by Colin Wilson
That’s one advantage of being a writer—it’s easier to keep a small room warm. The only way to keep warm in that barn of mine is to stay in bed.
He looked strangely lugubrious in the plastic raincoat; it accentuated the stoop of his shoulders.
Looking at him, Sorme felt surprised that he had ever regarded Glasp as formidable; he seemed defenceless. But there was something alien about his stringy ugliness; it was impossible to feel protective about him.
. . . . .
They were the first in the bar. In the grate, a fire was beginning to burn through. Glasp sat close to it, drinking a pint of bitter. But when Sorme suggested a game of darts he accepted without hesitation, and scored a double with his first dart. Sorme was inclined to accept it as a fluke, but was soon compelled to revise his opinion; Glasp threw the darts slowly and clumsily, with a cobra-like motion of the hand, but with a startling accuracy. When they sat down again, he had beaten Sorme three times. Sorme said:
Where did you learn to play like that?
In my teens. I haven’t played for years.
He emptied his pint, and banged it on the shelf. Sorme said: Another? Glasp looked surprised, and said: Oh, thanks. His mood had changed completely in twenty minutes, become relaxed and humorous. Sorme watched him emptying the second pint, and thought with amusement: When shall I ever learn? People are real. My mind likes creating patterns too much.
Glasp said: Perhaps I should have phoned the hostel.
He’ll understand. Anyway, he was very tired.
Glasp nodded.
He’s a good sort. I ought to see him more.
Sorme said: You said earlier that he used to be a member of the Oliver-Reform Society? What exactly did you mean?
Glasp said, smiling:
You mean, what did they want to reform me from?
Well, yes.
Nothing serious. They used to think I’d be the new Chagall.
Didn’t you?
It’s not that. I just . . . don’t like people having preconceived ideas about me . . . that I have to live up to. I’d rather be left alone.
Mmmmm. But what did you want to do when you were left alone?
That didn’t matter.
Sorme said meditatively:
I know what you mean. But it’s difficult, isn’t it? You feel as if you want nothing except to be alone. Then your own weakness betrays you. You get involved in a different way—involved with boredom and loneliness. You know, I feel ashamed of the fact that I feel better now because of Austin. It’s not a real superiority I feel over him. It’s an illusion, pure chance.
Glasp asked:
Is it pure chance that you’re not a sadist?
I . . . think so.
No. When you read your volume on the Arran murder, do you feel it’s pure chance you’re not the killer?
Sorme thought about it. He said:
No. Because I wouldn’t murder a man for the sake of a few pounds as Laurie did.
You’d murder him for other reasons, though?
No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. I don’t possess any of the instincts that could make me sympathise with a murderer. I don’t think many people have. But everybody possesses a sexual urge. Why do you suppose the type of Sunday paper that specialises in sex-crimes has such vast sales?
Glasp said:
Not sex crime alone. Any sort of crime. If you use that argument, you’ll have to admit that the readers of Sunday papers have a suppressed desire to be footpads and blackmailers and kleptomaniacs.
All right. What’s your conclusion?
Glasp did not reply immediately. The pub was beginning to fill up; a man was leaning across his shoulder to reach a pack of cards from the shelf. When the man was out of ear-shot, Glasp leaned forward. He said seriously:
I’ll tell you. You’re a fool to underrate yourself. You’re nothing like Austin, or like Gertrude Quincey, or any of these other people you get mixed up with. They just waste your time.
Sorme grimaced and shrugged.
I suppose they do. But they’ve got some value, for all that.
Not for you. For you, they’re just parasites.
Why parasites? It’s the other way round. They give me meals, and I do nothing.
Except give them your blood.
Perhaps.
You do, Glasp said emphatically. Why don’t you realise it? They don’t belong to the same species as you.
Or you? Sorme said, smiling.
For a moment, he thought Glasp was offended; his look was hard and enquiring. Then he said:
Well, you answer that one.
Sorme restrained his pleasure at the implied compliment. He said:
A sort of Nietzschean master and slave morality, eh?
