Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER TWO

In spite of two pairs of gloves, his hands were numb before he reached Holborn; he pulled off the left-hand glove and rode with the hand in his trouser pocket, pressed into the hollow of his thigh. The streets of the City were deserted. The cold had wakened him, yet he felt an internal exhaustion that was almost a luxury, as if all his emotions had been short-circuited. It made him feel strangely free. Before he arrived at the end of Leadenhall Street he had forgotten his reason for riding out so early. The sight of an old man, crouched in a bus shelter, covered with an overcoat, started a train of thought on the difficulty of human life, and on the human tendency to increase its difficulty by useless movement. The thought that, in three hours' time, these streets would be crowded with people who possessed no motive beyond the working day, no deep certainties to counterbalance the confusion, made him grateful for the silence of the streets, and the inner silence of his own exhaustion.

He recognised Payne, standing by the entrance to the Underground. He was lighting a cigarette and stamping to warm his feet. Sorme called: Hi, Bill!

Hello, Gerard. Glad you made it.

Sorme leaned the bicycle against the wall and groped in the saddlebag for its chain.

I thought you were going to wait in the cafe?

I've only been out here a minute. I wanted a breath of air. You leaving your bike here?

I expect so. It'll be OK.

Good. Come on, then.

Where is this place?

Mitre Square. It's on the other side of Houndsditch.

What happened?

Don't know yet. Another woman found. And, half an hour before, they found another one over in Berner Street… that's on the other side of the Commercial Road.

The killer's been having a gala night!

This'll cause some trouble, you see, Gerard. It'll be the biggest manhunt England's ever seen. The police daren't let him get away with another.

Have you seen the bodies?

I got a look at the one in Mitre Square. The other one's been taken away.

What time was it found?

This one? Only about an hour ago. We were just on our way back to the office when we got the flash. We got here before anyone else got on the scene.

Thanks for ringing me.

That's OK. This kind of thing can be very useful to a writer. As a matter of fact, it's the first murder I've ever been engaged on so closely. But it's fantastic, you know, Gerard. He must have killed the woman in Berner Street, and then come straight on down here, and killed again within fifteen minutes.

Have you phoned your story through?

Of course! We nearly got a scoop. First on the scene, photographs and everything.

Sorme had a sense of speaking in an excited babble; there were a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but they crowded one another out of his mind. He said:

Tell me about it in detail. Tell me exactly what happened.

I can't. We don't know the full story ourselves yet.

I mean — tell me what's been happening to you all night.

In a moment. We're nearly there.

How was she killed?

This one? Throat cut. But she'd been mutilated pretty badly.

How?

Her face slashed and stabbed all over.

Christ!

Payne said shortly: Made me feel pretty sick.

They turned into a narrow street; looking up at the sign, Sorme saw its name-Duke Street. Payne said:

Ugh! They've started to crowd already.

In the faint light, they could see people crowded halfway up the street. Payne said: We'd better go round the other way. There's only a narrow alley leading into the square from this side.

Sorme asked: What do you think will happen now? It's bound to cause a panic.

There's no telling. I've got a suspicion the Government wants the papers to keep the murders in the headlines to distract attention from the international situation.

That's an interesting idea! You think it might be the Foreign Office behind the murders?

Wouldn't be surprised! They say it's full of sexual perverts… not the kind that are interested in women, though.

They turned off Aldgate again, and into the street that ran parallel with Duke Street. It was a narrow street, and the crowd blocked it from pavement to pavement.

Payne said resignedly:

You won't see much, I'm afraid. You should have come with me last night.

Fear and excitement stirred his intestines. The street was silent; its stillness produced an atmosphere of tension and foreboding. As they came nearer, he realised that people were talking to one another in low voices, standing in groups. One of the largest groups was made up of photographers with flashlight cameras. Payne approached these.

He asked: Anything happened, Ted?

A short, plump man with a red face said:

Hello. Back again? No — nothing yet.

His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a heavy overcoat. Outside this, knotted around his neck, he wore a woollen scarf with bands of colour like a school scarf.

Macmurdo here yet?

Yes. Came ten minutes ago. He's in there.

He nodded towards the rope barrier that separated the street from the square.

Get a picture?

Yes. He didn't like it.

About time he got used to it! one of the photographers said. He spat into the gutter.

