Ritual in the Dark

PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE

He came out of the Underground at Hyde Park Corner with his head lowered, ignoring the people who pressed around him and leaving it to them to steer out of his way. He disliked the crowds. They affronted him. If he allowed himself to notice them, he found himself thinking: Too many people in this bloody city; we need a massacre to thin their numbers. When he caught himself thinking this, he felt sick. He had no desire to kill anyone, but the hatred of the crowd was uncontrollable. For the same reason, he avoided looking at the advertisements that line the escalators of London tubes; too many dislikes were triggered off by the most casual glimpse. The half-clothed forms that advertised women's corsets and stockings brought a burning sensation to his throat, an instantaneous shock, like throwing a match against a petrol-soaked rag.

A thin brown drizzle fell steadily; the passing traffic sprayed muddy water. He buttoned the raincoat and turned up its collar, then opened the woman's umbrella he carried suspended by its loop from his wrist. The crowd thinned as he crossed Grosvenor Crescent; he walked more slowly, enjoying the noise of the rain on the umbrella.

Outside the gilded wrought-iron gates he stopped and fumbled for his money. The doorway of the house was hidden by a striped tent surmounted by a Russian onion dome; on either side of this stood statues of two enormous Negroes, leaning on the marble archway that formed the entrance to the tent. He lowered the umbrella, shaking it to dislodge the raindrops. Behind the Negroes, the walls of the house looked black and desolate.

The entrance hall smelt of damp clothes. A queue of half a dozen people was waiting at the boxoffice. The inside walls of the tent were covered with red and gold striped paper.

There was some delay at the boxoffice. A middle-aged man was protesting with a foreign voice:

Nevertheless, I am a student at the London School of Economics. It is merely that I have forgotten my card. I have a British Museum Reading Room card if that is any good…

Sorme produced a book from the side pocket of his jacket, and began to read. The queue moved forward again.

He became aware that the man in front of him was looking down at his book, trying to read its title from the page heading. He looked up, and met a pair of narrow, brown eyes, that turned away immediately with embarrassment. In that moment, he had registered a thin, long-jawed face that in some way struck him as oddly familiar. It was ugly, in a pleasant way, covered with small indentations that could have been pock-marks. A moment later, the man bought his ticket, and Sorme had a chance to observe him more fully. The examination brought no recognition. He was taller than Sorme, although Sorme was slightly over six feet tall. His dark grey suit was well cut. The thin face had high cheekbones, and eyes that slanted. It was so familiar that Sorme stared a moment too long, and suddenly found himself looking into the slanting brown eyes again.

They smiled at him briefly as the man turned away, and Sorme was suddenly certain that he had never seen him before. The ticket-seller was asking: Student?

Yes.

One and sixpence please. Catalogue?

The stairway that led out of the tent curved round the canvas walls, and exposed the rusty scaffolding that supported it. He walked quickly, disliking the unpleasant memories aroused by the scaffolding. The stairs led to a doorway that had been constructed from a first-floor window, and formed the entrance to the exhibition. The first room immediately dissipated the mood of dislike. It had been designed to look like a Paris street, with iron railings, and a view of the Seine between the houses. Under the leaves of an overhanging tree, a huge poster displayed the words: THEATRE DES CHAMPS ELYSEES. BALLETS RUSSES. The enormous drawing of Nijinsky as the Spectre of the Rose was signed by Cocteau.

The place was warm; there was no one else in the room, and he lost the feeling of tension that the rain and the crowds had induced. There was a sound of music coming from a loudspeaker in another room. He slipped the book back into the jacket pocket, plunged his hands deep into his raincoat pockets, and gave himself up completely to the sense of nostalgia evoked by the room. He stood there for a few moments unmoving, until he heard footsteps and voices on the stairway, then walked quickly past the poster of Pavlova that faced Nijinsky, and mounted the narrow wooden stair to the second floor.

The music was louder there. He recognised the final dance from The Firebird, the soft, drawn-out horn call. It sent a warm shock of pleasure through the muscles of his back and shoulders, and stirred the surface of his scalp. People were already mounting the stairs behind him. He hurried on into the well-lit room. There was only one other person in it: the man who had stood in front of him in the queue. The voices and footsteps that came from the stairway drove him forward into the next room. A violent hatred arose in him of the talking people who talked away emotions into words. A drawling, cultured voice was saying:

… and we nearly got a snap of him. He was there on the beach, just changing into a pair of bathing trunks. Lettie grabbed her camera, but she wasn't quick enough… he got them on. Should have been worth something — a shot of Picasso in the raw…

The music had stopped. The voice faltered, embarrassed at the silence. Abruptly the music began again, a violent, discordant clamour that exploded in the small room and drowned all other sounds. He recognised Prokoviev's Scythian Suite, and smiled. The din was shaking the glass case in the middle of the room; it isolated him as effectively as silence. He examined with satisfaction a design by Benois.

The rooms were not crowded. He worked through them slowly, returning to the first room when the people behind him — an army officer with two girls — caught up with him.

An hour later, the loudspeakers were relaying The Three-cornered Hat, and he was again on the first floor, in the portrait gallery. The heat was making him sleepy.

There was a curious scent hanging in the air which he half-suspected of possessing an anaesthetic quality. As he paused in front of a portrait of Stravinsky, he noticed the bust.

It stood on a cube of marble, directly below an oil painting of a ballerina in a white dress.

The inscription underneath said: Nijinsky, by Una Troubridge. He had remembered then of whom the stranger reminded him. It was Nijinsky.

Somewhere, a long time before, he had seen a photograph that caught the same expression, and the thin, faun-like face had impressed itself on his mind. As he stared at it now, the resemblance was no longer so obvious. Automatically he looked around to see if the man was anywhere near. He was not. Idly, he wondered whether he might be any relation of Nijinsky, his son perhaps. He could remember no son; only a daughter.

Anyway, the bust was not really like him. It was not really like Nijinsky either; it had been idealised.

The man was in the Chirico room at the top of the stairs; he stood, leaning on an umbrella, examining one of the designs. Sorme crossed the room and stood close to him, where he could watch his face out of the corner of his eye. The resemblance was certainly there; it had not been imagination. By turning his head a little more, as if examining the design to his left, he could examine the face in profile.

Without looking at him, the stranger said abruptly:

He should have done more ballet designs.

For a moment, Sorme supposed he was addressing somebody on his left-hand side, then realised, equally quickly, that they were alone in the room. The man had not turned his face from the design he was examining. Sorme said: I beg your pardon?

Chirico. He never did anything better than these designs for Le Bal. Don't you agree?

I don't know, Sorme said, I don't know his work.

The stranger looked at him and smiled, and Sorme realised that he must have been watching him in the glass covering the design ever since he came in. He began to feel slightly irritated and embarrassed. Something in the man's voice told him instantly he was a homosexual. It was a cool, slightly drawling voice.

You know, the man said, I could have sworn I knew you when you came in. Do I?

I don't think so.

The eyes rested on him detachedly; he had the air of a Regency buck studying a horse. Sorme thought: Damn, he thinks I'm queer too.

I thought you knew me, the man said, you looked at me as if you knew me.

His voice was suddenly apologetic. Sorme's irritation disappeared. He cleared his throat, lowering his eyes.

As a matter of fact, I did think I recognised you. But I don't think that's possible.

Perhaps. My name is Austin Nunne. I was quite sure I knew you,

Austin Nunne…? Did you write a book on ballet?

Yes. And a slim volume on Nijinsky.

Sorme was excited and pleased, as the memory returned: the photograph of Nijinsky.

Of course I remember you. I've read them both. So that's why I thought I knew you!

You surprise me. It's a very bad photograph of me on the dust jacket.

No, I haven't seen that. But the photograph of the Nijinsky bust. Wasn't that in your book?

The Una Troubridge? O no. Karsarvina found this one in a junk-shop in St Martin's Lane. I didn't even know it existed. But I think I know what you mean. The photo of Nijinsky in L'Apres-Midi. The head and shoulders?

Sorme suddenly felt irritated and depressed. He felt that his enthusiasm had placed him in the position of an admirer, a 'fan'. Nunne suddenly turned away, saying in a bored voice:

Anyway, they're neither of them very typical of Nijinsky. To tell the truth, I used that L'Apres-Midi photo because friends said it looked like me.

Sorme looked at his watch, saying: Well, I hope you didn't mind my asking?

Not at all. Are you in a hurry to go? Have you been all round?

No. But I've been here for an hour and a half. I don't feel as if I could take any more.

You're undoubtedly right. It's my fourth time around. I saw it when it opened in Edinburgh.

Sorme said embarrassedly: I must go.

Look here, why don't you come and have a drink? It's about opening time.

Sorme hesitated, and at the same time felt angry with himself for hesitating. He was interested by the feelings of attraction and repulsion that Nunne aroused in him. He had no particular dislike of homosexuals, but was aware that the consequences of being picked up by one could be difficult. He said uncertainly:

I don't know any pubs near here.

I do. Lots. Come and have a quick one. I always like meeting people who are interested in ballet. How are you travelling? Tube?

Yes.

That settles it. They're beastly at this hour. You'd much better hang around for a while.

Sorme followed him down the stairs. Nunne said over his shoulder:

You haven't told me your name.

Gerard Sorme.

Sorme? That's an odd name. What is it, French?

I don't know. My family come from Yorkshire. My father thinks it's a Yorkshire version of Soames.

They were passing through the portrait gallery. Sorme asked him:

Do you notice that odd scent?

Yes. Do you know what it is?

No.

It's called 'Mitsouko'. It was Diaghilev's favourite scent. Oriental. You'll smell it much stronger in here.

They were passing through a room lit by blue bulbs, that had been designed to look like a haunted theatre. There the scent was overpowering. It seemed to emanate from old ballet costumes that hung in the blue air, surrounded by backstage scenery. The scent followed them down a short corridor, through a room hung with caricatures, and out on to a wide staircase that had been decorated with a tableau representing the legend of the Sleeping Beauty. The music met them loudly as they came down the staircase. Nunne walked jauntily, swinging his umbrella. He had the graceful walk of a dancer. There was a faint touch of the theatrical in his manner as he descended the staircase. He asked Sorme:

What made you read my books? Are you interested in ballet?

I used to be once. Not now.

Where do you study?

What makes you think I'm a student?

You've got a student's ticket sticking out of your top pocket. Anyway, you look like one.

They were outside again, standing near the immense Negro statues, and the drizzle fell steadily.

I'm not a student, Sorme said, but for some reason everyone supposes I am. I suppose it's the scruffy appearance.

He was wondering how he could indicate to Nunne, as quickly and as tactfully as possible, that he was not homosexual. He started to raise the umbrella, but Nunne stopped him:

Don't bother. That's my car over there. Let's run for it.

It was a long, red sports model with a canvas hood. Nunne yanked open the unlocked door and Sorme slid past the steering wheel, into the passenger seat. The car made a neat half-turn and glided forward towards Wellington Place. Nunne grumbled: I suppose there'll be a bloody traffic jam all the way from here to Piccadilly Circus.

Sorme stared at the moving windscreen wipers, and at the red light of the traffic-signal that burst in red drops over the unwiped area of the windscreen.

Nunne began to sing softly to himself:

Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles…

The car turned into Dover Street. Nunne said softly: It's our lucky day. Come on, move out, old son.

A car in front of them was pulling out from the pavement; Nunne slid neatly into the empty space and braked abruptly. He said:

Three cheers. We've arrived. Open your door.

Sorme stepped out on to the pavement, and immediately raised the umbrella.

Nunne slammed the door shut. He said, chuckling:

For God's sake put that thing down. The local coppers will think you're soliciting.

Soliciting?

They'll think you're trying to advertise your sex to the local queers.

I'm not queer, Sorme said bluntly. He lowered the umbrella. Nunne said, laughing: Don't be silly. I wasn't serious. I didn't suppose you were.

They crossed the road, avoiding a taxi. They turned again into Piccadilly. Nunne steered him towards a lighted doorway:

Here we are. After you.

The air was pleasantly warm. Sorme was helped out of the raincoat by a man in a red uniform, who handed the coat and umbrella to the cloakroom attendant. The man nodded at Nunne as if he knew him well:

Evenin', sir.

Evening, George.

There were only two other men in the bar. Nunne indicated a corner seat for Sorme; it was deep and comfortable.

What are you having?

Beer?

They don't have draught. You can have a lager.

That's fine, Sorme said uncomfortably. He was trying to remember how much money he had on him, and how long it had to last. He crossed his knees, and felt the trousers damp. He stared down at the frayed turnups, and at the leather strips sewn on to the cuffs of his jacket. The poverty of his appearance did not embarrass him, but he had never entirely lost a sense of its disadvantage. He thought: I wonder if they'd let me into this place on my own? and decided it was unlikely.

Nunne set the glass of lager in front of him. He seated himself opposite Sorme in a rush-backed lounge chair, and poured the entire contents of a bottle of ginger ale into a large whisky. He took a big gulp of it, then set it down, sighing:

Ah, it'll be the death o' me yit, jist like me poor feyther. Cigarette, Gerard?

No thanks, I don't smoke.

You don't mind me calling you Gerard?

Of course not.

Good. And I'm Austin.

Sorme tasted the beer. It was ice-cold.

Tell me, Gerard. If you're not a student, what do you do?

Nothing much. I'm writing a book.

But how do you live? Journalism?

No, I've had a very small private income since I was twenty-one..

Which was…?

Five years ago. I just about scrape along. So I'm really one of the idle rich. Except that I'm not rich.

Are you idle?

Pretty idle.

Like me, then. I thought I recognised a fellow spirit as soon as I saw you. What were you reading, by the way?

Sorme pulled the dog-eared paperback out of his pocket. He said laughing:

Sex for beginners. By Frank Harris.

My Life and Loves. I never read Harris, is it good?

It's quite astonishing.

How? In what way?

I never cease to gasp with amazement at the way he leaps in and out of bed. I wonder whether such men really exist.

Why not?

I mean with such a promiscuous appetite. It astounds me. You remember that Nijinsky slept with his wife for several nights before he made love to her? That's natural.

That's the way it should be.

You're interested in Nijinsky?

Yes.

Why? You never saw him dance.

Sorme stared into his glass, trying to find the words that expressed it precisely. It was impossible; he didn't know Nunne well enough. He said:

It's difficult to explain…

Wait. Let's get some more drinks first.

Not for me. I can't drink any more beer.

Have a scotch, then.

All right, but let me…

No, no, no. You sit still.

He signalled to the waiter, calling: Two large scotches and two dries.

Go on, Gerard. About Nijinsky.

Sorme asked, laughing:

Why are you so anxious to make me talk? What do I know that might interest you?

A great many things, I should imagine. I already know some interesting things about you.

Such as?

That you're twenty-six, have a small independent income, and don't like work.

That is interesting in itself. Too much leisure demoralises most people. You can see it in their faces. You, on the other hand, have an interesting face. It is not a self-indulgent face. Immediately, I wonder: What does he do with his leisure? You haven't enough money to waste it flying aeroplanes, or gadding off to other countries, as I do. What do you do with your leisure?

Sorme said: Nothing much. I try to do nothing.

The waiter set the drinks down on the table. Nunne dropped a pound note on the tray.

Prosit, Nunne said, raising the glass.

Cheers, Sorme said.

The waiter handed Nunne his change and Nunne dropped a coin on to his tray.

Sorme drank a large mouthful of the scotch. Tears came to his eyes. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously, then, noticing the colour of the handkerchief, pushed it hastily back into his pocket. Nunne looked up from the book on the table, and tossed it over to Sorme.

I can't imagine that sort of thing appealing to you.

Sorme shrugged, and emptied the bottle of ginger ale into the scotch. It was a considerable improvement.

I read a lot.

Nunne smiled at the evasion. He sipped his drink thoughtfully, staring past

Sorme's head. He asked slowly:

What is this book you're writing about?

I'll give you one guess, Sorme said.

Nijinsky?

Right.

Really? Does it cover any of the same ground as my book?

Not really. This is a novel.

He drank down half of the scotch and dry ginger, and realised that he was feeling relaxed and contented. Now he was no longer worried about the nature of Nunne's interest in him, he was beginning to like Nunne.

Tell me about your novel, Nunne said.

I can't do that. It's not really about Nijinsky. It's about Nijinsky's state of mind.

What do you know about that?

He believed in himself. Most people don't.

Half a dozen more people had come into the bar, businessmen. A young man with a young woman in furs.

Sorme felt the talk rising in him, checked only by a desire not to bore Nunne. He leaned forward, saying:

When I think about Nijinsky, then I look at these people, I feel a sort of incredulousness. You know he says in the Diary, Life is difficult because no one knows the importance of it. I picture him walking round the streets at night like a high-pressure boiler, almost bursting…

He stopped; Nunne's face was perfectly attentive, listening with a gravity that was flattering to him.

You see, I see it this way. Supposing that at the end of your life you had a vision of everything — everything in the universe, all at once. A sort of vision of God. It would justify everything. If you could have a vision like that it would make the world different.

