Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Really?

Someone rang you from Switzerland. He's going to ring back this evening.

Switzerland!

He rang just after you left. He'll ring back about seven.

Thanks very much. Has everything quietened down now?

Yes. Only we've had two reporters here.

Reporters, eh? What did they want?

Oh, details about the fire. Mrs Miller talked to them. I think she likes the idea of getting into the papers.

Mmmm. That's interesting. Did she tell them about me?

I don't think so. Why?

I was hoping to get the George Medal.

He saw, from her blank expression, that she didn't understand. He felt too tired to explain. As he advanced to the foot of the stairs, he asked:

Where's Mrs Miller now?

Back in her own house. Why?

Nothing. I'm just delighted.

This time she laughed. He noted the bouncing of her breasts as she passed underneath him, and was disturbed by it. He thought: Why do I always want a woman most when I'm nervously exhausted? His legs ached as he mounted the stairs.

In his room, he lit the gas, set the kettle on it, and sank into the armchair, yawning. His thoughts revolved round the German girl. The idea of making her his mistress was more appealing than it had been earlier. He put this down to his tiredness thinking: the body's exhaustion inflames the imagination.

The kettle began to steam. He reached out to the thermos on the table and found it half full of cold tea. He was too lazy to go to the lavatory to empty it. He shook it up, then poured the tea down the sink, turning on both taps to wash away the leaves.

What the hell could Austin be phoning me for? Where did he get the number?

Soon find out. He looked at his watch: it was ten past five. Two hours. I must eat.

Hungry. But after tea and a rest. The steam rose from the flask as he poured water into it.

Like Vaslav. I am god. Wonder if he is a sadist? They need to beat somebody. Must ask him.

The hot tea and the heat of the gas fire were too much for him. He retreated to the bed. As he drank he began to feel sleepy, and thought irritatedly: Why should I feel sleepy? I didn't get up till eleven. Nervous shock, perhaps. He resisted the impulse to lie down and close his eyes, and felt immediately overwhelmed by the desire to sleep. He stood up, and looked vaguely around the room for something to do. There was a case on top of the wardrobe, still not unpacked; he opened it on the bed, and began sorting out ties and handkerchiefs. In the bottom of the case he found the three Van Gogh prints, slightly corrugated with damp, that had been pinned on the walls of his old room. He selected the space over the mantelpiece for the Field of Green Corn. The Starry Night he placed at the head of the bed, where he could see it every time he faced the wall in bed.

He pinned the Cornfield with Crows in the centre of the opposite wall near the door. He stood opposite the Field of Green Corn for a long time, trying to recapture a mood, without success. He concentrated, staring at it:

To renew the fiery joy and burst the stony roof…

For everything that lives is holy, life delights in life.

And Nunne. And the old man. And a sadistic killer of four women. My body is not ill — it is my soul that is ill. Contempt. What else is there to feel? Not my body, but my soul. Poor Vaslav. He died.

The sleepiness came back and he restrained it. Dirt. Fatigue. This room. Not anonymous, my room, a prison. The wind blew a gust of rain against the windows. But it is my consciousness. Sick and exhausted, I choose it. I choose it. It is mine. Violence.

That's it. I contain violence. I don't want to be soothed. The violence is in the muscles, in the throat. When it explodes, I become myself. Everything that lives is holy.

He noticed the fading warmth on his shins. The flames of the gas fire were low.

He groped in his trouser pockets for a shilling. In the back pocket he found a folded slip of paper; written across it in a neat feminine hand: Gertrude Quincey; phone any day after five. He searched the pockets of his jacket without finding a coin. Pulling on his raincoat, he went downstairs. On his way back into the house again, five minutes later, he stopped by the hall telephone and smoothed out the paper on the coin-box. Her voice answered almost immediately. He pressed Button A, saying: Hello. This is Gerard Sorme speaking.

Gerard who? Oh, Austin's friend! Hello! How are you?

I'm fine. I thought I'd like to take you up on that offer to come over some time when you're not busy.

Yes, please do. Would you like to come to tea?

Well… perhaps. Are you going to be home this evening?

There was a perceptible hesitation. Finally she said: Yes… What time?

He wondered why she sounded so dubious, and felt chilled:

I don't mind. Make it some other time if this evening's not convenient. Would you prefer to make it next week?

He had decided abruptly that if she put him off he would not contact her again.

But her voice answered quickly:

No, do come this evening. I was simply wondering whether anyone else is likely to come. But I don't think so. Come round at about seven, if you like.

Thank you. I can't make it at seven. Austin's ringing me.

I thought he was abroad?

He is. He's ringing me from Switzerland.

Really! Well, come afterwards then. I'll expect you.

She hung up while he was still thanking her. Again he had difficulty in suppressing the irritation. He went upstairs swearing under his breath. All people are swine. In his room, he put two shillings in the gas, and relit it. He poured more tea from the flask, and tasted it. It was too strong. He put on the record of Prokoviev's fifth symphony and lay on the bed. Before the first side was half played, he had fallen asleep.

He woke up suddenly in the dark, and peered at his watch. The luminous hands seemed to be indicating eight o'clock. He fumbled to the light switch. It was precisely eight o'clock. The room was hot. He slipped his feet into slippers and hurried downstairs.

There was no one about. He went down to the basement flat and knocked. When no one replied, he opened the door a fraction; the room was in darkness. He swore obscenely under his breath. As he started back up the stairs, the phone started to ring. He snatched it before it had time to ring a second time. The woman's voice said:

Is Mr Sorme there, please?

Speaking.

Oh! This is Gertrude Quincey. Are you coming over?

Yes. I'm awfully sorry, but I fell asleep. I think Austin must have rung and got no reply. No one seems to be in.

Oh dear…

Don't worry. I'll start out immediately. See you in half an hour.

Good. I'd put some food out for you…

Thanks awfully. See you soon.

He hung up, and glared at his watch. His hair felt tousled and his eyes were still myopic with sleep. Almost immediately the phone began to ring again. A woman's voice said:

Is Mr Sorme there?

Speaking.

Would you hold on a moment? I have a personal call from Switzerland for you.

Thanks.

Nunne's voice sounded surprisingly clear and close.

Hello, Gerard!

Hello, Austin.

Hope I haven't kept you waiting? I've been trying to get through for the past bloody hour.

No. I've only just woken up.

Good. How are you, dear boy?

I'm OK. What's the idea of spending a fortune on long-distance calls?

Well… It's not really important. I want you to do me a favour.

Certainly. What have you done — forgotten your tooth brush?

Nothing as bad as that! Can you hear me clearly?

Yes, very clearly.

Good. You sound rather far off. Now listen, Gerard. I'm thinking of returning to England…

Good.

But I'd like you to do something for me first. Would you go along to my flat, and ask the porter if anyone has been enquiring for me while I've been away?