Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Glasp looked at him; his expression was speculative and cool, like that of a man about to buy something which he wishes to devalue.

He reached out and took a palette from the table and began to clean it with a table knife. Without raising his face from it, he said:

I can't tell you much about Austin. I never knew him well, and never liked him much. Why does he interest you… if you're not queer?

For the same reason that you do, I suppose.

What have I got in common with Austin?

Sorme felt the need to say something convincing, and could think of nothing to say. He plunged with the first words that came into his head:

From your canvases, I should say… a certain quality of fanaticism.

He saw at once that he had said the right thing. Glasp said:

And you think Austin is a fanatic? He never struck me that way, I must say.

It's difficult to explain. I don't know him well enough yet. But I suspect it's there.

And why does it interest you?

That's also difficult to explain. I always liked the idea of living alone. I used to think about entering a monastery…

Glasp interrupted him: You're not a Catholic?

No.

And why didn't you'go through with the monastery idea?

I saw no point. Besides I wasn't sure that I'd enjoy being a monk. I doubt whether the aims of a community of monks would be the same as mine.

And what were yours?

Sorme looked at him, and felt himself relaxing under the unconcealed interest that Glasp showed. He said:

I don't know… I suppose I wanted to see visions.

Glasp stood up. He said: And what happened?

Nothing much. For a year I read Plotinus and St Francis de Sales and the rest… but I felt something was missing. I began to feel my imagination had gone dead. I began to think I needed sex and human intercourse. So I made a few friends, and got involved with a couple of girls for a very short time. It didn't help much. I didn't want that either. I began to think I'd simply lost all desire to stay alive. I felt sick of books, and sick of people…

I know the feeling, Glasp said.

He had begun to squeeze tubes of paint on to the palette. He took a brush from the jam jar that stood on the windowsill, and began to paint. He said quietly:

I've been through all this myself. There's only one remedy… Work.

He waved the brush at Sorme. Sorme said:

That's OK if you know what you want to do. I didn't.

You say didn't. Do you feel different now?

Well… yes. I met Austin a week ago — barely that. In many ways, I feel sorry for him. He's like me too. But… I can't explain. But suddenly, I begin to feel that something important's happening to me. A sort of daylight's coming through.

Glasp said:

But why Austin? I think that's what you literary gents call an anticlimax!

Sorme said: I don't know. He strikes me as being oddly like me…

Glasp said: Does he? There was disbelief in his voice.

Yes. Did you ever go to that flat of his in Queen's Gate?

I didn't know he had a flat in Queen's Gate.

I went yesterday. It surprised me. It looked like something out of Edgar Allan Poe. Black velvet curtains. A cabinet of liqueurs. The work of de Sade and Masoch. And your pictures…

Glasp said with surprise: So that's where you saw them? Well…

He was smiling as he went on painting. He said:

This is a new side to Austin's character. Glasp and de Sade, eh? The two paintings he bought from me…

He had some Japanese prints signed OG as well.

They're Korean. I copied them from a set in the British Museum.

He painted silently for a moment, then stood back to look at the effect. He said, without looking at Sorme:

All the same, I don't see much in common in your tastes…

No. But… there's a similarity of aim. Except…

Except what?

I sometimes wonder if it's just a matter of enterprise. I don't share his tastes, but I admire the wish to experiment. It seems a good thing in itself…

You mean chasing little boys?

No, I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking of the sadism.

Glasp stopped painting to stare at him.

Is he? I didn't know that.

Didn't you? I thought you knew him very well.

No. Glasp went on painting. Not well at all, apparently. How did you find out?

He told me so. Father Carruthers knows about it too.

What sort of practices?

Glasp's Yorkshire accent suddenly became more noticeable. His attention seemed to be focused on the canvas. Sorme said:

I don't know. Nothing spectacular, I suppose. Probably wallops his boy friends.

In the other room, a kettle that stood on a gas ring began to send up a jet of steam; the water bubbled out on to the bare floorboards. Sorme went over to it and lifted it off the gas ring. Glasp said:

Cup o' tea?

Please.

Glasp laid the palette on the table, and replaced the brushes in the jam jar.

What I don't understand is this idea of yours that you're like Austin. From what you tell me, you don't seem to have anything in common.

No? I think there's a lot in common. We're both dissatisfied. We're both experimenters. Only he seems to have carried his experiments rather further than I've ever dreamed of.

Glasp was washing out an aluminium teapot at the sink in the other room. He said:

No? You mean you'd like to wallop your girl friends?

Sorme said, laughing: No. I'm sure I wouldn't. All the same…

And why did you want to meet me? Did you think I might be another?

Another what?

Bloke that goes in for experiments?

I thought you might be.

Glasp said, smiling: I suppose you're right. Where do we go from there?

Nowhere, probably, Sorme said. He took the mug of tea and spooned sugar into it.

He noticed that when Glasp smiled his forehead twitched and contracted; it seemed to be an involuntary nervous spasm. Glasp saw him noticing it. To distract his attention, Sorme said:

You have big hands. Like Austin.

Glasp sugared his tea and stirred it. His hands were large and ugly, with big knuckles; they looked faintly grimy, networked with lines of paint dust that had sunk into the pores. He said: Les mains de Troppmann.

Who?

Troppmann. Don't you know about him? Jean Baptiste Troppmann, the multiple killer.

No. Who did he kill?

A whole family. About eight people.

What on earth for?

Money. He made a few hundred francs out of it. He had enormous hands. They still call big hands 'mains de Troppmann' in some parts of France. I expect it ran in his family, and the surname came from it. Too much hand.

Was he a sadist?

I don't think so. Just homosexual, with an obsession about making money.

The tea was hot and strong. Glasp stood his on the window-sill, and went on painting. Sorme asked him:

Are you interested in murder?

Sometimes.

When?

Glasp said, with an odd smile: Crime runs in our family… in a sense.

Sorme said, grinning:

You come from a famous line of burglars?

Not quite. He grinned back at Sorme over the teamug; his forehead twitched again. As far as I know, our connection with it was always indirect. I had a great aunt who was the last victim of Jack the Ripper. My mother once had a meal with Landru in Paris. And my great-grandfather knew Charley Peace.

Did your mother know it was Landru?

No. She knew nothing about him. He said he was an engineer named Cuchet, and tried to get her to come away with him for the weekend. She recognised his photograph a few months later when he was arrested. She said he'd behaved like a perfect gentleman…

Amazing!

Some people are attracted by crime. Others seem to attract it. My family attract it.

You notice that, as soon as I settle in Whitechapel, a crime wave begins? That's in the family tradition.