Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

The Frenchman asked: What is it? Prokoviev?

Yes, the fifth symphony. Do you like music?

Very much. I used to play the oboe in the orchestra in my home town. Lille.

But you're not a professional musician?

Oh no. I'm an engineer.

When he smiled, he showed a mouthful of regular, white teeth. He had a handsome face, with a square, powerful jaw. Sorme found himself liking him instantly.

Callet sat opposite him, in the armchair.

I hear you're a writer?

Yes. Who told you that?

Carlotte. The girl who cleans up. We have some strange tenants in this house.

You have the worst one above you.

The worst? Why?

He's mad. And he plays gramophone records all night.

Christ! Does he thump around, though?

No, I don't think so. He just plays records. You won't see him during the day. He sleeps.

That's all right. I sometimes work most of the night too. Do you object to the noise of a typewriter?

No. I use one myself. The only person who might complain is the girl in the room underneath.

I see. And who else qualifies as 'strange'?

The Frenchman made a puzzled grimace. Sorme explained:

You said there were several strange tenants?

Ah, yes. Well the old man above you is the worst. There are two homosexuals who live on the ground floor. They won't bother you. They sometimes quarrel all night.

They are all right except when they are drunk. Then they get noisy.

Doesn't the landlady object?

No. She doesn't live here. The German girl is supposed to keep an eye on the place. Carlotte. She lives in the basement.

The record came to an end. Sorme turned the player off. Immediately, they heard the sound of someone knocking on the door of the next room. The Frenchman opened the door, saying: Hello?

Phone for Monsieur Callet, a girl's voice said.

I'll probably see you later. Thanks for the tea.

You're welcome, Sorme said.

He poured himself a second cup of tea, and switched on the record player again.

The heat was making him drowsy. To wake himself up, he began to rearrange his books in the bookcase behind the door. He flattened the three cardboard cartons that the books had been packed in, and heaved them on top of the wardrobe. They met some obstruction and slid down again. He climbed on to a chair, and looked on the wardrobe. There was a pile of books there, pushed to the back against the wall. There were four tattered copies of P. G. Wodehouse, and three volumes in the Notable British Trials Series. One of these had a label inside: Erith Public Libraries. The date stamped inside seemed to be several years earlier.

He lifted them down, blowing the dust off them, then sat down at the table to examine them. A quarter of an hour later he was still reading the first volume he had opened, The Trial of Burke and Hare. It made him feel slightly sick.

Someone knocked on the door. He called: Hello.

The Frenchman looked round the door.

Hello. Lotte asked me to give you a message. Someone phoned for you this morning.

Oh? Did he leave a message?

Yes. She didn't get his name, but he left a telephone number. Here it is.

Sorme took the torn envelope flap. He said:

Thanks. I'll ring him now. Where's the phone?

Unfortunately, he left a message asking you to ring him before three. He said he was leaving London at three.

Sorme looked at his watch. It said half past four.

Oh… thanks anyway.

The Frenchman asked conversationally: What are you reading?

Oh, a book on murders.

Did you read about that murder last night?

No.

In Whitechapel. Another girl found beaten to death. It was in the midday paper.

Do you want to see it?

Sorme said, chuckling: Don't bother. I intend to eat a meal today. This stuff makes me feel sick.

When the door closed again he tossed The Trial of Burke and Hare on to the bed, and opened one of the Wodehouse volumes.

In the night, he woke up and remembered Nunne's aunt. Until then he had completely forgotten about her. He reached for his trousers, and felt in the dark for the back pocket. The sheet of notepaper was still there. He struck a match, and read: Gertrude Quincey, The Laurels, Vale of Health, followed by her phone number. He propped it on the chair beside the bed to remind him to phone her in the morning, and lay down again, in the night that now smelt of burnt sulphur, and thought about her. Her figure was slim and attractive; there was something demure about her manner that he found exciting. She was probably fifteen years his senior; perhaps less; perhaps only ten. He speculated idly on the advantages of persuading her to become his mistress, even of marrying her. It would be pleasant to be looked after. But in ten years' time, in fifteen? There was also this business of her being a Jehovah's Witness. Somehow, that did not fit in. He thought of Jehovah's Witnesses as rather slovenly-dressed working-class women.

It would be interesting to find out how serious she was about the Bible classes. Or if her convictions made chastity obligatory.

He knew, with sudden certainty, that there could never be any question of wanting to marry her. It would be a sell-out. There was an intuition of certainty in him that told him that a sell-out for security could never be necessary. He thought instead of making love to her. The idea carried him into sleep.

The following evening he tried phoning her; there was no reply. He depressed the receiver-rest and rang Austin's number; a girl on the switchboard told him that Mr Nunne had gone away for a few days. He returned to his room, feeling curiously disappointed.

Half an hour later he was reading when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs to the old man's room. Someone knocked on the door. A girl's voice called: Mr Hamilton!

There was no reply. The footsteps came down the stairs again. Someone rapped on his door. He called: Come in.

The girl who stood in the doorway said:

I'm sorry to disturb you…

He said: You're Carlotte?

Yes. There is a policeman at the front door…

To see me?

O no! He says someone has thrown a bottle into the street. I think it must be Mr Hamilton. But he won't answer the door. What shall I do?

What makes you think it's him?

It must be. Monsieur Callet is out. Who else could it be?

What do you want me to do?

Could you — go up by the fire escape? He may answer you.

Where's the policeman?

Downstairs.

He climbed out of the window on to the fire escape. A shaft of light came from the open door above.

In the room, the old man squatted on the floor, his back to the door, naked. The choir sang:

Stel a matutina

Salus infirmorum

Refugium peccatorum…

He stood there, uncertain, wondering whether to return quietly to his own room.

When the record stopped, he coughed and knocked on the door. He expected the old man to turn, or start guiltily. Nothing happened. The old man took off the record and selected another from the pile in front of him. Sorme said:

Excuse me…

The old man said over his shoulder:

Come in. Don't stand there.

Sorme advanced into the room.

I'm sorry to trouble you, but there's a policeman down below enquiring about a bottle that somebody threw into the street.

As he spoke, he saw the window was open: it overlooked the street.

The old man said: You are German, are you not?

No, English. So would you mind…?

Yes, all right, all right. Do you like the Roman litany?

He felt irritated and helpless. The old man had a bottle between his knees, with a glass inverted over the neck. The gramophone was a big wooden box; the circle of green baize was loose on the turntable; the wires ran across the room to a radio on the bookshelf. He felt chilled in the draught that blew across the room, and noticed with surprise that the old man was sweating.