Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

No. They just asked the old woman's permission. It's her house.

But it's your room. I'm sure they're not allowed to do that. You ought to get a solicitor.

Glasp sank on to the stool, warming his hands above the oil stove. He said gloomily:

The old bugger wants me to move out. That bloody father of Christine's!.. I'd like to kill him. Why can contemptible animals like that make such a mess of my life!

Never mind. It's just a farce… But why should they search your room? What would they expect to find?

Christine, of course.

Oh yes.

Glasp said bitterly:

Or maybe her body. I don't think they put anything past me.

He began to wander round the room, peering at canvases. He said suddenly:

Oh, Christ!

What is it?

This portrait of Christine… I'd forgotten it.

Sorme remembered in time that he was not supposed to have seen the picture. He crossed to Glasp, and looked at the portrait of the underfed child. Glasp had pulled several canvases forward to expose it; they leaned against his shin.

Do you think they saw it?

I don't know.

I doubt it. Why should they? If they were looking for her they wouldn't examine your pictures.

Glasp opened a cupboard and took out a large folder made of brown paper. He laid this on the bed and opened it. Sorme deliberately refrained from showing curiosity, although he caught a glimpse of a sketch of a naked child. He asked:

Is there any sign that they've seen it?

Glasp peered closely at the pages.

Not as far as I can see. But I wouldn't expect the police to leave fingermarks.

Glasp closed the album with an exclamation of disgust. He dropped on to the edge of the bed and sighed. His big hands hung loosely between his knees. He said between his teeth:

F-ing swine.

The kettle began to simmer. Sorme emptied the teapot into the sink and rinsed it with warm water. He found the tea on the shelf, in a packet with the top screwed round. While he made it, Glasp began to go around the room systematically, looking for signs of disturbance. He said at last:

They're bloody clever. They've left no traces.

Have some tea.

Glasp lay down on the bed, pushing the folder aside, and closed his eyes. With his bony face upturned to the ceiling, and the big hands resting limply on the coverlet, he looked like a corpse. Sorme said quietly:

Poor Oliver. I know just how it feels. Why can't things be simple and straightforward?

Glasp's chest heaved with a kind of laugh that was little more than an expulsion of breath. He said:

No, you're wrong. I don't want things simple. That's not me. I don't know what I want. If my life was simple, I'd be like a fish out of water. I once knew an actress like that. She had to manufacture complications in her life. All her love affairs had to be messy. If they went wrong, she was all right. If they went right, she felt there was something wrong.

I think you're doing yourself an injustice, Oliver.

Glasp sat up, saying tiredly:

Thank God for my friends. They never let me think the worst of myself.

Sorme noticed the bundle of wood that lay in the fire grate.

You ought to get yourself some coal, Oliver. You need a fire in here.

There is coal. It's outside the door. I was just making a fire when the police arrived.

Let me make one for you.

Glasp said:

Thanks, Gerard.

He took a gulp of the tea, then lay down on the bed again, his eyes closed. Sorme found a coal scuttle outside the door and a bucket containing ashes. He laid the fire and started it with paraffin; in a few minutes the flames were roaring up the chimney. He crouched over it. The cold of the room had penetrated his overcoat. Glasp was lying in his shirtsleeves, the collar unbuttoned.

Aren't you cold there, Oliver?

I… suppose I am.

Glasp seemed fascinated by the flames. He crossed the room and sat on the stool, leaning forward, the teacup between his hands.

It's good of you to bother with me like this, Gerard.

Not in the least.

I'd have been fixed if you hadn't come today.

That's OK. You'd do the same for me.

The paraffin flames began to die down, but the wood was burning well. Outside, the afternoon was turning dark. Seated in the wooden chair, Sorme reflected how dismally uncomfortable Glasp's room was. Glasp said:

I never made many friends.

Sorme said, shrugging:

Nor me.

What's the good of friends if they don't understand the problems that worry you? You've got to be able to talk to them. You, for instance… I could talk to you five minutes after I first met you. That's unusual.

Thanks.

Sorme felt slightly awkward about the compliment; he said:

I've got a theory about people. You and I are completely different types. I think too much, you feel too much. I lay too much emphasis on the mind, and you lay too much on the heart. Now some people lay too much on the body… Austin, for instance. When he gets repressed, he needs a physical outlet.

And what about you?

Oh, me. I try to think my way out of problems. I try to get detached from them. I don't like strong emotions much — I suspect them. That's why I don't feel too good at the moment about Austin.

Why? You don't feel any strong emotions about him, do you?

No. But he's stopped me from stagnating. I've become so absorbed in his problems that I've become quite detached from my own problems. That's all right… but it's not the right way to solve problems.

No? Why not?

As he spoke, Sorme became aware that his ideas reflected on Glasp; he repressed the misgiving, certain that Glasp would understand, anyway. He said:

I think it's a kind of weakness to get too involved in other people's lives. I once knew a girl who was the sort of person everybody told their troubles to. She gave the impression of being a very cool and calm sort of person, and people felt she was strong and sympathetic. When I got to know her pretty well, I found she had no ideas, no beliefs, no real self-confidence — in fact, she was a complete mess inside. She kept herself happy by worrying about other people's problems. She liked unhappy people — I suppose they made her feel superior… And when I meet people like Gertrude who go in for social work and converting people, I wonder if they're not doing the same thing.

Glasp said:

Does it matter?

Yes, it does. It matters if people are made of marshmallow. Very few people are real inside. They need people and distractions as a cripple needs crutches. Look at me. Two weeks ago I felt completely lost. I didn't like leaving my room because the street made me feel as if I didn't exist. London made me feel like an insect, and when I got back to my own room and tried to write I still felt like an insect. Then what happens? I go to this Diaghilev exhibition and meet Austin. And immediately I stop being an insect. But that's the wrong reason.

What does it matter what the reason is?

But it does matter. I should have outgrown Austin's world a long time ago. I only went to the Diaghilev exhibition out of a sentimental feeling about Nijinsky. Normally, I can't stick ballet. Last time I went to the ballet, it nearly gave me diarrhoea… a lot of bloody prancing queers and posturing women. I had to come out half way through. And yet that's Austin's world. He's a romantic. He's not real inside either. He needs unreality to stop him from feeling an insect.

Glasp said softly:

We all need something to lean on.

But we shouldn't. If a man could kill all his illusions, he'd become a god.

Or kill himself, Glasp said.

No… He'd be strong enough to live. People die because they don't know what life is.

Glasp said: Who does?

I do sometimes. Just occasionally. And I spend all my time trying to regain the insight.