Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

My god, sweet, you've got a superb body.

Someone hit the door behind him, banging it hard. He was surprised; there had been no one in that room a moment before. She looked alarmed, and reached for her slip, which she had thrown on to the bed. The knock came again. He said:

Never mind that. Let's hurry before…

The knocking became more insistent, and he became aware of the voice shouting:

Telephone for you. The dream dissolved; he sat up dizzily in bed, and looked at his watch. He shouted:

OK. Thanks very much.

Carlotte's steps retreated down the stairs. He pulled on his dressing-gown, thrusting his feet into slippers. The dream became an unreality, and was forgotten before he had had time to dwell on it.

The front door stood wide open; he closed it before picking up the phone. The operator's voice asked: Mr Sorme?

Speaking.

A personal call for you from Switzerland.

He said: Blimey, again?

Beg your pardon?

Nothing. Put it through, please.

Gerard? Is that you?

Yes.

Have you been yet?

He let the annoyance sound in his voice:

No. I've only just got out of bed!

Oh I'm terribly sorry! Did I wake you?

Yes. But never mind. Was that all you rang me for?

Normally he would have apologised for the inconvenience he had accidentally caused, but sleepiness made him irritable. Nunne's voice said:

No. Can you hear me well?

Yes, perfectly.

Gerard… I want you to do me rather a favour. Would you?

Yes. What is it?

I'd like you to go to my room, and collect something for me, and take it back to your own room. Would you?

All right. But will the porter let me in?

Yes. But it's not my usual room… It's not my flat I'm talking about. I want you to go to another address. Have you got a pencil?

He groped in the pocket of the dressing-gown, and found the cheap ball-pen he usually kept there. His address book was not with it, but there was a chocolate wrapper, which he tore open.

All right. I've got a pencil. Go ahead.

The address is twenty-three Canning Place. That's Kensington, off Palace Gate.

Have you got that?

Yes. Twenty-three. What do you want me to do?

There's a man called Vannet in charge of the house. He's a friend of mine. Ask for him, and he'll let you into my room.

Will he?

Yes. I'm going to phone him now.

All right. What then?

When you get into my room, you'll see some clothes in a corner near the fireplace.

I want you to pack them in a bag, and bring them away with you. But don't let Gerald Vannet see you, will you? Make sure he isn't in the room. And whatever you do, don't tell him why you're going there. I'll tell him you want to collect an address I've left behind.

All right?

Yes. But why all the secrecy?

I'll explain to you later. But keep the clothes in your room, and don't tell anyone, will you?

All right. Anything else?

Yes. There may be some books lying around the room. Take them and put them back on the bookshelf, will you? And make sure Vannet isn't hanging around to watch you. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, as if you intend to stay half the day.

Would you do that?

All right.

And take a taxi. I'll give you the money when I see you. Or, better still, ring Silver Cabs, and quote the number of my account. It's seven two three. Ask for Jakey.

That doesn't matter. I'll cycle.

No, don't do that. Ring for a taxi. I wouldn't be happy otherwise. Will you do that?

All right.

Listen, Gerard. I'm sorry to be such a nuisance. But there's no one else I'd trust.

Don't forget. Please don't mention it to anyone — especially Vannet. Will you?

No. All right. And you still want me to send you that telegram?

Yes, please. If you would.

When shall I see you?

Probably tomorrow. I'm not sure. But probably.

OK, Austin. Look forward to seeing you…

Carlotte passed him on the stairs. She said: Your friend must be very rich, to telephone from Switzerland.

I'm afraid he is. Eccentric, too.

In his own room, he lit the gas fire and put the kettle on to boil. He climbed back into the still-warm bed, and listened to the hiss of gas, the water simmering. He closed his eyes, and thought of Austin. Very rich. More money than sense. Looks as if he might be a damned nuisance. I wonder why all the secrecy? Can't tell. Queers get odd ideas. Maybe he has to keep it a secret that he's queer? Not likely. Most of them advertise it. Trusts me?

Why? Perhaps because I know no one else in his circle.

His thoughts flowed into a dream. Austin was lying behind a barrier of stones on top of a mountain; he was pointing towards a house in the valley, and saying, 'Don't show yourself. He has sharp eyes. Lie flat.' They were in Switzerland. Behind them, on a small plateau, stood Austin's aeroplane; it looked like the Spitfire that had stood by the gate of the RAF camp where he had been stationed for his National Service.

He woke up and saw that the kettle was boiling. He made himself tea and got back into bed to drink it, still wearing the dressing-gown. He reached out for the nearest book in the bookcase. It was The Trial of George Chapman. He sipped the tea, looking with morbid interest at the face of the sadistic poisoner, the powerful jaw and deep-set eyes. The face looked scarred.

He asked the cabman: You're Jakey?

Yes, sir. But you're not Mr Nunne, though!

No. I'm not. Mr Nunne phoned me from Switzerland an hour ago and asked me to do some errands for him. Do you know his address?

Yes, sir, but I'm not sure it's all right me takin' you when you're not Mr Nunne. It's his account, you see…

Yes, but he's in Switzerland. He's only just phoned me. He gave me his account number.

Yes, but I don't know that, do I?

Sorme said irritably: He told me to ask for you because you wouldn't make difficulties!

The man said gloomily: All right, jump in. I'll risk it.

Sorme got into the cab swearing under his breath. It annoyed and affronted him to be regarded with suspicion. As the taxi moved off, he began to feel better. It had been a long time since he had travelled by taxi. It gave him a sensation of carelessness and relaxation. He placed his feet on the leather bag he had brought to pack Austin's clothes in, and stared with pleasure at the traffic. He remembered Caroline, and again felt contented and pleased with himself. It was not a frequent sensation; a degree of self-criticism and analysis that accompanied everything he thought made it rare. His thoughts tended to be logical and verbal, like telepathic communication or writing; intuition played only a small part in his mental processes. When tired, he hated this tendency to carry on mental conversations with himself, but was unable to stop it. Now he thought happily: I have tried to avoid complications. But they come all the same. I have tried to simplify my life, to concentrate on the only thing that's important. And the simplicity destroys my ability to concentrate. And now things are happening that should make things worse, and instead I feel certain and confident again.

He felt a sense of disappointment when the taxi drew up opposite Great Portland Street Station. The driver asked:

Is that the lot?

No. I've got two more errands to do. Would you wait?

The man said resignedly: Right y'are, guv.

A man in a red uniform came to meet him as soon as he came out of the revolving door into the hallway.

Can I help you, sir?

Sorme said: Good morning. Mr Nunne asked me to call and find out if there are any messages for him.

The man's manner became perceptibly more respectful.

Hold on a moment, sir. I'll ask the telephone girl. I won't keep you a moment, sir.

Thanks.

He turned as he was hurrying away, to say: