Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Where did you learn to play like that?

In my teens. I haven't played for years.

He emptied his pint, and banged it on the shelf. Sorme said: Another? Glasp looked surprised, and said: Oh, thanks. His mood had changed completely in twenty minutes, become relaxed and humorous. Sorme watched him emptying the second pint, and thought with amusement: When shall I ever learn? People are real. My mind likes creating patterns too much.

Glasp said: Perhaps I should have phoned the hostel.

He'll understand. Anyway, he was very tired.

Glasp nodded.

He's a good sort. I ought to see him more.

Sorme said: You said earlier that he used to be a member of the Oliver reform Society? What exactly did you mean?

Glasp said, smiling:

You mean, what did they want to reform me from?

Well, yes.

Nothing serious. They used to think I'd be the new Chagall.

Didn't you?

It's not that. I just… don't like people having preconceived ideas about me… that I have to live up to. I'd rather be left alone.

Mmmmm. But what did you want to do when you were left alone?

That didn't matter.

Sorme said meditatively:

I know what you mean. But it's difficult, isn't it? You feel as if you want nothing except to be alone. Then your own weakness betrays you. You get involved in a different way — involved with boredom and loneliness. You know, I feel ashamed of the fact that I feel better now because of Austin. It's not a real superiority I feel over him. It's an illusion, pure chance.

Glasp asked:

Is it pure chance that you're not a sadist?

I… think so.

No. When you read your volume on the Arran murder, do you feel it's pure chance you're not the killer?

Sorme thought about it. He said:

No. Because I wouldn't murder a man for the sake of a few pounds as Laurie did.

You'd murder him for other reasons, though?

No, of course not. That's not what I meant. I don't possess any of the instinct that could make me sympathise with a murderer. I don't think many people have. But everybody possesses a sexual urge. Why do you suppose the type of Sunday paper that specialises in sex crimes has such vast sales?

Glasp said:

Not sex crime alone. Any sort of crime. If you use that argument, you'll have to admit that the readers of Sunday papers have a suppressed desire to be footpads and blackmailers and kleptomaniacs.

All right. What's your conclusion?

Glasp did not reply immediately. The pub was beginning to fill up; a man was leaning across his shoulder to reach a pack of cards from the shelf. When the man was out of earshot, Glasp leaned forward. He said seriously:

I'll tell you. You're a fool to underrate yourself. You're nothing like Austin, or like Gertrude Quincey, or any of these other people you get mixed up with. They just waste your time.

Sorme grimaced and shrugged.

I suppose they do. But they've got some value, for all that.

Not for you. For you, they're just parasites.

Why parasites? It's the other way round. They give me meals, and I do nothing.

Except give them your blood.

Perhaps.

You do, Glasp said emphatically. Why don't you realise it? They don't belong to the same species as you.

Or you? Sorme said, smiling.

For a moment, he thought Glasp was offended; his look was hard and enquiring. Then he said:

Well, you answer that one.

Sorme restrained his pleasure at the implied compliment. He said:

A sort of Nietzschean master and slave morality, eh?

Why not, if it fits the facts? What's the point in imagining you're one of the mob if you're not? You're just a wolf pretending to be a sheep, that's all.

He emptied his glass. When Sorme tried to take it from him, he said: No, it's my turn. He crossed to the bar. Sorme stared at him. His glance fell on the plastic macintosh that lay over the chair, and he recalled Glasp standing in his room wearing it, his shoulders rounded, his face bloodless and alien, a man without vitality or direction. His veins were warmed by a secretion of excitement like anticipation, thinking: I wonder how many more there are in London? There might be enough to make a new age. Not Chicago rebels, but a generation with purpose. It's good to know Oliver. He's right about Austin. I'm sick of self-confessed weakness.

Glasp returned with two glasses. Sorme said:

What about finding something to eat?

All right. What about going up to see Gertrude?

Gertrude?

Why not?

Sorme stared at him in astonishment.

Are you serious?

Why not? It's only a ten-minute walk from here. We needn't stay. I'd like to say hello. It's a long time since I saw her.

All right. I know a pub in Hampstead where we could get something to eat.

Glasp emptied half of his pint in one draught. Sorme asked:

Did you and Gertrude ever quarrel?

No. Not really.

He stared into his glass; holding it between two palms, he looked like a clairvoyant gazing into a crystal ball. Then he went on:

I was pretty frank one night about her Jehovah's Witness stuff. I'm sorry now. She's all right. She's sweet.

I can't understand why she never married. She's not unattractive.

She got bitten once. Didn't you know?

I… I'd heard something about it. Caroline mentioned it.

Caroline? Oh, that blonde?

Sorme asked: Don't you approve of blondes?

Glasp said briefly: Not much.

Or sex of any kind?

That depends.

He emptied his glass, and stood up.

I'm going outside. You about ready to go?

Sorme had decided to phone her from Chalk Farm station, but a bus drew to a stop as they arrived, and they were on the lower deck, panting from the run, before he remembered. The sight of the Hampstead tube station brought a memory of Nunne. He said:

You know, Oliver, I'm worried about Austin.

Why?

He'll get himself into trouble.

That's his funeral.

Yes, but… the police suspect him of worse things than beating his boy friends.

How do you know?

Oh… I just happen to have found out.

They turned into Flask Walk; Glasp looked at him sideways as they passed under a lamp.

From Father Carruthers?

Yes.

How does he know?

I promised him not to let it go any further.

In that case, don't.

Sorme said: I suppose there's no harm in telling you. It doesn't make any difference now. Carruthers has a German friend called Franz Stein — a police pathologist. He told Father Carruthers about a letter he'd received from the Hamburg police. Austin was suspected of killing a male prostitute.

He did, Glasp said.

What? How do you know? Are you sure?

Pretty sure.

How long have you known?

I didn't know until you just told me. But I know it's true.

How?

He was trying hard to see Glasp's face, wondering how seriously to take him. He felt a premonition of disappointment, a suspicion that Glasp might prove to be a charlatan. Glasp's tone was matter-of-fact; it puzzled him.

When I first knew Austin, I used to dream he was a murderer. I had one particularly vivid dream… I was walking behind two men by the side of a river. Suddenly one of them hit the other with a weapon of some kind, and pushed him into the river. It was night, and I couldn't see their faces, but I knew that one of them was Austin, and the man he killed was a tramp of some kind. I woke up immediately… A few hours later, Austin came to see me. As soon as I saw him, I decided it was all nonsense. He just didn't look like the man in my dream…

Are your dreams accurate?

No. More often they're wrong. I've got a morbid sort of mind. It picks up chance impressions and magnifies them. It's the same process that works in my painting. When I was a boy, I once dreamed that a boy in our class was killed in a train accident. For years I was convinced he'd die in a train. But he's a married man now…