Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

She asked, pouting:

Don't I come in anywhere?

Of course you do. If it hadn't been for Austin, I wouldn't have met you, would I?

How did you meet Austin?

He told her while he ate. He was still telling her after the meal, when they went upstairs for coffee. Half way up the stairs, she stopped and turned her head towards him, whispering:

You know, I'm a little tipsy.

She swayed backwards slightly, and he put both hands around her waist to steady her. She gripped them in hers for a moment and pulled them tight, then released them. He was feeling too well-fed and somnolent to be excited by the gesture, but it increased the sense of comfort and certainty he felt with her. As they drank coffee, she asked suddenly: Do you think Gertrude's attractive?

He stared hard at his cup, and said critically:

Yes… she's attractive.

But not your type? she prompted him.

No… It's not that. It's the simplicity of the way she sees things. She puzzles me.

Puzzles you? Why on earth should she puzzle you?

She's either brilliantly dishonest or so primitively simple-minded that I can't even conceive of it. Mind, I can understand people being simple Bible Christians, and thinking the Bible's the beginning and end of everything. But she doesn't strike me as having that type of mind. You'd think she'd read Virginia Woolf, and patronise the local young writers.

She does!

Yes… I suppose she does. Do you know anything about her life before she came to live in Hampstead?

No. Mummy's never talked about her. But she did drop something once when I wasn't supposed to be listening. There mas a man once.

And what happened?

I don't know, really. Why are you so interested? Have you got designs on her?

You brought the subject up!

I expect I did. Anyway, I think she's got designs on you.

On my salvation, you mean.

Well… She's rather lonely up there. That's why I go up to stay some nights. I think she'd like it if you went up there more often.

Hasn't she any other close friends?

No. She used to see rather a lot of a painter once. But that stopped…

You mean she had an affair?

Oh no. He was half her age. A man named Glasp.

Oliver Glasp?

Yes, why?

I've heard of him. A friend of Austin's, I think.

Yes. I think Austin took him there for the first time.

Why did he stop going there? Do you know?

Yes. He had some kind of a breakdown and went into a mental home. She never talked about it much, but I think they quarrelled as well.

They had both finished their coffee. He asked her:

Shall we go?

She slipped down off the stool, and picked up her gloves. He asked:

Where would you like to go now? Back into Soho for a drink?

I don't mind. Where would you?

Let's walk anyway. I've had too much to eat.

The night was cold and windless; there were no stars.

She asked:

Would you like to visit a couple of girl friends of mine? They live on a boat on Chelsea reach.

How do we get there?

It's a ten-minute walk.

Shall we buy some wine to take?

That's a good idea. I don't suppose they'll have anything to drink. They're both actresses, but they're out of work at the moment.

They bought a bottle of hock at a wine shop, and walked on past the town hall. A hundred yards further on they could see the glow of a bonfire.

That'd be the party Frankie mentioned. We don't want to go, do we?

I don't.

The fire had been built on a piece of waste ground that was divided from the road by a low wall. The land itself was about ten feet below street level; it was reached through an entrance in the side street. The site was crowded with students, most of them holding bottles or glasses. A crowd of them were dragging a tree trunk across the fire. It was too big to lie flat; it formed a kind of bridge across the centre of the fire, supported at its far end by branches.

Let's go down for just a moment, Gerard?

Sorme trailed reluctantly behind her as she walked to the side street. There the ground sloped naturally on to the site. He asked with misgiving:

Do you know many of them?

A few. But we don't want to get involved. Let's just have a warm and then go.

Somewhere, a portable radio was playing dance music, but no one was attempting to dance. In the shadows, towards the wall, couples were stretched out on the grass. Most of the crowd stood around the fire in a wide circle. It was too hot to stand close. In the blaze, Sorme could distinguish an old sofa and the remains of a door. As they stood there, someone leapt over the tree trunk where it lay across the centre of the fire, and landed clumsily on the far side, sending up a shower of red sparks. A few students began to cheer spasmodically. The youth turned round and leapt back the other way, flinging his arms in the air and shrieking as he jumped. Sorme said, disgustedly: Bloody fool.

That's Ivor Fenner. I used to go out with him.

Sorme repressed an irritated comment and turned away, shrugging. She took his arm, saying:

Let's go.

As they came back on to street level, he said gloomily:

It all makes me feel as if I'm fifty. I detest students.

They're all right.

Individually, perhaps. En masse, they're loathsome.

Before they had walked more than fifty yards they heard a distant clang of bells.

The fire engine passed them and pulled up opposite the bomb site. Caroline said:

They're going to put it out. Let's watch.

When they reached the site the waste ground was already empty of students; they clustered around the walls, looking at the fire. Sorme and Caroline stood at the end of the wall, and watched the long, white jet of water that hissed across the grass and curved on to the fire. Immediately, clouds of steam rose, and the flames disappeared. The water hit the end of the tree trunk, and set it jerking across the grass. A groan went up from the students. Someone shouted:

Rotten spoil-sports!

The fire was out. It had taken less than three minutes.

As they walked away, Sorme found himself feeling ashamed of the irritation he had felt earlier; it was not that he sympathised with the students, but that he revolted automatically at the idea of the authority that could put an end to the party. She looked at his face as they passed under a streetlamp, and asked:

What are you annoyed about, Gerard?

He laughed, becoming aware suddenly that he had been scowling:

I'm not annoyed. I suppose I'm never satisfied.

How do you mean?

I disliked those students because they seemed a sloppy and undisciplined mob of adolescents. That makes me an authoritarian. But I detest the authorities when they stand about in uniforms and give orders. So I dare say I'm an anarchist. An authoritarian anarchist!

They had turned into Cheyne Walk. The breeze that came from the river was cold.

She turned up her collar, and pressed her head against his arm. They crossed to the wall that overlooked the river, and stopped to stare at the water. The lights from the Albert Bridge wavered up from the ink-coloured dark. He became aware that she was looking up at him. He bent to kiss the cold lips, and felt the tip of her nose icy against his face.

She said:

I don't care what you are.

There's no reason why you should. You don't have to live with me like I do.

She said stubbornly:

I wouldn't care if I had to live with you.

He kissed her again and wondered, as he did so, how many times before she had been kissed in the dark, and by how many men. He stopped himself before his speculation went further, but was not soon enough to stop a feeling of resentment towards her.

They crossed the bridge that led out to a landing-stage. From this, a narrow gangway of planks ran out along the side of the moored houseboats. He said: