Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

I have to go.

Oh no. It's not the money that worries you, is it? I've got lots on me. Look.

Nunne produced his wallet and waved it vaguely under Sorme's nose. Sorme caught a glimpse of a wad of notes. He realised that Nunne was becoming drunk: he also suspected that he was behaving as if he were more drunk than he actually was.

No, really. I'd rather not.

But you must. I don't want you to go yet. You don't want to go yet, do you?

No, but…

Well, we can't drink any more on empty stomachs. I'm getting disgustingly drunk already. Had no lunch. So we'd better go and eat. C'mon, boy.

As the uniformed man helped Sorme into his raincoat, Nunne said:

Let me into a secret, Gerard. Why on earth do you carry a woman's umbrella?

Sorme took the umbrella from the man, and handed him a shilling.

It's not mine. It's my landlady's daughter's. She insisted on lending it to me when I came out today.

They came out into the rain again. Sorme felt fortified against it and happy. It was the first time for several years that he had been drunk, and the sensation delighted him.

Nunne grasped his elbow and squeezed it, asking:

Has this girl got a thing about you?

I suspect so. At least, her mother does. And she suspects me of taking base advantage of it — or of being about to. She gave me notice last week.

Really? What do you intend to do?

Nunne backed the car slightly, then pulled out expertly.

I'm moving to another place tomorrow morning.

Whereabouts?

Kentish Town. I'm living in Colindale at the moment.

My God, that's up Bedford way, isn't it?

Not quite that far. It's near the newspaper library, which is rather useful. But the new place'll be more convenient for the British Museum.

And is the daughter moving with you too?

No fear. She's a sweet girl, but I don't want to go to bed with her.

How virtuous of you. Get out of the way, you stupid bastard.

This was addressed to a taxi-driver who was turning his taxi in the middle of Brewer Street. Nunne honked his horn twice. It had a braying, brassy tone. As the taxi came past them, the driver shouted:

Tike yer bloody time, can't yer?

Swine, Nunne said serenely. If we lived in the Middle Ages I'd have him hanged, drawn and quartered for that.

The car shot forward, narrowly missing a pedestrian who came out from between two parked cars.

Fool! Nunne screamed.

You should drive a juggernaut chariot. It'd be more in your style.

Nunne said indignantly: All drivers should be more dangerous. That would reduce the number of careless pedestrians. Eventually, there'd only be careful ones left.

What about when you're a pedestrian?

I'd carry a gun. All pedestrians should carry tommy guns to shoot at dangerous drivers. That'd make London far more interesting.

The car cruised down Dean Street. Nunne said:

Not a single bloody parking place in Soho… Ah! We are in luck tonight.

An Anglia pulled out of a row of parked cars. Nunne slid past the empty space and backed into it. He turned the engine off.

You're so good-tempered, Gerard. You obviously don't hate people as much as I do.

Sorme said, smiling:

You obviously don't know me as well as I do.

Nunne commanded good service. The manager came to their table and made a polite speech about being delighted to see him. Their waiter was obsequious; he exuded a desire to please.

You seem well known here.

Sorme was not interested; he said it only to make conversation.

I've changed my restaurant a dozen times in two years. I haven't been here for over a fortnight, so they probably assumed they wouldn't ever see me again.

Why do you change?

Nunne masticated and swallowed slowly the last mouthful of smoked salmon. He said, sighing:

Sheer pettiness, Gerard. I get offended about little things. I know damn' well I'm being silly, but I get offended all the same.

Sorme regarded him with mistrust, mixed with a certain disappointment, feeling as if Nunne had confessed to a tendency to shoot at old ladies with a revolver. Nunne seemed not to notice. When the waiter filled his glass, he drained the Chianti without lowering it.

Nunne had ordered roast duck, cooked with paprika and cheese. When it arrived he stopped talking and gave full attention to the food, speaking only to reply to acquaintances who came past the table. When this happened Sorme did not look up; he was aware of being regarded with curiosity. He could almost feel the conjectures being made, and he ate quickly and mechanically to conceal the irritation.

He had difficulty in dissuading Nunne from ordering a second bottle of wine. His motives were purely selfish; he knew that if he drank another half bottle, he would be sick before the end of the evening.

The rain had stopped when they left. Sorme walked contentedly beside Nunne, now feeling happier in the anonymity of the Soho crowd. His feelings about Nunne were mixed. He calculated that the meal he had just eaten was the most expensive he had eaten in his life. The sight of the six pound notes Nunne had dropped on to the waiter's plate had shocked him; it represented a week's food and rent. The most he had ever paid for a meal had been ten shillings. He felt a certain gratitude for Nunne's generosity, now that he had ceased to suspect his motives. But a faint dislike rose in him periodically. There was something distinctly repellent about Nunne. It had to do with the combination of coarseness and femininity in him. The brown hair was long and silky, almost beautiful, a woman's hair. The teeth were irregular and yellowish; two at the front were pointed, canine. When he looked closely at the face, no scars were visible; it was hard to determine what produced the pock-marked effect. When he had asked Nunne, as they drank coffee and vodka, Nunne had said briefly: Car accident, and drawn his finger along a faint, hardly perceptible line that ran across the left cheek, parallel with the jaw.

What would you like to do now, Gerard?

Do you think I might buy you a drink now?

I see no reason why not, dear boy. Let's go into the French, shall we, that is, if we can sit down.

The pub was crowded. Nunne was immediately hailed by a short, leathery-faced drunk.

Carl Castering, Nunne said. This is Gerard Sorme.

The man seized Sorme's hand, and looked into his face with the liquid eyes of a drunk.

You're very good-looking, Gerard. Don't you think he looks like Rimbaud,

Austin? Don't you, though?

Sorme allowed his hand to be caressed between two damp palms, then withdrew it. He asked Nunne:

What will you drink?

Straight scotch for me.

Sorme asked the drunk: Will you have a drink?

The leathery face turned to him coquettishly.

Why, that's awfully sweet of you. Yes, I will. Scotch and water.

Sorme finally attracted the barmaid's attention. He passed two whiskies back to Nunne and his friend. They stood, wedged together in the crush, holding their glasses tightly.

Nunne said: Carl is one of the best photographers in London, Gerard.

Castering leered at Sorme, then suddenly regarded him seriously:

I would like you to sit for me, Gerard. Would you do that?

Only if I'm present, Nunne said lightly.

Why? Don't you trust me with him?

I was joking, Nunne said.

He said to Sorme: Drink up and let's find somewhere less crowded.

Sorme obediently threw back the whisky. It no longer made his eyes water.

Outside, Sorme asked him: Is he a friend of yours — Carl?

Swine, Nunne said shortly. Masochist. But a damn good photographer.

They walked slowly along Old Compton Street, keeping close to avoid being separated by the crowd. Outside the Cinerama theatre Nunne was saluted by the uniformed man who controlled the queue.