Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

The excitement rose in him like a fire. The rose, bloodblack in the silver light, now reddening in the dawn that blows over Paddington's rooftops. Ending. A rose thrown from an open window, curving high over London's waking rooftops, then falling, its petals loosening, into the grey soiled waters of the Thames.

He wanted to say it, with the full shock of amazement: So that's who you are! Certain now, as never before, the identification complete. It was still there as he woke up, the joy and surprise of the discovery, fading as he looked around the lightening room. He said aloud: Vaslav.

His room felt cold, and somehow unoccupied. He lit the gas under the kettle, and lay down on the bed, his eyes closed. It was a quarter past seven; it had taken him just over an hour to walk from Paddington. He felt weak and tired, but curiously at peace. He wondered whether Nunne would find the note he had left on the pillow; he had seen no one as he left the house.

In the room underneath a radio was playing. He heard a man's voice call: What have you done with the plug off my electric razor? The sky outside the window was heavy with rain clouds and dawn. It was the first time for many months that he had been awake so early, and the sensation brought a certain freshness with it, and the thought of charladies in the Mile End Road catching City buses and of men in overalls carrying lunch tins. The rain clouds hung low, like smoke.

He made tea and sat on the bed to drink it, covering his knees with the eiderdown.

The room was chilly, even with the gas fire burning. He read till he heard the eight o'clock pips from the radio below.

He met the German girl on his way back from the bathroom. She said:

There's a letter on the table for you.

Oh, thanks.

The neat handwriting on the envelope was strange to him, but he recognised the heading on the notepaper. The typed message read:

There is something I would like to talk to you about. Could you ring me when you receive this, please? Gertrude Quincey.

The first-floor tenant, carrying a briefcase, pushed past him, saying irritably:

Excuse me. Sorme moved automatically, staring at the two lines of type, frowning with the effort to guess what Miss Quincey could want. He pulled a handful of change out of his pocket, and found four pennies. As the number began to ring, he experienced a sudden misgiving about the earliness of the hour.

A woman's voice said: Hello?

Gertrude?

Who is it?

Gerard Sorme.

Hello, Gerard! This is Caroline.

Hello, sweet. What are you doing there?

Having breakfast right at this moment.

Where's your aunt?

In the garden. Hold on a moment and I'll get her…

Wait. Don't go yet. When am I going to see you?

That's up to you.

Could you make it tomorrow night?

I… Here comes Aunt Gertrude.

He heard her say:

It's Gerard, Aunt.

Miss Quincey's voice said:

Hello, Gerard.

I've just got your letter.

Yes. I'm glad you rang. When will you be free to come over?

Her voice was as detached as a receptionist's making an appointment.

When you like… more or less.

Could you come today for lunch?

I expect so. Is it anything very important?

I'll explain when I see you.

All right. See you then. By the way…

Yes?

Will there be anyone else there?

No.

Ah… well, see you later. Bye-bye.

He hung up, feeling slightly foolish. He had half suspected it might be to meet some Jehovah's Witness colleague.

The girl came past him, carrying an armful of sheets. She said: You're up early today.

I'm reforming. The clean, healthy life.

He locked the door of his room behind him, and lay on the bed. He felt suddenly very tired. The idea of lunch with Miss Quincey did not appeal to him, nor the thought that Oliver Glasp was coming for supper. He would have to buy food and wine, to go to the bank, to sweep and tidy his room.

Still thinking about it, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, it was half past twelve. For a moment he could not think what time it was, or what he was doing there. His head was still thick with sleep. When he remembered the lunch appointment he felt no inclination to get up. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. The gas fire still burned; the room was airless. Sitting there, he noticed something white sticking under the door. He crossed the room, walking heavily, like a drunken man, and picked it up. On the back of a torn Woodbine packet someone had written: Miss Denbigh phoned. She will come tomorrow evening.

In the bathroom he plunged his face into a bowl of cold water and blew vigorously, to clear his head. He stripped to the waist and washed, then changed his shirt and trousers and hurried out of the house. It was five minutes to one. He felt light-headed, as if he had just risen from a six weeks' spell in a hospital bed. He resented the daylight and the noise of traffic. Something inside him wanted to shrink into a tight ball. At the bank he withdrew five pounds, but only after the cashier had pointed out that he had forgotten to sign the cheque.

He rang her doorbell with a sharp jab of his thumb, feeling unreasonably irritated with her for laying claim to his time. As soon as he saw her the tension disappeared. She smiled happily at him:

Hello, Gerard. I've just rung your lodgings to see if you'd forgotten to come.

I'm awfully sorry. I fell asleep and didn't wake up till half an hour ago.

That's all right. Take your coat off. Are you on your bicycle? Sit down. A glass of sherry?

No, thanks. I think I'd better lay off it for today.

Why?

I feel fragile. I was up late last night.

With Austin?

Yes.

He wondered about the meaning of the look she gave him. She said:

Well, sit down, anyhow. I'll bring you some soup in a moment.

The radio was relaying a concert. He closed his eyes, listening to the Mozart concerto, and wished he was at home and in bed. He remembered Caroline, but the thought of having her in his room gave him no pleasure. It only brought the reflection that he would have to change the sheets on his bed, which would mean cycling to the laundry. His thoughts switched to Nunne, and his dream of the night before; it seemed meaningless. He felt irritated with them all, with Miss Quincey, Austin, Caroline, Glasp.

He thought, with closed eyes: What have I to do with the bloody fools? The resentment brought a longing for solitude, and a vague wish for some intenser form of existence.

Soup?

Thanks. Aren't you eating?

In a moment. I've had my soup. Do you want a tray?

No, thanks. I'll go to the table.

The first mouthful of tomato soup brought a keen pleasure that made him want to laugh. His stomach relaxed with gratitude, and an inner peace passed over him like a wind, giving a sense of some secret glimpsed and recognised. Miss Quincey asked:

Do you mind coming to eat in the kitchen? When you've finished your soup, of course.

Thanks.

The kitchen was warm; the windows were obscured by a mist of condensed steam. The concert was still audible through an extension loudspeaker above the table.

I hope you like kidneys? It's kidney pie.

He swallowed the first mouthful, and found it good. He said:

When are you going to tell me why you wanted me to come?

Afterwards.

He looked at her, hearing the hurried note of a repressed anxiety in her voice. He said:

All right.

She ate without raising her eyes. The brown woollen dress she was wearing moulded itself to her figure, and had the effect of making him aware that her face seemed older than her body. She looked up suddenly and caught him staring at her. She said critically: