Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Oh, it's you. He's not here any more.

Not here? Sorme said. He remembered she was deaf, and leaned forward to ask: Where is he?

You needn't shout. He's left. Just gone.

Has he left any address?

No. He says he'll send it on.

What about his pictures?

They're still there — upstairs. He's says he'll collect them. I 'spect he doesn't want the police to know where he's gone to.

She turned her back on him, and closed the door.

For a moment, he felt an irritable rage at her rudeness, and had to restrain a desire to kick the door. He stood still, letting it subside, then stepped back into the roadway and looked up at Glasp's window, suspecting that Glasp might have instructed the woman to turn him away, and might be peering out to see if he had gone. There was no one visible; he turned away, and walked off towards Aldgate. He had only walked a few yards when someone behind him said:

Excuse me…

He found himself looking down into the face of a girl of about twelve years old. She was muffled in a brown overcoat, with the collar around her chin. She said:

Were you looking for Oliver Glasp?

Yes. Do you know where he is?

She shook her head.

No. I wanted to see him. Do you think he's really left?

He asked her curiously:

Are you Christine?

She nodded, and her face reddened. He looked down at her with increased interest. Her hair was short and boyish, but the face was undeniably delicate and attractive. It looked pink, as if she had been running, and the flush increased its attractiveness. The eyes were wide and brown in the oval face. Sorme said:

I saw him less than an hour ago just around the corner, so he can't be far away.

But his landlady says he's gone away.

It looks like it.

Where do you think he might have gone to?

That's more than I can guess.

Her eyes became troubled.

Why do you think he went?

Sorme felt suddenly guilty about the brevity of his replies; it was obvious that she suspected him of disliking her. He said:

Oliver's a strange man. I think he was pretty angry and upset. I saw him this morning, and he seemed miserable.

She lowered her eyes.

About me?

I think so.

He could read in her expression the curiosity about how much he knew. Her face was disturbingly open, reflecting her emotions quite clearly. He could understand suddenly why Glasp had been so upset at the notion that she was capable of deception. She asked:

Did he tell you about it?

Yes.

She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other; he noticed that she was wearing ankle socks. A stirring of curtain over her shoulder attracted his attention; it was Glasp's landlady peering out of the window at them. Sorme said:

Which way are you walking?

She said miserably:

Any way.

Walk along here with me.

She fell into step beside him; they walked towards the ruined theatre at the other end of the street. Neither spoke while they were in Durward Street. She asked finally:

Do you think he'll come back?

I don't know. I hope so. But it might be a long time.

They stopped on the corner of Vallance Road. A kind of baffled indignation came into her eyes as she looked at him. She said:

But he can't just go like that. He'd say goodbye to me… wouldn't he?:

Sorme said awkwardly:

I expect he'll be back.

Perhaps… perhaps he thinks he can't see me.

Sorme fed the hope that came up to him in her face.

I expect that's the reason. Now your parents know…

But that's all right now! Mum had it out with dad and made him agree to let Oliver come round to visit us. She said she'd leave him if he didn't stop tormenting everybody…

Her face was pink again, this time with excitement. He noticed that she spoke carefully and well, but the indignation strengthened the London accent. He said soothingly:

Probably he'll write to you.

Do you think he will? If you see him, make him write to me. I don't want him to go away. It's silly. It's all right now. Tell him everything's all right, won't you?

If I see him, I'll tell him. But he might not get in touch with me either.

She said with exasperation:

Isn't he silly! Why does he want to run away like that?

He shrugged and started to make some vague reply. She interrupted:

Is he trying to get away from you too?

He smiled at her penetration.

I think he's trying to get away from everybody at the moment. He's in one of his moods.

Do they last long?

He felt no inclination to admit that he had had no previous experience of them. He said:

Oh, not too long. He's sure to get in touch with one of his friends sooner or later.

But that's not me. If he doesn't want to see me, it's no good…

But I'll make sure he contacts you.

She stared at him hopefully.

How?

Oh… I'll tell him to.

But he might not want to.

All right. I'll send you his address, and you can write to him yourself.

Will you? Would you do that? I'm sure it'd be all right if I could talk to him.

Give me your address.

He took out his notebook, and wrote it down as she dictated it. She asked:

Do you think you'll see him soon?

I don't know. I'm afraid it might not be for a long time.

Oh dear. I wish I knew why he's gone.

He said uncomfortably:

I think he was a bit hurt…

Her eyes regarded him doubtfully for a moment; then she said:

About Tommy… My cousin?

He nodded. She said:

I thought they'd tell him about that. But tell him it wasn't my fault. Please tell him that. Make him understand, won't you?

I'll try to.

Oh please… I meant to tell him about it.

He said hastily:

Oh, it wasn't just that. I think all the trouble with your father and the police worried him…

She was tapping the point of her shoe on the pavement, then swinging it in short arcs around the other foot. He said uncomfortably:

I'm afraid I'd better go…

She said sadly:

I suppose I might not see him again.

He felt a flash of something like jealousy, and pulled the belt on his raincoat tighter to shake off the feeling. He said:

No. You'll see him again.

But perhaps not for a long time.

He asked:

Will it make much difference to you?

She nodded seriously.

Of course. I liked talking to him. He knew such a lot… and he was nice. And I liked to go there.

She looked up at him, and added, with sudden candour:

I don't like my brothers and sisters much.

He thrust his hands deep into the raincoat pockets, smiling at her. He said:

You're lucky you haven't got into more trouble.

I know. But it's worth it. I don't mind getting into trouble… But I hate being bored.

He said:

If you get too bored, come and see me.

Immediately, he regretted the impulse that had made him say it, ashamed to have said it to the girl who was so important to Glasp. It was a feeling of betraying Glasp. The girl asked:

Are you a painter?

No.

What then?

A writer.

Do you live around here?

I'm afraid not. I live in Camden Town.

Is that a long way?

Not very far.

Oliver came for supper, didn't he?

That's right.

She said doubtfully:

I'd like to come. But I wouldn't have to let dad know.

He said, smiling:

I hope you're not in the habit of accepting invitations to visit strange men?

Oh no. But you're not strange.

Thank you. But you don't even know my name.

What is it?

Gerard.

Yes. I know about you. Oliver told me.

He scrawled his address and telephone number on a page of his notebook, and tore it out.

Look, take this. If you want to come, you can phone me. Do you know how to make a phone call?