Ritual in the Dark (10 page)

Can you come back tomorrow?

I think so, father.

Good. I’ll expect you. Give Austin my regards if you see him.

He’s in Switzerland at the moment.

He took the priest’s outstretched hand, and was surprised at its warmth. The flesh looked desiccated and cold.

Tell Mrs Doughty to send the two men up, please.

Certainly. Goodbye, father.

Goodbye.

Outside the door he stood still for a few moments, frowning towards the plaster image of the Virgin at the end of the badly lit corridor. Then he recollected the copy of the book he still held, and slipped it absent-mindedly into his pocket. He walked slowly towards the stairhead, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. The housekeeper startled him by appearing suddenly from a doorway on his right. She asked curtly:

Is he ready now?

Yes. He says will you send them up.

He went quickly down the stairs. The street door stood open. He went out, groping for his bicycle clips. Behind him someone called: Hey, Gerard!

Hello, Robin! Sorry. I’d forgotten you.

You don’t have to rush off, do you?

I have to go in a few minutes, he said untruthfully.

Well, come on in for a moment.

He followed Maunsell back into the reception-room. The fire was still burning. Maunsell closed the door by nudging it with his backside, asking:

Well, how did you get on with him?

Oh, fairly well.

Did you tell him about your disgraceful sex life?

A little. He talked about St John of the Cross. Then someone interrupted us.

He must have talked about St John of the Cross for a bloody long time! You’ve been gone half an hour.

I’m not keeping anything from you, really.

Aren’t you? Really? All right, I’ll believe you.

Tell me, Robin. You say you don’t know Austin Nunne at all?

Not much. I’ve seen him a couple of times.

Oh. You don’t know anything about him?

No. Not much anyway.

Do you know if he’s queer?

Yes. . . I think so. Why? Don’t you know?

Yes. I think he is. I just wondered. . .

Wait. I do know something. You mustn’t tell anyone, though.

No, of course not.

I gather he’s a bit of a sadist.

How did you gather that?

I overheard something Father Carruthers said to Dr Stein one day after Mrs Nunne had left.

What did he say—can you remember?

No. It was just an impression I got. I may be wrong. But for heaven’s sake keep it to yourself. If anyone ever accused me of telling you, I’d deny it.

Of course. I won’t tell anyone. Who’s this Dr Stein?

Oh, a friend of Father Carruthers. They used to be at theological school together. Stein’s a psychiatrist. Why?

Nothing. I’m just very curious about Austin, and about anyone who’s interested in him.

I see. You’re not falling in love with him, are you?

For Christ’s sake! Are you serious?

Well, I don’t know. I’d say there’s a definite touch of homosexuality in you. It’ll burst out one day. Probably surprise you.

You really are a fool!

You see. I bet I’m right.

Garn!

Maunsell said, chuckling:

You see. . . I bet I’m right.

I’ve got to go.

You are a cow. When are you coming again?

Tomorrow probably. Father Carruthers asked me to look in again.

I say! He’s taking you under his wing!

Maybe.

Well, come in early and see me first. Will you?

All right. I may not come at all. I’ll phone first.

Good. I always answer the phone.

Sorme stood with his hand on the doorknob; he asked:

Can’t you remember exactly what it was that Father Carruthers said to this man Stein?

Maunsell looked alarmed:

No! For heaven’s sake! Don’t mention it to anyone. I may be wrong. He might easily have been talking about someone else.

Sorme realised that Maunsell regretted telling him; he said casually:

Don’t worry. I’m not really interested. See you tomorrow.

All right. Come early.

Maunsell let him out of the door, saying: Bye-bye, my dear.

Sorme lifted his foot on to the crossbar of the bicycle to clip his trousers. He felt suddenly exhausted and discouraged.

CHAPTER FOUR

As HE wheeled the bicycle into the yard it began to rain. He covered it over with the tarpaulin. The light in the basement flat was on; as he turned away to leave the yard the curtain stirred and the girl looked out. He grinned and nodded, and her face disappeared abruptly. As he was about to insert his key in the front door, it opened. He said:

Thanks, Carlotte.

I’m glad you came. I’m going out. There’s a message for you.

Really?

Someone rang you from Switzerland. He’s going to ring back this evening.

Switzerland!

