Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Eh? Jack the Ripper? Yers. I can tell you something about that. He done his last murder over there…

The bent hand gestured in the direction of the market building. Sorme said:

Miller's Court?

That's right. Over there, it used to be. Before they built the market. Used to be Dorset Street. I know, 'cause I used to do a paper round at the time.

Sorme said with surprise:

How old were you?

'Ow old? Lemme see…

The watery eyes concentrated. The transparent drop fell on to the pavement. He said finally:

Why, I was ten at the time, just ten.

Sorme calculated quickly. Eighteen eighty-eight to nineteen fifty-six — sixty-eight years. He said:

And you say you're seventy-three?

That's right. Seventy-three. Seventy-four next April. And I used to take the mornin' papers to Miller's Court. Then one mornin' I goes there, and there's a crowd round the door. And a copper says: She won't want no more papers 'ere, sonny. Don't you go bringin' any more papers 'ere. An that's 'ow I know she'd been murdered. That was Jack the Ripper.

Sorme looked at his watch, saying:

Amazing! Well, I must go now. Goodbye…

The old man raised a hand in salute as he turned away. Sorme turned into Fournier Street, thinking: Either he's five years older than he thinks, or he's lying. He walked hurriedly now, taking the shortest route back to the place where he had left the bicycle.

He unlocked the wheel, unwinding the chain from around it, swearing when he got grease from the spokes on his fingers. He wiped them clean on his handkerchief, then walked the bicycle back along Durward Street. Up to the point where the street divided it was a one-way street, and a policeman stood on the opposite corner.

Before he had advanced more than a few yards into Durward Street, he noticed the old woman who came towards him from the other end of the street. She was carrying a half loaf of bread under her arm, clutched against a baggy cardigan of purple wool. She stopped, and inserted a key in a door. He rested his right foot on the pedal of the bicycle and scooted the dozen or so yards between them, arriving behind her as she pushed open the door. He said: Excuse me…

She went on into the house, without looking round. He guessed her to be deaf, and reached out to touch her shoulder. She turned, looking startled. He said loudly:

Does Mr Glasp live here, please?

The tired, red-rimmed eyes looked blankly at him. He repeated the question. She turned and waved her hand towards the stairs, with a gesture of complete indifference.

She said:

Yes. 'E's in. Go on up.

He felt doubtful, looking into the dark room that smelt of age and Victorian furniture. He shouted: Upstairs?

But she had turned away, and was already halfway across the room, leaving him to close the door behind him. At the other side of the room, she said over her shoulder:

'E might be asleep.

Sorme went cautiously up the stairs, leaning forward and groping, feeling bare wooden boards, partly covered with worn linoleum. He stumbled near the top, and swore softly. The landing was in complete darkness. There was a strong smell of paraffin. As he stood there, peering into the dark, a door on his right opened. A man's voice said: Hello. Who is it?

He said: Mr Glasp?

That's right. The voice had a faint Yorkshire accent.

My name is Gerard Sorme. I saw some of your work yesterday, and wanted to meet you.

You a painter?

No, a writer.

You'd better come on in, the voice said ungraciously. I haven't much time.

I won't keep you long…

He felt slightly bewildered; he was unprepared for coming face to face with Glasp so suddenly. He would have liked to be allowed a few minutes to decide what to say.

Glasp's tone led him to feel that the meeting would be short.

Glasp said: Take a seat.

The room was large. It seemed to have been made by knocking down a wall, and running two rooms into one. It had an irregular L-shape, and could be entered by two doors, one in each arm of the L. The only furniture was an old-fashioned single bed with brass rails, a stool and a small table. There were many canvases leaning around the walls.

In front of the window stood an easel of the type used in schoolrooms, with another canvas on it. Sorme sat on the stool, near the window, in a position from which he could see the whole room. A black paraffin stove was burning at the side of the stool; automatically he warmed his hands over it.

Glasp said: Well, what can I do for you?

His tone was blunt and irritable. He stood, leaning against the end of the bed, a tall, bony man with a mop of shaggy red hair and an unshaven chin. His blue polo-necked sweater was stiff with paint-stains.

Sorme said apologetically: Look here, I know it's rather an imposition just to come and introduce myself to you like this. But if you feel I'm wasting your time just say so, and I'll go.

Glasp looked surprised, but in no way disarmed; he said ponderously:

How do I know whether you're wasting my time until I know what you want?

Feeling at a disadvantage, Sorme said:

I don't want anything — except to meet you. I saw two of your canvases yesterday and liked them.

Glasp said, with a touch of sarcasm:

I expect you have a busy time. If you go and call on every painter when you take a fancy to one of his pictures.

Sorme declined to be offended by his tone. He said:

In this case, 'like' is the wrong word. I thought the pictures completely extraordinary.

Still Glasp's face registered no pleasure; if anything, a shade of mistrust passed over it. He said:

May I ask where you saw them?

In a basement flat belonging to Austin Nunne…

Oh, you're a friend of Austin's, are you?

There was no mistaking the tone of sarcasm now.

Yes.

A patron of the arts, so to speak?

No, Sorme said steadily, controlling the irritation. I don't buy pictures. I can't afford to. I just thought I'd like to meet you.

He made his voice level, preparing to stand up and walk out of the room. He was beginning to resent Glasp's tone, and was annoyed with himself for placing himself in a position where Glasp could regard him as an intruder.

Glasp picked up a blue-and-white-striped mug from the floor, and began to sip from it. He sat on the edge of the bed, saying:

Well, I'll be candid with you. I live here because I don't like meeting people. Also, of course, because it's cheap. But mainly because I don't like people much…

Why?

Why don't I like people? For the same reason I don't like the smell of rum or China tea, I expect.

Sorme was trying hard to sum him up. The masked resentment in Glasp's tone inclined him to regard him as a paranoiac. His inclination to walk out was curbed only by a dislike of feeling completely defeated. He decided to make another effort. Smiling with deliberate amiability, he said:

As a matter of fact, both Austin and Father Rakosi advised me not to call on you.

Why?

They seemed to have the idea you'd be rude.

Glasp grunted, and took another swallow from the mug. Sorme stood up. He said:

Well, you've a perfect right to be left to yourself. I'll leave you.

Glasp was staring into the mug, which he held between both hands in his lap. He did not move. He said:

What did you want to see me about?

Sorme felt again the inadequacy of his reasons. He said:

I thought you might be able to tell me something about Austin.

Glasp looked up at him; he said grinning:

Why, do you want to blackmail him?

No.

You queer?

No.

Then why?

His manner was no longer pointedly hostile; it was detached and noncommittal.

Sorme sensed that his curiosity was aroused. He said reasonably:

Look here, you're making things rather deliberately awkward for me, aren't you? I liked your canvases. I wanted to meet you. I also knew you'd been a friend of Austin's and Austin also interests me. But if you hate meeting people, and you don't feel like discussing Austin, just say so. I can go.