Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

I suppose so. I don't understand the way these things work.

You don't understand sadism, anyway, do you?

Sorme asked curiously:

What makes you say that?

You're not the type.

No? What type am I?

Glasp said, shrugging:

You're like me. Not particularly interested in sex.

Blimey! Do you really think so?

Glasp grinned.

You think you are. But you're not. Try to understand what I mean. Austin's a sensualist. He's not a man of ideas. Nothing really interests him but what he can see and touch.

Oh, I dunno. I wouldn't say he has no ideas.

He hasn't. Perhaps he makes an effort because he's talking to you. If he ever got really used to you, he'd stop making the effort.

Yes, but… there's a kind of innocence about Austin. You don't understand.

Oh yes I do. There's a kind of innocence about sensuality. It doesn't have to leer and drool. But it just doesn't get off the ground. The most sensual man I ever knew was a collector of knives and daggers. He wrote several monographs on the subject — known as the leading authority of Europe. Not an idea in his head, but the most amazing collection of facts about daggers.

Sorme said dubiously:

I see what you mean.

He was feeling vaguely hungry. From the cupboard he took a half loaf of bread, some Spanish onions, and a polythene bag containing Gruyere cheese. He said:

Help yourself if you're hungry.

He cut an irregular chunk of bread from the side of the loaf and plastered butter on it. Glasp said:

That's a good idea.

As he sawed at the loaf, he said:

Don't get the wrong ideas about Austin. He's no soul-mate. He's all right, but if you get entangled with him, he'll suffocate you.

I know that. But I think you misjudge him. He misjudges you too.

Does he? What does he say about me?

Sorme hesitated, calculating the effect of complete frankness; a desire to provoke a reaction urged him to speak. He said casually:

Oh, he thinks you have some… sexual peculiarities.

Naturally, Glasp said contemptuously. He'd have to.

Sorme said, laughing:

Oh, I agree. They always want to pin it on other people…

What does he think… I'm addicted to? Men, boys or animals?

Neither. Little girls.

The effect was greater than he had anticipated. Glasp laid down the knife on the plate, staring incredulously.

He what?

Sorme ignored his excitement; he said:

Oh, you know what it's like…

He said that? Tell me exactly what he said.

As he spoke, Sorme heard someone outside his door; for a moment, he expected to see Nunne's face; then the key turned in the next room, and he heard the Frenchman open his own door. His heart pounding, he said quickly:

Oh, to do Austin justice, he was only reporting something he'd heard.

Are you sure?

Quite sure. Two Americans thought they'd known you in London several years ago. But after all, it might easily have been someone else. Or they might have said it for effect.

Glasp said slowly:

Well I'll be damned!

He emptied his beer glass, and refilled it; then sat hunched forward in the chair, staring into the fire. Something in the crouched tenseness of his body made Sorme aware that he was experiencing an inner upheaval that he was unwilling to show. Sorme's heart was still beating heavily from the noise outside the door. He said:

Look. Why don't we skip the subject? I'm sorry I told you.

But didn't he say any more than that?

Nothing.

Glasp said slowly:

These bloody queers amaze me.

Why?

They're interested in nothing but personalities. If I'd painted the greatest portrait since Rembrandt, it wouldn't interest him unless he thought I'd had an affair with the sitter.

This time, Sorme made no effort to contradict him. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he could suggest going out. The thought of Nunne arriving soddenly worried him. He said lightly:

I don't see why you let it bother you. I only told you to amuse you. I don't take Austin seriously.

Glasp looked at him, frowning.

But why did he say it? Where did he get the idea? You didn't tell him about that picture of a girl in my room?

No.

He felt acutely uncomfortable; he had seen the picture of the girl while Glasp was out of the room, and found the idea of lying about it disagreeable. He said:

I've told you, anyway. He got the idea from two Americans. I can vouch for it. I've met them.

Glasp shrugged irritably. He said:

Well, I don't give a damn, anyway. But I bet what you like he's seen me around with the girl in that picture, or been told about it.

Sorme said untruthfully:

I can't remember the picture, anyway. I doubt whether Austin knows about it.

Glasp subsided into silence, wolfing huge mouthfuls of bread with Spanish onion; the muscles of his jaw stood out as he chewed and swallowed. Somewhere below, a door slammed; again, Sorme wondered if Nunne had arrived. He said:

You know, I'm pretty sure you're wrong about Austin…

Glasp said:

Would you suppose I've got a taste for twelve-year-old girls?

I… well, I presume not. But quite honestly, it wouldn't particularly shock me if you had. Girls can often look quite adult at twelve.

Glasp said gloomily:

This one doesn't. She looks about nine.

Yes but… Look here, Oliver. I don't want to pry into your private life. Let's drop the subject, shall we?

Does it embarrass you?

No, but…

Well, it doesn't embarrass me either. I don't mind talking about it.

Sorme wondered if Glasp was slightly drunk: the assertiveness was blurred and heavy sounding. He said:

OK, if you want to, let's talk about it. Who is this girl, anyway?

Glasp emptied the quart flask of beer into his glass with deliberation, then screwed its cap on and placed it carefully on the floor. He said:

Her name's Christine.

To cover the awkwardness he was feeling, Sorme opened the second quart of beer and filled his glass. He felt a certain absurdity in the conversation; Glasp was, after all, under no compulsion to tell him about the girl; this seemed somehow the wrong moment and the wrong way in which to talk about her. He noticed that the gas fire was beginning to go out, and searched his small change for shillings, glad to have something to do, waiting for Glasp to go on. When he spoke finally, there was no trace of drunkenness in his voice. He said seriously:

You know, Gerard, it makes my blood boil when somebody like Austin gets nosey about my affairs. I never did anything to him, did I? I live on my own out there. I don't ask people to take notice of me. I avoid people because I don't enjoy playing the game. Do you know what I mean?

The social game, you mean?

I mean the personal game. You see…

Looking at him, Sorme could almost watch the words trying to force their way out; he found himself leaning forward, concentrating to help Glasp.

If you get involved with people, you've got to stick to the rules. It's like going to a public school or joining a posh club. If you want the advantages, you have to stick to the rules. Well, I'd rather not join the club. I'll do without the advantages. It's like exhibiting. If you exhibit your work, you put yourself at the mercy of a lot of half-witted bastards who don't know paint from shit. But it's no good complaining about not being understood. If you put your work on show it's like asking people to look at it. And if they make stupid comments, you've got nothing to complain about, because you asked them. Well, so I don't exhibit. Then if somebody makes a stupid comment about my work I've got a right to fetch him a backhander across the mouth and say: Shut your f-ing noise; nobody asked you.

It was coming now, and Glasp was talking like a machine, his face flushed, unaware of the breadcrumb stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was also a pleasure in his eyes, an astonishment that his feelings were really changing themselves into words and coming out.