Sorme approached the barrier. It was not difficult to get close; the crowd was not packed tightly. There was nothing to see. On the left-hand side of the square was a tall warehouse, labelled 'Kearley and Tonge'. The only exit from the square seemed to be a narrow alleyway in the far right-hand corner. The police were crowded in this corner; two of them were doing something with a tape measure, crouched on the pavement. Between the legs of the police, Sorme could see the body, covered with a cloth.

Somewhere on the far side of the square a woman began to howl; it was not a scream, but a harsh cry from the throat. The people standing near Sorme began to take an interest. One of them said:

'EIlo! Somebody recognised her?

A woman answered: No. Nobody's been near it.

The howling stopped suddenly. Payne came over to him.

Any idea what it was, Gerard?

No. It came from the alley over there.

Payne approached one of the policemen standing by the rope barrier; he held out his Press card, asking:

Can I go across?

No. I'm afraid you can't, sir. My orders is to let no one across. Not till the pathologist comes.

Is that what they're waiting for?

That's right.

Who is it? Simpson?

I dunno, sir. All I know is, 'e's being a ruddy long time.

Another policeman came over from the group in the corner. Payne asked him:

Any idea what the yelling was about?

The policeman, a middle-aged sergeant, said indifferently:

Just some woman havin' 'ysterics.

One of the men standing near the barrier pressed forward belligerently. He said:

I should bladdy well think so too. What are you blokes doin' for your wage packets, I'd like to know?

A fat woman, wearing a shawl over her head, said:

Now, Bert, don't start gettin' nasty. They're doin' their best.

The man said dogmatically:

I'm not nasty. I got a right as a taxpayer to know why the police haven't done nothing, 'aven't I?

The sergeant seemed unperturbed.

Another journalist had pushed up behind Sorme. He asked:

Any idea who she is yet, Sergeant?

Not yet.

Well, why do they keep on gettin' murdered, that's what I want to know?

A tall, skinny man had taken up the argument from behind the woman in the shawl; his voice was nervous and high-pitched. The sergeant looked at him slowly, then shrugged:

That's what we all want to know.

He turned, and began to walk back towards the body. The man called after him:

And that's what you buggers are paid for — to find out!

Payne said in Sorme's ear:

There's a lot of feeling against the police.

I'm not surprised.

Payne began to edge out of the crowd. He said:

Come on. There's nothing to see.

A heavily built man with a blond moustache came up behind Payne, and clapped him on the shoulder. Payne said:

Hello, Tom! Only just arrived?

The big man chuckled:

Not likely. I was here before you were awake.

You weren't, you know! We were first on the scene. We were already in Whitechapel when the alarm came.

Were you? In that case, I apologise.

That's all right, old boy. Ask me any questions you like. I charge a small fee, of course.

Payne turned to Sorme, saying:

You don't know Tom Mozely, do you, Gerard? This is Gerard Sorme, Tom.

Is he on the Chronicle too?

No. Gerard's a writer…

Mozely interrupted:

By the way — did you hear that woman shrieking?

Yes. What was it?

Somebody started a rumour that the police had found a crowbar with blood on it, and this woman just started to yell. I was standing a few yards from her… made my hair stand on end.

Have they found a crowbar?

No. It was just a rumour. Did you see the other body?

Yes. We were there when the news of this one arrived.

Is it true she'd been bashed over the head?

Yes. Looked like just one blow.

Hmmm… Doesn't sound like our bloke, does it?

I don't know. He was probably interrupted.

Sorme said:

What happened?

Before Payne could reply, someone began to call:

Make way there!

An ambulance was nosing into the barrier. Flashlight cameras began to explode, revealing the square for a moment as if by lightning. Payne said:

It looks like Starr.

Who?

The pathologist.

Sorme looked with interest at the square-shouldered man, with the good-tempered face of a farmer, who was pushing his way into the square. Payne immediately pushed after him, grasping Sorme by the sleeve. The constable stopped them, replacing the rope; whereupon the crowd re-formed in packed ranks across the entrance to the square. Payne said:

I wanted to get a place to watch this.

What happens now?

Nothing much. They just shift the body. Look at the faces of some of these people.

Sorme looked cautiously around him and saw set, unemotional faces. There was none of the curiosity or morbid excitement he had expected. He whispered:

They look pretty grim.

