Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

He looked on the hall table for letters or phone messages. A torn envelope read:

Mr Sorme: Mr Nunne rang. It was signed: C.

He saw the slit of light under his door before he opened it. The room was clouded with cigarette smoke. He said:

Hello, Austin. How long have you been here?

Nunne said: I was just about to push off. I began to think you might be out all night. How are you?

Fine. Have you eaten?

Hours ago. I've been drinking too. Have some brandy.

He indicated the flask on the table. He was sitting in the armchair, his feet on the seat of a wooden chair on the other side of the rug. The gas fire was burning, turned low.

Sorme sat in the opposite armchair, and poured a little brandy into a glass. He said: It's good to see you. What time did you get in?

Five o'clock. I tried phoning you right away, but you'd left.

In the four days since he had last seen him, Sorme had forgotten many things about Nunne. He had forgotten that the drawling, cultured voice grated on his nerves, and that something about the pock-marked face repelled him. The Nunne who sat opposite him had very little in common with the person he had been thinking about on the bus. He said:

I've been out with Caroline Denbigh — Gertrude's niece.

Who? Oh, Gertrude. Caroline! I don't think I've seen her since she was a little kid.

But she's only thirteen or so, isn't she?

No. Seventeen.

Oh. Has she fallen for the Sorme approach?

I wouldn't know.

Nunne said, sighing:

I expect she has — like all of us. Will you take her to bed?

Sorme looked at him closely; his face was serene, faintly ironical.

That depends… I may.

The irony became unmistakable.

And would you enjoy it?

Sorme said: You've got a good point there. Perhaps not. Oh, I'd get some sort of a kick out of it… but what it might lead to… I don't know that I'm ready to buy the consequences.

Nunne poured more brandy into the tumbler.

Well, never mind Caroline. You got the clothes, I see.

Yes. Did you look for them?

I did. Many thanks indeed. Did you have any difficulty getting them?

None. I met Vannet. He tried to persuade me to stay to lunch. I didn't.

He would. That man has the curiosity of Pandora.

Then I spent an hour in your flat. Oh, and — I tried some of your liqueurs.

Good. I should have told you to help yourself.

I also looked through your books. I spent a fascinating couple of hours there.

Nunne hunched his shoulders, tensing his arms, then stretched them and yawned.

I'm really very grateful to you, Gerard.

He sagged in the chair suddenly, as if he had been coshed from behind; his eyes continued to stare at Sorme levelly, speculatively. He said:

I suppose you're rather curious about all the mystery?

Sorme shrugged.

Not particularly.

He had a strange sensation, as if he and Nunne were both caught in some slowing-down of time, as if they could sit and stare at one another for hours, days, with no sense of urgency. It was not entirely the drink. Nunne said quietly:

You're a very generous person, Gerard.

Not at all.

Do you mean to say that you're not curious about my flat? And about the phone calls?

Sorme thought for a moment. He said:

No. I don't say that. I'm curious to know you better.

Nunne smiled at him. It made him aware that Nunne was tired and depressed; there was exhaustion behind the eyes; they refused to participate in the smile.

Why are you curious about me?

Sorme took another sip of the brandy. He said carefully:

I… I like being alive. It sounds obvious, but it's true. I never stop wondering why I'm alive and worrying in case it's all a mistake… but for what it is, I love it. But the trouble is, I get tired. I think about it too much. And sometimes, if I'm lucky, some things give me back a sense of being glad I'm alive. A Mozart symphony, a hot frankfurter sausage in a cob, the smell of acetone. They revive my curiosity about living. They give me a new grip on being alive. Or sometimes a book does it. Almost never a person. I sometimes think people are the most uninteresting things in the whole universe. They only reflect the defeat I always carry around with me. Well… you're one of the few people I've ever met who arouses all the interest in me. I sense a lot of things about you that worry me a little — the crank, the fanatic, the pervert.

He noticed the slight start of surprise at his use of 'pervert', but it didn't worry him. He was certain of what he meant. But Nunne's exhaustion worried him; he was aware of it all the time. While he had been speaking, Nunne had uncapped the bottle, and carefully divided the remaining brandy between their two glasses. His eyes were dull as he pushed the glass towards Sorme. He said:

You called me a fanatic and a pervert… Do you know exactly the nature of my perversion?

Sorme's heart began to beat fast; he stared steadily at Nunne, hoping to conceal it.

He felt his cheeks and neck growing warm.

No. But I can guess.

You don't have to guess. I'll tell you. I'm a sadist.

Sorme's heart was thumping so hard that he was afraid it was showing through his pullover. Controlling his voice, he said:

In what way?

Nunne emptied his glass, and stared at him.

You know what a sadist is?

Yes.

Nunne smiled.

I wonder if you do? What do you think it is?

Someone… who enjoys pain.

He knew his voice would shake if he tried a longer sentence. His ears were on fire.

Yes, Gerard… that is what a sadist is. But that's nothing. That's only the dictionary definition. It doesn't take account of a lot of things. Like the tension before, and the fear afterwards.

Sorme made no effort to control the excitement that almost suffocated him. He relaxed in the chair, and tried to imagine that Nunne's voice was a gramophone record.

The voice said:

The fear never stops. You feel like a carpet when a lighted coal's fallen on it- just a hole where the heart should be, with burn round the edges. Sex is supposed to be a normal desire of the body. But what about when it's an accumulation of tensions you can't define? While you feel it, you can't define it. And when it's over, you feel empty, and still you can't define it.

Sorme began to feel better. He said:

Excuse my ignorance… but what's to stop you satisfying your needs? There must be people who… well, do it professionally.

You don't understand, Gerard. There are, that's true. But… I can't explain. You see, if you feel sexual desire you can be pretty sure you'll find a woman who wants to take what you have to give. But the whole point of sadism… is that it wants to take what someone doesn't want to give. If they want to give it, it's not the same.

But I do understand, Sorme contradicted him. I feel the same frequently. Nothing shatters me more than a woman who wants to be made love to. Even if I'd been sex-starved for six months, I'd be nauseated if I got into the same bed as a nymphomaniac.

And if I'd spent six months trying to seduce a girl, and thirty seconds before I was ready to take her she suddenly moaned: Take me, for God's sake, I'd lose my desire immediately. I'd be incapable of making love to her. Isn't that the same kind of thing?

Not quite. You merely want a completely passive partner. There are probably millions of girls who want to be completely passive.

Sorme said, grinning: I wish I could find them.

He thought, as he said it, of Miss Quincey and Caroline, and felt a pang of pleasure at the memory of his evening.

Nunne did not smile. He said patiently:

Nevertheless, they exist.

Sorme interrupted him:

Look here, Austin, aren't you making too much of this? Anybody can learn to live with his… needs… well, without tormenting himself. I've known homosexuals who made a tragedy out of it and spent all their time talking about persecution and frustration.