thrown on to the bed. The knock came again. He said:

  Never mind that. Let’s hurry before . . .

  The knocking became more insistent, and he became aware of the voice shouting: Telephone for you. The dream dissolved; he sat up dizzily in bed, and looked at his watch. He shouted:

  O.k. Thanks very much.

  Carlotte’s steps retreated down the stairs. He pulled on his dressing-gown, thrusting his feet into slippers. The dream became an unreality, and was forgotten before he had had time to dwell on it.

  The front door stood wide open; he closed it before picking up the phone. The operator’s voice asked: Mr. Sorme?

  Speaking.

  A personal call for you from Switzerland.

  He said: Blimey, again?

  Beg your pardon?

  Nothing. Put it through, please.

  Gerard? Is that you?

  Yes.

  Have you been yet?

  He let the annoyance sound in his voice:

  No. I’ve only just got out of bed!

  Oh I’m terribly sorry! Did I wake you?

  Yes. But never mind. Was that all you rang me for?

  Normally he would have apologised for the inconvenience he had accidentally caused, but sleepiness made him irritable. Nunne’s voice said:

  No. Can you hear me well?

  Yes, perfectly.

  Gerard . . . I want you to do me rather a favour. Would you?

  Yes. What is it?

  I’d like you to go to my room, and collect something for me, and take it back to your own room. Would you?

  All right. But will the porter let me in?

  Yes. But it’s not my usual room. . . . It’s not my flat I’m talking about. I want you to go to another address. Have you got a pencil?

  He groped in the pocket of the dressing-gown, and found the cheap ball-pen he usually kept there. His address book was not with it, but there was a chocolate wrapper, which he tore open.

  All right. I’ve got a pencil. Go ahead.

  The address is twenty-three Canning Place. That’s Kensing­ton, off Palace Gate. Have you got that?

  Yes. Twenty-three. What do you want me to do?

&n
bsp; There’s a man called Vannet in charge of the house. He’s a friend of mine. Ask for him, and he’ll let you into my room.

  Will he?

  Yes. I’m going to phone him now.

  All right. What then?

  When you get into my room, you’ll see some clothes in a corner near the fireplace. I want you to pack them in a bag, and bring them away with you. But don’t let Gerald Vannet see you, will you? Make sure he isn’t in the room. And whatever you do, don’t tell him why you’re going there. I’ll tell him you want to collect an address I’ve left behind. All right?

  Yes. But why all the secrecy?

  I’ll explain to you later. But keep the clothes in your room, and don’t tell anyone, will you?

  All right. Anything else?

  Yes. There may be some books lying around the room. Take them and put them back on the bookshelf, will you? And make sure Vannet isn’t hanging around to watch you. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, as if you intend to stay half the day. Would you do that?

  All right.

  And take a taxi. I’ll give you the money when I see you. Or, better still, ring Silver Cabs, and quote the number of my account. It’s seven two three. Ask for Jakey.

  That doesn’t matter. I’ll cycle.

  No, don’t do that. Ring for a taxi. I wouldn’t be happy other­wise. Will you do that?

  All right.

  Listen, Gerard. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance. But there’s no one else I’d trust. Don’t forget. Please don’t mention it to anyone—especially Vannet. Will you?

  No. All right. And you still want me to send you that telegram?

  Yes, please. If you would.

  When shall I see you?

  Probably tomorrow. I’m not sure. But probably.

  O.k., Austin. Look forward to seeing you. . . .

  Carlotte passed him on the stairs. She said: Your friend must be very rich, to telephone from Switzerland.

  I’m afraid he is. Eccentric, too.

  In his own room, he lit the gas-fire and put the kettle on to boil. He climbed back into the still-warm bed, and listened to the hiss of gas, the water simmering. He closed his eyes, and thought of Austin. Very rich. More money than sense. Looks as if he might be a damned nuisance. I wonder why all the secrecy? Can’t tell. Queers get odd ideas. Maybe he has to keep it a secret that he’s queer? Not likely. Most of them advertise it. Trusts me? Why? Perhaps because I know no one else in his circle.

  His thoughts flowed into a dream. Austin was lying behind a barrier of stones on top of a mountain; he was pointing towards a house in the valley, and saying, ‘Don’t show yourself. He has sharp eyes. Lie flat.’ They were in Switzerland. Behind them, on a small plateau, stood Austin’s aeroplane; it looked like the Spitfire that had stood by the gate of the R.A.F. camp where he had been stationed for his National Service.

  He woke up and saw that the kettle was boiling. He made himself tea and got back into bed to drink it, still wearing the dressing-gown. He reached out for the nearest book in the book­case. It was The Trial of George Chapman. He sipped the tea, looking with morbid interest at the face of the sadistic poisoner, the powerful jaw and deep-set eyes. The face looked scarred.

  . . . . .

  He asked the cab-man: You’re Jakey?

  Yes, sir. But you’re not Mr. Nunne, though!

  No. I’m not. Mr. Nunne phoned me from Switzerland an hour ago and asked me to do some errands for him. Do you know his address?

  Yes, sir, but I’m not sure it’s all right me takin’ you when you’re not Mr. Nunne. It’s his account, you see. . . .

  Yes, but he’s in Switzerland. He’s only just phoned me. He gave me his account number.

  Yes, but I don’t know that, do I?

  Sorme said irritably: He told me to ask for you because you wouldn’t make difficulties!

  The man said gloomily: All right, jump in. I’ll risk it.

  Sorme got into the cab swearing under his breath. It annoyed and affronted him to be regarded with suspicion. As the taxi moved off, he began to feel better. It had been a long time since he had travelled by taxi. It gave him a sensation of carelessness and relaxation. He placed his feet on the leather bag he had brought to pack Austin’s clothes in, and stared with pleasure at the traffic. He remembered Caroline, and again felt contented and pleased with himself. It was not a frequent sensation; a degree of self-criticism and analysis that accompanied everything he thought made it rare. His thoughts tended to be logical and verbal, like telepathic communication or writing; intuition played only a small part in his mental processes. When tired, he hated this tendency to carry on mental conversations with him­self, but was unable to stop it. Now he thought happily: I have tried to avoid complications. But they come all the same. I have tried to simplify my life, to concentrate on the only thing that’s important. And the simplicity destroys my ability to concentrate. And now things are happening that should make things worse, and instead I feel certain and confident again.

  He felt a sense of disappointment when the taxi drew up opposite Great Portland Street Station. The driver asked:

  Is that the lot?

  No. I’ve got two more errands to do. Would you wait?

  The man said resignedly: Right y’are, guv.

  A man in a red uniform came to meet him as soon as he came out of the revolving door into the hallway.

  Can I help you, sir?

  Sorme said: Good morning. Mr. Nunne asked me to call and find out if there are any messages for him.

  The man’s manner became perceptibly more respectful.

  Hold on a moment, sir. I’ll ask the telephone girl. I won’t keep you a moment, sir.

  Thanks.

  He turned as he was hurrying away, to say:

  Would you like to take a seat, sir?

  Thank you.

  They were deep, comfortable armchairs, as in a hotel lounge. In the bowl of the potted palm that stood beside the chair there were several cigarette butts. The lift descended as he sat there. He watched with curiosity the white-moustached old man and the young girl in furs who stepped out of it. Both had the air of un­conscious grace and poise that comes from never having to think about money. There was no envy in his contemplation of them: only an almost proprietary kind of affection. He felt that no real barrier existed between themselves and him; on the contrary, he had a strange sense of advantage over them. The girl took the old man’s arm and squeezed it. He thought: She is either his mistress or his daughter. Or granddaughter. He looked at them friendlily as they went out of the revolving door, then transferred his attention to the reflection of himself in the mirror opposite. He was mildly surprised that he felt no envy for Nunne and his way of life. He examined the awareness, and realised that it was based on a sense of belief in himself and of confidence in his own powers that was always latent in him, yet which only rarely became conscious. He smiled to himself, and said softly, Delusions of grandeur and distinct paranoiac traits; the patient Sorme should be kept under observation. . . .

  The man came back. He said:

  I’ve got a few phone messages, sir. People who want him to ring them back.

  Thanks. Nothing else? No one has been here enquiring about him?

  Enquiring? No sir. Why, sir, is he expecting someone?

  I think so. It doesn’t matter. Can I have the phone messages? He’s phoning me from Switzerland this evening.

  Certainly, sir. The girl’s copying them out now. She won’t be a moment.

  Thanks.

  He crossed to the mirror and looked at himself closely. The leather bands around the cuffs of his jackets showed below the sleeves of the overcoat. The grey whipcord trousers looked baggy; one of the turn-ups was hanging down. He thought: I must buy more trousers and get my hair cut. I look a wreck.

  In the taxi he glanced at the two sheets of paper headed ‘Phone Message’. The messages were written neatly with a ball­point pen; they were dated from the previous Friday. ‘Will you ring Mr. Beaumont be
fore ten this evening?’ ‘Major Dennis will not be able to join Mr. Nunne for dinner on Wednesday.’ He looked through the rest, then folded the papers and put them in his wallet. They told him nothing more of Nunne. Nunne was becoming increasingly the centre of his curiosity.

  The sight of the Post Office at Notting Hill Gate reminded him of the telegram; he tapped on the glass, and asked the driver to stop at the next Post Office. He had forgotten what Nunne had asked him to say in the telegram; after consideration, he worded it simply: No enquiries, and signed it: Gerard.

  The driver asked: What number, sir?

  Is this Canning Place?

  Yes.

  Would you mind driving to the end of the street and waiting for me there? I shall be about ten minutes.

  The end? Right.

  He noted the surprise in the driver’s voice, and was about to explain; then he felt irritated with his own embarrassment, reflecting that it was none of the man’s business anyway. He stepped out of the cab, saying:

  I shall want to return to Camden Town afterwards.

  Afraid I’ll have to keep the clock tickin’ sir.

  Right you are.

  Number twenty-three was halfway down the street. It was a tall, Victorian house with steps leading up to the front door. When he pressed the bell labelled ‘Vannet’, a voice spoke from a circle of wire-gauze above the bell-pushes:

  Hello. Who is it?

  He addressed the wire-gauze:

  My name is Sorme. Austin Nunne asked me to call.

  Oh yes.

  The door clicked open. The voice said:

  It’s the second door on your right.

  He went into the badly lit hallway, closing the door behind him. The door was inscribed: Gerald Vannet, in white plastic letters. When he knocked, the voice called: Come in.

  The man was levering himself out of an easy chair as he came into the room. He was six inches shorter than Sorme. He wore a loose green tee-shirt with a silk muffler underneath it. The flannel trousers had a knife-edge crease.

  Well, I’m delighted to meet you! You’re Mr. Sorme. Austin rang up about an hour ago. Won’t you have a drink?

  His voice was a neighing drawl, on an almost soprano note.