Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

He could see her clutching at the idea; it was a way out. He sat on the edge of the bed, and sank deeply into it. She said:

You think Austin could be somehow involved…

He knew what she meant; 'involved' was a euphemism for 'misled', 'corrupted'. He said:

It's possible. Most of these sadistic ventures seem to be communal. Anyway, it's probable that he knows something about it.

She said:

We ought to find him. Do you think it's safe to go to Leatherhead?

We could try. Perhaps if we went to see Glasp on the way, they wouldn't bother to follow us. Anyway, they may not be interested.

As he spoke, he was remembering the fact that Macmurdo was in charge of the case, and that nothing was less likely. For a moment, he was assailed by a temptation to leave it alone. He recognised the same doubt in Miss Quincey's face. He said: We'd better find out about this other murder before we do anything. It may have no connection with the previous murders. Perhaps they've really got the killer…

She said:

If it was Austin, there'd be nothing we could do.

He looked at her, and recognised the incipient defeat in her eyes. He said quickly:

Maybe.

You don't think it is, do you?

He resisted the impulse to turn the question aside; it sprang from a desire to protect her, and the time for protecting her might be limited. He said deliberately:

My sweet, it's no use ignoring it. He could be the killer. It is possible. I don't want to believe it. I don't want it to be true. My imagination won't face it. But if it is true, we'll have to face it.

He could follow the sequence of emotions in her eyes: incredulity, a sharpness like pain, then the transfer of attention from the meaning of his words to the expression on his face, less uncompromising than the words; and, finally, an adjustment, a hope. He said:

I don't know what to feel either. I don't know if I can condemn him. How do we know what's lawful and what's not? You assume sex is wicked because the Bible condemns fornication. But the experience makes it hard to believe. Last night, I could almost feel you trying to readjust your values — trying to make up your mind whether you were being sinful or not…

She said: Making love isn't the same as killing.

Again, he was surprised by the control she had acquired in a few hours, the ability to adjust to new facts.

That's true. Anyway, I'm not trying to defend the urge to kill. I'm only trying to understand it without oversimplifying it. For instance, couldn't you imagine a murder that comes out of a need to express your freedom?

She said patiently:

That wouldn't make any difference. Nobody has a right to express his freedom by killing someone.

I'm not talking about rights. I'm talking about the question of responsibility. Look, sweet, let's assume for a moment that Austin is the killer. How far would he be responsible for the murders? If your cat makes a mess on the carpet, you spank it and throw it outside — you hold it responsible. But if you know the cat's suffering from something she ate, you don't hold her responsible… you assume she couldn't help it. Well, isn't it the same with murder? How do you know the killer hasn't reached a degree of boredom and self-contempt and misery that make it almost impossible not to kill? It becomes an overpowering appetite to regain his freedom…

She shook her head.

I don't understand. What has it got to do with freedom?

Don't you see? A man can become the prisoner of his own self-contempt. Take the Christie case, for example. He's a weak-looking, inoffensive little man who suffers from sensitive nerves. He develops a sexual neurosis — you know they nicknamed him 'Can't-do-it Christie' in Leeds? Well, sex ought to be a freedom from your personality, and the sexual neurotic can never possess that freedom — except in sexual fantasies. And a point finally comes where the fantasies aren't enough. The imagination fails. Then he kills, and suddenly he has everything he wanted — a real woman lying at his feet. And for a moment, there's a supreme freedom, a feeling of contact with eternity — he becomes a fragment of eternity. Then the tragic return to earth — an unconscious woman lying at his feet. He used to gas them, you know. And a feeling: My God, what am I going to do when she wakes up? Then back to the world of nagging worries and pettiness — strangling her, hiding the body under the floorboards, worrying about the smell. Don't you see what I mean? Without the self-contempt, the exhaustion and pettiness, there'd be no murder. He kills for the same reason the saint practises meditation and the poet writes about nature. It's an escape from personality. And De Quincey becomes a drug-addict, and Poe becomes a drunk. Without the sensitivity, the escape wouldn't be necessary. They want a greater intensity of life, and the only gate left open is murder…

He looked at her with pity; she was listening, but without comprehension. When he stopped talking, she only stared past his head at the wallpaper. The insight overwhelmed him: she can never understand. She knows only categories and chapters from the Book of Kings. She can never know real good or evil; the knowledge would wreck her.

It was the answer to his interest in her; the insight brought disappointment and tenderness. A woman's world, a world of people. Without Kali, the insane mother, infinity of destructiveness and creativeness. He said:

We'd better go. It won't do any good to sit here.

He stood up. She rose automatically, and followed him to the door. At the top of the stairs he turned and kissed her; there was no response in her mouth. He went on down the stairs, thinking: I wonder if a woman exists who doesn't have her roots in limits and self-doubt? Probably not. But the search is not finished yet.

As they drove past Houndsditch, he said:

I wonder where the murder took place? We should have asked Macmurdo.

Why?

Oh… curiosity. Turn left at the traffic lights. Let's go up Commercial Street and see if we can find out.

How would you find out?

Oh, there'd be a crowd, probably. Morbid curiosity.

How revolting.

Any sign of being followed yet?

She glanced in the driving mirror.

I don't think so. I can't tell… There's too much traffic.

Turn off by the church across the road. No, hold on a minute. I think we've found it.

As they drew level with the church, he could see the crowd at the corner of Brushfield Street, opposite the market. He said:

Stop here for a minute.

He edged his way into the crowd, peering on tiptoe over their heads. The attention seemed to be focused around an entry a dozen yards along the street. The concrete platform of the marketplace was packed with men and women who stared at the small group of policemen outside the entrance. There was no ambulance.

He made his way back to the car. He said:

Nothing much visible. We'll have to get a midday paper.

A small man in stained white overalls edged out of the crowd, and walked past them. Sorme said:

Excuse me… What's happening? What are they all waiting for?

The man said: Doncher know? Another murder.

Sorme said, with simulated astonishment:

But I thought they'd caught him!

Everybody did. But it don't look like it, does it?

What happened? Do you know?

The man said:

Not much. They found her in a room. Cut to pieces.

He shrugged, then turned and walked away. Sorme got into the car. He asked:

Did you hear?

Yes. It sounds horrible.

Sorme said: He may be exaggerating. You know how rumours get around. What's the time now?

Half past nine.

We'll go back via Fleet Street. We'll catch the early editions in half an hour.

She revved the engine.

Where to now?