Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

  Sorme said uncertainly: That’s very kind of you. . . . He was thinking of the taxi.

  You’re not in a hurry, are you? Austin said you might want to spend an hour or two here. You haven’t got a taxi waiting, or anything?

  Sorme’s immediate inclination was to admit that he had, until he recollected Nunne’s insistence on secrecy. He said quickly:

  No. I’m not in a hurry.

  Lovely. Do sit down. I’m afraid the room’s in a bit of a mess. I’ve not been up long. We had a party last night. What will you drink? Whisky, or gin and martini? I’m afraid I’ve nothing else except a little wine.

  Gin and martini then, please.

  Sweet or dry?

  The room was stuffily warm, with two electric fires burning. It was a large and very comfortable bed-sitter. The carpeting was a plain fawn colour, and looked as if it had only just been hoovered. Nothing in the room suggested a party, or the un­tidiness associated with late rising. Sorme took his gin and Italian, and sat on the bed. Vannet stretched himself out on a piece of furniture that combined armchair and divan, with curves moulded to his body. He smiled at Sorme over the top of his glass, and then drank as though toasting some secret that they shared. He said:

  I may say, it isn’t like Austin to send his . . . friends along to see me. You are a fairly new friend, aren’t you?

  Fairly, Sorme said.

  Vannet grinned, and took another sip of whisky, managing to imply that his tact would forbid further questioning. He said blandly:

  I manage to meet all Austin’s friends sooner or later. Where’d you meet him—the Balalaika?

  No. What is it?

  Ah! I can see you haven’t known him for long! You’ll see the Balalaika soon, no doubt.

  What is it?

  Oh, it’s a . . . well, a sort of a . . . It’s a club.

  He simpered over his glass.

  I see, Sorme said. I shall look forward to going there.

  You ought to go tomorrow. Wednesday’s drag night. World-famous female impersonators! Oh, my dear!

  He said this with a nasal Cockney accent, fluttering his hand stiffly from the wrist.

  I’ll ask Austin—if he’s back, Sorme said.

  Are you expecting him?

  I’m not sure.

  A pair of china blue eyes regarded him penetratingly for a moment, then dropped coyly. Vannet said:

  Well, if you want to see it, and Austin’s not back, I could probably get you in. . . .

  That’s kind of you! But I can see it some other time.

  That’s what you think! You don’t think they do it every week, do you? They have to arrange it. Then they pass the word around quietly. So the police don’t get wind of it. They don’t intend to be raided, don’t you see, dear? Don’t mind me calling you dear. It doesn’t mean anything. . . . But if you’d like to see it, I’d be delighted. . . .

  Sorme grunted, and nodded noncommittally. Vannet stared wistfully into his glass, and asked:

  Is Austin in Switzerland alone?

  As far as I know. Why?

  Oh, I’m not prying. But he had his eye on a rather nice little dish at the Balalaika on Friday.

  Friday, Sorme said.

  Yes . . . why? It was Friday, wasn’t it? Yes, I remember.

  I was with him on Friday evening, Sorme explained. But he left me before midnight.

  Oh, this was well after midnight. He was looking far gone. . . . Cigarette?

  No, thanks. Tell me, do you own all this house?

  Yes, why? You looking for a room?

  Again, the look was suggestive and coy. Sorme finished the martini.

  No. I’ve only just moved into a room. Camden Town. But it seems a most impressive place. With all the gadgets.

  Thank you. You touch me on my weak spot. This place is my pride. I own two more—in Highgate and Islington—but my heart belongs to twenty-three Canning Place. Another drink?

  No, thanks. I ought to get a move on.

  An instinct told him that a second drink would mean at least another hour of conversation.

  No. Perhaps you’re right. It wouldn’t improve your studies.

  A buzzer sounded suddenly in the room, making Sorme jump. Vannet picked up a small microphone that stood by the chair, and flicked a switch. He said tartly:

  Bugger off. I’ve got a visitor.

  He smiled at Sorme, and pressed the switch again. A com­plaining voice said:

  I don’t want to get you out of bed. I want Frankie.

  He’s not here. He went hours ago.

  When? the voice demanded through the microphone.

  When? Don’t ask me. I’m not his bloody mother. Hours ago. Do you want to come in for a drink?

  No, thank you! Not after that! He’s got to meet this producer chap at one. You’ve no idea . . . ?

  Yes, I have. Try flat seven—Dilly’s.

  Oh, you awkward bastard. Why didn’t you say so?

  Vannet put the microphone down. He said:

  Useful little things, these. They save my poor old feet. Not to mention the tenant on the top floor. Where were we?

  You were saying something about my studies. I didn’t quite follow you.

  Oh yes. Austin said to leave you down there so you could study, or something.

  I shan’t be there long. I only want to look something up.

  Oh. Pity. I was hoping you’d be here for lunch.

  No. I must get back, I’m afraid.

  He stood up to emphasise his intention of leaving. Vannet heaved himself regretfully off the curved armchair. He said:

  Oh well, if you have to go.

  Sorme was afraid he had offended him, but the intimacy of Vannet’s smile as he opened the door reassured him:

  I’ll hope to see you again. And if you do want a room . . .

  He led the way across the hall, and opened the front door. Sorme asked:

  What about Austin’s flat?

  That’s in the basement, Vannet said. Sorme caught a glint of amusement in his eyes, and guessed that Vannet had been curious as to whether he had been here before. He followed him out into the street and through the gate in the area railings. A glance at the end of the street showed him the taxi still waiting there.

  It’s quite self-contained, Vannet said. You can’t get into it from the house.

  I see.

  Vannet opened the front door. Immediately, a smell of some perfume met them; Sorme recognised it; it was the perfume of the Diaghilev exhibition, mitsouko.

  After you. The door is to your left.

  The room was in complete darkness. He groped for the switch. A soft pink light came on, showing a room that was similar to Vannet’s bed-sitter. The air smelt of strong tobacco. Sorme looked into its corners, but saw no clothes. He set the leather grip down on the table.

  This is it, Vannet said. There’s another room through there. I’ll leave you now. Make sure you slam the door as you go out. Enjoy yourself.

  Thank you.

  Vannet held out his hand. He said softly, almost pleadingly:

  And if you’d like another drink, or a bite to eat, come into my place when you leave.

  Thanks, Sorme said uncomfortably. But I don’t think I’ll accept this time. Perhaps another day. . . .

  Bye-bye. . . . I don’t even know your Christian name.

  Gerard.

  It’s like mine—Gerald! Ah, well. Bye-bye, Gerard.

  Goodbye. Thanks for the drink.

  Come again!

  The front door closed noisily. Sorme crossed the room imme­diately and opened the other door. The smell of mitsouko was suddenly stronger. He switched on a light. Four wall-lights came on, filling the room with a blue glow.

  It was smaller than the other room. The walls were almost completely hidden by velvet curtains that stretched from floor to ceiling. The hangings were black; they contrasted with the carpet and divan, which were wine-red. He said aloud: Christ! Shades of Edgar Poe! He suddenly felt grateful to Vannet for leaving
him alone; it relieved him of any necessity to comment on the room. He sat on the divan-bed, and stared around. The room repelled and attracted him. He looked up at the ceiling, which had been painted night-blue. He stood up to stare more closely at the pictures that were spaced along the walls between the hangings. Two were Gauguins; they looked like originals or skilful copies. On either side of these were spaced four obscene drawings, signed and titled in a Chinese or Japanese script; these seemed to have been sketched with a fine brush dipped in Indian ink. One showed a naked giant of a man, with a propor­tionately large member, landing from a raft on a beach; across the beach hordes of laughing women rush to meet him. Its companion-picture showed the same man leaving the island, shrunken and withered, while the women tear their hair and wail. The other two drawings showed the same giant performing feats of strength: in one case, shattering a copper vessel with the immense member; in the other, holding off hordes of armed bandits by using it as a club. He observed that all four drawings bore in the bottom left-hand corner the minute letters: OG.

  He slid aside the plain-glass doors of the bookcase. The bottom shelf was devoted to an edition of the Marquis de Sade. He took down a volume of Les 120 Journées de Sodome, and observed that the title page bore no publisher’s imprint. The other shelves contained volumes in French and German, uniformly bound in blue leather with silver lettering, and copies of limited editions of Petronius, Apuleius and Sappho, all lavishly illustrated. Finally, the top shelf contained several works on medicine and psych­ology, with volumes of Bloch, Stekel, Krafft-Ebing and Hirschfeld. The French and German volumes seemed to be mostly of nineteenth-century romantic writers. He opened the volume of Lautréamont, and found it thick with dust. Some of its pages were uncut.

  He returned to the other room and investigated its doors. One was a clothes cupboard; the other led to a large kitchen in which everything seemed new, although when he looked more closely he realised from the undisturbed dust that no one had used it for a long time. Beyond the kitchen was a bathroom, in which the smell of mitsouko was overpowering; it came from the bath, where the fragments of a large bottle were scattered. He pulled out the plug and turned on the tap; after a few moments, the water flowed hot, and clouds of scented steam rose around him. From the size of the fragments, he judged that the bottle must have held at least half a pint.

  From somewhere above his head, he heard the sound of a telephone ringing. It reminded him of the reason he was in Nunne’s flat. He turned off the tap and returned to the bedroom.

  At first sight, he could see no sign of the clothes Nunne had mentioned. Then he tried looking behind the hangings, and found them immediately. They were lying beside the fireplace, which had been sealed up with black-painted hardboard. At the top of the heap lay a pair of women’s stockings. It seemed to be a complete women’s outfit. He was surprised; he had expected that the clothes would be Nunne’s own.

  He opened the leather grip, and tried to push them inside in a bundle. They were too bulky; he had to fold them, and place them in one by one. There was a black raincoat with a torn lining, and a shabby navy blue skirt. The stockings were of good quality nylon, but the rest of the underclothes were evidently not new. Finally, there was a pair of black suède shoes; one of the high heels was broken off and missing. He packed these on top, and closed the grip.

  The thought of the waiting taxi worried him; he had no desire to leave the flat immediately. Finally, he went out and dismissed it, telling the man that he was being delayed. He felt guilty as he watched it drive away, but the guilt gave way to a sense of relief and relaxation as he closed the front door behind him. Excitement produced a watery sensation in the bowels.

  In the sitting-room he switched on the electric fire, and knelt, warming himself at it for a moment. Then he crossed to the side­board and opened the cupboard. It contained an array of liqueur bottles, mostly full or half full. With a sense of having the whole day to spare, he took them out one by one and sniffed them. Some he knew; most of them he had never heard of, or only seen on the shelves behind bars. He found a shelf of glasses in the other cupboard, and proceeded to line up a dozen along the sideboard, and pour a drop of liqueur into each. He pulled up a chair to the sideboard, and tasted each glass in turn: the Calvados, Chart­reuse, Benedictine, anisette, maraschine, allasch. In some cases the taste was so agreeable that he poured more into the glass. After ten minutes he realised that he was becoming slightly drunk. There were still bottles untasted. He decided to leave them until later. The room was becoming warm; he removed his coat and flung it over an armchair. He said aloud: You lucky bastard, Austin. He returned to the other room, and was glad of its relative coolness.

  When he pulled at the curtains, he realised that they moved on rollers; if necessary, they could be drawn to cover the walls of the room completely. He drew them back until they were all bunched in corners of the room. It made little difference to the appearance of the walls. They were painted black. A door in the corner was also painted black. The space where the window had been was boarded over like the fireplace; from the other side of the room, it looked like a continuation of the wall.

  The wall at the far end of the room, which had been completely covered by curtains, had two paintings hung on it. One showed a man in evening dress walking along a busy street; he was leading a pig by a length of blue ribbon; in the middle of his forehead was an enormous eye. The other showed a man in shirtsleeves, lying on his back under an apple tree in moonlight. The fruit and leaves of the tree were painted in deep greens and reds and blues; they possessed a misty and lyrical quality that contrasted with the completely yellow figure under the tree. The titles of both pictures were painted at the bottom of the canvases; Les Amours Jaunes, and, Self-portrait by Moonlight. Both were signed: Glasp, and dated 1948.

  The other door led into a small closet, whose back wall was lined with bookshelves. He switched on the light to look through them, and found them disappointing. There were many standard works of English literature, and some volumes which he guessed to be Nunne’s college text-books. There were several children’s books; when he idly took down The Bumper Book for Boys he found a signature: Austin Nunne 1935, inside the cover. An abridged edition of Frazer’s Golden Bough seemed to have been given as a school prize in 1940; it had evidently been thoroughly read; the text was covered with pencil-marks. It fell open at an early page as he leafed through it. He turned to the light to read a quotation marked in red ink:

  ‘The notion of a man-god, or of a human being endowed with divine or supernatural powers, belongs essentially to that early period of religious history in which gods and men are still viewed as beings of much the same order, and before they are divided by the impassable gulf which, to later thought, opens out between them.’

  He carried the book into the bedroom, and sat on the divan to read it. A curious sense of Nunne’s presence was beginning to grow in him. Once he looked up startled, expecting to see Nunne standing in the doorway, looking at him. He said aloud: I am yesterday, today and tomorrow, and I have the power to be born a second time. The sound of his voice released his tension, but left a sense of disquiet that puzzled him. He felt as if something unpleasant was about to happen, a sensation like the end of a nightmare. Then he noticed the grip, standing beside the fire­place. The disquiet was connected with the women’s clothes he had packed. As he tried to analyse it, he remembered that Nunne had asked him to return any open books that might be lying around to their shelves. He could not recollect having seen any. For some reason this worried him. He went into the other room and looked around, finding none. In the bedroom he pulled aside all the curtains, and peered between the divan and the wall. Finally, he raised the edge of the divan cover and looked in the three-inch space between its bottom and the floor. A book lay open, face downwards on the carpet. Its title was: Criminology, Its Background and Techniques. He turned it over, and found himself looking at a photograph of a woman with her throat cut. The caption under the picture read: Not
e defensive wounds on hands. He dropped the book on the bed, feeling sick, and went out to the kitchen.

  There, the daylight made him feel better. He ran the tap, and stared at the water that ran in a smooth stream. It soothed him. The room he had left seemed in some way unclean; he felt no desire to go into it again. It was the first time he had seen a photograph of a violent death; it seemed to taint the air he breathed with tangible disgust. He felt almost as though he had discovered a mutilated body in Nunne’s cupboard.

  He told himself that the disgust was stupid, that he had no right to be shocked by physical violence. After a while he returned to the bedroom, and made himself take up the book again. This time the photograph made less impact on him. He sat on the bed with a sense of bravado, and looked through the book. It seemed to be a well-documented text-book for the use of the American police. A whole chapter dealt with stolen cars, with photographs of the marks made by tyres on mud; another dealt with finger­prints and footprints. It was the final chapters of the book, which examined causes of death and identification of the dead, that contained most of the photographs of violence. He found himself turning the pages with a tension that was like being prepared for a physical blow. He made himself read the captions before he looked at the photographs: when he had finished looking through these, he returned the book to the top shelf, among the volumes on forensic medicine. Still standing on the divan, leaning against the wall for balance, he opened some of these, and glanced into them. The photographs had ceased to shock him; he felt only a heaviness of continual disgust in his stomach. When he lowered his eyes to the shelf underneath, containing Mallarmé, Nerval, de L’Isle-Adam, Schopenhauer, he experienced a sense of un­reality. It seemed to him that these men had known nothing of the reality of death when they wrote, that somehow the photo­graphs made nonsense of the obsession with sin in de Sade and Baudelaire.

  As he stood there, his feelings seemed to black out, like a sudden breakdown in a film; for a moment, he was overpowered by a sense of his own absurdity. It was the vastation that had come to him on the previous Sunday in the night. It was as if he was watching something over which he had no control, and that terrified him. He sat down on the divan. The feeling began to disappear. He tried to capture it, feeling strongly that he must outface it and examine it. It disappeared completely.