Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Hi, Robin! How are you?

Gerard! Good heavens, what are you doing here?

The thin, damp hands clasped his. Robin Maunsell pulled him gently over the threshold.

I was just passing, Sorme said. Is it a bad time to call?

No, of course not. Do come in. Have you had lunch?

Yes, thanks.

How lovely to see you.

He peered into Sorme's face, smiling. Sorme withdrew his hand, feeling the pleasure that he had experienced tensing and congealing. Maunsell threw open a glass-panelled door, and led the way into the room, the cassock round his feet making the gentle, swishing noise of a gown.

You'll have a cup of tea, won't you?

Thanks. Yes, I'd love one.

Light the fire while I go and see about it.

Sorme groped in his pocket for matches; finding none, he wandered automatically towards the bookcase and scanned the titles. All were volumes of theology by writers he had never heard of. The windows of the room were of frosted glass, and overlooked the street. Vague silhouettes of people rippled past.

Haven't you lit the fire?

Sorry, I've no matches.

Oh, silly!

Maunsell produced matches from the pocket of his habit; kneeling, he lit the gas fire.

Let me take your overcoat. Do sit down. How are you? And how's your disgraceful sex life?

Sorme said, grinning:

You take a brotherly interest in my sins.

Of course; I wouldn't like to see you damned. But I dare say you'd like to be damned, wouldn't you?

I am, Sorme said. We all are.

Oh, I hope not.

He sat in the armchair with prim suddenness, clasping his hands in his lap. Sorme said:

I think you commit my sins vicariously, Robin.

Oh dear no. I'd really absolutely loathe to live your sort of life, really! But do tell me. How's — er… thingermerjig — the one you were going to bed with the last time I saw you?

Sorme stared at the fire; he said solemnly:

Dead. She died of tetanus on top of St Vitus's dance.

Really? I'm sorry… Oh, but you're joking! Aren't you? No, be serious. If you don't want to tell me about your love life, let's talk of something else.

I came to talk of something else, as a matter of fact. Tell me about Father Carruthers.

Why? Where have you heard of him?

A friend told me about him. Chap called Austin Nunne. Do you know him?

No. There's a Mrs Nunne who comes here. Perhaps he's some relation?

Her son. Austin suggested I should talk to Father Carruthers. What do you think?

What about?

I'd just like to meet him, that's all. He sounds interesting.

He is. Terribly clever. He's written several books. He's written a life of Chehov, and a book on Dante. He's writing a book on Marcel at the moment.

Could I meet him, do you think?

Well, yes, it shouldn't be difficult to arrange. But listen, will you promise me something? Well, never mind… I'll go and see about that tea.

Sorme stopped himself from crossing to the bookshelf, knowing there was nothing to read. He was beginning to regret coming. He had forgotten how irritating Robin Maunsell could be. The idea of speaking to Father Carruthers had also lost its attraction, for some reason. He yawned.

The door opened, and a young priest looked in. He said:

Ah, excuse me. You are waiting for someone?

He spoke with a foreign accent that Sorme did not recognise.

I wanted to see Father Carruthers, Sorme said.

I think he is asleep. I will go and see.

Sorme started to say: Don't bother… but the door closed again. A moment later, someone kicked the door. Sorme opened it for Maunsell, who carried a loaded tray.

Good boy. It's lovely to see you again, Gerard. But you've got a terrible pallor.

Have you been overworking?

Can you imagine me working?

Oh yes. You're not the ornamental type at all. You ought to work. Why don't you take a job?

Why should I?

You wouldn't get so bored. And you do get bored, don't you?

Yes, I get bored.

Then you should take a job.

Maunsell poured milk into the cups from the china jug, and sugared them.

Why should I take a job? All right, I get bored. What does that prove? That I don't know what to do with my time. And what do you suggest? Waste it by working. It's not logical. By the way, before I forget… someone popped his head round the door and asked me who I wanted to see. And I said Father Carruthers, and he went off to see.

Priest with a foreign accent, very young.

Ah, Father Rakosi. He's a Hungarian refugee. You are silly.

Anyway, he said Father Carruthers would be asleep.

I expect he will be. He doesn't often get up, you know. He suffers from some obscure stomach complaint. But you ought not to have let Father Rakosi go off to see.

Why?

Well, I was going to see.

Oh, sorry. He'd gone before I could stop him. Would you pass the sugar, please?

Someone tapped on the door. The Hungarian priest came in again. He looked surprised to see Maunsell.

Excuse me… I thought you were waiting to see Father Carruthers?

I'm sorry… Sorme began.

Maunsell said: Is he awake?

Yes. He says he can see people for the next hour.

You'd better go up, Gerard. We can have a talk afterwards.

The priest smiled, nodded at them, and went out. Sorme called: Thank you.

You are silly, Gerard. Why didn't you wait for me?

Sorry. I didn't realise he'd arrange it so quickly.

Oh, never mind. You'd better go up now.

I can drink my tea here, can't I?

No, you hadn't better. Take it up with you. Come on. I'll show you the way.

Sorme followed him up the thickly carpeted stairs. On the first landing, a blue plaster madonna stood in a niche, her hands raised in blessing. Maunsell knocked gently on the door at the end of the corridor. He pushed it open and allowed Sorme to pass in.

This is Gerard Sorme, father. He's a friend of Mrs Nunne.

The priest was sitting up in bed, surrounded by white pillows. He wore a nightgown of some coarse blue material. Maunsell closed the door, and left them alone together.

Not Mrs Nunne, Sorme said. Her son.

Ah, Austin. I haven't seen him for a long time. How is he? Do sit down.

His face struck Sorme as one of the ugliest he had ever seen; without actually being deformed, it was crudely and gratuitously ugly, with the strong lines of a gargoyle.

The jaw was too big; it would have had the effect of overbalancing the face if it had not been for the forehead, which also jutted, and had a sharp, vertical crease down the middle, as if someone had hit him with a crowbar. The large nose was slightly flattened; the mouth was wide, and spread across the face like a fissure. The eyes were small, almost colourless. If a lamp had been suspended overhead, they would have disappeared completely in the shadow of his brows. Sorme tried hard to remember where he had seen the face before, or where he had seen one like it. Then he remembered: the bust of Charley Peace in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud's. The thought made him smile. The priest smiled back friendlily. He seated himself in the armchair near the fire, saying:

Austin's fine, father. He suggested that I should come and see you.

What did you say your name was?

Sorme, father, Gerard Sorme.

Sorme? Sorme… I know the name. It's a rare name, isn't it?

I've never met anyone else with it, outside my family…

The priest held up his hand to silence him. The furrow in the brow might have been an incision. For a few seconds, he frowned, concentrating.

Ah, I remember! Father Grey of Campion House. Did you ever know him, by any chance?

Sorme felt unaccountably guilty; he said:

Yes, I did. He instructed me once.

Good! the priest said. He was smiling happily again. I don't often forget a name.