Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

And what was your insight like?

I… It was a feeling of acceptance. It happened once when I was on Hampstead Heath, looking down on London. I was thinking about all the lives and all the problems… and then suddenly I felt real. I saw other people's illusions, and my own illusions disappeared, and I felt real inside. I stopped wondering whether the world's ultimately good or evil. I felt that the world didn't matter a damn. What mattered was me, whether I saw it as good or evil. I suddenly felt as if I'd turned into a giant. I felt absurdly happy…

Glasp said:

I've never felt like that.

No?

He controlled the excitement his own words had aroused in him, waiting for Glasp to speak, watching the face that leaned into the firelight. Glasp spoke in a low voice, without emphasis. He said:

That's not how I feel… I suppose I need other people, as you say. For instance, this stupid business is bad for me because it makes me think about myself. And Christine's good for me because she makes me think about other people. Not just about her. She makes me realise that hundreds — thousands — are living in complete misery, never having a chance to feel these things you're talking about. They don't feel like giants or gods, and they don't feel like insects either. They're just ordinary men and women, and most of their lives is suffering or boredom.

He stopped speaking, and drank the remainder of the tea from his mug, then set it down on the green tiles that reflected the flames. The toe of his wornout shoe pushed a fragment of smoking coal into the grate. He said:

That's my vision… if it is a vision.

Sorme looked at him silently, realising the gulf that separated their ways of feeling, and understanding the futility of words. The coal collapsed over the burnt wood, sending up sparks. Glasp said abruptly:

What about going out for a meal? Are you hungry?

Do you know anywhere around here?

I know a place where we can get sausage, egg and chips for two bob.

Sorme said, standing up:

Good. Let's go.

Sorry I'm so late.

Come in. Where have you been? Have you eaten?

Yes, thanks. I ate this afternoon with Oliver. I stayed and talked to him. He was pretty shaken up.

The fire was still burning in the sitting-room. The hands of the electric clock showed ten-fifteen. She touched his hand, and said:

Oh dear, you are cold. Come and get warm. Would you like a drink?

No, thanks. I've been drinking with Oliver.

He sat opposite the fire, and stretched out his legs towards it. Miss Quincey started to build it up with small nuggets of coal, using a glove that lay across the fender.

Is he all right now?

Yes. He's calmer, at any rate.

Have they examined the child yet?

No. That's the trouble. She's disappeared. When we got back to Oliver's room, the police had been there already. Oliver says they probably suspect him of murdering her to keep her quiet!

How silly!

Oh yes. He wasn't really serious. They probably suspected him of hiding her. Anyway, she's a little fool to run away like this. It makes it look worse for Oliver — as if she's got something to be afraid of. When we came out of the cafe Oliver saw one of her schoolfriends and persuaded her to go and call for Christine — to see if she'd come back. She hadn't, of course, and then he started to get really upset.

I'm not surprised, with a murderer at large in Whitechapel.

Haven't you heard? He's been caught.

No. When?

Don't you listen to the radio? He was arrested this morning. At least a man was arrested, and apparently he confessed later.

Good! Thank heavens for that.

I'm not so sure it's an advantage for Oliver. If the Whitechapel police had still got the murders to worry about, they might pay less attention to a drunken prison warder.

Quite. But where does Oliver think the child might be hiding?

Oh, anywhere. She only disappeared this morning. She might have spent the morning in Petticoat Lane market, or in the docks. She's probably back home now — unless she's staying overnight with a friend. Or she may go to Oliver's.

I hope so. I wouldn't like to think of her wandering around on a night like this.

As if to emphasise the words, there was a sound of rain on the window. Sorme went to the window and peered out; nothing was visible in the darkness.

Have you left your bicycle outside?

No. I came by train.

It's just as well. Would you like something to eat? I'm just having something myself.

Thanks.

He leaned against the refrigerator, watching her slice a joint of ham. The wine he had drunk with Glasp had made him feel sleepy. He asked her:

Have you heard from Austin recently?

No, not for several days.

I don't know where he's gone to. I've been trying to contact him for the last two days.

He may be at the Leatherhead cottage. He often goes there for weekends.

Ah, of course!

She glanced at him doubtfully.

Have you… have you spoken to him since you talked to me…

She left the sentence unfinished. Sorme said:

I had lunch with him on Saturday.

Yes.

She sounded uninterested. He took the plate with sandwiches, and went back into the other room. The rain was now beating steadily on the windows. He unfolded the paper napkin, and helped himself to a sandwich, then looked at her, smiling. She said:

I've been thinking about Austin ever since the other night. It seems a pity that he hasn't any close relatives who could… talk to him about it. There's no one who knows him well enough to be quite open with him.

What could they do, anyway?

She lowered her sandwich instead of biting it, regarding him steadily. She said:

They might persuade him to see a doctor.

That's true. On the other hand, he might feel they just didn't understand, and tell them to go to hell.

That wouldn't matter. If someone is dying of a disease, you don't ask them if they want to be cured.

Austin's not dying. And I don't think homosexuality qualifies as a disease.

He could sense a frustration growing up in her; her eyes flickered with irritation.

But he ought to have a chance to lead a normal existence. He'll inherit a great deal of money and property. He should have a son to pass it on to. He should have a chance to marry and settle down.

He said patiently:

I can see your point. But I doubt whether Austin wants to settle down. And I can't imagine him as a husband! Besides, why should you want to alter his life? He isn't unhappy — at least, not for that reason. What would you say if Austin suddenly wanted you to see a doctor to cure you of religion?

Oh, don't be silly, Gerard!

But if it's so important to marry and settle down, why aren't you married?

Her face coloured; for a moment, he expected a snub. She swallowed the remains of a sandwich, and said in a level voice:

That isn't the same thing at all.

Looking at her face, he felt a curious impulse of tenderness; she was right; it was not the same thing at all. The idea of being frank with her about Austin came to him, but he dismissed it immediately. Instead he said:

All right… If you like, I'll talk to Austin about it — tactfully. But I doubt whether it would have an effect.

A kind of hopelessness came into her eyes. She said:

Perhaps you're right. Perhaps it isn't my business. I'm fond of Austin. He's the only person in the family that I ever cared for much.

He said gently:

You can't take the responsibility for other people, you know. The best you can do is to offer help when it's needed.

But supposing Austin needs help?

Don't you see, Gertrude, you can only help when you understand fully? Your temperament's too different from Austin's to do any good.