Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Couldn't you phone?

He's not on the phone.

I see. And what about this man who has been arrested?

Some man who attacked a woman last night in Whitechapel. A Brixton labourer. He'd blacked his face, apparently.

Ah, really?

Have you heard of him, father?

The priest said:

I have. And I'm afraid it sounds as if you're right.

Why?

Franz mentioned him to me a few days ago. He said that a man was frightening women in Whitechapel by jumping out of doorways with a black face. The police don't really believe he's the murderer. And Franz most certainly doesn't.

Why?

Because a man who jumps out of doorways and frightens women sounds a very different proposition from a murderer. He's a sadist of a sort, of course… but not the kind the police want.

But this man attacked a woman, father. He caused serious head injuries, according to Stein. It was in a room in Whitechapel, and he escaped by jumping through the window.

Indeed? Ah…

Sorme stirred uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. He unbuttoned his overcoat; the heat was making him sweat. The priest said finally:

If you are sure he attacked a woman… perhaps I am wrong.

Stein said he'd confessed to the attack, but not to the other murders.

I see. Then it sounds as if he was being quite sincere. If he was trying to deceive you, he wouldn't have admitted that the man had not confessed to the previous murders.

You mean he'd either tell me he had, or wouldn't mention it at all?

I'm afraid it sounds like that.

A shiver passed over the skin of Sorme's back. He said:

Why afraid, father? Do you think Austin's the murderer?

The priest said:

From my knowledge of Austin, it seems unlikely.

Why?

Because… I have known Austin since he was a child. I should say, I have been acquainted with him since he was a child. And his mother has talked to me about him a great deal. Do you think he could commit a murder?

The question took Sorme by surprise. After a hesitation, he said doubtfully:

That's not easy to answer. In the sense you mean, no. He's not a ruffian, he's not callous… But… I can't explain.

Try to explain, Gerard.

Sorme pulled off the overcoat, and dropped it on the bed, then unbuttoned the jacket. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. He said slowly:

You see, father, it's like this. I met him at the Diaghilev exhibition, you know…

Yes. What has that to do with it?

Quite a lot, actually. You didn't see it, did you? No. Well — it impressed me, because… it was like a fairy tale. These old costumes, designs, soft music, scent — the same scent that Austin uses, incidentally — just like another world. Well, that's Austin's world, father, the world he wants to live in. He's not a very brilliant person. He wouldn't get much out of the writings of the saints or the Church fathers. But he wants to find an ideal world all the same… You remember, I told you the same thing about his basement flat?

Yes.

I think being alive exhausts him. He can't accept reality. I can understand him because I feel the same. The reality of the world batters him. It bullies him. So he wants to see it from some beautifully detached standpoint. That's why he's so theatrical. Instead of real slums, he wants a stage set that looks like slums. Instead of real despair and defeat, he wants tragic actors raving about it. He has to simplify everything…

I see your point. But this doesn't sound like the definition of a murderer to me.

He becomes the tragic actor himself, making a gesture of defiance. Don't you see, father. He dramatises his own self-disgust. If he committed a murder, he wouldn't be a real murderer. He'd be a tragic actor playing Macbeth.

The priest said:

I'm afraid you overestimate his need for self-dramatisation. I doubt whether it would extend to actual killing.

Sorme felt confused and involved, unable to capture the thread of insight. He said finally:

I dunno, father… It's all this feeling of wanting to impose yourself on the world. Murder's the ultimate taboo. In a certain mood, it could be a kind of suicide. I think that's how Austin feels. Unless he can dramatise it, the world seems unbearably alien. He wants to do something positive to justify his existence.

The priest's face clouded. He said:

I… see what you mean. All the same… I don't know. It doesn't strike me as likely.

No, and I agree, it's no final proof that Austin would commit murder…

You should see Austin… and perhaps you should warn him.

I thought you didn't want me to warn him?

Not openly, perhaps. On the other hand, it seems to me very probable that he is not guilty. In that case…

He broke off, staring at the eiderdown, his chin on his chest. Sorme was uncertain whether his attitude showed deep thought or simply fatigue. He stood up and crossed to the window, which was open about an inch at the top; the faint current of cool air was a relief. As he waited, the priest went on:

What you say about Austin may be true for yourself. I could imagine a certain type of man who needs a sense of moral purpose, who feels the world to be meaningless…

Sorme interrupted:

Austin once said something like that to me. He said he felt futile or meaningless… no, unintended; that was the word.

Did he? What else did he say?

Oh… something about feeling he ought not to be alive. He said if there was any justice in the world he'd've broken his neck or something. Mind, he was in a pretty low state that evening.

Unintended. I must admit, you surprise me. But it bears out what you say. But, as I was about to say… I can imagine that a man might feel a need to enter the order of good and evil, to escape a sense of futility. And I can imagine him committing a crime merely to prove to himself that he is capable of evil, and therefore not entirely… unintended. But I have never in my life come across such a case — except, perhaps, in juvenile delinquents.

Sorme said, shrugging:

The way you put it, I agree it sounds unlikely. But I'm not talking about conscious motives. I'm just saying that if Austin was the killer, I could understand. I mean, take Oliver Glasp… He's the same sort of person. I've seen a lot of Oliver over this past week, father, and I think I've got to know a lot about him. Well, I know he'd never suffer from any sort of strain if he believed in his own genius. He'd have a purpose then. As it is, he's got himself involved with some ten-year-old girl from a slum tenement. It gives him a sense of meaning from day to day, and that's what he needs to keep going. But he doesn't believe in his own reality enough to exist without something of the sort. Don't you see what I'm trying to say, father? Oliver needs people more than ideas — he's an emotional person. So when he's under strain, he gropes around for people. I need ideas more than people. When I rebel, it's a rebellion of ideas. But Austin's sensual as well as emotional. He needs a physical outlet for his rebellion — driving fast cars, flying an aeroplane. Doesn't it sound plausible?

He was carried away by the excitement of his own words; when he stopped, he experienced a feeling of guilt. Father Carruthers was listening with his head drooping, his eyes closed; he might have been asleep. Without opening his eyes, he said softly:

Yes, it sounds plausible.

Sorme said: I'm afraid I'm talking too much.

I'm sorry. I'd like to help you more. But I feel very tired.

Yes, absolutely, I'll go now.

Go and see Austin.

If I can find him!

Try at his Kensington flat. Take a taxi there.

All right. But I'll take a tube.

The priest said:

Open that top drawer behind you… no, the left one. There should be a plastic case there… Yes, thank you.