Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Who was what?

That.

The noise of footsteps passed his door, and went on up the next flight. She said:

I don't know. I didn't notice.

Probably Carlotte going to clean the old man's room. Unless it's a new tenant.

Footsteps sounded across the floor above them. He said:

You look sweet in that dressing-gown. It needs to be a foot shorter.

She sat on the edge of the bed and kissed him. Even without makeup, and with her hair uncombed, her face looked pink and childlike.

How do you feel this morning?

Sore. Otherwise fine.

Tired?

No. I'll get back into bed if you like!

He pulled her shoulders back on to the bed, and kissed her. There was a heavy thump from overhead. Sorme looked at the ceiling, saying:

Are you there, truepenny?

There was a grinding noise, as of an armchair being moved on castors. Caroline said:

I expect it's the girl tidying the room. Let me up. I'll make the tea.

He watched her as she stopped on the hearthrug, spooning tea into the two pint thermos, and tried to observe the emotions she aroused in him. He was glad he had slept with her; he was glad he knew her body now; but that was all. There was no deeper satisfaction, no assuaged hunger. It was something he could not define. It worried him. The experience had left almost nothing except a slight physical tiredness. He thought: What do I want anyway? What do all men want? The need is universal. Caroline…

She was getting dressed now, standing naked on the hearthrug in front of the gas fire, slipping into her clothes without self-consciousness. She is a natural mistress. Or wife. Same thing, I suppose. Wants a husband. Thinks she's in love.

But I don't want to be a husband. Nice little hubby, good dog.

I am too many people. Need to express myself. With her body under mine. How else? Watching the dawn rise over Yamdrok Tso or Sadiya. Why not Islington or the Welsh Harp?

… from Islington to Marybone

To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood,

Were builded over with pillars of gold;

And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.

Could never kill. Life delights in life. I have too much. Too comfortable. Need a battle to fight.

The press studs at the waist of her skirt engaged with a snap of metal. She poured tea into two mugs through a strainer. She said:

I wish we could go away somewhere. For a long time… It'd be nice to live together, wouldn't it?

He said, smiling: Why not? You could move in here.

What about your landlady? What about mummy and daddy? What about Aunt Gertrude? And what about Austin?

Well, what about Austin?

He'd be jealous.

I doubt it…

As he was about to take the tea from her, someone knocked on the door. He said softly:

Oh blimey!

He jumped out of bed, and snatched his dressing-gown from the back of the chair, afraid the door would open before he could reach it. He was tying the cord as he opened it; Carlotte said:

There's someone on the phone for you…

Oh, thanks…

She leaned towards him:

And I'm afraid…

She gestured with her head towards the stairs. He stared at her without comprehension.

What?

She said, in a conspiratorial hiss:

He is back!

Who? Not the old man?

She nodded. He was divided between indignant incredulity, and a fear that she might look into his room and see Caroline. He said:

Oh blimey… I'd better answer that phone…

She nodded sympathetically, smiling. Her smile was more friendly and intimate than he had known it before; it increased his alarm in case Caroline appeared behind him. He mumbled:

I'll get my slippers… and closed the door. He raised his finger to his lips to signal Caroline to be silent, and found his slippers. He caught Carlotte half way down the stairs.

Does Mrs Miller know he's back?

Oh yes. She sent him.

She must be mad! Doesn't she care if he sets fire to the place?

The girl turned and looked at him; her eyes were curiously mocking. Her face distorted into a strange grimace that gave it a devilish appearance. She said softly:

She has increased his rent!

Before he could reply, she had run down the flight of stairs into the basement, and left him staring at the phone that lay on the hall table.

Hello?

Hello, Gerard. Austin…

Oh hello. How are you?

I'm OK. Look, can you have lunch with me today?

I… yes, I expect so. Any special reason?

Yes. I want you to meet two friends of mine…

Who are they?

American writers.

Anyone I know?

Probably not. They're both young. I think you'll find them interesting. They belong to a group called the Chicago rebels. Can you get over here about midday? We'll have a drink, then go to Soho. OK?

OK. Thanks. By the way, I didn't say thanks for the other night…

For making you sick, you mean?

No, but… you were very sweet.

Not at all, old boy. See you later. OK?

He returned upstairs, feeling how totally unpredictable Nunne could be. The last time he had phoned he sounded like a spoiled child; now he sounded like a protective older brother.

Who was it?

Austin.

Speak of the devil!

He wanted me to go for lunch. But if you're free for lunch, I can put him off…

No, don't worry, darling. I ought to be getting home, otherwise mummy and daddy might start trying to phone the friend I'm supposed to have stayed with last night!

He pulled her to him and kissed her. Her mouth tasted of warm tea. It was a luxury to feel her warmth pressed against him; a sensation like electricity ran through his chest and thighs. As she pressed herself closer, her left arm disengaged itself from his neck, and the hand groped inside the dressing-gown. He said thickly:

What a silly thing to do… getting dressed.

He pulled open the press studs at the waist of her skirt, and unzipped it. Helping her with the buttons at the back of the blouse, he noticed that his tea was untouched.

He made love very gently, aware of the tension in her, the fear of being hurt.

They lay side by side, looking at the ceiling. He said:

That old bleeder's back upstairs.

Are you sure?

Afraid so.

He raised on one elbow, and tasted his lukewarm tea. She said:

I'll make you some more.

Don't bother… You know, I think I'll ask Austin if he doesn't know of a flat. His father owns half Marylebone. I don't think I can stand this old sod for another week. It'd wreck me.

Someone knocked on the door, startling him. He whispered to Caroline: Ssshh! and slipped out of bed, reaching for the gown.

He expected to see Carlotte. It was the old man. His eyes looked less watery; he was wearing a tweed suit that seemed to be of good quality, and a clean shirt. He smiled shyly:

I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but do you happen to have a match?

His voice was clear and firm. Sorme groped in the dressing-gown pocket, and handed him a box.

Thank you… but I won't take the box…

That's all right. It's nearly empty.

The old man smiled at him, as if they had some secret reason for liking one another, and dropped the matches in his pocket. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Sorme said:

I… hope you're… better now.

I am. Thank you.

As if Sorme's words had decided him, he turned and walked away. As Sorme started to close the door, he turned round, smiling apologetically.

Perhaps you'd like to see the morning paper?

He pulled a folded newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to Sorme, then disappeared hastily, as if afraid of having committed an indiscretion.

Sorme went back into the room, opening the paper. The headlines read: HUSBAND ARRESTED FOR GREENWICH MURDER.

Who was it?

Him. He jerked his chin at the ceiling.