Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

I don't know what he's talking about. I know one or two people in Hampstead — a retired colonel, a publisher's reader.

He suspected that she was trying to keep the conversation deliberately casual. The kettle was already boiling; she started to make tea. He asked:

And do you object to being flirted with?

Don't be silly.

That's no answer.

She snapped suddenly:

No, I don't mind. But it's rather pointless, isn't it?

I don't know.

He was sitting on the edge of the table. As she turned he tried to take hold of her again. She twisted away and pushed his arms down.

Do stop it, Gerard! I really don't know what's making you behave like this.

He said, laughing:

Half an hour ago you thought I might be homosexual!

I didn't! That's untrue! I never thought so for a single moment.

Good. So long as I'm sure.

She poured milk from the bottle into the jug with an indignant jerk of her wrist. The milk shot over the rim of the jug and splashed on the tray. She said: Oh really, Gerard!

He was on the point of saying 'It's your own fault!' when she turned on him suddenly. To his surprise, he saw she was on the point of tears. She said: Do please stop it!

All right… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.

He had started to suspect that she was secretly enjoying his attempts to flirt with her; her distress bewildered him. He turned and went into the other room, and dropped on to the settee. Her attitude was not entirely a disadvantage. At least it helped in some ways to destroy the formality that had made him so irritable last time he came. He picked up the newspaper and tried to concentrate. The article he began to read stated that people use three times as many facial muscles in frowning as in smiling, and that therefore one saves energy by smiling. He folded the paper and hurled it at the armchair opposite and scowled into the bars of the fire, wondering what to say to her when she came in. She was a long time bringing the tea. He began to wonder if she wanted him to go without seeing her. A moment later she came in, pushing the trolley.

I'm sorry I've been so long.

He said automatically: You haven't.

He watched her pouring the tea without speaking. When she handed him his cup, he said:

I really don't understand you.

She sugared her own tea without looking at him.

I don't understand you!

You really find it repellent to be touched?

Of course I don't! It's just that… it's silly to start behaving like that.

Like what? he said, determined to be uncooperative.

I'd rather talk… as we did the other night… about sensible things.

He said reasonably: I like talking with you too.

Then let's go on like that!

But I also like touching you. It gives me pleasure.

He could feel her uncertainty, and he pressed the advantage. He leaned forward, smiling at her, and said:

Even the other night, when we were talking, I kept thinking how pleasant it'd be to put my arms round your waist.

She dropped her eyes to the cup.

But why?

Because I find you very attractive.

She looked into his face seriously; her impatience had vanished. She said:

But it's silly, Gerard!

Why?

Because… What could come of it?

He shrugged: I don't know.

Nothing. Nothing at all. I'd like to be your friend — but you're a great deal younger than I am…

He decided abruptly to force the issue.

You'd like me to stop coming here?

No, of course I wouldn't! I like to talk to you. I think… I think that you're a serious person and you're searching for something.. and I'd like to help you find it.

Because I'm older than you and… I've been through it myself.. and I could help you… But we ought to be serious about it.

He said, shrugging:

In that case, there's not much more to say.

Why?

He finished drinking his tea. He felt that the conversation had reached its natural conclusion, and that there was no point in going on. He said bluntly and dogmatically: I've been alone for five years now. I can go on being alone for another five, or for another fifty if it comes to that. I don't need helping and never have. I like seeing you, but if you're going to start drawing lines and setting limits, I'd rather chuck it all.

He set his cup back on the tray. She asked: More?

He looked at his watch, saying:

No, thanks. I'd better go.

She said quietly: Let's not quarrel.

All right.

It made no difference to his feeling of having reached an end. She said: Have another cup of tea.

All right.

She poured it, and handed it to him. He drank it in silence. She began to speak, hesitantly:

I know you've been alone. I don't want to… try to interfere. You've got so used to the feeling of having to fight the battle alone that you've become suspicious of other people. You've become hardened to them. But I know you're not really hard… I know you've a lot of sensitivity… Perhaps you're really afraid of being hurt… Her tendency to use phrases like 'searching for something' and 'fight the battle' made him wince inwardly, and increased his impatience. He began to wonder if she saw his attempts to flirt with her as some kind of complicated defence against her. He interrupted her: My desire to steer clear of your Jehovah's Witnesses isn't a fear of being hurt. It's a fear of being bored.

For a moment, he wondered if he'd gone too far. But her face showed no sign of offence. She said reasonably:

I haven't tried to make you meet them, have I?

No. That's true.

He stood up. I'm afraid I'll have to go.

Her face was troubled as she looked at him; he could tell that she was trying to gauge how far he was impatient with her. She said hesitantly:

You do understand, don't you?

Yes, I understand.

You won't speak to Austin…?

No.

She followed him out into the hall. He buttoned his raincoat and belted it, then extracted the beret from the pocket. The silence hung between them, the silence in which there would normally have been thanks and disclaimers, vague arrangements to meet again. The situation seemed so full of latent comedy, of which she was completely unaware, that he found it difficult not to smile. As he opened the door, she said: Goodbye, Gerard.

Bye-bye,

He turned to her, took her by the waist, and pulled her to him. He felt her stiffen for a moment, then give way. She moved her face slightly so that his lips touched her cheek. He held them there for a moment, feeling the warmth of triumph stir, then released her. He turned away from her and went out of the door without looking back. He walked cautiously across the wet lawn in case he slipped and spoiled the exit.

As the bicycle free-wheeled down East Heath Road, he experienced a pure elation. He said aloud: You bloody fool. It's time you grew up!

The church clock chimed four as he passed the Chalk Farm Underground. The sight of the grocer's shops reminded him that he still had to buy food for Glasp. He bought a half pound of gammon and four tins of vegetables, and packed them in his saddlebag. As he was about to ride off again he noticed the headline of the evening paper inside the station. He dropped

twopence halfpenny into the tin and took one. The bold type read: HAS KILLER MOVED TO GREENWICH?

Aware of the unease that moved his bowels, he leaned against the wall, reading it.

'The body of a young woman was found in a disused warehouse near Greenwich Reach this morning. Early this afternoon she was identified by her husband as Doris Elizabeth Marr, twenty-five-year-old housewife of Albury Street, Deptford. The husband, Reginald Marr, 26, who works nights in a Deptford laundry, told police that his wife had set out at ten last night to visit her mother in Woolwich…'