Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

You seem to know everyone.

He worked as a chucker-out at a place I knew once.

They stopped to look at the coloured pictures, displayed behind glass, that showed scenes from the film. Sorme, glancing up at Nunne, suddenly caught a look of revulsion and absorption. Nunne was staring at a photograph of a switchback car swooping over a hump. A pretty, plump girl stared at the camera, holding her dress over her knees, but the sides of the dress, caught by the wind, revealed the tops of her stockings and suspenders.

Nunne turned away abruptly, saying:

Let's go, Gerard.

Sorme said, laughing: I didn't think you liked women.

Nunne said: What do you mean?

Nothing; you were staring at that girl as if she fascinated you. The look passed over Nunne's face again, then disappeared. He said, smiling:

She does. Come on.

They walked back to the car.

Where now, Gerard?

Sorme said, dubiously: I'd like a little quiet.

So would I. What about my flat?

Where is it?

Near Portland Street station.

I'd rather stick to somewhere closer to my way home. I ought to think of getting back.

Where do you live?

Hendon. Until tomorrow.

Of course. All right, we'll head that way. I know rather a good little pub in Hampstead we might go to. Quiet.

Hampstead? Is that on the way?

Certainly. We can cut over to the Hendon Way. Straight route.

They moved slowly along Old Compton Street. Nunne blew the horn; it emitted a gentle, warning note. Nunne said, grinning: Excellent invention this. I can adjust the tone and volume of the horn. Loud and blatant for the open road; gentle and, as it were, coaxing for London crowds. Come on, shift, you stupid bastards, or I'll turn the cow-catcher on. This is the only part of London that reminds me of Hamburg's Reeperbahn.

Do you know Hamburg, Gerard?

Sorme said abstractedly: No. He had been staring at his watch for half a minute without registering the time. It was ten past nine.

As they passed Chalk Farm station, Nunne said suddenly:

I know. Let's go to my aunt's place. She'll give us a drink.

Who's your aunt?

You'd like her. Her name's Gertrude, and she's not really my aunt, but she's terribly sweet. She lives all on her own in a house in the Vale of Health, and never sees anyone. She likes me to drop in. Unless she's holding a meeting.

What kind of a meeting?

Jehovah's Witness. It's her only vice. But she's really rather sweet.

Sorme said with dismay: You're not serious, are you?

Why not?

About her being a Jehovah's Witness?

Oh yes, quite serious about that.

But — I mean — they're quite up the wall, aren't they?

Couldn't say, dear boy. I don't know a thing about them. She's never tried to convert me. Anyway, we don't have to stay if you can't bear her. But she'll give us a drink, anyway.

Sorme relaxed into the seat. He had a feeling that he would not get home early after all, and he was too drunk to care deeply. The prospect of changing his lodgings, which had worried him for a week past, now seemed unimportant. He closed his eyes and tried to calculate how much he had drunk. The car braked suddenly, throwing him forward.

Nunne said: Sorry, old boy. I get used to driving my other car, and it brakes gentler than this. Smashed it up last week.

The road was completely deserted. On one side of it the Heath rose steeply; Sorme stepped out and slammed the door. The cool air wakened him; the car-heater had come close to sending him to sleep. Nunne was groping in the leather pocket behind the door; an electric torch clicked in his hand. Sorme followed him through the gateway, into complete blackness. About fifty yards away a light was burning in a doorway, trees shed rain from their leaves as the wind rocked them; Sorme turned his face up to catch the wet drops. He said dreamily:

Does your aunt enjoy living in the middle of nowhere?

She hates it, actually. She's always threatening to move nearer town, but the Heath's so lovely in the summer.

The light that burned in the porch was a square lantern, with a pointed electric bulb inside it. Nunne rang the doorbell. A moment later, a light appeared behind the glass panes that covered the upper half of the door. A woman's voice called: Who is it?

Austin.

Austin!

The door was opened by a small, slim woman.

This is Gerard Sormes, Gertrude. Gerard's a writer.

Do come in. I was just thinking about going to bed.

Don't worry. We shan't stay all night.

I didn't mean that. Stay as long as you like.

She led them into a long, comfortably furnished sitting-room.

Are you hungry? Have you had supper?

Yes, thanks. An hour ago.

Would you like a drink?

Rather!

You know where it is. Help yourself. I'm having some cocoa.

She switched on the electric fire, and went out. Nunne opened the sideboard, and took out a bottle of whisky. Sorme glimpsed an array of bottles in the cupboard; he asked:

Does your aunt entertain a lot?

Not much. She mixes with two lots. A sort of Hampstead literary crowd — most awful lot of goddam squares you ever saw — and her soul-savers. They're about as bad.

She takes care never to invite them here on the same evenings.

Why?

When her soul-savers come, she hangs up a banner: Beware the Demon Drink — over the booze cupboard. When the literary crowd descends, she has to hire a navvy to cart them home in a wheelbarrow.

The woman came in again, carrying a cup on a tray. She asked:

How is your mother, Austin?

In excellent condition, thanks. She's coming to London next week.

Will she be staying with you?

She'll be at my place. I shan't be there, though. Going to join some friends at St Moritz.

She sat down opposite them. There was something about her that Sorme found very attractive. He would have guessed her age to be about forty. In some way, she managed to give the impression of being well-dressed without seeming to care about her appearance. The tweed skirt was well-cut, but it had started to come unzipped at the waist. The mouth and chin were firm, slightly schoolmistressy. But there was something curiously anonymous about her: she was the kind of person he would not have noticed if she had sat opposite him on the tube.

I didn't catch your name.

Sorme. Gerard Sorme.

Nunne said: I thought it was Sormes.

No.

What do you write, Mr Sorme?

Sorme said embarrassedly: Austin shouldn't have introduced me as a writer. I've only ever published a few poems in magazines.

Are you a Catholic?

He said with surprise: No, why?

I wondered…

Nunne said: He's an atheistic freethinker, with inclinations to Catholicism. Aren't you, Gerard?

Austin, behave yourself!

She smiled at Sorme, as if excluding Nunne from the conversation.

You're not a freethinker, are you?

No… I don't suppose so.

What are you then? Nunne asked.

Gertrude said reproachfully: Austin, do behave yourself. Have you been drinking?

Certainly not. Not much anyway. Another, Gerard?

Sorme said hastily: No thanks. I haven't finished this.

Nunne had given him a tumbler half full of neat whisky, and he was wondering whether he could find some opportunity to pour it back into the bottle.

I really don't think you ought to, Austin. It can't be good for your tummy.

Nunne stood up, a little unsteadily:

No doubt you're right, Gertrude. 'Scuse me, dears.

He went out of the room. Sorme watched her eyes following him.

He really is rather drunk, isn't he? she asked him.

I dare say he is. I am, a bit.

You don't look it. Are you used to drink?

No.

I didn't think so. Have you known Austin long?

For some reason, a sense of shame made him reluctant to tell her. He said: Not very long.