by Colin Wilson
He leaned forward to declaim the quotation. When he raised it to intone, his voice had a foghorn quality; it reminded Sorme of one of his uncles who used to recite ‘The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck’ at Christmas parties. Before he could comment, Brother Robbins had swept on:
Nothing can stop the dominion of evil in the world because the world belongs to the old evil one now. They might pass this Bill to stop hanging. They might persuade Russia to put an end to the Cold War. But nothing will stop the world from hurtling towards the Last Judgment.
He paused for a moment, passed a hand over his forehead. He wiped his damp fingers on the arm of the chair. Sorme said:
You sound pretty gloomy.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Glasp smile. He kept his own face stiff and grave in case Brother Robbins should feel he was being mocked.
Gloomy! No, I’m not gloomy. We are not pessimists. We go on joyfully, certain of eternal life. When the battle of Armageddon is over we shall all live on a paradise earth for ever.
This earth?
Certainly. This earth, but transfigured and made into a heaven.
But only after the battle’s been won?
Of course.
Supposing your side doesn’t win the battle?
That is impossible. God is all-powerful. We must win.
Sorme said: In that case, there’s not much credit in winning, is there? It should be a walk-over.
You don’t understand, Brother Robbins said gravely.
Sorme saw the suspicion that flickered in his eyes for a moment. He said hastily:
Don’t think I’m just heckling you. I’d like to know.
Then you should read your Bible. And I’m sure Sister Quincey would lend you some of our books and tracts.
Glasp said abruptly: We ought to go.
Brother Robbins turned a stern face on him. He said:
You should be more like your friend here and take a serious interest in serious questions. God is not mocked!
For a moment, Sorme thought Glasp intended to ignore the comment; he scowled and hunched his shoulders, his forehead wrinkling into creases. Then he said shortly:
I’d need to be a bloody moron to fall for that crap.
Miss Quincey came into the room as he spoke. She looked as if her worst fears had been confirmed, and as if she now expected Glasp to urinate on the carpet. She said:
Oliver! I shall have to ask you to go if you’re rude!
Brother Robbins said equably:
No no, my dear. There’s no point in doing that. If he doesn’t believe, you won’t make him believe by turning him away.
Then he ought to apologise. That wasn’t polite.
Glasp said sullenly and sarcastically:
Oh no. It’s not polite when I say what I think! It’s o.k. for him to ram his opinions down everybody’s throat. I’m damned if I don’t believe it, but I’m not allowed any beliefs of my own. Just because he’s got no sense of reality, I’m rude if I contradict him.
Miss Quincey took this unexpectedly well. She said:
It’s you who lack a sense of reality, Oliver. Every great truth sounds fantastic. You think the truth has to be commonplace and ordinary, but you’re wrong. It’s you who are tied down by your sense of reality. . . .
Sorme could see that Glasp was becoming more irritable and inarticulate as she spoke; he had a foreboding that Glasp would shout some obscenity and stamp out of the house. He intervened quickly:
I don’t quite agree with you, Gertrude. I don’t think Oliver rejects your beliefs because he prefers everyday reality. In fact, I think that every artist has the same kind of dreams—an earth turned into heaven, men made into immortals. On the other hand, it seems like wishful thinking to suppose it’ll happen tomorrow week. We both believe that if you want to change the world into a paradise, you’ve got to do it yourself.
Brother Robbins had stood up as he spoke; now he extended his arms, as if inviting Sorme and Glasp to be embraced.
But my dear man, you’re one of us. You want the same things. It’s only a question of the means, and we can show you the way.
I agree it’s a question of means, Sorme said cautiously. We ought to discuss it more fully some time.
They were all standing, looking at one another. Miss Quincey was obviously nervous about Glasp; as Sorme started to say: I’m afraid we’ll have to . . . Brother Robbins interrupted with enthusiasm:
Why not now? I am always glad to discuss these things. Can anything be of greater importance?
We have to see someone, Sorme said, looking at his watch. But any other time I’d be glad. . . .
To bridge an awkward lapse in the conversation he looked at Glasp, saying: Ready, Oliver?
Glasp muttered something, and turned his back on them. Sorme said:
Er . . . delighted to’ve met you. Goo’bye. ’Bye, Gertrude.
He hurried after Glasp, catching him up at the front door.
Miss Quincey came after him, touching his shoulder. She said quickly:
Come back tomorrow, Gerard.
All right. I want to talk to you.
From the darkness outside Glasp called suddenly:
Good night, Gertrude.
She looked surprised, then called calmly:
Good night, Oliver.
She added quickly, to Sorme:
Ask him to come again—when I’m alone.
O.k. Good night.
She had been keeping her voice low, her face close to him. Seeing that Brother Robbins and Glasp were both out of sight, Sorme bent quickly and kissed her. She stepped back a pace, looked quickly behind her towards the lounge, then said coolly: Good night.
She closed the door behind him; he went into the darkness, thinking: All women have a talent for intrigue.
Glasp was standing by the gates. Sorme said:
How d’you feel?
O.k.
Gertrude told me to ask you to go back some time—when he’s not there.
Glasp grunted. Sorme said:
Don’t you like her either?
Oh, she’s o.k Must be a bloody fool, though. Swallow that balls.
I wonder how far she does?
All the way, Glasp said with disgust.
They were passing the telephone kiosk at the end of Well Walk; Sorme said:
Do you mind if I try and phone Austin again?
No.
The telephonist’s voice told him that Nunne was still not home, and asked if she could take a message. Sorme said:
No; it’s not important. I just wanted to ask him to come to a party.
This evening?
Yes.
If you’d like to leave the address, I’ll give it to him when he comes in.
After a moment’s hesitation, Sorme gave his own address, reflecting that Glasp’s presence gave him a reason for speaking of a party, in case he was ever forced to justify the call.
Not in yet? Glasp said:
No.
What are you going to do about him?
I don’t know. Warn him in some way.
There’s not much danger.
Why do you say that?
Because a crime committed a long time ago in Hamburg won’t be easy to pin on him.
Sorme realised with surprise that Glasp had not yet connected Nunne with the Whitechapel murders. For some reason, he had taken it for granted that Glasp knew. He rejected the idea of mentioning it now, remembering Glasp’s outburst at supper a few nights before, and suspecting suddenly that Glasp was capable of betraying Nunne to the police. He said:
I hope you’re right.
You worry more about Austin than he does about you.
Why? Do you think he dislikes me?
No. But he’s the heartless type. He doesn’t give a damn about anybody really.
On Haverstock Hill again, Sorme said:
What about another drink?
Good idea.
I know a pub.
The public bar was crowded; they
went around to the saloon bar and found it less full.
Same again?
Please.
Grab those seats in the corner. I’ll bring them over.
The episode at Gertrude Quincey’s had destroyed the feeling of ease and the rising warmth; it began to return when he had drunk half the pint of bitter. Glasp said:
What were we talking about?
Austin.
Oh yes. Let’s skip him. He doesn’t matter.
All right.
Glasp was smiling, as if at some secret joke. Sorme looked at him enquiringly, raising his eyebrows. Glasp said:
What about Gertrude?
What about her?
You having an affair with her?
Oh, you saw that, did you?
You didn’t try to hide it. With the light behind you.
Well, the answer’s no. I like provoking her.
That was provocation, was it?
Pretty well. Just fun.
Am I being nosey?
No! There’s nothing secret about it. It’s a sort of joke.
You’ve done it before, like?
Well, yes. Just to provoke.
Glasp sipped at his beer; he had a manner of launching questions suddenly, as if hoping to take by surprise, and Sorme guessed another was coming. It came a moment later.
Do you want to sleep with her?
Sorme considered this carefully. In fact, the idea had ceased to interest him since sleeping with Caroline. He said carefully:
I don’t think I do. . . . I don’t know.
Well, either you do or you don’t.
No. It’s not as simple as that. In a sense, I want to sleep with every woman indiscriminately, you know. . . . When I hear about someone being given the freedom of the City of London, I sometimes think how nice it’d be if someone could grant you the freedom of all the women in the world. Just anybody. You produce an engraved scroll with a golden key on it, and say ‘My name is Sorme; come back to my room. . . .’ Splendid idea.
Glasp said, laughing:
The sentiments of a sex maniac.
No. Not really!
No. I’m only joking.
But really, I think there’s an element of truth there.
I’m sure there is.
Do you know those lines of Blake about the lion lying down with the lamb? Something about the golden age. That’s the root of it, you know. We live in a fallen world, and we dream of a golden age when there was no such thing as frustration. All men turned into gods because they can do what they like. That’s why I find it hard to condemn Austin, no matter what he’s done. There shouldn’t be such a thing as sexual perversion . . . but then, maybe there shouldn’t be such a thing as sex either. It’s all part of a fall. You know Tolstoy’s idea that nobody ought to have sex, except to beget children? That’s logical. Either all sex is natural, or it’s unnatural. There’s no dividing line between normal sex and perversion.
He was aware as he spoke that it sounded illogical; Glasp was listening with his lower lip thrust out, an expression of distrust on his face. He made a conscious effort to sound more reasonable:
Put it like this. If I’m attracted by a girl, I know damn well it’s not entirely a desire to sleep with her. If I’m curious to know what she’s like in bed, it’s more a desire to break down the barriers between human beings, not a desire to penetrate her. And if it gets to the point of bed, the chances are that I shan’t want her any more. It’s the same with Gertrude. There’s something about that icy virgin attitude that provokes me. But I don’t think it’s a desire to have Gertrude for a mistress.
He observed an answering glow of sympathy in Glasp this time, but the need to catch his intuitions in words was too strong to allow him to stop and wait for Glasp’s response. He felt a sense of complete well-being as he emptied his glass and set it down, leaning forward, aware of ideas straining to be expressed.
