Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Would you like to take a seat, sir?

Thank you.

They were deep, comfortable armchairs, as in a hotel lounge. In the bowl of the potted palm that stood beside the chair there were several cigarette butts. The lift descended as he sat there. He watched with curiosity the white-moustached old man and the young girl in furs who stepped out of it. Both had the air of unconscious grace and poise that comes from never having to think about money. There was no envy in his contemplation of them: only an almost proprietary kind of affection. He felt that no real barrier existed between themselves and him; on the contrary, he had a strange sense of advantage over them. The girl took the old man's arm and squeezed it. He thought: She is either his mistress or his daughter. Or granddaughter. He looked at them friendlily as they went out of the revolving door, then transferred his attention to the reflection of himself in the mirror opposite. He was mildly surprised that he felt no envy for Nunne and his way of life. He examined the awareness, and realised that it was based on a sense of belief in himself and of confidence in his own powers that was always latent in him, yet which only rarely became conscious. He smiled to himself, and said softly, Delusions of grandeur and distinct paranoiac traits; the patient Sorme should be kept under observation…

The man came back. He said:

I've got a few phone messages, sir. People who want him to ring them back.

Thanks. Nothing else? No one has been here enquiring about him?

Enquiring? No, sir. Why, sir, is he expecting someone?

I think so. It doesn't matter. Can I have the phone messages? He's phoning me from Switzerland this evening.

Certainly, sir. The girl's copying them out now. She won't be a moment.

Thanks.

He crossed to the mirror and looked at himself closely. The leather bands around the cuffs of his jackets showed below the sleeves of the overcoat. The grey whipcord trousers looked baggy; one of the turn-ups was hanging down. He thought: I must buy more trousers and get my hair cut. I look a wreck.

In the taxi he glanced at the two sheets of paper headed 'Phone Message'. The messages were written neatly with a ballpoint pen; they were dated from the previous Friday. 'Will you ring Mr Beaumont before ten this evening?' 'Major Dennis will not be able to join Mr Nunne for dinner on Wednesday.' He looked through the rest, then folded the papers and put them in his wallet. They told him nothing more of Nunne. Nunne was becoming increasingly the centre of his curiosity.

The sight of the Post Office at Netting Hill Gate reminded him of the telegram; he tapped on the glass, and asked the driver to stop at the next Post Office. He had forgotten what Nunne had asked him to say in the telegram; after consideration, he worded it simply: No enquiries, and signed it: Gerard.

The driver asked: What number, sir?

Is this Canning Place?

Yes.

Would you mind driving to the end of the street and waiting for me there? I shall be about ten minutes.

The end? Right.

He noted the surprise in the driver's voice, and was about to explain; then he felt irritated with his own embarrassment, reflecting that it was none of the man's business anyway. He stepped out of the cab, saying:

I shall want to return to Camden Town afterwards.

Afraid I'll have to keep the clock tickin', sir.

Right you are.

Number twenty-three was half way down the street. It was a tall, Victorian house with steps leading up to the front door. When he pressed the bell labelled 'Vannet', a voice spoke from a circle of wire gauze above the bell-pushes:

Hello. Who is it?

He addressed the wire gauze:

My name is Sorme. Austin Nunne asked me to call.

Oh yes.

The door clicked open. The voice said:

It's the second door on your right.

He went into the badly lit hallway, closing the door behind him. The door was inscribed: Gerald Vannet, in white plastic letters. When he knocked, the voice called: Come in.

The man was levering himself out of an easy chair as he came into the room. He was six inches shorter than Sorme. He wore a loose green tee-shirt with a silk muffler underneath it. The flannel trousers had a knife-edge crease. Well, I'm delighted to meet you! You're Mr Sorme. Austin rang up about an hour ago. Won't you have a drink?

His voice was a neighing drawl, on an almost soprano note.

Sorme said uncertainly: That's very kind of you… He was thinking of the taxi.

You're not in a hurry, are you? Austin said you might want to spend an hour or two here. You haven't got a taxi waiting, or anything?

Sorme's immediate inclination was to admit that he had, until he recollected Nunne's insistence on secrecy. He said quickly:

No. I'm not in a hurry.

Lovely. Do sit down. I'm afraid the room's in a bit of a mess. I've not been up long. We had a party last night. What will you drink? Whisky, or gin and martini? I'm afraid I've nothing else except a little wine.

Gin and martini then, please.

Sweet or dry?

The room was stuffily warm, with two electric fires burning. It was a large and very comfortable bed-sitter. The carpeting was a plain fawn colour, and looked as if it had only just been hoovered. Nothing in the room suggested a party, or the untidiness associated with late rising. Sorme took his gin and Italian, and sat on the bed. Vannet stretched himself out on a piece of furniture that combined armchair and divan, with curves moulded to his body. He smiled at Sorme over the top of his glass, and then drank as though toasting some secret that they shared. He said:

I may say, it isn't like Austin to send his… friends along to see me. You are a fairly new friend, aren't you?

Fairly, Sorme said.

Vannet grinned, and took another sip of whisky, managing to imply that his tact would forbid further questioning. He said blandly:

I manage to meet all Austin's friends sooner or later. Where'd you meet him — the Balalaika?

No. What is it?

Ah! I can see you haven't known him for long! You'll see the Balalaika soon, no doubt.

What is it?

Oh, it's a… well, a sort of a… It's a club.

He simpered over his glass.

I see, Sorme said. I shall look forward to going there.

You ought to go tomorrow. Wednesday's drag night. World-famous female impersonators! Oh, my dear!

He said this with a nasal Cockney accent, fluttering his hand stiffly from the wrist.

I'll ask Austin — if he's back, Sorme said.

Are you expecting him?

I'm not sure.

A pair of china blue eyes regarded him penetratingly for a moment, then dropped coyly. Vannet said:

Well, if you want to see it, and Austin's not back, I could probably get you in…

That's kind of you! But I can see it some other time.

That's what you think! You don't think they do it every week, do you? They have to arrange it. Then they pass the word around quietly. So the police don't get wind of it.

They don't intend to be raided, don't you see, dear? Don't mind me calling you dear. It doesn't mean anything… But if you'd like to see it, I'd be delighted…

Sorme grunted, and nodded noncommittally. Vannet stared wistfully into his glass, and asked:

Is Austin in Switzerland alone?

As far as I know. Why?

Oh, I'm not prying. But he had his eye on a rather nice little dish at the Balalaika on Friday.

Friday, Sorme said.

Yes… why? It was Friday, wasn't it? Yes, I remember.

I was with him on Friday evening, Sorme explained. But he left me before midnight.

Oh, this was well after midnight. He was looking far gone… Cigarette?

No, thanks. Tell me, do you own all this house?

Yes, why? You looking for a room?

Again, the look was suggestive and coy. Sorme finished the martini.