Payne nodded briefly, staring across, the square. The police formed a circle around the body, and the pathologist knelt beside it. His examination was brief; he dictated something to a girl, who scribbled on a notepad. He stood up and made a sign to the ambulance men, who carried a grey metal shell and placed it beside the body. Their legs masked it as they lifted it; Sorme could see only the torn hem of a skirt that trailed on the ground as the body swung into the shell. A moment later the doors of the ambulance closed behind it, and the engine started. The policeman removed the rope again, saying: Make way there.

The crowd began to break up. From the warehouse across the square an old man emerged carrying a bucket and a sweeping brush; he splashed water on the pavement where the body had lain, and scrubbed at it with the brush. The ambulance moved slowly out of the square. A sudden feeling of chill passed down Sorme's back, making him shiver. He turned away, past the window of the small shop, meeting briefly the cardboard smile of a girl in a toothpaste advertisement. For a moment, he experienced an intuition of the state of mind of the murderer, the revolt against the abstract blandishments, the timeless grimaces, the wooden benedictions that preside over railway carriages and roadside hoardings.

Payne said:

Let's go and get some tea.

Good idea, Mozely said.

Coming, Gerard?

Yes.

You look all in. Tired still?

A little.

A group of photographers walked in front of them. The sky was light now. He allowed himself to lag behind both groups, anxious to concentrate on the insight until it faded, aware of his inability to express it in words. He was hungry: in the cafe he would eat. How could any insight survive the unending tides of the blood, the body's seasons?

The struggle was lost in advance.

Payne said:

You sit down, Gerard. I'll bring the teas over.

I want something to eat too.

All right. I'll get it. Cheese roll?

He sat beside Mozely at a corner table; the reporter was making shorthand notes on a pad. The photographers were occupying a table near the window. He felt tired, discouraged by the prospect of the ride back to Camden Town. Mozely looked up at him suddenly:

What did you think of it?

Of what?

The way everybody reacted?

They all seemed pretty subdued, I must say.

That's the word. Subdued.

Payne sat down opposite them. He said:

Can you wonder? This makes six murders in a few months. They're beginning to wonder how many more.

Do you think it's the fault of the police?

What can they do? They can only follow up every clue and keep hoping he'll slip up.

Happened in the Cummins case, Mozely said.

What was that? Sorme asked.

During the war. He was a sexual maniac. He killed four women — mostly prostitutes — in the Soho area. Finally, someone interrupted him while he was strangling a girl in a doorway in the Haymarket. He ran off and left his gasmask case behind, so they got him… But the interesting thing is this. When he was interrupted in the last case, he promptly went off and found another girl in Paddington, and tried to kill her too. She got away as well.

Payne said:

That was before my time. Anyway, do you really think this bloke's a sexual maniac?

Mozely said, shrugging:

He's a maniac of some sort; that's a dead cert.

Sorme ate the cheese roll hungrily; when he had finished it, he crossed to the counter and bought another. When he returned to the table, Payne was saying:

… and he saw someone bending over the body. He shouted Is there anything wrong? And the man said: Yes. I think she's dead. Go and get a copper, quick! When the man got back five minutes later, the man had gone — there was only this woman.

What's this? Sorme asked.

The first murder last night.

Do they think the man was the murderer?

I don't know. It sounds likely.

Mozely said:

They'll soon find out when they discover how long she'd been dead.

Sorme said:

Could the man describe the bloke who sent him for the policeman?

No. It was in the dark, and he says he didn't go within ten yards. I shouldn't be surprised if he wasn't afraid of bumping into the murderer!

How was she killed?

A blow on the head. It must have been a tremendous blow with a bar of some kind.

And the other woman had her throat cut? He certainly varies his methods!

Sorme asked:

Do you think it sounds like the Greenwich killer?

Mozely shook his head.

I doubt it. You know what it sounds like, don't you?

Payne interrupted:

As if the killer got a bit fed-up about the headlines asking if he'd moved south of the river?

Exactly.

The three of them drank their tea in silence.

Mozely said finally:

What I can't understand is this. He must have got blood on his clothes after that second murder. And he must have passed a policeman as he was getting away. The place was alive with them. How did he do it?

He could have had a car parked near the scene of the murder, Sorme said.

Too dangerous. The police take the number of every car parked around here at night. The risk would be too great.

Payne said:

Whoever he is, he either has amazing courage or he's insane.

Insane, Mozely said.

But he must be after something in Whitechapel… either that, or he lives here. Or why should he stick to this area?

He's not after anything, Mozely said. How could he be? He doesn't seem to pick his victims. He just takes anybody who comes along. Have you come across this Leather Apron idea?

No. What's that?

Oh, a lot of people think it's a chap called Leather Apron. Nobody seems to know who he is or what he does, except that he's a foreigner, and terrorises some of the whores around here.

Payne asked:

Have you mentioned him in your story?

Yes. I don't think it'll come to anything, but I heard his name mentioned half a dozen times this morning.

Did you ask any questions?

Of course. No luck. He seems to be just a name.

It might be worth following up, Payne said.

Have you heard this story about the foreign crime experts? They say there are several on the case now.

Sorme said:

I've heard about that. There's some German… I forget his name..

Mozely said: By the way, did you read that letter in The Times yesterday?

No.

Very interesting. Apparently there were several murders at a place called Bochum in Germany after the war — just like these. The man apparently wrote a letter to the police saying he'd kill six more women, then stop. The murders stopped immediately after his letter.

And they never caught him?

No.

Payne laughed softly:

I heard a theory the murderer was a Turk who killed several women in Istanbul.

They'd need a special branch of the United Nations to follow up all the stories!

Sorme finished drinking his tea, staring at the crumbs left on his plate; he was trying to imagine what he would do if he met the murderer on a dark night in Whitechapel. He imagined him as a thin man, middle-aged and bald-headed, with bloodless lips, and the eyes of a fanatic. The thought that, at that moment, somewhere in London, the murderer was free, perhaps drinking tea beside some woman in a cafe, or hanging on a strap in the Underground, produced a lurching sensation of the stomach.

Mozely stood up suddenly. He said:

Oh well, back to work! You coming yet, Bill?

No. I'll have another cup of tea first.

Sorme stood up, pushing his chair forward, to allow Mozely to pass, Mozely said:

Thanks, old man. Well, bye-bye. If you get any line on Leather Apron, you might let me know…

I will, Payne said. You just go back to your office and have a good sleep. Leave it to Payne.

As Mozely went out, Payne crossed to the counter, saying,

More tea for you, Gerard?

Please. But let me get them.

No! I get it off expenses.

He brought the teas in their thick cups and set them on the dull surface of scratched plastic. He stretched and yawned.

I must go back and get some sleep. How you feeling, Gerard?

Half dead.

Are you sorry I got you out of bed so early?

No! I'm glad you did. It was interesting…

Why?

Anything that gives you a sense of reality is interesting. Somehow, I'd never realised these murders really happened. Why do you think somebody does something like this, Bill?

That depends. It depends on who he is. If he's a university professor, the reasons will be different from if he's a drunken navvy or a sex-crazed teenager…

Sorme said: Whoever he is, he's alive somewhere in London at this moment… and has friends who probably don't even suspect…

Abruptly, as he passed Smithfield Market, he decided to visit Father Carruthers. It was a fortuitous decision, taken with no definite motive that he was aware of.

The Hungarian priest opened the door. Sorme had anticipated that his hour of calling might seem unusual, but Father Rakosi showed no surprise; he had been seated in the depressingly cold waiting-room for only a few moments when the priest returned.

Father Carruthers will see you now.

Thank you. I'm sorry to disturb you.

He received a curiously shy smile in return.

Father Carruthers was standing by the bookcase, wearing a red quilted dressing-gown; standing, he seemed small, almost dwarf-like. He looked better than last time Sorme had called.

Ah, Gerard. How are you?

Well, thanks. You look better.

I feel better this morning… Well, this is rather an early hour for you to call. Is anything wrong?

Nothing special, father. I've been in Whitechapel since seven o'clock.

Why?

A journalist friend called me. You've heard about this double murder?

No. What has happened?

He lowered himself into the deep armchair, his knees towards the coal fire that filled the room with oppressive heat. Sorme said:

Two women were murdered in the night — within half an hour of one another.

And why have you been to Whitechapel?

