Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

She lay there, looking at him. Her eyes seemed unusually large, and her lips very full. She asked:

Are you in love with her?

He gave the answer she wanted:

No.

Is she in love with you?

I don't suppose so. She may be infatuated with me. But next week it'll be some actor or writer.

She said slowly:

I don't know quite what to say… So, you're Caroline's lover as well as mine?

I was Caroline's lover, technically speaking.

And you've decided not to be any more?

He said firmly:

Now listen, sweet. Let's get this clear. I've told you this because it's no good keeping it a secret. Anyway, I'd rather you knew. If you want to throw me out and tell me never to come back… well, I'd expect it. Would you rather I hadn't told you?

No. I suppose I'd have to know eventually. But what do you want me to do now?

He lay down again, pulling the blanket over his shoulder.

I don't know, sweet. You'd better think about it.

He stared out of the window, then at the dressing-table that was clearly visible in the dawn light. After a moment, she said:

I don't understand Caroline. Does she often do things like this?

No. At least, she hasn't… gone quite so far.

But… she asked you to become her lover?

Don't put all the blame on her. It takes two to climb into bed. Anyway, there's no point in making excuses. I'm afraid it's happened now.

When she did not reply, he turned over and looked at her; immediately, he had to restrain an impulse to put his arms round her. He said:

Well… am I thrown out?

Do you want to be?

No.

She smiled at him; it was sad and brief.

Then I don't suppose you are.

He leaned over and kissed her eyelid, and tasted the salt on the lashes. He said:

Poor sweet. I'm sorry, I really am. But… what are we going to do?

About what?

Well, about Caroline. I'm supposed to see her tonight. And, anyway, what ought I to do about her? I shall have to stop seeing her. But you can see the difficulties.

Do you want to stop seeing her?

Yes.

She laughed suddenly.

You really are silly. Why on earth did it have to be my niece?

I'm sorry, sweet, I really am…

Supposing you changed your room? Moved up to Hampstead? I know a room…

I couldn't do that. It'd seem like cowardice. The only alternative I can think of is to write to her and say I've gone abroad.

Why not? You could go to Paris or Rome for a few weeks. She'll find somebody else while you're away.

Oh, I wouldn't really go abroad. I couldn't afford that. But I could go home for a few months — to Yorkshire. I wouldn't feel so bad if I'd really gone far away.

She said hesitantly.

If you like… we could go to Paris. For Christmas and the New Year. And even then, we needn't come back here. I know a cottage in the Lake District…

He bent over her and kissed her.

Don't be silly. I wouldn't take your money.

Why not? If you were married to me you'd take it…

She stopped suddenly. For a moment, he hardly noticed; her nearness was sending excitement through him, radiating from the hand that could feel the smoothness of her thigh. He said:

Do you want me to marry you?

She shook her head.

I don't care. I want to do whatever you want to…

You're sweet… But that's no answer.

But we can leave London, Gerard. Why can't we do that?

He resisted the impulse to embrace her again, moving his body away from her. He said:

I'll tell you the main reason, sweet. I couldn't walk out on Austin.

What has Austin go to do with it?

I… can't explain.

But… I don't understand. Is Austin in some sort of trouble?

He looked at her puzzled face, and felt again her basic uncertainty of him. He said:

Listen, sweet, let's get up and make some coffee. And I'll try to explain to you. But let me think about it for a while.

Without speaking, she slipped out of the bed; he stared with admiration at the slim, firm body as she moved across the room. She snatched the dressing-gown from the hook on the door, and bent to switch on the electric fire. Then he was alone, listening to the rain that had started to drum gently on the windows.

He rolled over, and felt the warm area left by her body; it evoked a feeling of warmth and pity. He threw back the bedclothes and stepped on to the carpet. The air was cold; he pulled on his shirt hurriedly, standing near the fire, thinking: Am I in love with her? Is it possible after one night?

He belted his trousers, then stopped, warming his hands and knees. That's the trouble with being self-divided. You can never tell. I feel as if I'm in love with her now. What about tomorrow?

Caroline. She's sweet, but it's not the same. She's bound to know about Gertrude eventually. Anyway, it wouldn't be wise to tie up with Gertrude permanently. In ten years' time, she'll be nearly fifty; I still under forty.

He stared at the photograph of her on the dressing-table; she was in nurse's uniform, and looked about ten years younger. The eyes had the same expression he had noticed earlier in bed; they were wise and somehow startled. He thought: But I'm in love with her. Right now. Even if it only lasts until tomorrow.

The kitchen felt warm; the coffee percolator was bubbling on the stove. He bent over her and kissed her forehead. Her skin was clear and healthy; he was glad of that. He said:

You look like Lorelei with your hair down your back.

I don't feel like Lorelei.

She laughed, and ran her fingers through her hair.

How do you feel?

Strange. I'm not used to sitting in my dressing-gown in front of a man.

That's OK. You look superb. You look even better naked.

No. I don't.

He pulled back the dressing-gown, and kissed the tip of her breast.

You do. You've got a wonderful body. Like… a young girl.

He stopped himself on the point of saying: Like a sixteen-year-old. But she noticed the hesitation, and smiled at him, her eyes suddenly mischievous. He said, laughing:

I think you're a thought reader.

I don't have to be… with you.

He said:

Don't you really care… about Caroline?

Of course I care. I'd rather it hadn't happened. But it's no use wishing it hadn't happened. And anyway… it's in the past now, isn't it?

He put his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him as she went past. He said:

Yes. And I don't care.

She placed a coffee cup in front of him, and poured hot milk into it, catching the skin in a strainer.

But what about Austin?

Ah yes… Austin.

He waited until she was seated opposite, pouring the coffee.

Well, I'm afraid Austin's likely to be in trouble with the police.

Why? What has he done?

He spooned sugar into the cup, staring at the tablecloth. It was difficult to express it gently.

Well… you remember you told me once that he liked smashing dolls as a child?

Yes.

Why do you think he did that?

I… don't know. A lot of boys don't like dolls. They think they're silly. It's a sort of expression of contempt.

Perhaps. But, you see, Austin also has periodic urges to break things. Or hurt things. It's called sadism.

Sadism!

Her coffee slopped into the saucer. She set the cup down, staring at him. He said quickly:

Oh, don't get upset. It may not be as bad as you think. But the point is… well, that he's known to the police as a sadist.

But how? Why?

He said, shrugging:

Because he probably mixes with people who don't mind being beaten for money. And these people are known to the police. Anyway, to cut it short, he'd be an automatic suspect in a case like these recent Whitechapel murders. So would thousands of others, of course.

But… the man's been arrested, you said.