Have you ever been in a room with two women who’ve been your mistress? And when you look from one to the other, there’s no curiosity about either. If either of them uncrosses her legs you don’t bother to look to see how high the skirt goes. They form a small group, cut off from all the rest of womankind. You might desire them, but the curiosity’s gone. Well, what I feel about Gertrude is curiosity, not desire. So I can’t really say whether I want to sleep with her or not. Have another?
Glasp had finished his beer; he was looking around the room with an expression of distaste. He said:
Too many people. What about moving?
The room had been filling since they came in; now there were no seats left, and a group of people stood within a few feet of them, laughing noisily. Sorme said:
Most pubs in London’ll be like this on a Saturday night. We could go back to my room.
What’s the time? Eight o’clock. All right, if you like.
. . . . .
He filled the wash-bowl with hot water, then plunged his hands into it and leaned forward on them, suddenly tired. Through the half-open door of the bathroom, he heard the phone ringing, and tensed automatically, waiting to be called. When the ringing stopped and no one shouted his name he dried his hands, thinking tiredly: People. How can I escape people? It was a sudden disgust, a reaction to the excitement of the afternoon and now the sensation of knowing Glasp with a sympathetic insight. It was the feeling of winning a game, the sensation of an increasing interior power, an energy for which he could find no immediate outlet.
Glasp was stretched in the armchair, his feet on the stool. On the turntable of the gramophone the first side of Prokoviev’s fifth symphony was coming to an end. Two full quarts of beer stood on the table.
Shall I turn it over?
No. I’d rather talk.
Glasp held out the beer glass, tilting it as Sorme poured the brown ale. Sorme said:
You look pleased with yourself.
Do I?
There’s a contented expression on your face.
Maybe, Glasp said.
Sorme relaxed in the other chair, raising his slippered feet on to the footstool; Glasp moved his own stockinged feet to make room. Sorme noted with interest that he was wearing a new pair of nylon socks. Glasp said:
Listen, Gerard. Has it struck you that Austin could be the Whitechapel killer?
Sorme kept his eyes fixed on his slippers, careful to show no surprise. He said finally:
Hmmmm. Perhaps. Not very likely, though.
You think not?
I don’t think it’s very likely. Seriously. Do you?
I think it’s possible. We know Austin is a sadist. We suspect he killed someone in Hamburg.
Yes, but . . .
What?
We also know Austin. Can you look at him and connect him with the murders? I can’t.
Glasp held his beer glass on a level with his nose and frowned at it.
Neither can I. That proves nothing. You know Austin is a sadist. Can you imagine him beating anyone with a whip?
No. . . .
Yet he probably does.
Well, even so, these murders are heterosexual and he’s queer. Why should he choose women?
Easier to pick up in Whitechapel.
All right. Second, why choose Whitechapel, where he’s more likely to get caught every time he commits a crime? Why not move around London? And, third, why on earth should it be Austin, with several million other people living in London?
Glasp looked at him steadily.
You don’t want it to be Austin, do you?
Sorme shrugged.
I don’t know. I like Austin, but that wouldn’t stop me from looking the facts in the face if they really pointed to him.
Glasp said: Anyway, you needn’t worry. I wouldn’t give him away to the police, even if I knew he did them.
No?
Anyway, you can bet they’ve got an eye on him now. If he’s suspected of this Hamburg murder, he’s a natural suspect for Whitechapel.
I suppose so. I don’t understand the
way these things work.
You don’t understand sadism, anyway, do you?
Sorme asked curiously:
What makes you say that?
You’re not the type.
No? What type am I?
Glasp said, shrugging:
You’re like me. Not particularly interested in sex.
Blimey! Do you really think so?
Glasp grinned.
You think you are. But you’re not. Try to understand what I mean. Austin’s a sensualist. He’s not a man of ideas. Nothing really interests him but what he can see and touch.
Oh, I dunno. I wouldn’t say he has no ideas.
He hasn’t. Perhaps he makes an effort because he’s talking to you. If he ever got really used to you, he’d stop making the effort.
Yes, but . . . there’s a kind of innocence about Austin. You don’t understand.
Oh yes I do. There’s a kind of innocence about sensuality. It doesn’t have to leer and drool. But it just doesn’t get off the ground. The most sensual man I ever knew was a collector of knives and daggers. He wrote several monographs on the subject—known as the leading authority of Europe. Not an idea in his head, but the most amazing collection of facts about daggers.
Sorme said dubiously:
I see what you mean.
He was feeling vaguely hungry. From the cupboard he took a half-loaf of bread, some Spanish onions, and a polythene bag containing Gruyère cheese. He said:
Help yourself if you’re hungry.
He cut an irregular chunk of bread from the side of the loaf and plastered butter on it. Glasp said:
That’s a good idea.
As he sawed at the loaf, he said:
Don’t get the wrong ideas about Austin. He’s no soul-mate. He’s all right, but if you get entangled with him, he’ll suffocate you.
I know that. But I think you misjudge him. He misjudges you too.
Does he? What does he say about me?
Sorme hesitated, calculating the effect of complete frankness; a desire to provoke a reaction urged him to speak. He said casually:
