Ritual in the Dark (28 page)

Glasp was sitting on the bed, reading one of the Notable British Trials. He began to eat quickly, ravenously. After swallowing two mouthfuls, he said, in an oddly throaty voice:

Oaaaaah! I was bloody hungry!

Sorme said smiling: Good.

He was too preoccupied with the thought of Caroline to feel any inclination to talk. They ate in silence for ten minutes, and Sorme refilled both glasses. Glasp put his empty plate on the floor, and attracted his attention with a growl like an animal.

You said you hadn’t heard about that last murder of the Ripper?

That’s right.

It’s here.

Glasp swallowed, cleared his throat, then read:

‘In the early morning of the 18
^th
of July 1889 an unknown woman was murdered in Castle Alley, Whitechapel, her injuries being similar to those sustained by the earlier victims. At 12.15 on the morning of the murder a police constable had entered the alley and partaken of a frugal supper under a lamp. At 12.25 he left the alley to speak to another constable who was engaged on the same beat. Returning at 12.50 he found the body of a woman under a lamp where he had previously stood. The ground beneath the body was quite dry, although the clothing of the woman was wet. A shower of rain had fallen at 12.40. The murder was therefore committed between 12.25 and 12.40, when the rain commenced to fall. . .’

I didn’t see that, Sorme said. What book is it?

The trial of George Chapman.

Ah yes. I found that in the room when I moved in last Saturday. But doesn’t it say the woman wasn’t identified?

She was. It was my Great-aunt Sally. Sally McKenzie.

The wine bottle was almost empty; Sorme opened a second one. Glasp relaxed against the wall, stretching his legs on the bed and yawning. He said:

That was good. You’re bloody lucky, you know, Gerard.

Why?

Oh, enough money to do as you like.

Haven’t you?

Blimey no! My slender income comes from a bloody shark of a dealer who sucks me dry!

Does he take all your paintings?

No. Only the things he thinks he can sell. Like street scenes, and pretty-pretty landscapes.

You make a living from it. That’s something.

Not much.

Anyway, why should my few hundred a year make me lucky? The only lucky man’s the man who can create. I’ve been stuck on the same book for five years.

Why don’t you finish it?

I can’t. I keep trying. There’s something missing.

What?

Oh. . . the inspiration, I expect.

Is that all?

Sorme looked at him. It was obvious that Glasp’s mood had mellowed considerably with the meal. He said:

No, that’s not all. I’ve got other problems too.

Such as?

Sorme said, smiling:

I don’t know that I can explain them to you without your flying off the handle.

Eh? Glasp said. Me? What do you mean?

Oh. . . such as when we were discussing the Whitechapel murders earlier this evening.

Oh, that’s different. . .

Not entirely. Because I can see certain aspects of myself reflected in the murderer. Can’t you?

No. Anyway, what’s that got to do with finishing your book?

All right. I’ll try to explain. I ask myself: Why does a man commit a sex crime? I know it’s partly sheer weakness. . . But that doesn’t answer it. I read in a newspaper the other day that seventy per cent of the sex crimes in the States are committed by teenagers. Why is that, do you think?

Glasp shrugged:

Because they’ve less self-control at that age.

Not only that. Because they think they’re going to get more than they really ever get. I once read a case of a youth who was driving a lorry, and passed a girl on a lonely road. He turned the lorry round, knocked her down, and raped her in the back of his lorry. Then he dumped her body down a well and blew in the well with dynamite. They caught him eventually and electrocuted him.

He paused, to give Glasp a chance to comment. Seeing that Sorme was looking at him, Glasp said:

Well, it served him right, didn’t it?

Yes, but that isn’t what strikes me about it. What impressed me is the stupidity of it, the waste, the pathos. Try to put yourself in his place. . . Can you do that?

I expect so.

Supposing he’d got away with it. What would you feel afterwards, looking back on it. . . even if you weren’t afraid of detection? Wouldn’t it be the stupid gap between your motive and what you actually got out of it? He sees a desirable girl on a lonely road. Suddenly, she represents for him all the taboos and frustrations of his adolescence. He feels he ought to be allowed to possess her. You remember how, in Greek mythology, Zeus went around raping everybody—changed himself into a swan, a dove, a bull? He gave his sister Demeter a daughter, then raped the daughter too. . . Do you see what I mean? Well, he feels just that. . . the god’s prerogative. He revolts against his limitations, he turns the lorry around. . . But he’s not a god, and he lives in a state with laws, and the laws condemn him to death.

Glasp had begun to grin as Sorme talked. He interrupted:

And he’s not as intelligent as you seem to think either. Do you think he had any thoughts about Zeus and Leda when he turned his lorry round?

No. I’m trying to get at his feelings, even if he couldn’t express them. . .

I know. But it’s not true. He’s probably a bloody bull-necked yokel who thinks of nothing but how many women he can screw behind the dance hall on a Saturday night. When he rapes the girl, he doesn’t feel any pity for knocking her down. He doesn’t feel that, if he’d really wanted her, he could easily have made her acquaintance and seduced her without killing her. Her life doesn’t mean anything to him, or the feelings of her family. It’s all that balanced against one stupid lust, and he lets the lust win. Can you feel any sympathy after that?

I agree; you’re right. But it’s still not the whole truth. Listen to me. One day I was cycling along the Embankment when I saw a girl and a soldier looking at the river. It was a windy day, and suddenly her dress blew right over her head. And I tell you, I experienced a sensation like a kick in the stomach. For weeks afterwards, I got into a fever every time I thought of it.

Glasp interrupted:

Sounds like ordinary sexual frustration!

I know. But what would have satisfied it? I suppose, if the girl had been alone, I might have made her acquaintance. I might have finally persuaded her to come to bed. But that wouldn’t satisfy it. It’s something far more violent and instantaneous than a desire for an affair. It’s a sudden longing for far more freedom than we possess. It’s an insight into freedom—that’s the reason it’s so overpowering. What’s more, it hasn’t much to do with ordinary lust. I once had a girl friend. . . when I lived in a basement off the Marylebone Road. Well, one Sunday I made love to her more times than I would have thought possible—until I felt like a wet dish rag. I got a feeling that I’d never want a woman again in all my life, that I’d emptied myself completely. Then I walked out of my front door to get the milk, and a girl came walking past overhead in a wide skirt that swayed open and showed me her legs and thighs. And, you know, I could have carried her off to bed whooping! I was astonished to realise that I hadn’t exhausted my desire. I’d just exhausted my desire for a particular girl. My appetite for women generally was untouched.

Glasp was frowning. He had not touched his wine since Sorme refilled the glass. He said:

I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove. I don’t see what you mean about an insight into freedom.

I can’t explain easily. But it has that effect. It’s a sort of vision of more life. It makes you feel as if you’ve been robbed of the powers of a god. It’s as if we are gods, as if we’re really free, but no one realises it. And it comes back to us occasionally through sex.

Glasp murmured: D. H. Lawrence and all that.

No, not just that. It’s not just the sexual orgasm that counts. I’ve got a friend—a journalist—who’s as indefatigable as Casanova at trying to seduce women. But he doesn’t actually enjoy going to bed with them. That part bores him. He just needs to feel the conquest, to feel that he can go to bed if he wants to. I can’t explain it. . . but I feel as if we ought to be gods, as if the freedom of the gods ought to belong to us naturally, but something’s taken it away.

Glasp said, smiling: You’ll make a good Catholic yet.

I doubt it. I just feel that our slavery to sex is just a need to regain something that is naturally ours. It would be an internal condition of tremendous intensity. There wouldn’t be any more sex crime then. It’d be a state of such inner power that other people would be superfluous. The need for a woman is only the need to regain that intensity for a moment. . .

Glasp held up his hand to silence him. Sorme asked:

What is it?

Someone calling, Glasp said.

Sorme got up and went to the door. He heard the girl’s voice shouting:

Telephone! Mr Sorme.

He called: Thank you.

He hurried downstairs, experiencing the warm sense of well-being that came from food and wine. The receiver was on the hall table. He said:

Hello?

Gerard? This is Austin.

Hello, Austin! How are you?

Very well, thanks. What are you doing now?

I’ve just finished supper. . .

Are you free?

No. Oliver Glasp’s here.

Oh. . .

