by Colin Wilson
It must be a bit of a slum with seven kids.
It is. Sacking on the floor instead of mats, and boxes instead of chairs. And they’re considered pretty well off because they live in a thirty-bob-a-week Council flat.
But as you say, she’ll be sixteen in a few years’ time, and you can take her out of it . . .
To what? My three pounds ten a week?
It’d be luxury after what she’s been used to.
That’s . . . not the point. It’s not that I want to marry her. That’d only be a way of getting her legally outside her parents’ grasp. That’s what matters.
Sorme stretched in the chair, oppressed by the heat. He said slowly:
There could be other ways of doing that. Get someone to agree to act as guardian to her and send her to art school. Someone like Gertrude. If her parents could be persuaded . . .
Gertrude! Glasp said. That’d be out of the frying-pan into the fire!
Would it?
Glasp leaned forward, staring hard at Sorme; his forehead was twitching again, giving the thin face a slightly insane expression. He said:
You don’t understand. I don’t want someone else to get her. I don’t want other people to keep getting in the way.
The intensity in his voice and the twitching forehead produced a curiously unpleasant impression on Sorme. He made his voice casual, saying:
Yes, I see your point. But you just said you didn’t particularly want to marry her.
And why should I? Glasp said; there was something strained and irritable about his vehemence. What would that give me, except a legal right to sleep with her?
Oh, a lot. . . .
Glasp interrupted:
But I don’t want to sleep with her. I don’t even want to touch her. I’m not a bloody pervert. Don’t you see? I just want her. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything. . . .
He leaned back, his shoulders slumping; Sorme could almost feel the exhaustion that surrounded him like a grey air. He said soothingly:
That’s o.k. You’ve nothing to worry about, have you? You’re not likely to lose her. And she’s lucky she met you. What have you got to worry about?
Glasp said tiredly:
Not much. Not much at all.
Sorme stood up. He said:
Look here, I’ve got to go downstairs. Why don’t we go out and get a last drink before the pubs close?
Glasp’s voice sounded dead.
I don’t want another drink. It’s time I went back, anyway.
Just as you like. . . .
Going down the stairs, he experienced a feeling of revolt about Glasp and his problems, a sudden understanding that Glasp’s mind was no more like his own than Nunne’s was, that his intellect was driven by emotions working at steam-heat; the stuffy heat of the room seemed like a physical counterpart of the climate of Glasp’s mind. He breathed deeply and gratefully the cold air of the bathroom, smelling of damp plaster and escaping gas from the Ascot, thinking irritably: He needs something to love like the rest of us, but it couldn’t be a kitten or a puppy or even a woman, it had to be an under-age girl, so the emotions can work up a nice pressure. And one day the boiler bursts.
He was glad Glasp had decided to leave; his sudden exhaustion had communicated itself to Sorme.
. . . . .
Across the waste ground he could see the light in his room; it puzzled him. He could remember switching it off. As he opened the front door, he thought suddenly: Damnation, Austin, and was glad he had seen Glasp on to the escalator at Camden Town Underground. Mounting the flight of stairs to his room, he saw the open door, and the straw basket that leaned against the door-jamb. It was full of empty beer bottles. He pushed open the door, prepared to say: Hello, Austin.
The old man stood on the rug, his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a neat black suit with a collar and tie. He smiled apologetically at Sorme.
Sorme stood there, in the doorway, unwilling to advance into the room, feeling a choked rage rising in his throat. The old man smiled nervously. Sorme said:
What do you want?
I’m . . . very sorry to disturb you. I found your door open. . . . I . . . do hope I’m not intruding.
His politeness softened Sorme, but only to the extent of soothing the desire to be rude. He felt outraged by the invasion of his privacy. He said coldly:
I’d rather you didn’t come into my room in my absence.
As he spoke, he made a mental note to lock the door and window whenever he went out.
The old man continued to smile, fidgeting with his hands in the region of the neatly buttoned waistcoat. He pointed at the empty beer bottle on the floor, and said:
I wonder if you require this?
Sorme stared at him blankly.
What?
Your bottle? Perhaps you have more in your cupboard? If you’re anxious to get rid of them, I’d be glad to take them away.
Abruptly Sorme understood. He pulled open the cupboard and saw the empty pint bottles on the floor. He had no doubt that the old man had already looked. He said irritably:
Yes, do take them. . . . There aren’t many.
Ah, that’s really very kind of you! Very kind.
The old man stopped and gathered up the three pint bottles, and the empty quart from the rug. Sorme watched him closely, wondering if he was drunk again. His speech had a clarity and precision it had lacked the last time Sorme had talked with him. He was wearing patent-leather shoes with a high polish. Sorme said:
I suppose you know that it’s after ten-thirty. The pubs’ll be closed.
The old man was standing by the door, inserting the bottles carefully in the straw bag. He looked up, frowning.
Ten-thirty? No.
He fumbled in the pocket of the waistcoat, then seemed to remember something. He said:
But . . . but my clock says nine-thirty.
I’m afraid it’s wrong.
Oh dear. . . .
He stood there, looking at Sorme, as if it lay in Sorme’s power to solve his problem. For a moment, Sorme felt ashamed of the irritable satisfaction he had experienced in pointing out the time. He said:
I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
The old man said with dismay:
Oh no. I can’t do that!
He came forward to the table again, and took a handful of money out of his pocket. He laid this on the corner of the table and began to count it. Sorme could see three half-crowns and some coppers. He said:
Look here, don’t you think you’d better count that in your own room?
The old man glanced at him reproachfully, and went on counting. Then he looked up, and asked simply:
Can you lend me twenty-two and six?
No. I’m afraid I can’t.
I’d return it.
I’m sure you would. Anyway, the pubs are all closed. . . .
I know. But I know where I can buy gin. Are you sure you couldn’t lend me twenty-two and six?
I’m afraid not.
The old man said tremulously:
Oh dear. . . . I wonder if the French gentleman next door could?
He knocked on the door of Callet’s room. It was impossible for Sorme to close his own door with the bag leaning against the jamb. He turned to the fireplace and made a face of despair at himself in the mirror. There was no reply from Callet’s room. Sorme was certain he was inside; probably he had heard the old man’s voice and decided to keep quiet. The old man knocked again. Sorme found the spectacle irritating; he went downstairs to the bathroom and locked the door. After a few moments, he heard the old man come downstairs. He flushed the toilet and went up again. Before going into his room, he removed the bag from the doorway, and leaned it against the wall outside. He locked his door, and flung himself into the armchair, thinking: I’ll leave this bloody place and find somewhere else. That old swine ought to be in an institution.
As he listened, a knock sounded on the door. He started in his cha
ir. He called: Who is it?
The old man’s voice said: May I speak to you?
Sighing, he crossed to the door and unlocked it. The old man said:
I really must beg your pardon for intruding like this. I know it’s unforgivable, but . . . I really must get twenty-two and six from somewhere.
Sorme said wearily:
I’m sorry, I can’t help you.
The old man looked around, as if suspicious of an eavesdropper. His face took on a cunning expression. He advanced on Sorme, pushing him into the room, then said in a whisper:
I can tell you something that would interest you.
For a moment, Sorme was on the point of saying: I’m sure you couldn’t, and pushing the old man out. He was prevented by an innate dislike of rudeness and a certainty that the old man would only begin knocking on the door again. The old man raised a finger at Sorme, and regarded him with a knowing, slightly reproachful expression. He said:
I’m not mistaken in supposing you are a man with a strong interest in religion?
Why?
Ah, you’re suspicious, and quite rightly so. Not many people have a right to speak of religion. But I have. Now, let me tell you something that will surprise you. I can open your third eye for you.