Sorme recognised the relevancy of the question. He said uncomfortably:

Oh… simply because my friend happened to call me up… It's interesting for a writer…

He knew, as he said it, that it was untrue; he also felt a curious certainty that the priest knew it too. But the ugly, silenus face showed no sign of disbelief. The priest only said:

You look tired.

I am.

There was a knock at the door. The priest called: Hello?

A short, white-haired man looked into the room. His eyes wandered from Father Carruthers to Sorme.

Good morning, Larry. Am I interrupting?

His voice was deep and resonant; the accent was distinctly German. The priest said:

Hello, Franz. No, you're not interrupting. Come in.

The German came into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. He took the priest's right hand in both his own, and shook it gravely, asking:

Well, and how is my friend this morning? You look better.

I feel better today, thank you. Franz, let me introduce you to Gerard Sorme. This is Professor Stein of Dusseldorf.

Stein turned to Sorme, and made a slight bow. The keen, old man's face was square and clean-cut; above the jutting chin, the line of the lips was tight and straight, and the eyes were as hard and clear as blue glass. The shock of white hair combined with the features to give the face an impression of great power; it seemed incongruous on the short, plump body. Sorme shook his hand, and found himself also bowing slightly in return. Stein said:

I hope I am not interrupting a conversation?

Not at all. I'm just a casual caller.

Like myself then, Stein said. He smiled charmingly at Sorme, and began struggling out of his overcoat. As Sorme helped him, he said: It's abominably hot in here, Larry. I'm sure it can't be good for you. Ah… thank you, sir.

His German accent made the colloquial English sound quaint. Sorme placed the coat on the bed. Stein said:

With your permission, Larry, I shall sit by my coat. I have no wish to be toasted.

The window's open, the priest said mildly.

Stein produced a handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud, trumpeting noise.

He then opened a snuffbox and offered it in turn to the priest and to Sorme. Sorme said: No, thanks.

He watched with secret amusement as the two men snuffed the brown powder with the air of connoisseurs. The priest brushed a few spots off the front of his dressing-gown. He said:

Well, Franz, have you been rooting around Whitechapel too?

Stein looked surprised.

You've heard already? I didn't realise that you read the journals.

I don't. Our friend Gerard has been there.

Stein looked at Sorme: he asked, frowning: You live there?

No, I don't, Sorme said. I just… went there when I heard about the murders.

You must have heard very early!

I did. A journalist friend rang me at six this morning. Excuse my asking, but are you connected with the investigation?

I… er… I am connected with them… in a sense. I am a pathologist as well as a doctor of psychology. But tell me, why did you wish to — er — visit the scene of the crimes?

Sorme felt himself colouring; he was aware of the priest's eyes as he answered:

I'm a writer. It's an interesting experience.

Most certainly it is, Stein said emphatically. Such experience is invaluable to a writer. Heinrich Mann made just that remark within my hearing once… that very few serious writers have written of murder with authenticity — Zola excepted, perhaps. You know Theres Raquin?

I'm afraid not.

Stein turned to the priest, saying:

But these murders are really terrible! You talk of human wickedness, my friend, but if you had thirty years, as I have, dealing with crime and violence, you would speak only of human sickness.

Sorme waited for the priest to reply; when he only smiled, Sorme asked:

Do you suppose this man is insane?

Stein turned his piercing eyes on Sorme.

How can we know, until he is caught? The murders prove only one thing — that his condition is pathological.

The priest asked: Do you think the police are any nearer to catching him?

Who can tell? They have received two letters written by a man who claims to be the murderer. That may help.

Sorme said with interest: Have they? Has this been made public yet?

Today, I think. I personally think they are practical jokes.

What did they say?

Oh… they jeer at the police for failing to catch him, and promise more murders.

The latest was delivered this morning, a few hours after the second murder.

That sounds like the murderer.

Why? Anyone living in Whitechapel could have written the letter in the available time. Even you. You were told of the murder at six o'clock, you say? The letter was posted at Scotland Yard at about seven o'clock.

Sorme said smiling: I see your point. But what I really meant was that it sounds like the murderer to write to the police.

Why do you say that?

Yesterday the newspapers were asking if he'd moved to Greenwich. Last night, he commits a double murder in Whitechapel. He sounds like a man with a sense of being in the public eye!