Why not, if it fits the facts? What’s the point in imagining you’re one of the mob if you’re not? You’re just a wolf pretending to be a sheep, that’s all.
He emptied his glass. When Sorme tried to take it from him, he said: No, it’s my turn. He crossed to the bar. Sorme stared at him. His glance fell on the plastic macintosh that lay over the chair, and he recalled Glasp standing in his room wearing it, his shoulders rounded, his face bloodless and alien, a man without vitality or direction. His veins were warmed by a secretion of excitement like anticipation, thinking: I wonder how many more there are in London? There might be enough to make a new age. Not Chicago rebels, but a generation with purpose. It’s good to know Oliver. He’s right about Austin. I’m sick of self-confessed weakness.
Glasp returned with two glasses. Sorme said:
What about finding something to eat?
All right. What about going up to see Gertrude?
Gertrude?
Why not?
Sorme stared at him in astonishment.
Are you serious?
Why not? It’s only a ten-minute walk from here. We needn’t stay. I’d like to say hello. It’s a long time since I saw her.
All right. I know a pub in Hampstead where we could get something to eat.
Glasp emptied half of his pint in one draught. Sorme asked:
Did you and Gertrude ever quarrel?
No. Not really.
He stared into his glass; holding it between two palms, he looked like a clairvoyant gazing into a crystal ball. Then he went on:
I was pretty frank one night about her Jehovah’s Witness stuff. I’m sorry now. She’s all right. She’s sweet.
I can’t understand why she never married. She’s not unattractive.
She got bitten once. Didn’t you know?
I . . . I’d heard something about it. Caroline mentioned it.
Caroline? Oh, that blonde?
Sorme asked: Don’t you approve of blondes?
Glasp said briefly: Not much.
Or sex of any kind?
That depends.
He emptied his glass, and stood up.
I’m going outside. You about ready to go?
. . . . .
Sorme had decided to phone her from Chalk Farm station, but a bus drew to a stop as they arrived, and they were on the lower deck, panting from the run, before he remembered. The sight of the Hampstead tube station brought a memory of Nunne. He said:
You know, Oliver, I’m worried about Austin.
Why?
He’ll get himself into trouble.
That’s his funeral.
Yes, but . . . the police suspect him of worse things than beating his boy-friends.
How do you know?
Oh . . . I just happen to have found out.
They turned into Flask Walk; Glasp looked at him sideways as they passed under a lamp.
From Father Carruthers?
Yes.
How does he know?
I promised him not to let it go any further.
In that case, don’t.
Sorme said: I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. It doesn’t make any difference now. Carruthers has a German friend called Franz Stein—a police pathologist. H
e told Father Carruthers about a letter he’d received from the Hamburg police. Austin was suspected of killing a male prostitute.
He did, Glasp said.
What? How do you know? Are you sure?
Pretty sure.
How long have you known?
I didn’t know until you just told me. But I know it’s true.
How?
He was trying hard to see Glasp’s face, wondering how seriously to take him. He felt a premonition of disappointment, a suspicion that Glasp might prove to be a charlatan. Glasp’s tone was matter-of-fact; it puzzled him.
When I first knew Austin, I used to dream he was a murderer. I had one particularly vivid dream. . . . I was walking behind two men by the side of a river. Suddenly one of them hit the other with a weapon of some kind, and pushed him into the river. It was night, and I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew that one of them was Austin, and the man he killed was a tramp of some kind. I woke up immediately. . . . A few hours later, Austin came to see me. As soon as I saw him, I decided it was all nonsense. He just didn’t look like the man in my dream. . . .
Are your dreams accurate?
No. More often they’re wrong. I’ve got a morbid sort of mind. It picks up chance impressions and magnifies them. It’s the same process that works in my painting. When I was a boy, I once dreamed that a boy in our class was killed in a train accident. For years I was convinced he’d die in a train. But he’s a married man now. . . .
But you still think Austin really killed this man?
I . . . think . . . When you said it, I remembered my dream. Suddenly, I was certain. You see, sometimes my dreams are accurate. . . .
How do you account for that?
I don’t try. It just happens sometimes.
They had arrived at the gates of Miss Quincey’s driveway. Sorme could see a light in the sitting-room. He said:
Good. She’s in, anyway. We’ll have to talk about this when we come out.
Glasp said indifferently: All right.
I’d better try and contact Austin too. He ought to be warned.
Glasp looked at him as he opened the gate. He asked casually:
Ought he?
CHAPTER FOUR
Through the glass panel he saw the kitchen door was open; her voice was speaking to someone.
It looks as if she’s got a visitor.
F—— it, Glasp said. We should have rung.
Shall we go?
Miss Quincey came out of the kitchen. She called:
Is anybody there?
Sorme rang the bell. She said:
Gerard! Oh, hello, Oliver!
She stood there, looking with surprise from one to the other, holding the door. Sorme felt the awkwardness.
We . . . just thought we’d come in and say hello. We happened to be over this way. . . .
I’ve got Brother Robbins here for supper. But come in. . . .
Sorme said hastily:
Er, no . . . didn’t realise it’d be inconvenient. We won’t come in now. . . . I don’t want to interrupt . . .
She seemed to recover her self-possession.
That’s all right. Come in for a few minutes, anyway. I’m making a cup of tea.
Sorme thought hard for some reason to get away; without looking at Glasp, he knew he was doing the same. Nothing occurred to him. He said lamely:
Well, thanks. But we won’t stay long. We’re meeting someone in half an hour. . . .
Glasp followed him into the hall. He had not spoken so far. Miss Quincey said:
It’s nice to see you again, Oliver. It’s a very long time. Take your coat off. Oliver, I think you’ve met Brother Robbins.
Brother Robbins heaved himself out of an easy chair, and advanced with an over-cordial smile. As Miss Quincey introduced them, he shook their hands with a tight, moist handclasp. Sorme found himself thinking: My God, Dale Carnegie standing for President; the fruity, slightly Cockney voice poured warmth and a smell of onions over him.
I’ve told you about Gerard, Miss Quincey said.
I’m most delighted to meet you, Brother Robbins said.
At first glance, he struck Sorme as a curious combination of a well-to-do grocer and a shady bookmaker. He was a foot shorter than Sorme, with a fleshy face and pot belly. His clothes looked slightly rumpled and grease-stained, but his shirt collar was immaculately starched, and an old school tie looked newly washed and ironed. Sorme conceived an immediate and keen dislike for him.
You’re the young man who’s thinking of joining us? Brother Robbins said.
Sorme looked with surprise at Miss Quincey. She interposed:
I don’t think he’s made up his mind yet!
Ah no. Quite.
Brother Robbins sat down again. Glasp stood there, looking sulky and out of place. Brother Robbins suddenly caught his eye, and said:
And I’ve heard you are too, Mr. Glasp.
Glasp.
Ah. . . . I beg your pardon. You paint, don’t you?
Yes.
Miss Quincey said: Will you both have tea?
Er . . . no thanks, Sorme said. Not for me.
Nor me, Glasp said.
Sorme followed her into the kitchen. He said:
I think we’d better go. . . .
All right. But stay a few minutes. You don’t want poor Brother Robbins to think he has the plague.
All right.
Won’t you have some tea?
We’ve been drinking beer.
Oh . . . I’m afraid I can’t offer you beer. Not while Brother Robbins is here.
Would he disapprove?
Miss Quincey hesitated; she said:
Perhaps he wouldn’t. I don’t know. Do you want beer?
Sorme’s inclination was to refuse; she had phrased the question in a way that made it difficult to accept. This irritated him, striking him as a challenge. He said:
I’d prefer it to tea.
Then perhaps you’d ask Oliver if he’d like beer.
Glasp was scowling at the carpet as he came in. Sorme said:
Gertrude says there’s some beer if you’d prefer it.
