Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

She said excitedly:

But you say life is meaningless. The Bible contains the meaning of life. How can you condemn us without knowing the Bible?

He said patiently:

You don't understand. That isn't my point. My point is that our experience is bitty.

We live more or less in the present. If we were honest, we'd acknowledge that life is a series of moments tied together by our need to keep alive, to defeat boredom. Our experience is all in bits. But the Surbiton businessman sticks it together by believing that the purpose of life is to get him a bigger car. The politician sticks it together by identifying his purpose with that of his party. The religious man sticks it together by accepting the guidance of his church or his Bible. They're all different kinds of glue, but they all have the same purpose… to impose a pattern, a meaning. But it's all falsifying. If we were honest, we'd accept that life is meaningless.

She asked practically: And what good would that do?

It might make us less lazy and complacent. It might make us turn our lives into a search for a meaning.

But you just said it was meaningless?

Anything is meaningless until you've discovered its meaning.

That's quite a different thing! That's quite different from saying it has no meaning.

But supposing there had been a few men who had seen the meaning? Men who had a vision sent from God…?

What good would that do me? Why should I take anybody else's word for it? I'd want to see the meaning myself.

He was so intent on her face that he started when the door behind him opened.

Caroline said:

Do you mind if I bring my sandwiches in here? I won't make any crumbs.

Miss Quincey said: Yes, dear. Do. Her voice was level, and betrayed no annoyance or surprise. Sorme felt baffled by her placidness. Caroline said: Thanks. She came into the room, carrying a tray. Miss Quincey shot a quick smile at Sorme that was almost coquettish. She said:

Anyway, it's most brave of you to try to take all the responsibility on yourself. I hope you achieve what you want.

Sorme glanced at Caroline, feeling embarrassed. She asked: What's brave of him?

He said: Oh nothing…

He remembered then that he had still not promised to attend one of the meetings, or to "speak to" Caroline; he felt suddenly pleased with himself.

Caroline said: Gerard looks terribly serious!

Sorme grinned at her:

I've been talking about all the people I'll have shot when I'm dictator.

So long as I'm not on the list…

He looked at her, and started to say: Shooting's the last thing I'd want to do with you, then checked himself. She was looking through the Radio Times, chewing the sandwich. She said suddenly:

Ooh, can we have the radio on, aunt? There's a recording of Dylan Thomas reading his own poetry at ten-fifteen.

Sorme looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past. He said:

Maybe I ought to go anyway. You go to bed early, don't you?

You don't have to go, Miss Quincey said. I don't always go to bed at ten o'clock!

The other night was an exception.

Caroline asked: Don't you like Dylan Thomas, Gerard?

I've never read him, Sorme said. He stood up. I think I'd better be off anyway.

He would have welcomed spending another hour with either of them alone, but to have them both together was frustrating. He sensed obscurely that he was making headway with Miss Quincey; and that she wanted him to stay.

You're not going early because of me, I hope? Caroline said.

Not at all. You wouldn't drive anyone away, I assure you.

Thanks!

I've got a book that might interest you, Miss Quincey said. I think you ought to read it.

Who's it by?

Well, our books are always issued anonymously, but I do happen to know who wrote this one. It's by Brother Macardle of Manchester. I've met him. He's a brilliant man — a biochemist.

She was searching through the bookcase as she spoke. She said:

I… can't see it. It must be upstairs. I won't be a moment.

Sorme followed her out of the room, and took his raincoat from the hat stand. He went back into the sitting-room to put it on. Caroline looked at him, chewing. She said: I'm sorry you've got to go.

Maybe we can meet again?

I'd love to. I'd like you to tell me about your book.

He belted the raincoat.

When are you free?

Almost any evening — and just occasionally in the afternoon.

He was being deliberately casual, yet listening hard for the sound of Miss

Quincey on the stairs, afraid she might come back too soon. He asked:

Are you free tomorrow evening?

I… think so. If I'm not, where can I contact you?

He gave her his phone number, and she wrote it in a notebook which she took from her handbag. He asked:

Where shall I see you?

Where do you live?

Camden Town.

Miss Quincey's step sounded on the stairs. She said quickly:

Six o'clock at Leicester Square Underground?

That's fine.

She was returning the notebook to her handbag as Miss Quincey came into the room. He felt absurdly tense and embarrassed. Caroline, looking completely unhurried, bit into the sandwich. Miss Quincey held out a green-bound book to him.

Have you got a copy of the Bible?

Er… yes, of course.

It's not of course. Most people haven't.

No?

No. I soon found that out when I did some door-to-door work with Brother Robbins. We visited thirty houses in one road in Putney, and only two had a Bible.

He slipped the book into the inside pocket of his raincoat. It was not large.

You'll find it marked in many places. It's one of the best books we've ever published, I think. It gives you everything we believe in a nutshell. If you intend to write about us, you ought to base it on that. But you'll need a Bible to refer to as well.

Thanks… Er… when shall I see you again?

In front of Caroline, he felt his phrasing was preposterously ill-chosen.

You ought to read that first. No, I don't really mean that. You're very welcome whether you've read it or not. Come any time. Not over the weekend though.

Later this week?

Yes… Not Wednesday or Friday, though, unless you want to attend a meeting. And Thursday I've got some people coming. You could come tomorrow if you wanted to.

Not tomorrow. I think I'm doing something.

Then it will have to be next Monday at the earliest. Will that be all right?

Yes, that's fine…

He turned at the door. Caroline was still eating.

Goodbye.

Bye-bye, Gerard.

He deliberately refrained from calling her 'Caroline', feeling a constraint in Miss Quincey's presence.

At the front door he said:

Look here, I feel rather guilty about this…

About what?

About coming here and eating your food. I don't want you to feel that… well, you know…

Oh nonsense. I know you don't. There's always food here whenever you want to come in. Don't feel guilty.

He said: Perhaps I might take you out for a meal one evening?

She smiled, shrugging, then suddenly met his eyes, and seemed to colour slightly.

She said briskly:

Well, we can talk about that.

He took her hand.

Goodnight.

Goodnight, Gerard.

To his surprise she took his hand in both hers, and squeezed it. He turned away quickly, and hurried down the drive. She called:

Can you see all right?

Yes, thank you.

The dark closed around him as the door clicked to.

She yielded immediately, and with no sign of surprise. When he tried to press her backwards on to the settee, she pushed him away gently, saying: Not here. Someone might come. He asked: Where then? She smiled, and nodded towards the bedroom.

Before she was through the door, she had begun to pull her dress over her head. He slammed the door and locked it. He said happily: