Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

A new idea came to him. Limitedness. I don't want limits. It is limits that are alien to me. The universe, space, time, being. Nothing must be limited. I am god. I am yesterday and today. I am the god Tem, maker of heaven, creator of things which are. If I am not, life is meaningless.

He took down a volume on forensic medicine, and stared at a photograph of a man who had been killed in a railway accident. It failed to revive the vastation. The death in the book no longer represented reality. Like Baudelaire and de Sade, it was still two moves away from reality.

After washing and drying the liqueur glasses, he walked to Kensington High

Street and caught the tube. He was glad of the lunch-hour crowds. Silence and the sense of uncertainty had left him tired.

The Scotswoman opened the door; when she saw him, her face tightened. He said quickly:

The father is expecting me.

He was. It's time for his rest now.

He was irritated by her manner, but repressed the resentment, saying politely:

I'm sorry. I'll come back again another day.

She hesitated, then stood back and opened the door:

Come on inside, an' I'll see how he feels.

He said quietly: Thank you. He kept his voice lowered in case Maunsell was downstairs; he had no particular wish to see him at the moment. The woman went upstairs without bothering to show him into the waiting-room. He was glad she didn't waste words. When he approached the glass-panelled door, he heard a murmur of voices from outside. He stood in the dark hallway, leaning against the banister. The woman appeared on the stairs, beckoning him up.

He can't spare more'n a few moments. He should be asleep. He's been at it all day.

I won't keep him long, Sorme promised.

As soon as he encountered the faint disinfectant smell in the corridor, he was reminded of his talk on the previous day; a feeling of anticipation came over him as he reached the door. It disappeared immediately when he saw the priest, the curiously ugly face above the pyjama jacket; instead, he experienced the same slight disappointment he had felt on first meeting him.

Father Carruthers was sitting in the armchair by the fire. A plaid rug and an eiderdown were wrapped around the lower half of his body.

Come and sit down. How are you?

Sorme laid the raincoat on the bed, and sat in the other armchair.

I'm fine, father. I'm expecting Austin back today or tomorrow.

Good. You've heard from him?

He's phoned me twice since yesterday.

The priest grunted, and regarded him steadily. Sorme realised what he was thinking. He said:

They weren't just social calls. He seems to have something on his mind. Has he always been inclined to get excited over nothing, father?

In what way?

Well… being strange and secretive. Acting like a conspirator. I'm a little worried…

I've never known it. In what way is he strange?

Sorme told the story of the phone calls, and ended by describing the flat. While he talked he was aware of having the priest's complete attention. The priest asked finally:

I would like to know your exact reason for speaking to me of all this.

The question embarrassed Sorme. He considered his answer carefully. He said slowly:

Austin fascinates me. And I don't fully know why he fascinates me. And… well, I like him. Do you see?

He said this almost defiantly, because he could think of no other way of expressing it. The priest smiled, and the ugliness dissolved in the benevolence that flickered at Sorme.

I understand.

Besides… that flat of his… it made me feel I know him a lot better. And that I want to know him a lot better.

The priest closed his eyes. He talked with his face turned towards the fire, as if talking to himself.

What you tell me of this flat is new to me. And to some extent it is a surprise to me. But, after all, there is perhaps no reason to be surprised. It probably explains why Austin stopped coming here. Romanticism is a dubious refuge, but it is not a dangerous one. And no one remains in it for a long time.

Sorme interrupted: You think he'll come to the Catholic Church eventually?

I think that it is not impossible.

Sorme considered this, staring into the fire. The eyes in the white, invalid's face remained closed. He said:

Romanticism… I see your point. That accounts for de L'Isle-Adam and Huysmans and the rest. But what about the crime photographs? And de Sade.

You have answered yourself. De Sade — another romantic. Sadistic pictures…

I don't know that they were sadistic. They were just revolting.

For the sadist, the revolting causes pleasure.

Is Austin a sadist, father?

He asked the question quickly, and without thinking. Almost immediately he wondered if he had gone too far. The priest's eyes opened and regarded him; the voice said calmly:

Shall we say… he has tendencies…

Sorme said bluntly:

Look here, father. If you think I'm talking out of turn, tell me so flatly. I don't want to pry.

The priest said, smiling:

Yesterday, I hardly knew you. Today, you know a great deal more about Austin, and I know you a little better. I think we can speak frankly.

Sorme felt relieved; the removal of the ambiguity made him more relaxed. He smiled broadly:

Thank you, father. That's kind of you. You see, I do feel a sort of tentative responsibility for Austin. I felt rather touched when he said I was the only person he could trust.

Quite.

But I don't understand at all. Those women's clothes, for instance…

Where are they now?

Sorme said with sudden alarm: I left them downstairs in the hallway.

That doesn't matter. They'll be quite safe.

Sorme scowled at the palms of his hands. He said hesitantly:

Father, I'm going to tell you what I've got on my mind, and if you think it's tosh, just tell me so.

I will.

Well, look here, it's like this… Yesterday morning, two policemen tried to interview an old man in the house where I live… about the East End murders. Now I'm sure they had no special reason — no real suspicions of him. He was just an odd sort of crank, and perhaps he's been in some sort of trouble with them before for a sexual offence, and he's probably one of dozens they'd interview. Now Austin's asked me to get some women's clothes out of his flat. Supposing he's expecting the police to want to interview him about the murders? Supposing he's known to them as a man with sadistic tendencies? Does that make sense?

The priest said:

You don't seriously think that Austin might be involved in these murders?

Good lord, no! Of course not. But the police wouldn't leave any stone unturned, would they? And the clothes belong to a woman. What do you think?

It is possible… it is possible. But that would not explain Austin's secrecy.

Why not? It might. Anyway, perhaps he is in some sort of trouble. After all, a man with perversions can land in trouble pretty easily. Perhaps it isn't the police he's worried about. It could be that someone's blackmailing him…

He stopped, with a sense that such speculation was futile. The priest's eyes nicked up to his face and were lowered again.

You may be right, but the best way to find out is to wait until Austin comes back, and ask him. It is not at all improbable that the police might question him in connection with the Whitechapel murders — if he is known to them as a sexual invert. In cases of sadistic murder they spread their net very wide. They have to, since there is no other way.

How do you mean, father?

In the average murder, someone has a motive, and it is simply a matter of finding it. In a sexual crime — unless the criminal is caught in the act — the police have nothing to go on. I was in Dusseldorf at the time of the Kurten murders. The number of suspects the police interviewed over three years ran into hundreds of thousands. So it is not at all impossible that Austin may be one of those questioned.