Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Would you let us in, please?

There was no reply, only another dragging sound across the floor. The knocks on the door became heavy and peremptory. Suddenly, the old man's voice, shrill and breathless, shouted:

What do you want?

The German girl said soothingly:

They only want to ask a few questions.

What about?

The policeman said: Open the door, and we can talk.

The old man's voice was harsh, hardly recognisable; he shouted:

I know you. I know your tricks.

There was a note of hysteria in it. The policemen were now conferring with the girl in low voices. In the room above, the bare feet padded across the floor. Something clanged as it fell. The policeman shouted: If you don't let us in, I'm afraid we shall have to force the door.

Sorme swung himself out of bed and pulled his trousers on. He looked around for his slippers, and then remembered he had left them in the kitchen. His door opened suddenly, and the German girl looked in. He was still on the floor, looking under his bed.

Her voice said:

There's no one here. You can come in.

He straightened up as a man came into the room. The girl whispered: O, I'm sorry. I thought you were out.

He felt embarrassed, his hair tangled, still wearing the pyjama jacket. He asked: What it is?

Sshhh! We don't want him to hear. This gentleman is a policeman. He wants to get on to the fire escape. Do you mind if he comes through your room?

No. Of course not.

The plain-clothed policeman said gruffly: Thank you, sir.

Sorme heaved up the lower window frame. It went up with a shriek of unoiled pulleys. The girl grimaced. The policeman had picked up a sheet of newspaper from the table, saying quietly: Do you mind, sir? He laid it on the bed, and stepped on it to climb out of the window. He was a short man, with a pointed, bird-like face. He stood there for a moment, staring up at the room above, then went quietly up the fire escape.

Sorme lowered the window six inches to lessen the draught. He asked the girl:

What's it all about?

She shrugged: He must be mad. They only want to ask him a few questions.

About throwing that bottle?

Oh no. Not that.

What has the old boy done?

She said mysteriously: It is about a murder. They think he might know something.

They heard a sudden blow on the door above as someone tried to force it. The old man's voice screamed:

You're not coming in!

The girl ran to the window and looked out. The policeman called:

Tell Bert to come and help, would you? I'm afraid we'll have to break the door.

Sorme hurried to the door, but before he reached it the other policeman ran into the room, wrenched up the window, and clambered out. The girl said:

What does he think he's doing, the fool? No one wants to hurt him.

She flung herself on the bed again and craned out through the window. The door above gave way with a crash. The old man's voice shouted despairingly:

Don't come near me.

The girl turned round and stared at him. There was a sudden shriek of pain that made them both tense. Sorme said: My god, what's he done? Perhaps I'd better go and help.

As soon as he climbed out of the window, he saw the black smoke that poured through the doorway. He took the stairs three at a time. Flames and smoke made it impossible to see into the room. One of the policemen was shouting: Open the window!

The flames abated for a moment, and he could see that the fire seemed to be immediately inside the door. He recoiled against the rail of the fire escape, then threw himself forward into the room. Smoke filled it like a dense brown fog. The old man was writhing on the floor. He seemed to be on fire. Both policemen were trying to smother the flames with blankets. Sorme wrenched open the window on the far side of the room, and breathed gratefully the clean air. When he turned back into the room, he was able to see that the fire was coming from a paraffin tin that lay on its side near the stove, still gushing oil. He took a running kick at it and sent it through the door and into the yard. The old man rolled under his feet, still screaming, and made him fall on to the bed. He regained his balance, and heaved the mattress off the bed and into the middle of the flames. Immediately, the area of flame was reduced to a few square feet, lapping around the edge of the mattress.

One of the policemen called hoarsely: Good man! They stopped using the blankets as beaters, and threw them into the flames. Sorme opened the wardrobe, and threw all the clothes he could find. His eyes and throat were smarting from the fumes. He began to stamp on the flames that still burned, cannoning into the policeman as he staggered drunkenly, coughing in the smoke. On the floor, the old man was silent.

The draught through the room was clearing the smoke. Sorme left the policeman to stamp out the flames, and started to tear away the trunk and armchair that had been pushed against the door. He turned the key in the lock, and pulled it open. In his eagerness to breathe clean air, he almost fell down the stairs.

He resisted the impulse to close the door behind him and cut himself off from the smoke and stink of paraffin. He sat on the top stair, his back against the banisters, breathing deeply. After a few minutes the smarting died out of his eyes. He felt begrimed from head to foot with smoke. When he had ceased to feel that he was suffocating, he went back into the room again. Both policemen were standing outside, on the fire escape, panting. The fire was out. The old man was lying, perfectly still, in the middle of the floor. Sorme turned and went downstairs again. Three people were inside, looking out of the window. He turned away with disgust, and went up to the kitchen. There, he turned the tap on full, and held his head underneath it. He pulled off the pyjama jacket and rubbed his body with a wet sponge, which soothed his hot flesh with a luxurious coolness. His body ached and throbbed as if he had been beaten. He soaped the sponge and his face and chest, and then, lowering his trousers, the lower half of his body. When he had dried himself he felt better. His hair, which he had allowed the water to soak, dripped on his shoulders and down his neck. He rubbed it vigorously with the towel, then combed it. He went downstairs again, carrying the pyjama jacket.

His door was now closed. In the room, both the policemen were sitting without their coats and jackets. The old man lay on the bed, moaning gently. The two men looked at him and smiled when he came in. One commented:

Blimey, I thought we'd had it that time, didn't you, Jack?

The one called Jack glanced at the bed, saying:

Stupid old bastard. What's he have to do that for?

The other one looked at Sorme; he said:

Thanks for the help.

Not at all. Are you arresting him?

No. We just wanted to ask him a few questions.

Their faces and hands were grimy; both were still sweating. Sorme asked: Can I offer you a drink?

I'll say you can! the policeman called Jack said.

What of? the other asked.

Wine or beer?

Beer for me.

And me.

He opened a quart of light ale, and poured into two glasses and a china mug. He drank his own down in one long draught. He pushed the bottle towards them, saying: Help yourselves.

Thanks. We will.

Where's Carlotte — the German girl?

Phoning the ambulance.

The girl came back into the room as he spoke.

They will be here soon. How is he?

The man called Jack shrugged:

Can't tell at his age. He's not badly burned, but there's the shock…

The old man was lying on the bed, his eyes open, breathing heavily. He began to groan. Sorme said:

I'll go and dress, if you don't mind.

He took a pair of neatly folded trousers from the drawer, and a shirt and tie. Both policemen refilled their glasses, emptying the bottle; they ignored the old man.