He rang just after you left. He’ll ring back about seven.

Thanks very much. Has everything quietened down now?

Yes. Only we’ve had two reporters here.

Reporters, eh? What did they want?

Oh, details about the fire. Mrs Miller talked to them. I think she likes the idea of getting into the papers.

Mmmm. That’s interesting. Did she tell them about me?

I don’t think so. Why?

I was hoping to get the George Medal.

He saw, from her blank expression, that she didn’t understand. He felt too tired to explain. As he advanced to the foot of the stairs, he asked:

Where’s Mrs Miller now?

Back in her own house. Why?

Nothing. I’m just delighted.

This time she laughed. He noted the bouncing of her breasts as she passed underneath him, and was disturbed by it. He thought: Why do I always want a woman most when I’m nervously exhausted? His legs ached as he mounted the stairs.

In his room, he lit the gas, set the kettle on it, and sank into the armchair, yawning. His thoughts revolved round the German girl. The idea of making her his mistress was more appealing than it had been earlier. He put this down to his tiredness thinking: the body’s exhaustion inflames the imagination.

The kettle began to steam. He reached out to the thermos on the table and found it half full of cold tea. He was too lazy to go to the lavatory to empty it. He shook it up, then poured the tea down the sink, turning on both taps to wash away the leaves.

What the hell could Austin be phoning me for? Where did he get the number? Soon find out. He looked at his watch: it was ten past five. Two hours. I must eat. Hungry. But after tea and a rest. The steam rose from the flask as he poured water into it. Like Vaslav. I am god. Wonder if he is a sadist? They need to beat somebody. Must ask him.

The hot tea and the heat of the gas fire were too much for him. He retreated to the bed. As he drank he began to feel sleepy, and thought irritatedly: Why should I feel sleepy? I didn’t get up till eleven. Nervous shock, perhaps. He resisted the impulse to lie down and close his eyes, and felt immediately overwhelmed by the desire to sleep. He stood up, and looked vaguely around the room for something to do. There was a case on top of the wardrobe, still not unpacked; he opened it on the bed, and began sorting out ties and handkerchiefs. In the bottom of the case he found the three Van Gogh prints, slightly corrugated with damp, that had been pinned on the walls of his old room. He selected the space over the mantelpiece for the Field of Green Corn. The Starry Night he placed at the head of the bed, where he could see it every time he faced the wall in bed. He pinned the Cornfield with Crows in the centre of the opposite wall near the door. He stood opposite the Field of Green Corn for a long time, trying to recapture a mood, without success. He concentrated, staring at it:

To renew the fiery joy and burst the stony roof. . .

For everything that lives is holy, life delights in life.

And Nunne. And the old man. And a sadistic killer of four women. My body is not ill—it is my soul that is ill. Contempt. What else is there to feel? Not my body, but my soul. Poor Vaslav. He died.

The sleepiness came back and he restrained it. Dirt. Fatigue. This room. Not anonymous, my room, a prison. The wind blew a gust of rain against the windows. But it is my consciousness. Sick and exhausted, I choose it. I choose it. It is mine. Violence. That’s it. I contain violence. I don’t want to be soothed. The violence is in the muscles, in the throat. When it explodes, I become myself. Everything that lives is holy.

He noticed the fading warmth on his shins. The flames of the gas fire were low. He groped in his trouser pockets for a shilling. In the back pocket he found a folded slip of paper; written across it in a neat feminine hand: Gertrude Quincey; phone any day after five. He searched the pockets of his jacket without finding a coin. Pulling on his raincoat, he went downstairs. On his way back into the house again, five minutes later, he stopped by the hall telephone and smoothed out the paper on the coin-box. Her voice answered almost immediately. He pressed Button A, saying:

Hello. This is Gerard Sorme speaking.

Gerard who? Oh, Austin’s friend! Hello! How are you?

I’m fine. I thought I’d like to take you up on that offer to come over some time when you’re not busy.

Yes, please do. Would you like to come to tea?

Well. . . perhaps. Are you going to be home this evening?

There was a perceptible hesitation. Finally she said:

Yes. . . What time?

He wondered why she sounded so dubious, and felt chilled:

I don’t mind. Make it some other time if this evening’s not convenient. Would you prefer to make it next week?

He had decided abruptly that if she put him off he would not contact her again. But her voice answered quickly:

No, do come this evening. I was simply wondering whether anyone else is likely to come. But I don’t think so. Come round at about seven, if you like.

Thank you. I can’t make it at seven. Austin’s ringing me.

I thought he was abroad?

He is. He’s ringing me from Switzerland.

Really! Well, come afterwards then. I’ll expect you.

She hung up while he was still thanking her. Again he had difficulty in suppressing the irritation. He went upstairs swearing under his breath. All people are swine. In his room, he put two shillings in the gas, and relit it. He poured more tea from the flask, and tasted it. It was too strong. He put on the record of Prokoviev’s fifth symphony and lay on the bed. Before the first side was half played, he had fallen asleep.

*
  
*
  
*

He woke up suddenly in the dark, and peered at his watch. The luminous hands seemed to be indicating eight o’clock. He fumbled to the light switch. It was precisely eight o’clock. The room was hot. He slipped his feet into slippers and hurried downstairs. There was no one about. He went down to the basement flat and knocked. When no one replied, he opened the door a fraction; the room was in darkness. He swore obscenely under his breath. As he started back up the stairs, the phone started to ring. He snatched it before it had time to ring a second time. The woman’s voice said:

Is Mr Sorme there, please?

Speaking.

Oh! This is Gertrude Quincey. Are you coming over?

Yes. I’m awfully sorry, but I fell asleep. I think Austin must have rung and got no reply. No one seems to be in.

Oh dear. . .

Don’t worry. I’ll start out immediately. See you in half an hour.

Good. I’d put some food out for you. . .

Thanks awfully. See you soon.

He hung up, and glared at his watch. His hair felt tousled and his eyes were still myopic with sleep. Almost immediately the phone began to ring again. A woman’s voice said:

Is Mr Sorme there?

Speaking.

Would you hold on a moment? I have a personal call from Switzerland for you.

Thanks.

Nunne’s voice sounded surprisingly clear and close.

Hello, Gerard!

Hello, Austin.

Hope I haven’t kept you waiting? I’ve been trying to get through for the past bloody hour.

No. I’ve only just woken up.

Good. How are you, dear boy?

I’m OK. What’s the idea of spending a fortune on long-distance calls?

Well. . . It’s not really important. I want you to do me a favour.

Certainly. What have you done—forgotten your tooth brush?

Nothing as bad as that! Can you hear me clearly?

Yes, very clearly.

Good. You sound rather far off. Now listen, Gerard. I’m thinking of returning to England. . .

Good.

But I’d like you to do something for me first. Would you go along to my flat, and ask the porter if anyone has been enquiring for me while I’ve been away?

Yes. Is that all?

That’s all. Just ask him if anyone has been enquiring, and who.

All right. What then?

If no one has been there, would you telegraph me here? Simply put: No one. If anyone has been enquiring, put: Please ring, and I’ll ring you tomorrow. Is that OK?

All right. You want to get details of anyone who’s enquired about you?

Yes.

Who are you trying to avoid?

Yes, I am trying to avoid someone. A rather unpleasant man. Can you do that?

All right.

You’ve got the address of the flat?

Yes. When will you ring back?

The same time tomorrow night—if anyone has enquired. Get full details, won’t you? You might also ask the girl on the switchboard. Do you mind?

No, not at all.

Good. You’ll go along there, won’t you? Don’t just phone.

No, I’ll go along.

Good. Let’s just recap. Go to my flat, ask the porter if anyone has been asking about me. Also ask the switchboard girl. If. . .

If no one, telegraph you: No one. If anyone, get details, and telegraph you: Please ring. OK? Better give me your address.

Oh yes, of course. It’s Pension Vevey, St Moritz. And I’m staying here under the name of Austin. Mr B. J. Austin.

Blimey! You are mysterious!

Not really. But don’t give my address to anyone else, will you?

Good lord, no! Who should I give it to?

Good man. . .

The pips sounded. Nunne said:

Bye-bye, Gerard. You got that address, didn’t you? Pension Vevey. V-E-V-E-Y. All right?

All right. Goodbye, Austin.