Sorme could heard the disappointment in his voice. Wondering if it was dislike of Glasp, he asked:

What is it?

Nothing. When is he going?

Oh. . . in a couple of hours. He’s only just arrived.

Oh.

Why? Did you want me to come over?

Well, I did, rather. Can’t you get rid of him?

Not really. Not without being impolite. You know how touchy he is. Is it anything important?

No. I’d just like to see you. Could you come in a couple of hours?

Sorme said, sighing:

No, Austin. I’m dog-tired, and I’ve been falling asleep all day. When he goes I want to sleep.

I won’t keep you up all night, I promise.

On the point of yielding, Sorme thought of the prospect of getting to Albany Street, and felt a sudden certainty that he didn’t want to go. He said:

It’s not that. I’m really fagged out. I wouldn’t be good company if I came.

Nunne said, with scarcely concealed irritation:

Oh, all right!

Let’s make it tomorrow, or some time.

I’ll ring you again.

The line went dead. Sorme hung on for a moment, wondering if they had been cut off. He replaced the phone, and returned upstairs. He said:

That was Austin.

Glasp said:

Oh yes. What did he want?

Just to know how I felt. We had a late night last night.

Did he want to see you now?

He suggested it. I told him I couldn’t.

Glasp was bending over the case of records. He said:

I think you’ll find Mr Nunne rather a demanding person before you’ve finished. . .

Yes?

Glasp was sitting on the end of the bed; he had all the records spread over the counterpane. He said:

Like all weak men, he has to use his friends as crutches.

You think he’s weak?

Don’t you?

I’m. . . not sure.

You’ll find out, Glasp said.

He selected one of the records, saying:

Unless you’d like to go on talking, what about some Mozart?

Certainly. More wine?

No, thank you. And then, if you’re agreeable, let us adjourn to the nearest pub, where I can repay some of your hospitality with a little brandy. . .

You don’t have to do that.

Nevertheless, I’d like to.

Glasp was affecting a curiously pedantic and stately manner of speaking. Sorme said, laughing:

That’s OK by me.

He put on the record, then relaxed in the armchair, closing his eyes. The events of the past twenty-four hours revolved round him as he listened; he felt as if they had happened to someone else.

*
  
*
  
*

The night was icy cold. As he came out of the Kentish Town tube, he wrapped his scarf closer round his throat, and buttoned the raincoat under his chin. Glasp had seemed completely drunk when he caught the train, but he had refused Sorme’s offer to go as far as Moorgate with him. He felt warm inside, and pleasantly tired, but not drunk.

As he was half way up the first flight of stairs, the phone began to ring. He turned and retraced his steps. The door from the basement opened, and he called:

It’s OK, Carlotte. I’ll answer it.

The voice said: Could I speak to Mr Sorme, please?

Speaking!

Gerard? I didn’t recognise your voice! This is Bill.

Hello, old boy. Where are you?

I’ve just come on to the paper for the night. We’re going out to do a news story on this Greenwich murder. Would you like to come?

What sort of a story?

Oh, you know the sort of thing. . . We go around with the police patrol and take photographs. Interested?

Well. . . I dunno. I would be, but I’m deadly sleepy. I didn’t get into bed till eight this morning. . .

All right. Well skip it then. We’d got a spare seat in the car if you wanted to come. You know the photographer, Ted Billings?

Oh yes. Well look here, thanks a lot for asking me, and any other night I’d be delighted. . . But I really am all in. But listen, Bill. If anything important crops up, let me know. I’d be quite interested to be on the spot. It’s just that I’m so sleepy at the moment. . .

OK, old boy. Don’t worry. I’ll call you some other night. Just thought you might like to come. See you later.

As he undressed he regretted being so tired. He would have enjoyed accompanying Payne on the story. He even wondered whether the thought of it might not keep him awake.

As soon as he climbed into bed, he knew better. A tide of warmth caressed him. He chewed and swallowed the last of an alkaline tablet he had taken as a precaution against a hangover, and pressed his face closer into the pillow. The thought of Caroline passed through his mind, arousing a feeling of pleasure that arose partly from the memory of asking her to stay the night, and the realisation that, even if she had accepted, he would have been incapable of making love. It was also anticipation.