Stein said, smiling: That is true. Nevertheless, I suspect a practical joker.

For any particular reason? Sorme asked. He spoke with a cautious politeness, aware that he was in a privileged position in being able to question Stein, and anxious not to appear morbidly curious. Stein interlaced his fingers, and stared gravely at his knees; he appeared to find Sorme's questions perfectly natural.

To begin with, the pathological killer is not often a boaster. You see, his crimes are often due to an overpowering impulse, and when the impulse disappears he may become a completely different person. In Germany we have a name for this type of crime. We call it Lustmord — joy murder. Motiveless joy murder. And the joy-murderer is not often proud of the impulse that turns him into a wild animal periodically. You see?

The priest said softly:

But if I remember rightly, your friend Kurten wrote to the police.

That is true. But not to boast — only to draw attention to a body. And then perhaps you remember the case of the Chicago murderer — I forget his name — who wrote above one of his victims: Stop me before I kill again.

Heirens, Sorme murmured.

Ah, you know the case! Well, you see, that is the schizophrenic murderer.

He turned to the priest, and an almost mischievous smile passed across his face.

He said:

Now you see, Larry, why I had to become a psychiatrist rather than a priest. How could I prescribe penances for sins when I am not sure that the man who performs the penance is the same man who commits the sins? That is a problem you can't answer me.

The priest said, smiling.

We also recognise your split personality in the Church you know, Franz. But we talk of sin and remorse instead. It all comes to the same thing…

Stein chuckled throatily. It was obvious that he enjoyed luring the priest into discussions. He said:

No, no, Larry. It is not the same thing at all. When you prescribe a penance, you assume the man who committed the sin is the same as the one who will do penance. But what if they are two different people, eh? What about that?

The priest said quietly:

I wouldn't prescribe a penance for such a man.

No? Stein said, raising his bushy eyebrows. And what would you do?

Try to help him, just as you would.

And how can you help him, if your only way of describing his condition is in concepts like sin?

The priest said:

I need only two concepts to understand his condition — spirit and matter.

Stein said, smiling: Not even God and the devil?

Not even God and the devil.

Then tell me, sir, how you would explain a man like Kurten in these terms?

I'd have to think about it…

Ah! You said that last time we argued!

He turned to Sorme and winked, saying:

He is a very difficult fellow to argue with. All these Dominicians are the same…

When you get them in a corner, they demand time to think!

The priest's expression remained mild and thoughtful. He said slowly:

Very well, if you want me to try to explain… I would express it this way. Man knows himself as body, and what he knows of spirit comes through grace. The poet would call it inspiration. But the spirit bloweth where it listeth. Man has no control over his inspiration. If a piece of music or a poem has moved him once, he can never be certain that it will happen again. But man hates to think that he has no control over the spirit. It would discourage him too much. He likes to believe that he can summon the spirit by some ordinary act. Instead of striving to prepare himself for it through discipline and prayer, he tries to summon it arbitrarily through some physical act — drinking Dusseldorf beer, for instance…

Stein said, chuckling:

Which is the way all good Dusseldorfers summon the spirit, since our Dunkelbier is the best in Germany.

The priest laughed with him, and for a moment Sorme had a curious impression that he was listening to an argument between two undergraduates instead of two men in their late sixties. He shrank deeper into his armchair, wanting them to forget his presence.

The priest stopped laughing first, and Sorme had a glimpse of the tiredness that always lay behind his eyes. Stein also became grave again. He said:

Very well. But what has this to do with the murderer?

It has to do with sex. For sex is the favourite human device for summoning the spirit. And since it is also God's gift of procreation, it nearly always works… unlike music and poetry.

Or beer, Stein said.

Quite. But even sex is not infallible. And man hates to think that he has no power over the spirit. The more his physical methods fail him, the more voraciously he pursues them. His attempts to summon the spirit become more and more frenzied. If he is a drinker, he drinks more, until he has more alcohol than blood in his veins. If he is a sensualist, he invents sexual perversions.

Ah, Stein said.

There are many other ways, of course — the lust for money and power, for instance. All depend upon man's refusal to face the fact that the spirit bloweth where it listeth, that no physical act can be guaranteed to summon it…

Sorme had forgotten his resolution to keep silent. He said:

But is there no certain way of summoning it, father?

The priest went on looking at Stein as he answered:

None. The best we can do is to train ourselves in patience. When the priest invokes the descent of the spirit in the Mass, he does not expect to see it or feel it; he accepts by faith that the wine has become the blood of our Lord, the bread His flesh. The priest knows that all he can do is wait. The business of religion is to teach men patience.

As soon as man loses patience, he loses all he has…

So! Stein said. What am I to tell my patient who feels an urge to rape a child? To have patience?

The priest said, with unexpected sharpness:

What else? Why does he want to rape the child? Can you explain it?

Stein shrugged:

It usually springs from a feeling of insecurity. Or boredom. Many of my patients have complained that they feel a perpetual sense of injustice — that they have a right to lead more interesting lives. A sexually frustrated man will try to express his sense of injustice in sexual murder.

The priest had begun to look tired; his voice had become low and monotonous:

Religion teaches that all men are equal in the sight of God, that the beggar is no better off than the king, that all men die and are subject to the same miseries. If a man felt that, how could he feel a desire to rape a child?

Stein said: True. But a man would need to be a philosopher to feel that, and most psychopaths are not philosophers…

The priest said quietly: He would need to be a philosopher… or a Christian.

Stein stood up. He said: Perhaps you are right, my friend. But I think we should leave you. I think we are beginning to tire you a little.

Sorme could not help smiling at the injustice of the 'we'.

The priest said: It is kind of you to come and see me.

Stein said, smiling: I like seeing you.

He turned to Sorme, and said: We have known one another for nearly fifty years.

Sorme said politely: Really?

So! Stein said. We leave you to your meditations.

The priest said: You must come in again, Gerard.

Thank you, father. I'd like to.

Have you seen Austin since you came here last?

Yes. Quite a lot. I'd like to talk about him some time, father.. By the way, father…

He glanced uncomfortably at Stein before formulating the question, then went on:

Does… Mrs Nunne know about… Austin?

The priest took his meaning immediately. He said quickly:

No. Why?

I wondered. His aunt — a Jehovah's Witness — found out through some busybody friend of hers. But I don't think she'd mention it to his parents.

Stein had put on his overcoat, and was standing by the door. The powerful face was beaded with perspiration; it was obvious he found the room oppressive. Sorme said: Well, goodbye, father…

Goodbye, Gerard. Goodbye, Franz. I hope you'll come again next time you pass by. Both of you.

Auf Wiedersehen, Larry. I shall certainly come.

Sorme followed the short, broad-shouldered figure down the stairs. Stein said over his shoulder:

I could see he was becoming tired. He tires very easily.

Quite.

They let themselves out of the front door. Sorme said: Well, goodbye, Professor. I hope we shall meet again.

You are not walking this way?

No. This is my bicycle.

Ah. I see. Very sensible. Well… perhaps you would care to join me in a cup of coffee?

Sorme said: I'd be delighted!

It surprised him that the German should ask. While he had been in the priest's room, he had been certain that Stein regarded him as a superfluous third. He felt suddenly friendly towards the little man. He replaced the bicycle clips in his pocket, and walked beside Stein along Rosebery Avenue, and into the Farringdon Road. As they walked, Stein explained:

Larry and I studied together in Rome forty years ago. At that time I was to become a Jesuit. Imagine me!

What happened?

I discovered the writings of Freud, and changed my mind!

The German gave a throaty chuckle.

Didn't you have to study medicine, though?

I did. My parents preferred that I become a doctor rather than a priest, so we had no disagreement. I left Rome, and went to Vienna to seek out Freud…

The cafe was empty; a woman was cleaning the stone floor with a mop and a bucket. She stood the mop in the corner, and dried her hands on her apron to serve them coffee. Stein produced a packet of Manikin cigars, and offered it to Sorme. He lit one, and leaned back in his chair, puffing meditatively until the coffee arrived. As the woman leaned between them he looked across at Sorme, and asked suddenly:

How is Austin nowadays?

Taken unawares, Sorme said with surprise:

You know Austin?

I… know him slightly. But I know a great deal of him.

With instant certainty, Sorme knew that this was the reason Stein had asked him for coffee. He said:

Oh, he's very well, thanks.

He poured the jug of cream into his coffee, and left the next move to Stein.