The rain had stopped, but the road was still wet and treacherous. He disliked riding on wet roads; the mudguards were inadequate, and the rain wet the bottoms of his trouser legs. He bent low over the handle-bars, and went into bottom gear to get up Haverstock Hill. Hills exhausted him; he usually wasted more energy swearing than pressing the pedals. A car came past, spraying him with muddy water; he stared after it with irritation and envy.

A clock struck the half hour as he turned out of Well Walk into the East Heath Road. He dismounted and walked up the hill.

He rang the doorbell, then leaned against the wall, perspiring and breathless. A light appeared on the other side of the glass panel. She stood there, smiling at him, looking cool and attractive.

Hello. Come in. You made it quickly.

I’m awfully sorry I’m late. . .

Don’t bother. Luckily, it was a cold supper. Yes, hang your coat up there.

She was wearing a black-and-green dress of some shiny material, that left most of her arms bare. She had the figure of a sum teenage girl. He looked at her with admiration as she preceded him into the kitchen.

I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen? It’s easier.

Of course not.

You haven’t eaten?

No. I fell asleep at about six. Austin rang me immediately after you’d rung.

Really? What did he want?

Oh. . . it seems rather odd. He wants me to find out if there are any messages waiting at his flat for him.

Strange. I wonder why he couldn’t have rung them directly?

Sorme dried his hands on a small tea-towel, then sat down at the table. She asked:

Soup?

Please.

As she stood over the stove, her back towards him, he could examine her figure at leisure. Her hips lacked roundness; they were almost a boy’s hips; but the slimness of her waist appealed to him. He was trying to imagine how she would look undressed, when she turned round. He looked away hastily. She placed the bowl of soup on the cork mat, leaning across him to do so. If he had leaned forward slightly, he could have kissed her upper arm. The smell of her body was clean, but unperfumed. He asked her:

Do you live here completely alone?

Yes.

No one at all?

She said, smiling:

I’m very seldom alone. There’s nearly always someone here. Members of the group usually come three or four evenings a week. Then I have a niece who stays frequently. . .

The Jehovah’s Witnesses?

Yes. Then I have many friends in Hampstead.

He took a mouthful of the soup, and realised how hungry he was. A sensual gratitude rose from his stomach, and made him smile at her. She sat opposite him, and took a partly sewn tweed skirt from a white paper carrier which carried the inscription: Harrods. She took out a needle that had been pushed into the edge of the fabric, and began to sew carefully. He asked casually: What are you making?

A skirt.

Do you always do your own dressmaking?

Usually.

He finished the soup and pushed the plate away.

That was excellent.

Good.

She stood up silently and opened the refrigerator; it was taller than she was.

You’re not a vegetarian, are you?

He said enthusiastically: Positively not! The plate contained a leg of chicken and three slices of ham.

Help yourself to salad.

Thanks.

Would you like a glass of beer?

I’d love some!

He ate hungrily and drank half a pint of brown ale. It gave him pleasure to see her sitting opposite him, her head bent over the sewing. He helped himself to more salad, selecting with care the leaves of chicory and fragments of green paprika. He asked her suddenly:

Were you never married?

He knew the answer already, but wanted to see her reaction to the topic. It surprised him. She looked at him with obviously suppressed irritation, and answered:

No.

I hope you don’t mind my asking?

Not at all.

Her voice still had a sharp edge to it. He went on eating, and poured a second glass of beer, wondering why the question had annoyed her. He said carefully:

You make me feel that I shouldn’t have brought it up.

She went on sewing. He began to think she intended to ignore him, as a measure of her disapproval. Then she began to speak, still looking down at the sewing, her voice level and precise:

It doesn’t annoy me to be asked. What annoys me is the assumption that usually underlies the question. Male bachelors are quite ordinary and acceptable, but unmarried women are called ‘spinsters’ and regarded as somehow incomplete. It’s all this nonsense of Byron about love being a man’s pastime, but a woman’s whole life. . .

Normally, her sentiments would have struck him as dubious. But the meal had left him feeling good-humoured and in her debt. He said hastily:

I agree completely. It’s utter nonsense. Of course women have every right to be as independent as men. . .

She interrupted:

I didn’t say that. I don’t believe most women are as naturally independent as men. But I have my own work to do, and marriage would. . . distract me.

And what is your work?

She smiled at him suddenly, and the school mistressy expression was replaced by a charm that made her appear younger.