Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

I hope you're right.

You worry more about Austin than he does about you.

Why? Do you think he dislikes me?

No. But he's the heartless type. He doesn't give a damn about anybody really.

On Haverstock Hill again, Sorme said:

What about another drink?

Good idea.

I know a pub.

The public bar was crowded; they went around to the saloon bar and found it less full.

Same again?

Please.

Grab those seats in the corner. I'll bring them over.

The episode at Gertrude Quincey's had destroyed the feeling of ease and the rising warmth; it began to return when he had drunk half the pint of bitter. Glasp said:

What were we talking about?

Austin.

Oh yes. Let's skip him. He doesn't matter.

All right.

Glasp was smiling, as if at some secret joke. Sorme looked at him enquiringly, raising his eyebrows. Glasp said:

What about Gertrude?

What about her?

You having an affair with her?

Oh, you saw that, did you?

You didn't try to hide it. With the light behind you.

Well, the answer's no. I like provoking her.

That was provocation, was it?

Pretty well. Just fun.

Am I being nosey?

No! There's nothing secret about it. It's a sort of joke.

You've done it before, like?

Well, yes. Just to provoke.

Glasp sipped at his beer; he had a manner of launching questions suddenly, as if hoping to take by surprise, and Sorme guessed another was coming. It came a moment later.

Do you want to sleep with her?

Sorme considered this carefully. In fact, the idea had ceased to interest him since sleeping with Caroline. He said carefully:

I don't think I do… I don't know.

Well, either you do or you don't.

No. It's not as simple as that. In a sense, I want to sleep with every woman indiscriminately, you know… When I hear about someone being given the freedom of the City of London, I sometimes think how nice it'd be if someone could grant you the freedom of all the women in the world. Just anybody. You produce an engraved scroll with a golden key on it, and say 'My name is Sorme; come back to my room…' Splendid idea.

Glasp said, laughing:

The sentiments of a sex maniac.

No. Not really!

No. I'm only joking.

But really, I think there's an element of truth there.

I'm sure there is.

Do you know those lines of Blake about the lion lying down with the lamb? Something about the golden age. That's the root of it, you know. We live in a fallen world, and we dream of a golden age when there was no such thing as frustration. All men turned into gods because they can do what they like. That's why I find it hard to condemn Austin, no matter what he's done. There shouldn't be such a thing as sexual perversion… but then, maybe there shouldn't be such a thing as sex either. It's all part of a fall. You know Tolstoy's idea that nobody ought to have sex, except to beget children? That's logical. Either all sex is natural, or it's unnatural. There's no dividing line between normal sex and perversion.

He was aware as he spoke that it sounded illogical; Glasp was listening with his lower lip thrust out, an expression of distrust on his face. He made a conscious effort to sound more reasonable:

Put it like this. If I'm attracted by a girl, I know damn well it's not entirely a desire to sleep with her. If I'm curious to know what she's like in bed, it's more a desire to break down the barriers between human beings, not a desire to penetrate her. And if it gets to the point of bed, the chances are that I shan't want her any more. It's the same with Gertrude. There's something about that icy virgin attitude that provokes me. But I don't think it's a desire to have Gertrude for a mistress.

He observed an answering glow of sympathy in Glasp this time, but the need to catch his intuitions in words was too strong to allow him to stop and wait for Glasp's response. He felt a sense of complete wellbeing as he emptied his glass and set it down, leaning forward, aware of ideas straining to be expressed.

Have you ever been in a room with two women who've been your mistress? And when you look from one to the other, there's no curiosity about either. If either of them uncrosses her legs you don't bother to look to see how high the skirt goes. They form a small group, cut off from all the rest of womankind. You might desire them, but the curiosity's gone. Well, what I feel about Gertrude is curiosity, not desire. So I can't really say whether I want to sleep with her or not. Have another?

Glasp had finished his beer; he was looking around the room with an expression of distaste. He said:

Too many people. What about moving?

The room had been filling since they came in; now there were no seats left, and a group of people stood within a few feet of them, laughing noisily. Sorme said:

Most pubs in London'll be like this on a Saturday night. We could go back to my room.

What's the time? Eight o'clock. All right, if you like.

He filled the washbowl with hot water, then plunged his hands into it and leaned forward on them, suddenly tired. Through the half open door of the bathroom, he heard the phone ringing, and tensed automatically, waiting to be called. When the ringing stopped and no one shouted his name he dried his hands, thinking tiredly: People. How can I escape people? It was a sudden disgust, a reaction to the excitement of the afternoon and now the sensation of knowing Glasp with a sympathetic insight. It was the feeling of winning a game, the sensation of an increasing interior power, an energy for which he could find no immediate outlet.

Glasp was stretched in the armchair, his feet on the stool. On the turntable of the gramophone the first side of Prokoviev's fifth symphony was coming to an end. Two full quarts of beer stood on the table.

Shall I turn it over?

No. I'd rather talk.

Glasp held out the beer glass, tilting it as Sorme poured the brown ale. Sorme said:

You look pleased with yourself.

Do I?

There's a contented expression on your face.

Maybe, Glasp said.

Sorme relaxed in the other chair, raising his slippered feet on to the footstool; Glasp moved his own stockinged feet to make room. Sorme noted with interest that he was wearing a new pair of nylon socks. Glasp said:

Listen, Gerard. Has it struck you that Austin could be the Whitechapel killer?

Sorme kept his eyes fixed on his slippers, careful to show no surprise. He said finally:

Hmmmm. Perhaps. Not very likely, though.

You think not?

I don't think it's very likely. Seriously. Do you?

I think it's possible. We know Austin is a sadist. We suspect he killed someone in Hamburg.

Yes, but…

What?

We also know Austin. Can you look at him and connect him with the murders? I can't.

Glasp held his beer glass on a level with his nose and frowned at it.

Neither can I. That proves nothing. You know Austin is a sadist. Can you imagine him beating anyone with a whip?

No…

Yet he probably does.

Well, even so, these murders are heterosexual and he's queer. Why should he choose women?

Easier to pick up in Whitechapel.

All right. Second, why choose Whitechapel, where he's more likely to get caught every time he commits a crime? Why not move around London? And, third, why on earth should it be Austin, with several million other people living in London?

Glasp looked at him steadily.

You don't want it to be Austin, do you?

Sorme shrugged.

I don't know. I like Austin, but that wouldn't stop me from looking the facts in the face if they really pointed to him.

Glasp said: Anyway, you needn't worry. I wouldn't give him away to the police, even if I knew he did them.

No?

Anyway, you can bet they've got an eye on him now. If he's suspected of this Hamburg murder, he's a natural suspect for Whitechapel.