Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

I'd better go first. It's as black as your hat. Which boat is it?

The third along.

What do we do if they're not in?

We could wait for them. Or go home.

As he came level with the third boat, he observed that there were no lights on.

It looks as though they're out. What now?

Let's go on board. The door might be open.

He clambered over the side of the boat, and helped her over. She asked:

Have you got any matches?

He found a match, and lit it. She pulled at a door, which opened.

Thank heavens! We can get in, anyway.

He followed her curiously. An electric light came on, revealing a small kitchen, with two Calor-gas cylinders standing beside a gas stove. She called:

Anyone home? Yoo hoo! Barbara! Madeleine!

He noticed a corkscrew hanging on a hook on the wall.

We can have some wine, anyway.

He tore off the lead foil, and opened the bottle. There were no glasses, but he found two china cups on a shelf. Caroline said:

Come on in here.

It was a small bed-sitting room, containing only a wide single bed and an armchair. It was barely six feet square.

This is Barbara's room. Madeleine's is next door, but that's smaller still.

Where do they eat?

In the kitchen.

And where do they receive visitors?

There's another room through there, but they're painting it at the moment.

He handed a cup half filled with wine. She asked:

What shall we drink to? Shall we drink to us?

To us.

He met her eyes as he lowered the cup; she turned her face up to be kissed. He could taste the wine on her lips. They still held the cups. She said:

I wonder what Aunt Gertrude'd say if she could see us now?

I dread to think.

He flung his coat over the armchair, and sat on the bed.

Do you think Barbara would mind if I sit on her bed?

Of course not. Move over.

What about my shoes?

Take them off.

He unlaced them and slipped them off, then moved over to the wall. She immediately lay down beside him and closed her eyes.

Don't you want your wine?

In a moment.

He bent over her, and allowed his lips to move over the soft and still cold skin of her face. She said softly:

That's nice.

Her fingertips touched around the back of his neck; her tongue darted between his lips. He straightened up, breathing deeply. We ought to stop, you know.

Had we?

Yes. Before it's impossible!

She opened her eyes and smiled at him:

I wouldn't mind you being my lover.

That's a highly immoral proposal!

It isn't. You'd be the first.

It's still immoral! Anyway, you're too young to have a lover.

That's silly. Of course I'm not. Anyway, I nearly had one a year ago.

What happened?

He asked me to go to Brighton for a weekend with him. And I said yes.

And did you?

No. I got a sore throat the day before and had to stay in bed.

He said, with mock severity:

That's a fine way to go on! I'm deeply shocked.

She levered herself into a sitting position, and reached out for her cup.

You're not really. Are you?

He asked curiously:

Was it that pimply moron who was leaping over the bonfire?

Ivor! Good lord, no! I wouldn't go to bed with him! No, this was an actor. He was thirty-five, and he'd been divorced twice. And for about three weeks I'd thought I'd go crazy about him. I thought I'd never be able to live without him.

But nothing happened?

No. We quarrelled after that weekend. Then he had to leave. His company went to Liverpool. So that was that.

He drank the rest of his wine, and began to laugh. She asked:

What is it?

Nothing. Just the contrast between you and your aunt.

She said emphatically:

God forbid I should ever be like her!

You won't be!

She put the cup down, and dropped her head on to the pillow: her lips pouted to be kissed. He said:

No. It's not good sense. I get blood pressure and an urge to undress you.

You can't. Not here. Barbara might come.

Let's lock the door?

You can't. It won't lock.

How do you know?

Barbara told me. When she has her boy friend here, they have to wedge the door with the armchair.

Won't she object if she comes in and finds us on her bed?

No! She's a sport. Anyway, we can hear her coming over the side. Then you can get into that chair and look respectable.

He kissed her again, and made no effort to repress the excitement that began to rise. She thrust out her lower lip as she kissed, so that he could taste the moistness and smoothness of its inside. After a few minutes he raised his face from her, and sat up. She asked:

What is it?

It's no good. I'll explode if we keep it up. Are you sure she's likely to be back soon?

I don't know. I don't know when she'll be back.

He started to put his shoes on.

Let's go now. We'll leave her the wine as a present.

Where do you want to go to?

Anywhere. Back to Soho. We can have a drink. It's only ten o'clock.

She stood up in her stockinged feet, and put her arms round his neck. He had to bend his shoulders to shorten himself by fifteen inches in order to reach her face. There was impatience now as he kissed her. He had accepted that nothing could come of it at the moment; further contact with her demanded that he put constraint on his impulses.

She seemed to sense this; she broke away gently, saying:

All right. Let's go.

After he had left her at Tottenham Court Road station he felt relaxed and satisfied.

He stared out of the window of the bus as it passed Goodge Street, and allowed his mind to dwell on the memory of her acquiescence. It was not that he suspected he might be falling in love with her; there seemed no likelihood of that. It was simply that he was charmed by her. She was too naive, her mental processes were all too obvious for him to take her seriously. There was no element of mystery or intoxication, neither had there been any sort of a struggle. Without preliminaries, she had allowed him to see that he excited her, that she would be willing to allow herself to become infatuated with him if he had no objection. He had no objection; the idea of becoming her lover was pleasant. It was as simple as a commercial transaction.

He yawned, and wiped the moisture out of his eyes with a handkerchief. The girl in front of him stood up and transferred a small white pekinese from her lap to the floor.

She was pretty and smartly dressed. He glanced at her and looked away, pleased by the indifference he felt. It struck him that he was hardly ever free of desire; at any hour of the day or night, the thought of a woman could disturb him and arouse the dissatisfaction of lust without an object. It was a luxury not to care.

It was a return of the sensation he had felt that morning, watching the girl get out of the lift: a sense of ease and power, a complete lack of envy. He could think of Nunne with complete detachment; not because he felt that Nunne's advantages were accidental or temporal; on the contrary, it seemed there was something in Nunne that made money and luxury inevitable. But, in itself, this was nothing to envy. In his mind, Nunne stood for physical existence, a direct sense of physical life. His natural background would be the spotless deck of a yacht in the Mediterranean, the whiteness of sunlight on snow near Trondheim; the rocks sticking out of a salmon fishing river in Galway. Sorme responded to these thoughts as he responded to Caroline; but underneath them, something oppressed him. There was a futility inherent in physical life that frightened him.

He had begun to feel the cold as he got off the bus at Prince of Wales Road. He shivered, tensing the muscles of his shoulders, and walked quickly across the road. The relaxation had disappeared, and he had begun to feel a sense of anticipation he could not account for. It began to take definite shape when he turned out of the Kentish Town Road, and noticed the Jaguar parked outside the house.