Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Do you think she's ever had any experience with men?

Probably very little. Why? Do you find her attractive?

Sorme admitted: She's the type that attracts me. Slim. Good figure.

Well, don't, please don't take her to bed. It wouldn't be good for her.

Why?

Because she takes everything too seriously. If she wants a man at this late date, she ought to marry.

Sorme said gloomily:

I dare say you're right.

He was sorry he had mentioned the subject; he was not sure yet whether he seriously wanted an affair with Gertrude Quincey, and to speak of it seemed premature.

As if he guessed Sorme's thought, Nunne said:

Don't worry! I don't really suspect your intentions towards Gertrude. Anyway, she's a little old for you. And that's not the real reason you like seeing her, is it?

Sorme looked at him with interest:

No, it's not. What do you think my reason is?

Something to do with her beliefs. You can't make out whether she's dishonest.

That's pretty good guessing! But it's not just Gertrude… it's me. I want to know where I differ from her. You know… I'd need to have a nervous breakdown, or be brainwashed or something, before I could swallow all that stuff about the Bible being the last word on everything… I just don't understand it. I mean… was she brought up to believe it? Is that it? She seems quite intelligent in other ways. You know what I mean? If she put on a powdered wig and claimed to be Madame de Pompadour it'd puzzle me less… I could understand someone with an obsession having strange ideas. But she seems perfectly balanced. She's not an Oliver Glasp…

Oliver? Do you know Oliver?

Sorme stopped, feeling, for a moment, that he had given something away: he recovered immediately, saying:

Yes. I went to call on him today.

Nunne was obviously astonished.

What on earth for?

What you told me of him made me curious to meet him. And I liked his canvases. Father Rakosi gave me his address.

Nunne regarded him with amusement:

You really are odd! Why didn't you mention it to me?

I intended to. It wasn't supposed to be a secret.

And what did you say to each other?

Not much. I thought he was going to be rude to begin with. He growled like a dog…

That sounds like Oliver!

Then we talked about… oh, religion, asceticism. And finally about murder…

That also sounds like Oliver!

Why? Is it one of his favourite subjects?

Oh yes. Quite his favourite.

Why, I wonder?

I don't know. He has a thing about pain and suffering. He lets it drive him a little haywire occasionally. Broods on it too much. When I first knew him, he had some theory… let me think… oh yes… an idea that life is a preparation for eternal torment.

He had it all worked out. The body acts as a sort of buffer against pain, but in spite of that we suffer all the time. And when we're freed from the body, there'd be nothing to keep off the pain.. just eternal pain. From which he deduced that everyone ought to make himself suffer all the time… as a sort of practice for eternity. I think he used to wear a shirt studded with tintacks.

Really? I never suspected that.

But he's not entirely a crank, Oliver. I really believe he has a sort of second sight.

Are you serious?

Quite. His family are Irish, you know.

I thought he came from Yorkshire?

Lancashire. Liverpool Irish. I don't think he's ever been in Ireland. But someone once told me — Father Carruthers, I think — that Oliver's grandmother was a famous witch-cum-holy woman in County Clare… mediumship, second sight, the lot. And Oliver shows signs of the same thing occasionally.

How?

Promise you won't repeat this to him?

I promise.

Well, he hadn't been sleeping properly — and had awful nightmares. One morning he told his landlady: A man called Thomas is going to be murdered on the Common tonight. She thought he was off his rocker. Well, that night, a man called Thomas was waylaid on the common — for his wallet — but they hit him too hard and killed him.

Oliver had dreamed it exactly as it happened.

Sorme felt the hair prickling on his scalp. He said: Christ!

And Oliver couldn't sleep the next night either — he still had dreams. Luckily, his landlady sent him to see a doctor, who sent him to a psychiatrist. Father Carruthers found the money, and he went into a private mental home for a while. That cured him. But the fact remains, he dreamed of the murder before it happened.

Are you sure he dreamed it before it happened? I mean, is there any proof of that?

Did he try to contact the police or anything?

Not as far as I know. What could he have done? Clapham Common's pretty enormous — and there are thousands of men called Thomas in London.

Who told you all this? Oliver himself?

No. Father Carruthers.

Nunne divided the last of the champagne between their glasses. He said: Now, how about fruit? Would you like a peach? Or some ice cream?

Neither, thanks. That was delicious.

You haven't finished your whisky.

I haven't started it!

Nunne glanced at the clock.

Half past ten. It's still a little early for the Balalaika. We shouldn't get there till about half past eleven. Would you mind if I make a few phone calls now?

Certainly. Am I in the way?

No. I'll use the bedroom extension. Look, help yourself to more whisky if you need it. I shan't be long…

He disappeared into the bedroom. Sorme yawned and stretched. He was already feeling a little drunk. He waited until he heard the phone bell tinkle as Nunne lifted it from its rest, then poured most of his whisky back into the decanter. He had been waiting ever since Nunne poured it for an opportunity. He sat down again, holding the glass, which now contained only a quarter of an inch of spirit. Feeling curiously dreamy, almost bodiless, he started to look through the Nijinsky manuscript.

He opened his eyes when the car crossed the Edgware Road, then closed them.

Nunne said:

You remember Socrates in the Symposium? When all the practised drinkers were under the table, he stayed awake, discoursing on tragedy. Nietzsche loathed him, yet there was something of the superman in him. Are you asleep?

No.

Don't fall asleep. We've arrived.

Nunne had become livelier over the past hour. In spite of his resolve not to drink, Sorme had accepted another whisky, and had listened while Nunne talked of his father and became steadily drunker. The effects of his crowded day were beginning to make themselves felt. The night air helped to revive him.

The car turned off into a narrow street, and halted between the gates of a factory and a row of dingy houses. Sorme reached for the door handle. Nunne said:

Hold on. I'm going to back on to that waste ground.

Fragments of broken glass reflected the reversing light. The car bumped on to the pavement. From behind the wall came slow coughs of a shunted train; red coals reflected on the smoke. Sorme slammed the door, and staggered. Nunne gripped his elbow:

Steady, child! Avanti!

He raised his cane to shoulder level, pointing.

How far is it?

A ten-minute walk. It'll waken you up. C'mon, boy.

Sorme said, grinning:

You make me sound like an Alsatian dog.

Unintentional. Have you ever been to a brothel before?

Is that what this place is?

More or less. Don't worry. They're quite civilised.

Is that a man over there?

It would seem so.

The man lay across the pavement, his head in the gutter. He lay quite still. When they crossed the road towards him, he stirred.

Nunne said: Are you all right?

He prodded the buttocks with his cane. The man said thickly:

Amori. Goawayfergrizake.

It's after closing time, you know. Time you went home.