He leaned forward and hissed the last sentence in Sorme’s face and Sorme was able to observe that there was no alcohol on his breath. He retreated a step, and said:
I’m afraid I haven’t got a third eye.
Aha! You think you haven’t. You don’t know. I thought you weren’t one of the initiated. But you have honesty. You have honesty, or I wouldn’t speak to you. Do you know what the third eye is?
He was speaking rapidly now, perhaps sensing Sorme’s increasing desire to throw him out. Sorme shook his head.
Your third eye is your mystical eye. You have two eyes to show you appearances, but your mystical eye can show you into the heart of things. I see you have Blake and Boehme on your bookshelves. Well, they could see with the third eye. I can see with my third eye—at least, I could until I started to drink. It only requires a very simple operation to do it . . . if the subject is ready, of course. But I can sense you’re ready. Now, wouldn’t you like to have a third eye?
Sorme, interested in spite of himself, said dubiously: I suppose so.
Good, the old man said. Then we can arrange it. How much would you consider the operation worth? Two pounds?
Sorme could not refrain from smiling. He said:
You want me to pay, do you?
The old man said simply: I need the money.
Sorme said: I’m afraid I haven’t got it.
Really? It’s a unique opportunity. I couldn’t make the offer at any other time—for instance, on Monday, after the banks open. My price would be much higher then.
He was peering up into Sorme’s face with a childlike anxiety; it was almost as if he was play-acting. Sorme knew he was not play-acting, and that the only alternative was that he was insane. But the realisation caused him no alarm, or even excitement. He said apologetically:
I’m afraid I can’t give you two pounds. I haven’t two pounds to spare.
The old man said sadly:
Oh dear. Well, in that case . . .
He turned away from Sorme, staring at the door-knob. He said vaguely:
I wonder who could . . . ?
He asked Sorme suddenly:
I suppose you don’t happen to have a little gin hidden away?
I’m afraid not. Only some beer.
Mmmm. I haven’t touched beer for years. But I suppose . . . in the absence of anything better. Well. Would you object if I drank a glass of your beer?
Sorme said:
Not at all. Take the bottle.
He snatched up the bottle from the table, and thrust it into the old man’s hands. The old man took it dubiously. He said:
If you could lend me eight and ninepence I could buy a half-bottle I suppose. But they wouldn’t like it.
I’m sorry. I’m in the same position as you. I’ve no money to spare until I can go to the bank.
Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose I’d better have some beer. Have you a glass?
Sorme took a glass from the table and inverted it over the neck of the bottle. He said:
You might let me have the glass back some time.
Oh, I don’t want to take it away.
He removed the glass, unscrewed the bottle, and carefully laid the stopper on the table. A feeling of comic resignation came over Sorme; he imagined Bill Payne in the room, watching with amusement and preparing an imitation of the old man’s eager innocence and Sorme’s baffled irritation. He sat down in the armchair, and stared at the old man as he poured beer. The old man caught his eye and smiled genially. He replaced the bottle on the table, screwed on the stopper, then came over and sat in the other armchair. He said:
Forgive me for not offering you some. But the bottle wasn’t quite full to begin with, and I’m afraid I shan’t have enough for myself. This is not selfishness, you understand, but ordinary self-preservation. Well, chin-chin, or whatever you young people say nowadays.
The military phrase sounded odd pattering over his lips. He drank the beer with an expression of distaste. When the glass was half-empty, he lowered it, saying:
I’m afraid I wouldn’t drink this by preference.
No, Sorme said. He took care not to sound interrogative, for fear of provoking another explanation. The old man said pleasantly:
I find you likeable. What can I tell you to amuse you?
Sorme said gruffly: Nothing, thanks.
Let me see. Weren’t you interested in Jack the Ripper?
Sorme was unable to conceal his surprise. He said:
I suppose so. Why?
I knew it. I know a great deal about you. . . .
Sorme wondered if Carlotte had mentioned the subject. He determined not to be drawn out any further. He said:
I’m not particularly interested.