Glasp shook his head.
No? I’m having beer.
He looked at Brother Robbins, and asked politely:
I hope you don’t object.
Brother Robbins seemed to accept the question as natural, as if he was an old lady in a railway carriage being asked if she minds cigar smoke. He said genially:
Oh, not at all. Not in the least.
For you, Oliver?
Glasp said, with a bad grace:
O.k.
Sorme returned in a few moments with two lager glasses of light ale, ice-cold from the refrigerator. He was thirsty after the walk up the hill, and drank as much as he could before his throat froze. Brother Robbins asked:
Do you two drink a lot?
Sorme sensed that Glasp was about to make a rude retort. He said hastily:
No, not a lot. We don’t get together very often. Do you drink?
No. But not because I disapprove of it. I just don’t like the taste.
Something in his manner stung Sorme to irritation. Brother Robbins was speaking with the elaborate courtesy of a prison visitor: he managed to imply that beer-drinking was a particularly squalid vice which he was too broad-minded to condemn. Sorme emptied his glass defiantly and went into the kitchen for another bottle. Miss Quincey said, with a sort of horror:
You’ve drunk that already?
I was thirsty. May I?
He helped himself from the refrigerator. When he turned round, he met a worried and reproachful look; she seemed to suspect that he intended to start a drunken brawl. He said pointedly:
We’ll go in a minute.
Oh no! Don’t think that! I just don’t want . . . Stay as long as you like.
Thanks.
He went back, taking the bottle.
Glasp was answering some question in an indistinguishable mumble. Brother Robbins looked relieved to see S
orme again. He said:
Let me see—you were a Roman Catholic, weren’t you?
No.
Church of England?
No. I’m an existentialist.
Yes? But er . . . I meant . . . religion.
I know. That’s what I meant.
Oh. I don’t think I’ve come across that sect. Is it a new one?
Not really.
Who was the founder?
A Dane named Kierkegaard.
And do they believe in the redeeming power of Jesus Christ?
Kierkegaard did, certainly.
Ah, but did he also believe in Luther’s justification by faith?
Oh no! He always attacked the established Church. He thought men ought to live like Christ instead of relying on the Church. . . .
Good! Then he was on the right path! The trouble with most people today is that they don’t realise the importance of obeying the laws of God. They think it’s enough just to accept them. They don’t seem to realise that the Bible has given us a strict code of conduct to cover every aspect of our lives.
Sorme nodded ponderously. His silence seemed to encourage Brother Robbins; he leaned forward, and switched on his Dale Carnegie smile again.
You ought to come to our Bible classes. I’m sure you’d enjoy them.
I’m sure I would, Sorme said insincerely.
Abruptly, Glasp spoke; he was sitting up and glowering belligerently at Brother Robbins.
Is it true you people expect the end of the world any day now?
Brother Robbins turned to Glasp, and smiled winningly, as if Glasp had just paid him a compliment.
It is. Not, of course, any day. The Book of the Revelation indicates that it will be within the next thirty years.
And that everyone in the world will be destroyed except the Jehovah’s Witnesses?
The Bible tells us so.
Glasp gave a contemptuous grunt and relaxed into his chair. In spite of his dislike of Brother Robbins, Sorme immediately reacted in his favour. He said quickly:
Is all this in the Bible?
Certainly it is. The evidence is quite plain. The Bible says that the devil came down to earth in 1914, and that from that day forward, the world has belonged to him. And can you doubt it when you look around at the world? The threat of war everywhere, crime and evil reaching a new high level. Look at these murders in the East End. Look at what the Russians are doing in Hungary. Look at the H-bomb tests. The world has gone mad, because it belongs to the devil now. That is why the flock of Christ is persecuted. It is all just as the Bible predicted. The Apocalypse of St. John makes it quite plain. It predicts that men will try to improve things, but it is too late. ‘And he opened the pit of the abyss, and a smoke ascended out of the pit as the smoke of a great furnace, and the sun and the air were darkened by the smoke of the pit.’
