Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

His eyes travelled to the bottom of the column: 'The people south of the river are asking themselves the question: Has the Whitechapel killer decided to move?'

A peculiarly unpleasant sensation touched him with disgust: it was a hot, sticky feeling in the area of his stomach.

At Kentish Town station he bought the other two evening papers and stuffed them in a roll into his pocket. Somehow, the feeling of disgust affected the satisfaction he felt whenever he thought of Gertrude Quincey. He found it difficult to understand the sense of foreboding the news report produced.

Back in his room, he sat on the bed and read all three accounts of the murder carefully. One of them carried a full-length article with a diagram of the site of the murder; the writer asked how a married woman had been lured so far off her normal route from Deptford to Woolwich, and seemed inclined to doubt whether the murderer was the Whitechapel killer.

It was still only four-thirty; Glasp was not expected for another two hours. When he closed his eyes, the image of Gertrude Quincey's face came to him, the mouth soft, the eyes slightly frightened. It was the way a woman might look before she grasped the intention behind the violence of the man who intended to kill her. He tried hard to dismiss her face, and watched it re-form every time he closed his eyes. His whole body lurched with pity and repugnance; he reached out for the bookcase, and took the first book his fingers met; it was Merton's Seven Story Mountain. He started to read, but found it hard to concentrate. Finally, he laid the book on the floor, and closed his eyes again.

There was nothing at first. The sleep was clear, without images. Then he began to see it: in the half darkness, in a warehouse, an animal like a crab; something flat with prehensile claws. He was aware of nothing else; only the crablike creature, moving silently into the half light; moving strangely, obliquely, but with intention, entirely itself, possessed by an urge that was its identity, entire unification of its being in one desire, one lust, a certainty. It was not a man; it was what was inside a man as he waited.

He heard someone knocking on the door downstairs as he peeled the potatoes. He called: Hello.

Glasp's voice said: Ah, I'm in the right place!

Good. Come on up. I'm just starting to cook supper.

Glasp stepped cautiously up the stairs, lowering his head as he came to the bend.

Sorme finished slicing the potatoes, and poured them into the seething nut oil in the chip pan. Glasp picked up an old newspaper from the table and scanned the front page with perfunctory interest; he sat with his feet thrust out, his shoulders against the wall. His face looked as pale and unshaven as on the previous day. Sorme noticed that his socks were of different colours. He said: I see that the Whitechapel murderer seems to have changed his field of activity…

What?

Haven't you seen the papers?

No.

A woman in Greenwich has been assaulted and killed. The police seem to think it's the same man…

Greenwich? Glasp said. I don't believe it. It can't be the same man.

Why not? What makes you think he's sticking to Spitalfields?

Glasp shrugged.

I don't know. But he's stuck pretty close so far, hasn't he?

Yes. But surely that's a good reason for moving? Whitechapel'll soon be too hot to hold him. What makes you think he'd want to stay there? Do you think he's looking for something in Whitechapel?

Glasp said:

Now, I don't know, do I? Your guess is as good as mine. I heard a bloke today who seemed to think it was the Fascists out to terrorise the Jews.

Where did you hear that?

Oh, some bloke up on a platform this morning. Communist.

But were any of the victims Jewish?

I dunno. I don't think so.

But you don't think this Greenwich murder is the same man?

Glasp said impatiently:

Oh now don't ask me! I don't know.

Sorme sensed that his impatience was not intended to be offensive, and he suppressed the twinge of irritation it produced. He had decided that the apparent rudeness in Glasp's manner was only the result of too much living alone. He said: I hope he's caught. I'd like to find out who he is.

Glasp looked up at him; he said ironically:

I dare say a lot of people feel like that.

Like what?

They want him caught to satisfy their curiosity. Not because he's killing women.

Sorme said seriously:

I dare say you're right. After all, how can anyone really identify himself with an East End prostitute? Most people probably feel that the murderer needs as much pity as his victims. At least he's doing something that most men are capable of…

Do you think most men are?

I think so. We're still animals with sudden and violent appetites. I can't count the number of times I've passed a woman in the street and wished I could get her in the dark.

Haven't you?

I suppose so. But that's a long way from rape. I'd like to see the man caught because he's a menace in the part where I live. Tomorrow it might be somebody I know.

Glasp's northern accent had become more noticeable. Something in his tone impressed Sorme with its seriousness. He said: I suppose you're right. That's another reason for hoping he's moved to Greenwich.

What difference does it make? Wherever he moves, lives get wasted. People have to die, just because a man's something worse than a man, a dirty animal, something that only thinks of his own pleasure, with no moral sense.

Glasp's tone was so irritable and belligerent that Sorme decided to drop the subject. He made a mental note to raise it again later, when his guest was in a better mood. He said:

Well, let's hope he's caught soon. Shall we go downstairs? These chips'll take another ten minutes.

He opened the bottle of red wine and poured into two tumblers.

Glasp smacked his lips, saying:

This is good stuff. Very nice. What is it?

He picked up the bottle and looked at the label. Sorme said:

I like wine — when I can afford it.

You can say that again. I haven't been able to afford anything but Spanish hogwash for five years.

I'll leave you for a while. Look through my books. Or there are records there if you like music.

He opened the door, and walked into Caroline, who had her hand raised to knock. He said:

Hello, sweet! I didn't expect you.

I haven't come to stay; don't worry.

She was already in the room. Sorme said:

You two don't know one another, do you? Oliver Glasp. Caroline Denbigh.

Caroline said:

Oh, you're the famous Oliver Glasp! I've met you somewhere before, haven't I?

Glasp was staring at her, wearing an odd, sulky expression. He said:

I don't know.

The accent became broad, as deliberate as that of a Yorkshire comedian. Looking at Caroline, Sorme found it impossible to imagine why Glasp should seem displeased.

She was wearing a fur coat, with a fur hood that almost covered her face. The face, under the fringe of blonde hair, was as pink and round as a doll's. He said: Have a glass of wine, sweet?

Ooh, rather!

She pulled back the hood to take her first sip of wine. She was wearing black gloves. Sorme said:

I've got to go and cook some chips. Come on up to the kitchen with me.

When they were alone in the kitchen, she said:

I don't think he likes me much.

Oh, I don't know. His manner's always a bit gruff. He's all right when you get to know him.

Isn't it hot up here?

Take your coat off.

No, pet. I won't stay. I'm just on my way to rehearsal and I thought I'd come and say hello. It doesn't start till eight. I wanted to make sure you hadn't got any other women.

Where have you come from?

Aunt Gertrude's. I'm sleeping there tonight.

Oh yes. How is she?