No? All the same, I think I can tell you one or two things that would interest you. How old would you say I am?
He stared at Sorme so persistently that he found it difficult to ignore the question. He said finally:
Seventy, maybe.
The old man’s eyes glittered with delight. He reached for the beer bottle.
Wrong again. I’m eighty-nine.
Sorme said unbelievingly: Yes?
I can show you my birth certificate to prove it. I have it somewhere. . . .
He clapped a hand to his coat over his heart, then said:
I thought I had it. It must be in the drawer. But this is beside the point. I’m assuming you disbelieve me, whereas, in fact, I am sure you don’t. Is that not so?
Yes, Sorme said.
Thank you, sir. A man prefers to be trusted. Well, there you are. Eighty-nine. Born on the twenty-third of August, eighteen sixty-seven. I may add that my father was in diplomatic service in Cracow, where he knew Zeromski. My mother was Polish. Well . . . the gentleman who is known to the Press as Jack the Ripper was a close friend of my father’s. His name was Sergei Pedachenko, and he came from the same village as Grigory Efimovitch Rasputin. In fact, he was a relative by law of Grigory Efimovitch. Together they grew up in Pokrovskoe in Tobolsk, although Sergei Fyodorovitch was several years his senior. . . .
As he reclined in the armchair, gesturing with his left hand as he talked, the old man made Sorme think of an actor in some Turgenev play. The words flowed out like a speech learned by heart. When the old man paused to empty his glass, Sorme found himself wanting him to go on. The old man talked as he refilled the glass:
Well, Grigory Efimovitch and Sergei Fyodorovitch belonged to one of the raskolniki, that is to say, a heretical sect, known as the Khlysty. And the Khlysty believed in salvation through sin. You understand? A fine theological point, as you will recognise. The more one sins, the more one can repent. A verbal sophistry, you say? Not at all. Consider that many a man who is inclined to saintliness su
ffers from boredom, a sense of futility. Consider that it is better to feel yourself a sinner than to feel as if you have no identity. This is admittedly a human weakness, that a man has to dramatise himself into an identity or suffer stagnation. You and I, sir, know that man is a god. And yet he can do nothing to make himself into a god unless circumstances are kind enough to give him an opportunity to behave like one.
Sorme found himself listening with increasing amazement; a sense of unreality came over him. A fantasy shaped itself in his head, that the old man was really an angel in disguise, sent to bring home to him a sense of his own immaturity. The old man could evidently see the effect he was creating; something like a smirk formed in his eyes as he talked. He raised his finger in admonition:
This is the paradox of our nature, the result of original sin. A tree can be itself by standing still. A man becomes himself only by making a bonfire of his potentialities. In the light of action, he sees his reality as it disappears in a new persona. And . . .
He paused to take a long drink, then said vaguely:
Where were we?
Jack the Ripper.
Ah yes. My friend Pedachenko. Well, to make it brief, Sergei Fyodorovitch came to London to sin his way to salvation. He had read a book by Dostoevsky describing it as the most sordid capital in Europe. At the time, I was a boy of eighteen. He and I travelled together from Odessa. He brought with him an Austrian tailoress named Limberg, a woman of distinctly sadistic tendencies. They took rooms in Leman Street, and my friend embarked on his career of disembowelling. His mistress was always somewhere near carrying a cloak. When he had committed his crime, she would hand him the cloak: he would cover his bloodstained suit—he bought innumerable suits in the Petticoat Lane market—and together they would walk home arm in arm, like a respectable man and wife returning from a late evening with friends. On three occasions they were stopped by police when a mere glimpse of my friend’s trousers would have given him to the hangman. On each occasion, they posed as a married couple and were allowed to proceed immediately. After his last murder, he sailed for America, where he became the proprietor of a brothel in New Orleans.
The old man emptied his second glass, and carefully filled it to the brim again, emptying the bottle.
