Ritual in the Dark

by Colin Wilson

  But not your type? she prompted him.

  No. . . . It’s not that. It’s the simplicity of the way she sees things. She puzzles me.

  Puzzles you? Why on earth should she puzzle you?

  She’s either brilliantly dishonest or so primitively simple-minded that I can’t even conceive of it. Mind, I can understand people being simple Bible Christians, and thinking the Bible’s the beginning and end of everything. But she doesn’t strike me as having that type of mind. You’d think she’d read Virginia Woolf, and patronise the local young writers.

  She does!

  Yes. . . . I suppose she does. Do you know anything about her life before she came to live in Hampstead?

  No. Mummy’s never talked about her. But she did drop something once when I wasn’t supposed to be listening. There was a man once.

  And what happened?

  I don’t know, really. Why are you so interested? Have you got designs on her?

  You brought the subject up!

  I expect I did. Anyway, I think she’s got designs on you.

  On my salvation, you mean.

  Well. . . . She’s rather lonely up there. That’s why I go up to stay some nights. I think she’d like it if you went up there more often.

  Hasn’t she any other close friends?

  No. She used to see rather a lot of a painter once. But that stopped. . . .

  You mean she had an affair?

  Oh no. He was half her age. A man named Glasp.

  Oliver Glasp?

  Yes, why?

  I’ve heard of him. A friend of Austin’s, I think.

  Yes. I think Austin took him there for the first time.

  Why did he stop going there? Do you know?

  Yes. He had some kind of a breakdown and went into a mental home. She never talked about it much, but I think they quarrelled as well.

  They had both finished their coffee. He asked her:

  Shall we go?

  She slipped down off the stool, and picked up her gloves. He asked:

  Where would you like to go now? Back into Soho for a drink?

  I don’t mind. Where would you?

  Let’s walk anyway. I’ve had too much to eat.

  The night was cold and windless; there were no stars.

  She asked:

  Would you like to visit a couple of girl-friends of mine? They live on a boat on Chelsea reach.

  How do we get there?

  It’s a ten-minute walk.

  Shall we buy some wine to take?

  That’s a good idea. I don’t suppose they’ll have anything to drink. They’re both actresses, but they’re out of work at the moment.

  They bought a bottle of hock at a wine shop, and walked on past the town hall. A hundred yards further on they could see the glow of a bonfire.

  That’d be the party Frankie mentioned. We don’t want to go, do we?

  I don’t.

  The fire had been built on a piece of waste ground that was divided from the road by a low wall. The land itself was about ten feet below street-level; it was reached through an entrance in the side street. The site was crowded with students, most of them holding bottles or glasses. A crowd of them were dragging a tree-trunk across the fire. It was too big to lie flat; it formed a kind of bridge across the centre of the fire, supported at its far end by branches.

  Let’s go down for just a moment, Gerard?

  Sorme trailed reluctantly behind her as she walked to the side street. There the ground sloped naturally on to the site. He asked with misgiving:

  Do you know many of them?

  A few. But we don’t want to get involved. Let’s just have a warm and then go.

  Somewhere, a portable radio was playing dance music, but no one was attempting to dance. In the shadows, towards the wall, couples were stretched out on the grass. Most of the crowd stood around the fire in a wide circle. It was too hot to stand close. In the blaze, Sorme could distinguish an old sofa and the remains of a door. As they stood there, someone leapt over the tree-trunk where it lay across the centre of the fire, and landed clumsily on the far side, sending up a shower of red sparks. A few students began to cheer spasmodically. The youth turned round and leapt back the other way, flinging his arms in the air and shrieking as he jumped. Sorme said, disgustedly: Bloody fool.

  That’s Ivor Fenner. I used to go out with him.

  Sorme repressed an irritated comment and turned away, shrugging. She took his arm, saying:

  Let’s go.

  As they came back on to street-level, he said gloomily:

  It all makes me feel as if I’m fifty. I detest students.

  They’re all right.

  Individually, perhaps. En masse, they’re loathsome.

  Before they had walked more than fifty yards they heard a distant clang of bells. The fire engine passed them and pulled up opposite the bomb-site. Caroline said:

  They’re going to put it out. Let’s watch.

  When they reached the site the waste ground was already empty of students; they clustered around the walls, looking at the fire. Sorme and Caroline stood at the end of the wall, and watched the long, white jet of water that hissed across the grass and curved on to the fire. Immediately, clouds of steam rose, and the flames disappeared. The water hit the end of the tree-trunk, and set it jerking across the grass. A groan went up from the students. Someone shouted:

  Rotten spoil-sports!

  The fire was out. It had taken less than three minutes.

  As they walked away, Sorme found himself feeling ashamed of the irritation he had felt earlier; it was not that he sympathised with the students, but that he revolted automatically at the idea of the authority that could put an end to the party. She looked at his face as they passed under a streetlamp, and asked:

  What are you annoyed about, Gerard?

  He laughed, becoming aware suddenly that he had been scowling:

  I’m not annoyed. I suppose I’m never satisfied.

  How do you mean?

  I disliked those students because they seemed a sloppy and undisciplined mob of adolescents. That makes me an authoritar­ian. But I detest the authorities when they stand about in uniforms and give orders. So I dare say I’m an anarchist. An authorit­arian anarchist!

  They had turned into Cheyne Walk. The breeze that came from the river was cold. She turned up her collar, and pressed her head against his arm. They crossed to the wall that overlooked the river, and stopped to stare at the water. The lights from the Albert Bridge wavered up from the ink-coloured dark. He became aware that she was looking up at him. He bent to kiss the cold lips, and felt the tip of her nose icy against his face. She said:

  I don’t care what you are.

  There’s no reason why you should. You don’t have to live with me like I do.

  She said stubbornly:

  I wouldn’t care if I had to live with you.

  He kissed her again and wondered, as he did so, how many times before she had been kissed in the dark, and by how many men. He stopped himself before his speculation went further, but was not soon enough to stop a feeling of resentment to­wards her.

  They crossed the bridge that led out to a landing-stage. From this, a narrow gangway of planks ran out along the side of the moored house-boats. He said:

  I’d better go first. It’s as black as your hat. Which boat is it?

  The third along.

  What do we do if they’re not in?

  We could wait for them. Or go home.

  As he came level with the third boat, he observed that there were no lights on.

  It looks as though they’re out. What now?

  Let’s go on board. The door might be open.

  He clambered over the side of the boat, and helped her over. She asked:

  Have you got any matches?

  He found a match, and lit it. She pulled at a door, which opened.

  Thank heavens! We can get in, anyway.

  He followed her curiously. An electric light
came on, revealing a small kitchen, with two calor-gas cylinders standing beside a gas-stove. She called:

  Anyone home? Yoo hoo! Barbara! Madeleine!

  He noticed a corkscrew hanging on a hook on the wall.

  We can have some wine, anyway.

  He tore off the lead foil, and opened the bottle. There were no glasses, but he found two china cups on a shelf. Caroline said:

  Come on in here.

  It was a small bed-sitting room, containing only a wide single bed and an armchair. It was barely six feet square.

  This is Barbara’s room. Madeleine’s is next door, but that’s smaller still.

  Where do they eat?

  In the kitchen.

  And where do they receive visitors?

  There’s another room through there, but they’re painting it at the moment.

  He handed a cup half filled with wine. She asked:

  What shall we drink to? Shall we drink to us?

  To us.

  He met her eyes as he lowered the cup; she turned her face up to be kissed. He could taste the wine on her lips. They still held the cups. She said:

  I wonder what Aunt Gertrude’d say if she could see us now?

  I dread to think.

  He flung his coat over the armchair, and sat on the bed.

  Do you think Barbara would mind if I sit on her bed?

  Of course not. Move over.

  What about my shoes?

  Take them off.

  He unlaced them and slipped them off, then moved over to the wall. She immediately lay down beside him and closed her eyes.

  Don’t you want your wine?

  In a moment.

  He bent over her, and allowed his lips to move over the soft and still cold skin of her face. She said softly:

  That’s nice.

  Her finger-tips touched around the back of his neck; her tongue darted between his lips. He straightened up, breathing deeply.

  We ought to stop, you know.

  Had we?

  Yes. Before it’s impossible!

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him:

  I wouldn’t mind you being my lover.

  That’s a highly immoral proposal!

  It isn’t. You’d be the first.

  It’s still immoral! Anyway, you’re too young to have a lover.

  That’s silly. Of course I’m not. Anyway, I nearly had one a year ago.

  What happened?

  He asked me to go to Brighton for a week-end with him. And I said yes.

  And did you?

  No. I got a sore throat the day before and had to stay in bed.

  He said, with mock severity:

  That’s a fine way to go on! I’m deeply shocked.

  She levered herself into a sitting position, and reached out for her cup.

  You’re not really. Are you?

  He asked curiously:

  Was it that pimply moron who was leaping over the bonfire?

  Ivor! Good lord, no! I wouldn’t go to bed with him! No, this was an actor. He was thirty-five, and he’d been divorced twice. And for about three weeks I’d thought I’d go crazy about him. I thought I’d never be able to live without him.

  But nothing happened?

  No. We quarrelled after that week-end. Then he had to leave. His company went to Liverpool. So that was that.

  He drank the rest of his wine, and began to laugh. She asked:

  What is it?

  Nothing. Just the contrast between you and your aunt.

  She said emphatically:

  God forbid I should ever be like her!!

  You won’t be!

  She put the cup down, and dropped her head on to the pillow: her lips pouted to be kissed. He said:

  No. It’s not good sense. I get blood pressure and an urge to undress you.

  You can’t. Not here. Barbara might come.

  Let’s lock the door?

  You can’t. It won’t lock.

  How do you know?

  Barbara told me. When she has her boy-friend here, they have to wedge the door with the armchair.

  Won’t she object if she comes in and finds us on her bed?

  No! She’s a sport. Anyway, we can hear her coming over the side. Then you can get into that chair and look respectable.

  He kissed her again, and made no effort to repress the excite­ment that began to rise. She thrust out her lower lip as she kissed, so that he could taste the moistness and smoothness of its inside. After a few minutes he raised his face from her, and sat up. She asked:

  What is it?

  It’s no good. I’ll explode if we keep it up. Are you sure she’s likely to be back soon?

  I don’t know. I don’t know when she’ll be back.

  He started to put his shoes on.

  Let’s go now. We’ll leave her the wine as a present.

  Where do you want to go to?

  Anywhere. Back to Soho. We can have a drink. It’s only ten o’clock.

  She stood up in her stockinged feet, and put her arms round his neck. He had to bend his shoulders to shorten himself by fifteen inches in order to reach her face. There was impatience now as he kissed her. He had accepted that nothing could come of it at the moment; further contact with her demanded that he put constraint on his impulses. She seemed to sense this; she broke away gently, saying:

  All right. Let’s go.

  . . . . .

  After he had left her at Tottenham Court Road station he felt relaxed and satisfied. He stared out of the window of the bus as it passed Goodge Street, and allowed his mind to dwell on the memory of her acquiescence. It was not that he suspected he might be falling in love with her; there seemed no likelihood of that. It was simply that he was charmed by her. She was too naïve, her mental processes were all too obvious for him to take her seriously. There was no element of mystery or intoxication, neither had there been any sort of a struggle. Without pre­liminaries, she had allowed him to see that he excited her, that she would be willing to allow herself to become infatuated with him if he had no objection. He had no objection; the idea of becoming her lover was pleasant. It was as simple as a commercial transaction.

  He yawned, and wiped the moisture out of his eyes with a handkerchief. The girl in front of him stood up and transferred a small white pekinese from her lap to the floor. She was pretty and smartly dressed. He glanced at her and looked away, pleased by the indifference he felt. It struck him that he was hardly ever free of desire; at any hour of the day or night, the thought of a woman could disturb him and arouse the dissatisfaction of lust without an object. It was a luxury not to care.

  It was a return of the sensation he had felt that morning, watching the girl get out of the lift: a sense of ease and power, a complete lack of envy. He could think of Nunne with complete detachment; not because he felt that Nunne’s advantages were accidental or temporal; on the contrary, it seemed there was something in Nunne that made money and luxury inevitable. But, in itself, this was nothing to envy. In his mind, Nunne stood for physical existence, a direct sense of physical life. His natural background would be the spotless deck of a yacht in the Medi­terranean, the whiteness of sunlight on snow near Trondheim; the rocks sticking out of a salmon fishing river in Galway. Sorme responded to these thoughts as he responded to Caroline; but underneath them, something oppressed him. There was a futility inherent in physical life that frightened him.

  He had begun to feel the cold as he got off the bus at Prince of Wales Road. He shivered, tensing the muscles of his shoulders, and walked quickly across the road. The relaxation had dis­appeared, and he had begun to feel a sense of anticipation he could not account for. It began to take definite shape when he turned out of the Kentish Town Road, and noticed the Jaguar parked outside the house.

  He looked on the hall table for letters or phone messages. A torn envelope read: Mr. Sorme: Mr. Nunne rang. It was signed: C.

  He saw the slit of light under his door before he opened it. The room was clouded with cigare
tte smoke. He said:

  Hello, Austin. How long have you been here?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nunne said: I was just about to push off. I began to think you might be out all night. How are you?

  Fine. Have you eaten?

  Hours ago. I’ve been drinking too. Have some brandy.

  He indicated the flask on the table. He was sitting in the armchair, his feet on the seat of a wooden chair on the other side of the rug. The gas-fire was burning, turned low. Sorme sat in the opposite armchair, and poured a little brandy into a glass. He said:

  It’s good to see you. What time did you get in?

  Five o’clock. I tried phoning you right away, but you’d left.

  In the four days since he had last seen him, Sorme had for­gotten many things about Nunne. He had forgotten that the drawling, cultured voice grated on his nerves, and that some­thing about the pock-marked face repelled him. The Nunne who sat opposite him had very little in common with the person he had been thinking about on the bus. He said:

  I’ve been out with Caroline Denbigh—Gertrude’s niece.

  Who? Oh, Gertrude. Caroline! I don’t think I’ve seen her since she was a little kid. But she’s only thirteen or so, isn’t she?

  No. Seventeen.

  Oh. Has she fallen for the Sorme approach?

  I wouldn’t know.

  Nunne said, sighing:

  I expect she has—like all of us. Will you take her to bed?

  Sorme looked at him closely; his face was serene, faintly ironical.

  That depends. . . . I may.

  The irony became unmistakable.

  And would you enjoy it?

  Sorme said: You’ve got a good point there. Perhaps not. Oh, I’d get some sort of a kick out of it . . . but what it might lead to . . . I don’t know that I’m ready to buy the consequences.

  Nunne poured more brandy into the tumbler.

  Well, never mind Caroline. You got the clothes, I see.

  Yes. Did you look for them?

  I did. Many thanks indeed. Did you have any difficulty getting them?

  None. I met Vannet. He tried to persuade me to stay to lunch. I didn’t.

  He would. That man has the curiosity of Pandora.

  Then I spent an hour in your flat. Oh, and—I tried some of your liqueurs.

  Good. I should have told you to help yourself.

  I also looked through your books. I spent a fascinating couple of hours there.