Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Could I?

Why not? A lot of writers have started from a sense of worthlessness…

Baudelaire, Dostoevsky…

Nunne said softly:

Baudelaire. Everything in the world exudes crime…

When Sorme stared at him, puzzled, he said abruptly:

Don't mind me. I'm just a little drunk and tired.

His eyes, resting on Sorme, confirmed what he said; they looked blank and lifeless. He seemed to make an effort of will, and something like amusement came into them.

But you're OK, aren't you, Gerard? You're balanced and sane and level-headed?

Sorme suspected that Nunne had some secret joke. He said cautiously:

No, I'm not balanced. I'm just stagnant.

Oh, come! Let's not have any of that!

Sorme said, grinning: Stagnant, sullen and sex-starved.

Well, you shouldn't be sex-starved, anyway. I'm sure Caroline would oblige. Or that beefy girl who let me in.

Sorme smiled at the tartness in his voice.

No doubt. But I probably wouldn't enjoy it. You know, we had a phrase for it in the RAF. We called it 'having your oats'. That really catches its meaning — the straightforward physical act — having a nibble, a screw, dipping your wick. But that's not sex. Sex is the opposite of all that. It's the opposite of this feeling of being worthless, unintended. It's an overwhelming sense of power and security. It's the complete disappearance of the feeling of being mediocre. It's a strange conviction that nothing matters, that everything's good.

Nunne said with interest: Does it really mean all that to you?

Sometimes.

Then you're lucky.

Maybe. Maybe I'm not particularly lucky. Everybody's lucky, if only they knew it.

Even sadists and hopeless neurotics?

Everybody. You know, you say you often feel worthless. So do I, sometimes. But, fundamentally, I know I'm not. When I was a kid, my parents used to say I was born lucky. And the funny thing was, I always felt lucky, fundamentally…

Then you were lucky, Gerard. I wasn't. I had a loathsome childhood. My father bullied me, and my mother sat on me like a hen hatching eggs. She practically suffocated me. My main feelings in my childhood were shame and furtiveness. That's what my childhood was like. What do you say to that?

I understand it. I used to feel the same pretty often. Anybody does when they're children. Unless you spend most of your time day-dreaming. It's just the feeling of total lack of purpose in a child. You don't start to possess your own soul till you become an adolescent. And that sense of purpose, being your own master, is the greatest thing that can happen to you.

Nunne said:

Provided you're not up to your neck in a treacly mess of emotions.

Throw them off. Strangle them. I did. Anyway, you get moments of insight into yourself that make up for everything.

You do, perhaps.

Yes, I do. You know the Egyptians all believed they were descended from the gods? That's the feeling. For the Egyptians, man was a sort of god, a god in exile. For the Christian Church, he was an immortal soul, poised between heaven and hell. Today he's just a member of society with a duty to everybody else. It's the steady devaluation of human beings. But that's our job, Austin, yours and mine. We're the writers and poets.

We can fight the inflation. Our job is to increase the dignity of human beings, try to push it back towards the Egyptian estimate.

He began to feel excited and happy as he talked, and grateful to Nunne for releasing this sense of certainty. Nunne was listening with an expression of interest, but there was no response in his face. Looking at him, Sorme remembered his image, being burnt out inside, like a hole in a carpet. That was it. Something had short-circuited Nunne inside. His capacity to respond had been burnt out by guilt and fatigue. Nothing Sorme could say would strike any response; there was nothing to respond. Sorme stopped and stared at him, feeling the futility of saying more. He said finally:

You know, Austin, I wish you could tell me what's worrying you so much.

Why, nothing. Nothing you don't know about.

I don't understand. What's the use of being conscience-stricken? If you've done something bad, why waste time regretting it? If you can't stand by your action, then forget it. Dismiss it. Start again.

Nunne sat up in the chair. Sorme was aware of the effort it cost him. He smiled tiredly at Sorme.

Listen, Gerard, let's forget it, eh? I can't explain to you. I will one day. Don't get the idea it's a mystery. It's not. But let's not talk about it.

Sorme said:

Austin, I'm going to leave you. You look dog-tired.

I am. I shall take a strong sleeping-draught. Do you mind very much if I don't drive you home?

Of course not.

I'll send you in a taxi…

No!

Yes. I really insist.

Don't be a fool. I'd enjoy walking.

When he came back from the lavatory a few minutes later, Nunne was returning the phone to its rest. He said: The taxi will be here in a few minutes. It's on my account, so don't pay.

He yawned, then stretched, and looked at himself in the mirror, saying: Hair of a woman and teeth of a lion. One of the beasts in Revelation. Why was I born so ugly?

Sorme sat down and picked up the wine glass

You really are an idiot, Austin.

Nunne reached out, and touched Sorme's hair briefly.

He said:

Dear Gerard.

He picked up the phone again and listened for a moment. He said:

Hello, is that the night porter? Mr Gregory? Ah, this is Mr Nunne speaking. Do you think you could put my car away for me? It's outside now. No, I'm sending a friend down with the key in a few minutes. Thank you. Goodnight.

Sorme said:

By the way, Austin, can you tell me anything about this chap Oliver Glasp?

Nunne lit a cigarette.

What do you want to know?

Well, who is he? He seems very talented.

Do you know his work?

Only the paintings in your flat.

You might like him. Except that he's quite the most quarrelsome person in London. He has no skin.

Has he… any peculiarities?

He's not queer, if that's what you mean. I never enquired into his sex life. He's been in mental homes — tends to fly into sudden rages and throw things. He also has some obsession about pain. It's his favourite word — at least, it was when I knew him. We quarrelled — I couldn't stand his touchiness. At the time, he was trying to be an ascetic — sleeping on the bare wires of his bed and all that…

The phone rang. Nunne said:

That will be your taxi.

Back in his own room, he collected the brandy flask and the glasses, and took them upstairs. The kitchen smelt pleasantly of fruit; a bowl of apples stood on the table.

He felt physically tired, and yet curiously excited. Talking to Nunne had given him an intuition of change. He thought, with sudden complete certainty: I have wasted five years. Stuck in rooms. The world was alive. I have done nothing.

Poor Austin. Sadistic and listless, sensual, caring only about people and places. I am freer than he is; yet for five years I have behaved like a prisoner. Why?

He opened the kitchen window and leaned out. The night air smelt fresh. He felt buoyed up by an intuition of kindness and gratitude. It came again: the sense of life, of London's three millions, of smells in attics and markets.

As he stood there he heard a door close. He turned around and listened; it had been the Frenchman's room. Probably Callet would come up to the kitchen. The idea of conversation gave him no pleasure. He went quietly down the stairs, and back into his own room.

Instead of switching on the light, he crossed the room and opened the window, then climbed out on to the fire escape. He sat there, staring into the darkness, faintly lit by lamps and the neon sign of the cinema. A light came on above him; it was in the kitchen.