Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Glasp said: Oh yes. What did he want?

Just to know how I felt. We had a late night last night.

Did he want to see you now?

He suggested it. I told him I couldn't.

Glasp was bending over the case of records. He said:

I think you'll find Mr Nunne rather a demanding person before you've finished…

Yes?

Glasp was sitting on the end of the bed; he had all the records spread over the counterpane. He said:

Like all weak men, he has to use his friends as crutches.

You think he's weak?

Don't you?

I'm… not sure.

You'll find out, Glasp said.

He selected one of the records, saying:

Unless you'd like to go on talking, what about some Mozart?

Certainly. More wine?

No, thank you. And then, if you're agreeable, let us adjourn to the nearest pub, where I can repay some of your hospitality with a little brandy…

You don't have to do that.

Nevertheless, I'd like to.

Glasp was affecting a curiously pedantic and stately manner of speaking. Sorme said, laughing:

That's OK by me.

He put on the record, then relaxed in the armchair, closing his eyes. The events of the past twenty-four hours revolved round him as he listened; he felt as if they had happened to someone else.

The night was icy cold. As he came out of the Kentish Town tube, he wrapped his scarf closer round his throat, and buttoned the raincoat under his chin. Glasp had seemed completely drunk when he caught the train, but he had refused Sorme's offer to go as far as Moorgate with him. He felt warm inside, and pleasantly tired, but not drunk.

As he was half way up the first flight of stairs, the phone began to ring. He turned and retraced his steps. The door from the basement opened, and he called:

It's OK, Carlotte. I'll answer it.

The voice said: Could I speak to Mr Sorme, please?

Speaking!

Gerard? I didn't recognise your voice! This is Bill.

Hello, old boy. Where are you?

I've just come on to the paper for the night. We're going out to do a news story on this Greenwich murder. Would you like to come?

What sort of a story?

Oh, you know the sort of thing… We go around with the police patrol and take photographs. Interested?

Well… I dunno. I would be, but I'm deadly sleepy. I didn't get into bed till eight this morning…

All right. Well skip it then. We'd got a spare seat in the car if you wanted to come.

You know the photographer, Ted Billings?

Oh yes. Well look here, thanks a lot for asking me, and any other night I'd be delighted… But I really am all in. But listen, Bill. If anything important crops up, let me know. I'd be quite interested to be on the spot. It's just that I'm so sleepy at the moment…

OK, old boy. Don't worry. I'll call you some other night. Just thought you might like to come. See you later.

As he undressed he regretted being so tired. He would have enjoyed accompanying Payne on the story. He even wondered whether the thought of it might not keep him awake.

As soon as he climbed into bed, he knew better. A tide of warmth caressed him.

He chewed and swallowed the last of an alkaline tablet he had taken as a precaution against a hangover, and pressed his face closer into the pillow. The thought of Caroline passed through his mind, arousing a feeling of pleasure that arose partly from the memory of asking her to stay the night, and the realisation that, even if she had accepted, he would have been incapable of making love. It was also anticipation.

He woke up and stared at the door. For a moment he was uncertain whether it was not the climax of some dream that had wakened him so abruptly. As he listened, he heard a murmur of a voice. He peered at the luminous dial of his watch in the dark: it looked like six o'clock. He turned over, and buried his face in the sheet. A moment later he heard footsteps on the stairs. He raised his head, listening. Someone knocked on his door. He called:

Yes?

The door opened slightly. A man's voice said:

Someone on the phone for you. You're Mr Sorme, aren't you?

Yes… thanks. My God… what an hour! I'm awfully sorry…

He pulled on his dressing-gown, and went outside. The man was going downstairs ahead of him. He was saying:

Phone's right opposite my door. He woke me up.

I'm really terribly sorry…

He was thinking: F that bloody Austin!

He said: I can't tell you how sorry I am…

Chap said it was an emergency…

He went towards the phone, thinking: I'll tell him he'll get me chucked out if he goes on like this… Six o'clock… bloody fool.

He snatched up the phone, and restrained an impulse to shout into it. He said, controlling his voice:

Hello?

Hello, Gerard. This is Bill Payne.

Bill! What do you want?

You told me to ring you if anything happened. There's been a double murder in Whitechapel…

His hair stirred, as if he had received an electric shock. For a moment he let the phone drop to his side, and heard Payne's voice talking in the distance. After a moment, he raised it again, and heard the voice:… that was an hour ago. So, if you want to get over you'd better come right away.

Where is it?

Mitre Street. It's on the left near Aldgate station. There's a little cafe about two doors away from the station. I'll meet you in there.

He said — OK. I'll be with you as soon as I can get over.

He replaced the phone and sat on the edge of the table. The cold made no difference. It seemed that the beating of his heart must be audible to everyone in the house.

In spite of two pairs of gloves, his hands were numb before he reached Holborn; he pulled off the left-hand glove and rode with the hand in his trouser pocket, pressed into the hollow of his thigh. The streets of the City were deserted. The cold had wakened him, yet he felt an internal exhaustion that was almost a luxury, as if all his emotions had been short-circuited. It made him feel strangely free. Before he arrived at the end of Leadenhall Street he had forgotten his reason for riding out so early. The sight of an old man, crouched in a bus shelter, covered with an overcoat, started a train of thought on the difficulty of human life, and on the human tendency to increase its difficulty by useless movement. The thought that, in three hours' time, these streets would be crowded with people who possessed no motive beyond the working day, no deep certainties to counterbalance the confusion, made him grateful for the silence of the streets, and the inner silence of his own exhaustion.

He recognised Payne, standing by the entrance to the Underground. He was lighting a cigarette and stamping to warm his feet. Sorme called: Hi, Bill!

Hello, Gerard. Glad you made it.

Sorme leaned the bicycle against the wall and groped in the saddlebag for its chain.

I thought you were going to wait in the cafe?

I've only been out here a minute. I wanted a breath of air. You leaving your bike here?

I expect so. It'll be OK.

Good. Come on, then.

Where is this place?

Mitre Square. It's on the other side of Houndsditch.

What happened?

Don't know yet. Another woman found. And, half an hour before, they found another one over in Berner Street… that's on the other side of the Commercial Road.

The killer's been having a gala night!

This'll cause some trouble, you see, Gerard. It'll be the biggest manhunt England's ever seen. The police daren't let him get away with another.

Have you seen the bodies?

I got a look at the one in Mitre Square. The other one's been taken away.

What time was it found?

This one? Only about an hour ago. We were just on our way back to the office when we got the flash. We got here before anyone else got on the scene.