You'd live like a fiend, like a possessed man. Because you'd know it meant something, that it wasn't meaningless. Look. None of these people live a whole life. They only live a few odd days at a time. It's like never eating a full meal, but getting an occasional mouthful every few hours. Or like not hearing a symphony in one sitting, but hearing two or three notes at a time, spread over several months. That's how they live. Well, some people don't live like that.

Nunne interrupted smoothly: How are you so sure Nijinsky didn't?

No, he didn't, Sorme said.

Nunne offered him the open cigarette case; Sorme shook his head saying: Thanks,

I don't. Nunne lit a cigarette, looking at him over the lighter. He breathed out a mouthful of smoke, saying contentedly:

You really are a very odd person, Gerard.

Sorme finished the whisky, staring hard at Nunne. He signalled again to the waiter, and waved a hand at the two glasses. He said deliberately:

It's not oddness. I am convinced that life can be lived at twenty times its present intensity… somehow. I spend all I my life looking for the way to it. I envy madmen. But somehow I never get closer to it myself. But I cling to symbols. Nijinsky is one of my symbols.

The waiter set down two more large whiskies. Sorme said:

I'll get these.

No. No. Please.

As the waiter went away, Sorme asked: Why should you pay for my drinks?

Because my father's disgustingly rich.

Oh.

You look shocked!

No. Tell me, what do you do with your time?

Ah, there you touch a delicate subject. I have developed fifty different ways of wasting it. I write books — not very good ones. I attend all the concerts and operas and ballets. I fly to Vienna and Milan and Berlin for concerts. If I was just a little more worthless I'd drink two bottles of pernod a day and kill myself in a year. As it is, I fly a plane and like fast cars.

Sorme said, disingenuously: You're not married, of course?

No, I never met anyone I wanted to settle down with. For some reason, I prefer bitches. I don't suppose you understand that?

No, I don't really. I hate bitches — of any sex.

You obviously lack a masochistic leaning.

I hate pain of any sort — to myself or anyone else.

Ah, you talk like a moralist, Gerard. One shouldn't be a moralist.

You don't understand. It's not a matter of morality. It's what I said before — you have to work on the assumption that there could be a vision of the total meaning of life.

And if that's possible, everyone ought to live as if that was the aim.

Ah, you are a moralist, Gerard. You ought to meet my aunt. You'd like her.

Why?

She's a moralist too. She disapproves of me. Jehovah's Witness. Believes the Last Judgment'll happen any day now. That's what you want, isn't it? People believing in the Last Judgment.

You're damn right. It's just what I want.

Shall I tell you what I want?

What?

Something to eat. Shall we go and have a meal?

Where?

Anywhere. Leoni's or Victor's or somewhere.

I have to go.

Oh no. It's not the money that worries you, is it? I've got lots on me. Look.

Nunne produced his wallet and waved it vaguely under Sorme's nose. Sorme caught a glimpse of a wad of notes. He realised that Nunne was becoming drunk: he also suspected that he was behaving as if he were more drunk than he actually was.

No, really. I'd rather not.

But you must. I don't want you to go yet. You don't want to go yet, do you?

No, but…

Well, we can't drink any more on empty stomachs. I'm getting disgustingly drunk already. Had no lunch. So we'd better go and eat. C'mon, boy.

As the uniformed man helped Sorme into his raincoat, Nunne said:

Let me into a secret, Gerard. Why on earth do you carry a woman's umbrella?

Sorme took the umbrella from the man, and handed him a shilling.

It's not mine. It's my landlady's daughter's. She insisted on lending it to me when I came out today.

They came out into the rain again. Sorme felt fortified against it and happy. It was the first time for several years that he had been drunk, and the sensation delighted him.

Nunne grasped his elbow and squeezed it, asking:

Has this girl got a thing about you?

I suspect so. At least, her mother does. And she suspects me of taking base advantage of it — or of being about to. She gave me notice last week.

Really? What do you intend to do?

Nunne backed the car slightly, then pulled out expertly.

I'm moving to another place tomorrow morning.

Whereabouts?

Kentish Town. I'm living in Colindale at the moment.

My God, that's up Bedford way, isn't it?

Not quite that far. It's near the newspaper library, which is rather useful. But the new place'll be more convenient for the British Museum.

And is the daughter moving with you too?

No fear. She's a sweet girl, but I don't want to go to bed with her.

How virtuous of you. Get out of the way, you stupid bastard.

This was addressed to a taxi-driver who was turning his taxi in the middle of Brewer Street. Nunne honked his horn twice. It had a braying, brassy tone. As the taxi came past them, the driver shouted:

Tike yer bloody time, can't yer?

Swine, Nunne said serenely. If we lived in the Middle Ages I'd have him hanged, drawn and quartered for that.

The car shot forward, narrowly missing a pedestrian who came out from between two parked cars.

Fool! Nunne screamed.

You should drive a juggernaut chariot. It'd be more in your style.

Nunne said indignantly: All drivers should be more dangerous. That would reduce the number of careless pedestrians. Eventually, there'd only be careful ones left.

What about when you're a pedestrian?

I'd carry a gun. All pedestrians should carry tommy guns to shoot at dangerous drivers. That'd make London far more interesting.

The car cruised down Dean Street. Nunne said:

Not a single bloody parking place in Soho… Ah! We are in luck tonight.

An Anglia pulled out of a row of parked cars. Nunne slid past the empty space and backed into it. He turned the engine off.

You're so good-tempered, Gerard. You obviously don't hate people as much as I do.

Sorme said, smiling:

You obviously don't know me as well as I do.

Nunne commanded good service. The manager came to their table and made a polite speech about being delighted to see him. Their waiter was obsequious; he exuded a desire to please.

You seem well known here.

Sorme was not interested; he said it only to make conversation.

I've changed my restaurant a dozen times in two years. I haven't been here for over a fortnight, so they probably assumed they wouldn't ever see me again.

Why do you change?

Nunne masticated and swallowed slowly the last mouthful of smoked salmon. He said, sighing:

Sheer pettiness, Gerard. I get offended about little things. I know damn' well I'm being silly, but I get offended all the same.

Sorme regarded him with mistrust, mixed with a certain disappointment, feeling as if Nunne had confessed to a tendency to shoot at old ladies with a revolver. Nunne seemed not to notice. When the waiter filled his glass, he drained the Chianti without lowering it.

Nunne had ordered roast duck, cooked with paprika and cheese. When it arrived he stopped talking and gave full attention to the food, speaking only to reply to acquaintances who came past the table. When this happened Sorme did not look up; he was aware of being regarded with curiosity. He could almost feel the conjectures being made, and he ate quickly and mechanically to conceal the irritation.

He had difficulty in dissuading Nunne from ordering a second bottle of wine. His motives were purely selfish; he knew that if he drank another half bottle, he would be sick before the end of the evening.

The rain had stopped when they left. Sorme walked contentedly beside Nunne, now feeling happier in the anonymity of the Soho crowd. His feelings about Nunne were mixed. He calculated that the meal he had just eaten was the most expensive he had eaten in his life. The sight of the six pound notes Nunne had dropped on to the waiter's plate had shocked him; it represented a week's food and rent. The most he had ever paid for a meal had been ten shillings. He felt a certain gratitude for Nunne's generosity, now that he had ceased to suspect his motives. But a faint dislike rose in him periodically. There was something distinctly repellent about Nunne. It had to do with the combination of coarseness and femininity in him. The brown hair was long and silky, almost beautiful, a woman's hair. The teeth were irregular and yellowish; two at the front were pointed, canine. When he looked closely at the face, no scars were visible; it was hard to determine what produced the pock-marked effect. When he had asked Nunne, as they drank coffee and vodka, Nunne had said briefly: Car accident, and drawn his finger along a faint, hardly perceptible line that ran across the left cheek, parallel with the jaw.

What would you like to do now, Gerard?

Do you think I might buy you a drink now?

I see no reason why not, dear boy. Let's go into the French, shall we, that is, if we can sit down.

The pub was crowded. Nunne was immediately hailed by a short, leathery-faced drunk.

Carl Castering, Nunne said. This is Gerard Sorme.

The man seized Sorme's hand, and looked into his face with the liquid eyes of a drunk.

You're very good-looking, Gerard. Don't you think he looks like Rimbaud,

Austin? Don't you, though?

Sorme allowed his hand to be caressed between two damp palms, then withdrew it. He asked Nunne:

What will you drink?

Straight scotch for me.

Sorme asked the drunk: Will you have a drink?

The leathery face turned to him coquettishly.

Why, that's awfully sweet of you. Yes, I will. Scotch and water.

Sorme finally attracted the barmaid's attention. He passed two whiskies back to Nunne and his friend. They stood, wedged together in the crush, holding their glasses tightly.

Nunne said: Carl is one of the best photographers in London, Gerard.

Castering leered at Sorme, then suddenly regarded him seriously:

I would like you to sit for me, Gerard. Would you do that?

Only if I'm present, Nunne said lightly.

Why? Don't you trust me with him?

I was joking, Nunne said.

He said to Sorme: Drink up and let's find somewhere less crowded.

Sorme obediently threw back the whisky. It no longer made his eyes water.

Outside, Sorme asked him: Is he a friend of yours — Carl?

Swine, Nunne said shortly. Masochist. But a damn good photographer.

They walked slowly along Old Compton Street, keeping close to avoid being separated by the crowd. Outside the Cinerama theatre Nunne was saluted by the uniformed man who controlled the queue.

You seem to know everyone.

He worked as a chucker-out at a place I knew once.

They stopped to look at the coloured pictures, displayed behind glass, that showed scenes from the film. Sorme, glancing up at Nunne, suddenly caught a look of revulsion and absorption. Nunne was staring at a photograph of a switchback car swooping over a hump. A pretty, plump girl stared at the camera, holding her dress over her knees, but the sides of the dress, caught by the wind, revealed the tops of her stockings and suspenders.

Nunne turned away abruptly, saying:

Let's go, Gerard.

Sorme said, laughing: I didn't think you liked women.

Nunne said: What do you mean?

Nothing; you were staring at that girl as if she fascinated you. The look passed over Nunne's face again, then disappeared. He said, smiling:

She does. Come on.

They walked back to the car.

Where now, Gerard?

Sorme said, dubiously: I'd like a little quiet.

So would I. What about my flat?

Where is it?

Near Portland Street station.

I'd rather stick to somewhere closer to my way home. I ought to think of getting back.

Where do you live?

Hendon. Until tomorrow.

Of course. All right, we'll head that way. I know rather a good little pub in Hampstead we might go to. Quiet.

Hampstead? Is that on the way?

Certainly. We can cut over to the Hendon Way. Straight route.

They moved slowly along Old Compton Street. Nunne blew the horn; it emitted a gentle, warning note. Nunne said, grinning: Excellent invention this. I can adjust the tone and volume of the horn. Loud and blatant for the open road; gentle and, as it were, coaxing for London crowds. Come on, shift, you stupid bastards, or I'll turn the cow-catcher on. This is the only part of London that reminds me of Hamburg's Reeperbahn.

Do you know Hamburg, Gerard?

Sorme said abstractedly: No. He had been staring at his watch for half a minute without registering the time. It was ten past nine.

As they passed Chalk Farm station, Nunne said suddenly:

I know. Let's go to my aunt's place. She'll give us a drink.

Who's your aunt?

You'd like her. Her name's Gertrude, and she's not really my aunt, but she's terribly sweet. She lives all on her own in a house in the Vale of Health, and never sees anyone. She likes me to drop in. Unless she's holding a meeting.

What kind of a meeting?

Jehovah's Witness. It's her only vice. But she's really rather sweet.

Sorme said with dismay: You're not serious, are you?

Why not?

About her being a Jehovah's Witness?

Oh yes, quite serious about that.

But — I mean — they're quite up the wall, aren't they?

Couldn't say, dear boy. I don't know a thing about them. She's never tried to convert me. Anyway, we don't have to stay if you can't bear her. But she'll give us a drink, anyway.

Sorme relaxed into the seat. He had a feeling that he would not get home early after all, and he was too drunk to care deeply. The prospect of changing his lodgings, which had worried him for a week past, now seemed unimportant. He closed his eyes and tried to calculate how much he had drunk. The car braked suddenly, throwing him forward.

Nunne said: Sorry, old boy. I get used to driving my other car, and it brakes gentler than this. Smashed it up last week.

The road was completely deserted. On one side of it the Heath rose steeply; Sorme stepped out and slammed the door. The cool air wakened him; the car-heater had come close to sending him to sleep. Nunne was groping in the leather pocket behind the door; an electric torch clicked in his hand. Sorme followed him through the gateway, into complete blackness. About fifty yards away a light was burning in a doorway, trees shed rain from their leaves as the wind rocked them; Sorme turned his face up to catch the wet drops. He said dreamily:

Does your aunt enjoy living in the middle of nowhere?

She hates it, actually. She's always threatening to move nearer town, but the Heath's so lovely in the summer.

The light that burned in the porch was a square lantern, with a pointed electric bulb inside it. Nunne rang the doorbell. A moment later, a light appeared behind the glass panes that covered the upper half of the door. A woman's voice called: Who is it?

Austin.

Austin!

The door was opened by a small, slim woman.

This is Gerard Sormes, Gertrude. Gerard's a writer.

Do come in. I was just thinking about going to bed.

Don't worry. We shan't stay all night.

I didn't mean that. Stay as long as you like.

She led them into a long, comfortably furnished sitting-room.

Are you hungry? Have you had supper?

Yes, thanks. An hour ago.

Would you like a drink?

Rather!

You know where it is. Help yourself. I'm having some cocoa.

She switched on the electric fire, and went out. Nunne opened the sideboard, and took out a bottle of whisky. Sorme glimpsed an array of bottles in the cupboard; he asked:

Does your aunt entertain a lot?

Not much. She mixes with two lots. A sort of Hampstead literary crowd — most awful lot of goddam squares you ever saw — and her soul-savers. They're about as bad.

She takes care never to invite them here on the same evenings.

Why?

When her soul-savers come, she hangs up a banner: Beware the Demon Drink — over the booze cupboard. When the literary crowd descends, she has to hire a navvy to cart them home in a wheelbarrow.

The woman came in again, carrying a cup on a tray. She asked:

How is your mother, Austin?

In excellent condition, thanks. She's coming to London next week.

Will she be staying with you?

She'll be at my place. I shan't be there, though. Going to join some friends at St Moritz.

She sat down opposite them. There was something about her that Sorme found very attractive. He would have guessed her age to be about forty. In some way, she managed to give the impression of being well-dressed without seeming to care about her appearance. The tweed skirt was well-cut, but it had started to come unzipped at the waist. The mouth and chin were firm, slightly schoolmistressy. But there was something curiously anonymous about her: she was the kind of person he would not have noticed if she had sat opposite him on the tube.

I didn't catch your name.

Sorme. Gerard Sorme.

Nunne said: I thought it was Sormes.

No.

What do you write, Mr Sorme?

Sorme said embarrassedly: Austin shouldn't have introduced me as a writer. I've only ever published a few poems in magazines.

Are you a Catholic?

He said with surprise: No, why?

I wondered…

Nunne said: He's an atheistic freethinker, with inclinations to Catholicism. Aren't you, Gerard?

Austin, behave yourself!

She smiled at Sorme, as if excluding Nunne from the conversation.

You're not a freethinker, are you?

No… I don't suppose so.

What are you then? Nunne asked.

Gertrude said reproachfully: Austin, do behave yourself. Have you been drinking?

Certainly not. Not much anyway. Another, Gerard?

Sorme said hastily: No thanks. I haven't finished this.

Nunne had given him a tumbler half full of neat whisky, and he was wondering whether he could find some opportunity to pour it back into the bottle.

I really don't think you ought to, Austin. It can't be good for your tummy.

Nunne stood up, a little unsteadily:

No doubt you're right, Gertrude. 'Scuse me, dears.

He went out of the room. Sorme watched her eyes following him.

He really is rather drunk, isn't he? she asked him.

I dare say he is. I am, a bit.

You don't look it. Are you used to drink?

No.

I didn't think so. Have you known Austin long?

For some reason, a sense of shame made him reluctant to tell her. He said: Not very long.

You mustn't let him lead you into bad habits!

I don't expect so.

What religion were you brought up in?

I don't know. C of E, I suppose. But I never had to go to church or Sunday school.

I hated both.

And have you any religious beliefs?

The bare minimum.

And what are they?

Sorme heard Nunne's footsteps outside the door. He said smiling:

I'll tell you some other time.

Nunne came in again. He said cheerfully:

I thought Friday was your meeting night?

It is. It's over now.

Oh. And how's old Brother Horrible?

Who on earth are you talking about?

Fatty. Tartuffe with the butcher's complexion. What's his name?

Really, Austin! You get worse. What have you got against Brother Robbins?

Nunne sat beside Sorme again, having refilled his glass. He said, winking:

He's after you, Gertrude.

Nonsense!

I saw it in his eyes. He's thinking what a nice match you'd make. Nice cuddly little wifey.

Sorme noticed with surprise that she had coloured. He stood up, saying: Excuse me.

It's upstairs, Nunne said, second on the left.

The hall and stairs were carpeted with blue pile that made his footsteps noiseless.

There were two prints of paintings by Munch on the stairs. In the warmth and haze of the alcohol, it seemed one of the most charming houses he had been in.

He switched on a light, and found himself in a small bedroom, containing a single bed. There was a large framed photograph of a blonde girl on the dressing-table. He peered at it with interest, then kissed his lips at it. He backed out of the door and went into the bathroom. A lineful of damp clothes hung across it; he had to duck under them to reach the lavatory. He murmured softly: I should seduce her and come and live here.

Perfect conditions for working.

He washed his hands at the basin, humming quietly.

When he turned away, he walked immediately into a wet towel. He wiped his face on his hand, and reached up to touch a blue nylon waist slip. Water dripped down his sleeve. He swore under his breath, smiling.

When he came into the sitting-room again, Nunne said:

I think we'd better go, Gerard. Gertrude wants to go to bed.

Of course.

Are you going to finish your whisky?

I don't think I will. I've had rather a lot.

I didn't think you were. So I've finished it for you.

She said, laughing: You really are disgraceful, Austin. I don't know how you manage to drive that car. Do be careful.

Tush! Did you ever know me to have an accident?

It's a miracle! she said.

Nunne heaved himself to his feet. He seized her and planted a kiss on her forehead. Sorme regarded her, smiling. He would have liked to do the same. Nunne said: Goodnight, dear aunt. Lock the doors now. Make sure old Brother Barrel-belly's not under the bed.

She turned to Sorme:

You will come again, won't you? You can find your way here.

I'm not so sure that I can, he said, smiling.

I'll give you the address.

She tore a sheet of headed notepaper from a pad in the bureau and scribbled on it.

He slipped it into his back pocket.

Goodbye. Do make Austin drive carefully.

Sorme shook her hand; her grip was as firm as a man's.

She called from the front doorstep:

Keep to the right of the drive. There's a pool of water there.

Nunne's torch wavered erratically over the ground. Sorme kept close to him to avoid stumbling. As they emerged into the street, Nunne said:

She likes you, dear boy. I got a little lecture on corrupting you. I think she wants you for her Bible class.

Not for her literary evenings?

Oh, perhaps. I don't know. I should think from her questions…

His voice trailed off. He opened the car door, and collapsed into the driving seat.

Ouf! That's better… Well, where now? It's only ten past ten. We've still time for another drink. Or you could come back to my place and have a couple.

No! Really, it's quite impossible. I must get back. Any other night but this.

Ah yes. You've got to move in the morning. How will you do it?

Take a taxi.

Would you like me to pop over and help you?

No, no. Don't bother.

Nunne lit a cigarette, and tossed the match out of the window. His headlights suddenly lit up the road. The car surged forward jerkily, then stalled. He said:

Sod it. Left the bloody hand-brake on.

Sorme said: Look, drop me on the Edgware Road, and I'll get a bus home. Or better still, drop me off at Hampstead underground.

No, no. I'll take you home. You're not letting Gertrude's comments on my driving worry you, are you?

No…

Good. I'm a perfectly safe driver, even when I can't see for scotch.

What about your other car…?

Oh, that wasn't my fault… Somebody built a wall in the middle of the road.

Didn't they nab you for drunken driving?

Fortunately I wasn't drunk. That was the trouble. Morning after. I felt like hell.

Nunne's driving seemed neither better nor worse for the drink. He turned off the engine and allowed the car to freewheel down the hill to Golders Green, singing mournfully:

Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles…

Sorme said: Was your aunt ever married?

She's not my aunt.

Was she ever married?

No. Gertrude is a most mysterious case. No one knows all the facts. She had a father.

A what?

A father. You know some people have got a mother who won't let them off the dog lead? Well, she had a father.

Why should that stop her from marrying?

How should I know, dear boy? Use your imagination. If it's as lurid as mine, you can think up all sorts of reasons.

Sorme suppressed the comments that rose to his lips. Nunne was not the person to make them to. Nunne startled him suddenly by saying:

Anyway, I doubt whether she'd be any good in bed.

Sorme glanced at him. The cigarette was hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. He said:

No, I dare say you're right.

It began to rain again. He sat there listening to the steady click of the windscreen wipers, then said suddenly:

By the way, who's that delicious blonde girl in the photograph?

Which photograph?

I walked into a bedroom while I was looking for the lavatory. The first on the right. There was a photo of a lovely little blonde on the table.

Oh, that'd be Caroline. Her niece. I haven't met her. Why?

All delicious little blondes interest me.

You are a cow, aren't you? Always on the lookout for sex.

Sorme laughed. They were passing Hendon aerodrome. To change the subject, he said:

By the way, did you say you fly a plane?

Yes. Got one down at a place near Leatherhead. You must come over for a weekend. I'll take you for a trip.

Your own?

My father's actually. He never uses it.

Turn left here, please. It's by that next lamp-post.

The car stopped with a jerk; this time Sorme had braced himself for it. He said:

Well, I owe you quite a lot for this evening.

No you don't. I owe you a lot. I'd have been bored stiff on my own. Have you got any booze in your room?

I'm afraid not. At least, only some beer.

Excellent. Let's drink that. Or are you too tired?

Not at all, Sorme said. Come on up.

As they opened the front gate, Sorme said quietly:

Don't make a noise until we get into my room.

Are they asleep already?

No, probably watching the TV.

They tiptoed up the stairs, Nunne walking in front. A door below opened; a woman's voice called:

Is that you, Mr Sorme?

Yes.

Oh.

The door closed again.

Sorme switched on the light and closed the door.

You don't know how lucky you are to have no landlady. I detest landladies.

He lit the gas fire and turned it on full. The room was small and had too much furniture in it. Two cheap suitcases, bound with string, stood near the door. The table was completely occupied by the remains of a meal and an empty drawer. A large cardboard soap-carton, half full of books, stood in the washbasin in the corner. Sorme took off his overcoat and hung it in the wardrobe. Nunne was seated on the bed; he lit a cigarette: I had an awfully nice landlady in Hamburg.

Sorme took the empty drawer and fitted it back into its place in the sideboard.

I've had too many landladies. I've had so many that now even pleasant landladies make my flesh crawl. That's the main advantage of this new place — the landlady doesn't live on the premises. Even the decentest landladies end by persecuting me.

Don't be neurotic, Gerard.

You'd be neurotic if you'd had as many as I have. Stupid, petty-minded old cats who leave little notes in your room. They don't like visitors after ten o'clock. They don't like you to have women in your room. You never know when some triviality's going to upset them and make them give you notice. If I were a dictator I'd open concentrations camps for landladies. Mean, trivial, materialistic old sods. They poison our civilisation.

He moved the carton of books on to the floor, and let the hot tap run, then washed two glasses, and dried them with the hand towel.

Poor Gerard. You ought to find yourself a flat.

Sorme took a quart bottle of ale from the bottom of the wardrobe, and poured into the two glasses. He handed one to Nunne, saying: Cheers.

Nunne took a sip, and set it down on the table. He said:

I'm sorry I'm going away just as we're getting acquainted.

Sorme sat in a wooden chair near the fire; he said sententiously: There'll be plenty of time.

Without a doubt. Give me your new address, will you? and I'll give you mine.

They exchanged address books; both wrote silently for a moment. The warmth made Sorme's stockinged feet steam. He suppressed a yawn. Nunne moved to the end of the bed, where he could see the fire, and stretched out his hands towards it.

Gerard. What you were saying earlier. About looking for some other way to live…

Yes?

You ought to see a friend of mine. Father Carruthers, at a hotel in Rosebery Avenue.

That must be where Brother Maunsell lives: there are quite a number of priests there. Do you know him?

No, I don't recall him.

You're not a Catholic, are you?

No. My mother is. Carruthers is her friend, really, but I'm sure you'd like him.

Sorme sipped his beer slowly. He had no real desire to drink it; it tasted bitter and wholly disagreeable to him.

What do you think this Father Carruthers could do?

I don't know. I like him. He's awfully clever. He knows a lot about psychology — he was a friend of Adler.

That sounds dangerous.

Why?

I can't imagine the Church approving. Does he talk about neurosis instead of sin?

Yes. Well no, not exactly. You'd have to go and see him. He's written a book on Chehov.

Sorme shifted his chair further back; the fire was too hot. He said, for the sake of saying something:

I probably will.

Nunne tilted the beer glass and emptied it. Sorme pushed the quart bottle over to him. Nunne allowed the beer to slop into the glass; the froth immediately brimmed over and ran on to the tablecloth. He leaned forward and sucked up a mouthful of the froth, until it ceased to overflow. He looked up at Sorme suddenly over the brim of the glass, saying, with a casualness behind which Sorme could sense the control:

You seem to have an awful down on queers, Gerard.

Sorme said, shrugging:

No. On the contrary, I always get on very well with them.

But you don't like them?

It's not that I don't like them. I disapprove of the queer mentality.

What on earth is the queer mentality?

I shouldn't say.

Do say. Don't mind me. I wouldn't take it personally, I assure you.

All right. Most queers I've known have been too personal. With them, everything is personal. It all depends on people. I can't imagine a homosexual visionary, or a homosexual Newton or Beethoven. They seem to lack intellectual passion — the capacity to become fanatically obsessed by purely intellectual issues. They're like women — everything has to be in terms of people and emotions.

You do talk nonsense, dear boy. How do you know Newton and Beethoven weren't homosexual? Neither of them got married. What about Schubert, Michelangelo?

Sorme said, laughing:

OK. I'm sorry I spoke.

No, but answer me! I'd like to hear your views.

No. I'm too tired. When you go tonight, I've got to finish packing. I'll have to be up early tomorrow to start moving.

Nunne looked at him; his eyes were serious, almost pained. Abruptly, he shook his head, and drank the rest of his beer. He stood up, saying:

All right, I'll leave you.

Sorme immediately felt guilty:

You don't have to go yet. It's hardly eleven. You could stay for another hour.

No, I'd better go. Why are you smiling?

You're like a jack-in-the-box, Sorme said. Why don't you sit still for a while?

This was not the real reason Sorme was smiling. He had thought: He has taken it personally. Everything is personal for them. But he was glad Nunne was leaving.

Bye-bye, Gerard.

Where will you go?

Nunne shrugged:

Home, perhaps. Or a club I know in Paddington. Bye-bye.

Goodbye, Austin. Thanks for the evening.

Don't come down, Nunne said.

He went out quickly, closing the door behind him. Sorme stood there, until he heard the front door slam. His landlady immediately called: Who's there? He said angrily to the door: Oh, drop dead! The car door slammed. He looked out of the window, in time to see the rear light disappearing into the darkness.

He emptied the rest of his beer into the sink, and washed the two glasses, then systematically washed the rest of the crockery on the table. When he had told Nunne he wanted to finish packing he had been sincere; but now he felt sleepy and drunk. The room was hot and stuffy. He turned the gas fire off, and opened a window. Before undressing, he swallowed three dyspepsia tablets with a glass of milk. The sheets felt pleasantly cool. He yawned in the dark, and stretched in the bed, experiencing intense sensual satisfaction from the contact of the sheets. He thought of Nunne flying to Switzerland, and felt a faint envy, which he immediately suppressed. Sleep came quickly and easily.