Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

She's all right. What did she want to see you about?

Austin.

Oh yes!

Why, what did you think…?

Oh, I don't know. She wants to get you into her Jehovah's Witnesses.

How do you know?

Oh, it's pretty obvious. What did she want to know about Austin?

She's found out he's queer. I think she wanted to know if I was.

And what did you say?

I tossed her vigorously on the bed and made her think I was a goat in disguise.

Don't be silly! What did you say?

Oh, nothing… I just tried to make her see that there'd be no point in giving Austin a lecture on the laws of Moses. She took it rather well, on the whole.

Tell me about it. In detail.

He gave her an account of his conversation with Miss Quincey while he fried the gammon, stopping at the point where he had a bath. She said:

She looked a bit upset when I came home. I wondered what had been going on!

What time was that?

Oh, about four.

He shook the chips in their wire basket until the brown ones came to the top, then immersed them again in the boiling fat. He said:

Does she know you're here?

No. I've got a feeling she'd be jealous.

Why? Do you think she's after me?

I shouldn't think so!

Why, then?

Because she discovered you before I did. I think she wants you for her Bible class.

Hmmm.

She had laid her coat over the kitchen chair. She was wearing a plain red dress, with a band of fur round the neck. He bent and kissed her, and felt the coldness of her lips which gave way immediately to the inside of her mouth. The familiar reaction of desire came over him; as she stood against him, he cupped her buttocks in his hands and strained her thighs tight against him. He said, laughing: Bed?

Not now. There's someone in your room!

There won't be tomorrow night.

You'll have to wait till tomorrow then, won't you?

He experienced a lurch of delight at her frankness. He said:

You could come back later tonight…

I couldn't. Aunt Gertrude'd get suspicious. Then I'd have to go home to Wimbledon every night…

The saucepan lid began to jar softly as the steam forced it open. He released her with regret and turned back to the cooking. She said:

You know, I've met that man somewhere before…

Where?

I don't know. Let me think. St Martin's… St Martin's…

The Art School?

No, I… It's something to… Ah, I remember. The amusement arcade. In the Charing Cross Road. That's where I saw him.

That doesn't sound like Oliver!

Yes, it was. I'm sure. He was with a little girl, and he started a row about one of the machines — it didn't work, or something. He was wearing a dirty old duffle coat.

What was the girl like?

I don't know. I didn't really notice her. Quite a little girl — about ten or eleven, I'd say.

Attractive?

What, at that age! You don't think he likes them that young, do you?

I shouldn't think so. But I saw a painting he did of a little girl — might be the same one.

He turned and peered down the stairs, wondering if their voices were audible to Glasp, and decided not. She asked:

What's the time, Gerard?

Ten past seven.

I'd better be off.

Wouldn't you like some supper?

No, thanks. I've had tea.

He took the warm plates from under the grill and used the fish slice to put the bacon on them; he shook the fat out of the chips, and poured them from the wire basket on to the plates. Caroline said approvingly:

Mmmmm! You're quite a good cook. If we ever got married, you'd be useful.

He asked:

Do you want to get married?

She rubbed her head against his shoulder.

I wouldn't mind being married to you.

What! On less than a week's acquaintance?

As he turned to face her, she put both her arms round his neck; she said softly, defensively:

I don't need to know you for a long time. I know what you're like already.

Do you? What am I like?

Well, you're good tempered… and one day you'll make a huge success.

Hmm. I dunno about the good temper.

She pulled his face down to her. When he had kissed her, she said:

Shall I tell you something? I decided to make a beeline for you the first time I met you at Aunt Gertrude's. I shouldn't really tell you that, should I?

Why not?

It might make you feel chased.

I am chaste.

Not that chaste, silly! I mean it might make you feel you're being chased.

I'm that too.

I know you are. Does it worry you?

Not in the least. Look, sweet, I've got to take Oliver his dinner. Come and have some more wine.

No. I haven't finished this yet. Anyway, I don't want to go in there again. I'll say goodbye now. Don't come down.

As he kissed her, she pressed herself against him. He was certain she was aware of the rising need in him, yet her body clung to him, infusing its warmth. When she had gone he inhaled deeply, then expelled the air in a long sigh. He felt an ache across his chest and back, as if someone had beaten him with some padded object. The desire throbbed in him, subsiding.

Glasp was sitting on the bed, reading one of the Notable British Trials. He began to eat quickly, ravenously. After swallowing two mouthfuls, he said, in an oddly throaty voice:

Oaaaaah! I was bloody hungry!

Sorme said smiling: Good.

He was too preoccupied with the thought of Caroline to feel any inclination to talk. They ate in silence for ten minutes, and Sorme refilled both glasses. Glasp put his empty plate on the floor, and attracted his attention with a growl like an animal.

You said you hadn't heard about that last murder of the Ripper?

That's right.

It's here.

Glasp swallowed, cleared his throat, then read:

'In the early morning of the 18th of July 1889 an unknown woman was murdered in Castle Alley, Whitechapel, her injuries being similar to those sustained by the earlier victims. At 12.15 on the morning of the murder a police constable had entered the alley and partaken of a frugal supper under a lamp. At 12.25 he left the alley to speak to another constable who was engaged on the same beat. Returning at 12.50 he found the body of a woman under a lamp where he had previously stood. The ground beneath the body was quite dry, although the clothing of the woman was wet. A shower of rain had fallen at 12.40. The murder was therefore committed between 12.25 and 12.40, when the rain commenced to fall…'

I didn't see that, Sorme said. What book is it?

The trial of George Chapman.

Ah yes. I found that in the room when I moved in last Saturday. But doesn't it say the woman wasn't identified?

She was. It was my Great-aunt Sally. Sally McKenzie.

The wine bottle was almost empty; Sorme opened a second one. Glasp relaxed against the wall, stretching his legs on the bed and yawning. He said:

That was good. You're bloody lucky, you know, Gerard.

Why?

Oh, enough money to do as you like.

Haven't you?

Blimey no! My slender income comes from a bloody shark of a dealer who sucks me dry!

Does he take all your paintings?

No. Only the things he thinks he can sell. Like street scenes, and pretty-pretty landscapes.

You make a living from it. That's something.

Not much.

Anyway, why should my few hundred a year make me lucky? The only lucky man's the man who can create. I've been stuck on the same book for five years.

Why don't you finish it?

I can't. I keep trying. There's something missing.

What?

Oh… the inspiration, I expect.

Is that all?

Sorme looked at him. It was obvious that Glasp's mood had mellowed considerably with the meal. He said:

No, that's not all. I've got other problems too.

Such as?

Sorme said, smiling: I don't know that I can explain them to you without your flying off the handle.