Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

You don't look at all well.

I feel all right.

It was true; there was only still the fatigue, a desire to close his eyes and retreat from the necessity of focusing his attention.

Where were you last night?

At some club…

What club?

Just a night club.

You shouldn't let Austin drag you to clubs.

No.

He suffers from a permanent state of boredom. You ought to know that.

I expect you're right.

A voice from the loudspeaker announced that the last item on the programme would be the Prokofiev fifth symphony. Sorme said: Good. My favourite symphony. Will it go up louder?

He wanted an excuse for finishing the meal without further talk. Miss Quincey obediently reached out and turned up the volume, then ate without speaking. He experienced a sudden flash of affection for her, looking at her averted face, feeling an intuition that she would be easy to hurt.

When he finished eating, she asked: Fruit?

No, thanks. I'm full. I enjoyed it.

Good.

He tried to frame some compliment about her cooking, but gave up the effort.

Watching her fill the kettle, he reflected gloomily that her cooking had given her a right to lecture him. It would also be impossible, after such a meal, to refuse to attend at least one of her Bible classes. He had come to the conclusion that this was what she wanted to talk to him about.

Would you like to listen to the music in the other room? I'll bring in coffee in a moment.

When she came in twenty minutes later he was asleep in front of the electric fire.

On the radio someone was giving a talk on gardening. He woke up as she switched it off.

The noise of rain on the windows became audible; the wind was blowing it in flurries. He said ruefully:

I'm afraid I'm a rotten guest. I can hardly keep awake.

He sugared the coffee from the bowl she held out.

What happened last night?

Oh, I drank too much… and got sick.

Is that all?

He glanced at her in surprise.

Yes. What else did you think?

I don't know.

He could not see her face clearly as she sat down; the half light of the December afternoon filled the room with shadows. He watched her, waiting for her to speak, and finding it difficult to keep his eyelids from dropping. The silence lengthened. She asked finally:

Do you mind if I ask some rather frank questions?

No. Go ahead.

He could feel rather than see her hesitation. A suspicion took shape, and sparked across his mind.

How well do you know Austin?

He said honestly: I don't know. Why?

She began to stir her coffee quickly and nervously, now staring into his face. He said:

What is it you think I ought to know about Austin?

When she spoke, her voice was slightly breathless. It made him feel as if she was looking down from a height that frightened her.

Do you… know why Austin has never married?

He sat up in the chair, the suspicion expanding into a startled incredulity. He answered quickly:

I expect he doesn't like girls.

He watched her, now completely awake, sensing what was about to come, and feeling no desire to help her. He wanted to see how she would manage it. She asked, after a silence:

Do you understand me?

I'm not sure. What are you asking me?

I… it's very difficult for me…

Well, how about coming right out with it? Who's been talking to you about Austin?

You mustn't mention this to him.

No.

Well… Brother Robbins.

What on earth does he know?

She seemed glad to be back on solid ground again.

He has to do a lot of social work — door to door. And when he met Austin for the first time — two weeks ago — he thought he'd seen him somewhere. He didn't tell me at the time, but he made enquiries…

Yes.

… and found that Austin is quite well known in certain circles that are… known to the police.

Criminals?

Oh no!

Irritated into impatience, Sorme said bluntly:

You mean homosexuals?

She said weakly:

Yes.

Your Brother Robbins sounds like a silly gossip, Sorme said curtly.

Oh no. He thought I ought…

Her voice tailed off; the effort to get it all out had made it tremble noticeably. She asked finally:

It is true, then?

Yes.

And you've known all the time?

Most of it. But what does it matter?

She was looking at him steadily now, and he could sense the confusion of feelings that was trying to find expression. He said:

Let me answer the question that's in your mind. I'm not homosexual myself.

She said, blushing:

I knew that.

Did you? How?

I… you…

It made him wonder suddenly if she had noticed his speculative looks at her figure. But she went on, with a kind of hopelessness in her voice: Perhaps I didn't know. I just assumed.

His hostility dissolved in the face of her bewilderment. He would have liked to put his arms around her. He said:

Look here, there's no sense in getting excited about it. I've known about it since I first met Austin, but it didn't worry me. After all, it's his own business. I like him because… well, we're both writers, we've got a lot in common. And… he's a nice person.

But… don't you think it matters?

Do you mean, do I think it's wicked? No, not especially. I'm glad I'm not homosexual myself, but after all it's a matter of taste. I know that some people seem to be homosexual out of sheer worthlessness. But others seem to be born like it…

He was remembering, as he talked, the impatience that he'd felt last time he had been here, his irritation in the face of her self-assurance. Now the self-assurance had collapsed, and he felt no better about it. The reversal was too complete.

Are people really born like it?

Of course! Didn't you know?

No, I… I never met anyone like it before. Do you think Austin was always like that?

I should think it likely. I don't know him well enough. What sort of a child was he? Was he a mother's pet?

Oh yes, very much. But why?

Oh, it could have something to do with it.

He began to talk, as detachedly as possible, about statistics of homosexuality, factors of childhood influence, of sex hormones, trying to see her face in the half light.

She listened without interrupting. When he paused, waiting for her to speak, she asked abruptly:

Could he be cured?

I don't know. It's rather late. Probably he doesn't want to be cured. Besides, that's not necessarily Austin's real problem. He accepts it, yet something still worries him.

What do you think?

I don't know. Many homosexuals lead quite ordinary lives. They sometimes settle down with a boy friend, and live like any married couple.

Don't people notice?

Sometimes. But there's nothing very strange about two men sharing a flat.

But you think Austin feels guilty about it?

No. There's just something about him that makes him nervous and restless. I don't know what it is. Something torments him. Whatever it is, it drives him into this lone-wolf attitude. I don't think he could ever live with anyone.

She said with astonishment:

I should hope not! What would his poor parents think?

He said, smiling:

That's another question I can't answer. I can only tell you what any doctor or psychiatrist would tell you — that it's not necessarily a matter of moral turpitude.

She said hesitantly:

The Bible forbids it…

No doubt it does. The Bible forbids fornication and a lot of other things that go on all the time. That doesn't make them right!

No, you're right; it doesn't. But men and women can get married and legalise it.

Homosexuals can't. So what can be done?

She sat, staring into the red bars of the fire. The only sound in the room was the drumming of rain. Sorme stared out into the garden; from where he was sitting he could see his bicycle, covered with the yellow cycling cape. Under the dead sky the lawn, sprinkled with rotting leaves, looked as forbidding as a no-man's-land. The darkness and rain aroused in him a sensation of comfort. Looking at Miss Quincey, he considered the possibility of kissing her, just to see how she would react. She gave him the impression that she was confronting a problem that she was incapable of grasping, and that now nothing would surprise her. She asked: