Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

He sounded all right.

Oh, he does. He is all right till he gets drunk. Which he is for about twenty-three hours a day.

He stood at the table, reading the front page. She was dressing again. He said:

So he didn't move after all.

Who?

The Whitechapel killer.

As he was pulling on his shoes, she said suddenly:

You ought to buy a flat in Whitechapel. I bet the value of property's gone down since these murders.

That's a very clever remark, sweet.

Don't you think?

Why not? Or perhaps Austin and his father are in this together — Austin doing the murders and his father buying the property at cut prices.

She said, grimacing: But I shouldn't think Austin would murder women, would he?

I don't know. I'll ask him when I see him.

He arrived at Albany Street half an hour late. The doorman said:

Ah, Mr Nunne's waiting for you, sir. You haven't brought the other two gentlemen with you, then?

No. No sign of them?

They hadn't arrived five minutes ago, when Mr Nunne rang down.

Nunne opened the door. Sorme said immediately:

I'm sorry I'm late.

That's all right. They haven't arrived yet either. How are you, Gerard? You look tired.

Too much writing, I expect.

Whisky?

Thanks. By the way, Austin, I meant to ask you when we were alone… Do you know of any unfurnished flats or rooms around here?

For you?

Yes. I'm thinking of changing.

But my dear boy, you're always changing.

I know. Do you remember that old man I told you about?

Yes. Is he out of hospital?

Sorme nodded.

He arrived this morning. So I expect I'll get no sleep until he has another accident.

Nunne sat in the armchair, and lit a cigarette.

There are always ways and means, aren't there?

Seeing Sorme's puzzled look, he said:

We might arrange a little accident, don't you think?

Are you serious?

Quite. For instance…

The buzzer sounded. Nunne crossed to the door. Alone for a moment, Sorme stared at the bars of the fire, and wondered what new aspect of his personality Nunne was preparing to spring on him. He heard a loud American voice say:

Hiya, man! Good to see ya.

They came into the room, followed by Nunne. Nunne said:

That's Gerard Sorme. Gerard, this is Cal Teschmeyer and Rudi James.

The short, Italianate-looking man said affably:

Hiya, Gerard. How're ya?

His friend reached over the back of the chair, patted Sorme on the shoulder, and said in a deep, pleasant voice:

Glad t'meetcha, man.

He flopped into the armchair that Nunne had vacated, letting his arms fall limply over the sides. He had a long, hollow face, with three days' growth of blond stubble on the chin. Like his companion, he wore a leather jacket, with a brightly coloured shirt underneath. The Italian-looking man sat beside Sorme on the divan, saying:

What d'they call you — Jerry?

You can if you like.

Good. I'm Cal and he's Jimmy.

Nunne asked from the sideboard:

What will you have?

Any bourbon?

Yes.

Jimmy turned round in his chair, and peered into the drink cabinet. He whistled shrilly.

Hey, dig that crazy man! He's got a dozen bottles of the stuff in there! We struck lucky, son. Yoohoo!

He sprang up, loped over to Nunne, and seized a bottle with both hands, kissing it fondly. He said throatily:

Boy, am I glad to see you!

Cal asked Sorme:

You a writer?

Sorme said, shrugging: Nothing worth talking about. What do you write?

Novels. Jimmy there writes poetry. He founded his own school…

Aw, can it! Jimmy said.

…which our friend and sympathetic mentor Professor Trilling…

Sonofabitch! Jimmy shouted.

…referred to as the diarrhoea school of poetry!

He began to laugh; it was a high laugh that lurched and squeaked; somehow it reminded Sorme of an old car on a bumpy road. Jimmy said vengefully:

Yeah, and ya know what Time Magazine said about his last novel…?

Nunne handed him a tumbler half full of whisky. He seized it, sniffed it ecstatically, and poured it down his throat immediately. He said affectionately:

Aust'n, I love ya. Ya got what it takes.

He allowed Nunne to pour more whisky, saying with mock belligerence:

Who cares what the bastards say? Like Omar Khayyam said, 'the dogs bark but the caravan rolls on'.

Nunne handed Cal a glass, asking gravely:

Have you boys been drinking already?

Oh, he's not drunk, Cal said. He's always like this. Ain't ya, daddy-o? He's been talking all night.

What about? Sorme asked.

Oh, God or something.

Jimmy asked: Where d'you keep your records?

In there.

Cal said: Somebody told him about Merejkovsky or something, how these Russians used to sit up all night, and when somebody yawned, they'd say…

Jimmy shouted: Hey, wait, lemme tell it. Listen! They'd argue all night, these guys, and when somebody suggested hitting the sack, do you know what they'd say? 'We can't sleep yet. We haven't decided if God exists.'

He gave a high whoop of delight, and turned back to the record cabinet. A moment later, he said with admiration:

Hey, man, get this! Miles Davis and Dizzie and — wow! — a whole album of Bird. Can we play some?

Nunne said cautiously:

Don't you think we should go and eat first? It's after one.

Just one, Jimmy said. Just one side of Bird. We can grease later.

Gal asked Sorme: Do you dig bop?

I…

Before he could answer, the gramophone drowned his voice. Jimmy lay back on the floor and kicked his feet in the air: he shouted: 'Bells, daddy-o!'

Cal leaned over, and shouted in Sorme's ear:

You a jazz fan?

I don't know much. I like Bix Beiderbecke.

Great! Cal shouted. He gestured at Jimmy. He don't. Thinks it's square stuff.

Sorme glanced cautiously at his watch, wondering how soon he could get away. The noise and strange language struck him as deliberate exhibitionism. He looked up, and caught Nunne regarding him with amused interest: the brown eyes were as soft as an animal's and as sardonic and caressing as a heathen god. For a moment Sorme felt again the curious awe and submission that he had felt before in Nunne's presence; the sense of being with someone of a different species. Nunne closed his eyes and relaxed in the chair.

As the record came to an end, Jimmy sat up. He said sadly:

That gone cat Charlie. He killed himself.

He looked across at Sorme, and Sorme was struck by his sincerity. He asked: What happened to him?

Cal said briefly: Booze and hop.

Little fat guy, Jimmy said. As sweet as they come, but temperamental. We used to know him, on the West coast.

Nunne switched off the gramophone. He said:

Let's go and eat. I'm ravenous.

Sorme followed them out of the room. Jimmy walked with a shambling gait that was almost ape-like. Sorme wondered what Cal meant by 'booze and hop': he presumed 'hop' was another word for 'bebop'; the idea of a short, fat man dancing himself to death struck him as curiously depressing.

The two Americans stopped talking during the meal; they ate voraciously, giving Sorme the impression they hadn't eaten for days. But when Nunne asked casually, Hungry? Cal said:

I ate a big breakfast. That always makes me eat like hell for the rest of the day.

They drank the wine like beer, in long pulls. Jimmy said abruptly:

Trouble with British writers, you don't kick enough.

Kick who? Sorme asked.

Anybody. F'rinstance — what you writing now?

A novel.

About what?

A sexual killer.

They looked impressed. Cal said:

That's a good subject. Why d'you want to write about it?

To make money.

Well, why not, Jimmy said. 'S a good reason.

He looked puzzled. Nunne said, smiling: