Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

The priest said amiably:

That must have been embarrassing.

Yes. But that's the odd thing. I lay there feeling embarrassed, and wishing I could understand what was the matter. I felt ashamed and irritable. It wasn't that I didn't want the girl. It was some other feeling conflicting with it. So I lay there, trying to discover what the other emotion was. And suddenly I felt a tremendous excitement. It was so strong that I felt I'd never want to sleep again. It didn't correspond to anything in particular. It made me think about mathematics. I thought: I am lying here in the middle of London, with a population of three million people asleep around me, and a past that extends back to the time when the Romans built the city on a fever swamp… I can't explain what I felt. It was a sense of participation in everything. I wanted to live a million times more than anybody has ever lived. Do you know what I mean, father?

I think so.

It was an excitement, you see. I was suddenly aware of how many people and places there are outside myself.

But you just mentioned mathematics. Why mathematics?

Well… because I thought about mathematics. At least, I didn't begin thinking about mathematics. I was feeling irritated with the girl, and the idea that she wanted me to make love to her. Then I thought about something I'd read that day in a book on witchcraft. About a woman named Isobel Gowdie, who claimed she had sexual intercourse with demons while her husband was asleep beside her…

What made you think of that?

This girl I was sleeping with. She's a completely spoilt, neurotic girl, a nymphomaniac. I suddenly felt sick of her lukewarm little titivations, her everlasting sexual itch. She had sex for the same reason that she chain-smoked. Boredom. Then I remembered Isobel Gowdie. At least sex meant something to her. She wanted to be possessed by the devil. She was probably bored stiff on a Scottish farm in the middle of nowhere. So she invented demons and devils.

There was a light tap on the door. Sorme started violently. A woman wearing an apron came in.

Mr Bryce and Mr Jennings have arrived, father.

What, already? All right, ask them to wait just a moment, would you, please?

As she went out, Sorme stood up.

I'd better go, father.

Sit down again for a moment. They're early. They can wait. What you've been saying interests me very much. Have you ever spoken to anyone else about these things?

No, father.

I'd like you to come back and talk to me again. I'm not asking you because I think you need to talk to me — although perhaps you do. But what you say has a great deal of interest to me. Have you read my book on St John of the Cross?

No, father.

It's over there, I think. Bottom shelf. Take it away with you, and look through it, if it doesn't bore you too much. The chapter on the vision of God should interest you particularly. These experiences you speak of… I'm inclined to think that they're the root of all visionary insights.

Sorme opened the glass doors of the bookcase, and found the slim, black-bound volume. The desire to get away had risen in him again, but this time it was for a different reason. He was suspicious of the relief he was beginning to feel in talking to the priest.

Can you come back tomorrow?

I think so, father.

Good. I'll expect you. Give Austin my regards if you see him.

He's in Switzerland at the moment.

He took the priest's outstretched hand, and was surprised at its warmth. The flesh looked desiccated and cold.

Tell Mrs Doughty to send the two men up, please.

Certainly. Goodbye, father.

Goodbye.

Outside the door he stood still for a few moments, frowning towards the plaster image of the Virgin at the end of the badly lit corridor. Then he recollected the copy of the book he still held, and slipped it absent-mindedly into his pocket. He walked slowly towards the stairhead, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. The housekeeper startled him by appearing suddenly from a doorway on his right. She asked curtly:

Is he ready now?

Yes. He says will you send them up.

He went quickly down the stairs. The street door stood open. He went out, groping for his bicycle clips. Behind him someone called: Hey, Gerard!

Hello, Robin! Sorry. I'd forgotten you.

You don't have to rush off, do you?

I have to go in a few minutes, he said untruthfully.

Well, come on in for a moment.

He followed Maunsell back into the reception-room. The fire was still burning. Maunsell closed the door by nudging it with his backside, asking:

Well, how did you get on with him?

Oh, fairly well.

Did you tell him about your disgraceful sex life?

A little. He talked about St John of the Cross. Then someone interrupted us.

He must have talked about St John of the Cross for a bloody long time! You've been gone half an hour.

I'm not keeping anything from you, really.

Aren't you? Really? All right, I'll believe you.

Tell me, Robin. You say you don't know Austin Nunne at all?

Not much. I've seen him a couple of times.

Oh. You don't know anything about him?

No. Not much anyway.

Do you know if he's queer?

Yes… I think so. Why? Don't you know?

Yes. I think he is. I just wondered…

Wait. I do know something. You mustn't tell anyone, though.

No, of course not.

I gather he's a bit of a sadist.

How did you gather that?

I overheard something Father Carruthers said to Dr Stein one day after Mrs Nunne had left.

What did he say — can you remember?

No. It was just an impression I got. I may be wrong. But for heaven's sake keep it to yourself. If anyone ever accused me of telling you, I'd deny it.

Of course. I won't tell anyone. Who's this Dr Stein?

Oh, a friend of Father Carruthers. They used to be at theological school together.

Stein's a psychiatrist. Why?

Nothing. I'm just very curious about Austin, and about anyone who's interested in him.

I see. You're not falling in love with him, are you?

For Christ's sake! Are you serious?

Well, I don't know. I'd say there's a definite touch of homosexuality in you. It'll burst out one day. Probably surprise you.

You really are a fool!

You see. I bet I'm right.

Garn! Maunsell said, chuckling:

You see… I bet I'm right. I've got to go.

You are a cow. When are you coming again?

Tomorrow probably. Father Carruthers asked me to look in again.

I say! He's taking you under his wing!

Maybe.

Well, come in early and see me first. Will you?

All right. I may not come at all. I'll phone first.

Good. I always answer the phone.

Sorme stood with his hand on the doorknob; he asked:

Can't you remember exactly what it was that Father Carruthers said to this man

Stein?

Maunsell looked alarmed:

No! For heaven's sake! Don't mention it to anyone. I may be wrong. He might easily have been talking about someone else.

Sorme realised that Maunsell regretted telling him; he said casually:

Don't worry. I'm not really interested. See you tomorrow.

All right. Come early.

Maunsell let him out of the door, saying: Bye-bye, my dear.

Sorme lifted his foot on to the crossbar of the bicycle to clip his trousers. He felt suddenly exhausted and discouraged.

As he wheeled the bicycle into the yard it began to rain. He covered it over with the tarpaulin. The light in the basement flat was on; as he turned away to leave the yard the curtain stirred and the girl looked out. He grinned and nodded, and her face disappeared abruptly. As he was about to insert his key in the front door, it opened. He said:

Thanks, Carlotte.

I'm glad you came. I'm going out. There's a message for you.