You are a close friend of his?

Sorme looked into the ice-blue eyes, and wondered at the defensiveness that rose in him.

I know him fairly well. He interests me greatly…

Stein smiled suddenly. Leaning forward, he said quietly:

You do not have to be alarmed. I know about him through Larry. I know that he is a sadist.

Why are you interested, if you don't mind my asking?

Not at all. You do not have to repeat any of this to him…

No.

He was in Dusseldorf for a time, and he was known to the police. Nothing serious, of course, but I came to know of it through my connection with the police.

Stein leaned back, and drew deeply on his cigar. He gave the impression that the subject had suddenly ceased to interest him. Sorme drank his coffee, allowing the silence to lengthen. He was wondering whether Stein was to be trusted, and what Stein thought he might be able to tell him about Nunne. Stein caught his eye and smiled, as if they were two passengers in a railway carriage who happened to be facing one another. Sorme said: Professor, I'd like you to answer me a question, if you would… Has Austin any reason to be afraid of the police?

Stein answered promptly:

As far as I know, no. Can you think of any?

No. But then I'm neither a homosexual nor a sadist.

I see. But tell me, why are you Austin's friend if you have so little in common with him?

I happen to like him…

Quite. There is nothing strange about that. How long have you known him?

Sorme said, smiling: Precisely a week.

Sorme could almost see the disappointment and loss of interest. Stein stubbed out the cigar and emptied his coffee cup. He said:

You should talk to Larry about Austin. He knows him better than I do. But allow me to presume to offer you a piece of advice. You may believe you can have a relationship with Austin in which his homosexuality and sadism are unimportant. But don't take this for granted. He may surprise you.

Sorme said: Thanks, I won't.

Stein looked at him steadily for a moment, the bushy eyebrows drawn together.

Then he said briefly:

Good.

He stood up, and dropped a half-crown on the counter. The woman said: Thank you, sir.

Outside again, in the dull light of the Farringdon Road, Stein said:

Larry is a remarkable man. But he will not live a great deal longer. If you like him, you should see him as much as you can.

I will. I like him very much — although I've known him for less than a week.

Really? You are a person who makes many acquaintances?

No. I'm not.

No? Well… I must say goodbye. Or rather, auf Wiedersehen. We shall meet again.

Sorme shook the outstretched hand; the grip was strong. He stood there, watching Stein walk in the direction of the Embankment, the white head thrown back.

He locked the door of his room, and lit the gas fire; his hands and feet were numb. The knees of his trousers were wet; it had begun to rain as he passed St Pancras. He removed the trousers and shirt, and slipped on his dressing-gown, then filled the kettle with water and set it on the gas. He sat with his legs stretched out to the fire, too sleepy to read, surprised at the inner silence that took possession of him as he stared at the red-hot fire. It was complete concentration and certainty. His tongue probed his teeth, found a hollow that needed filling, and sucked at it. But there was no sense of urgency, no guilty feeling about his procrastination. He reached out for the book on the table — it was The Trial of John Watson Laurie — and began to read the introduction. After reading a few pages, he dropped it on the floor. The story of the Arran murder seemed commonplace and boring compared with the Whitechapel crimes. The kettle boiled; he made tea, and got into bed to drink it, turning the gas fire low, now feeling completely warmed and relaxed. As he drank, he felt a temptation to write in his journal, to try to record the insight that was growing inside him. Only the fear of destroying it by trying to intellectualise it restrained him. When he had finished the tea he placed the cup on the chair and sat staring at the opposite wall, not fully aware of it, but knowing that he had achieved the state of creativity that had eluded him for the past year. It seemed ironical, almost funny. He was in his own room; the door was locked, in case Carlotte came to summon him to the phone; she would then assume he was out. He felt suddenly as if the world had contracted within the confines of his four walls, and there were no more doubts. What he had achieved was only a certainty of his own existence, it was a recovery of subjectivity. He thought: the man who possesses his subjectivity possesses everything; and knew it to be true. But it was difficult to keep awake. The insight brought a sense of acceptance, of affirmation, that tempted him to lie down and close his eyes. He was at once lying on a hillside above the sea, lulled to sleep by sunlight and insects, and standing on the walls of the palace at Mycenae, watching the soldiers drilling in the courtyard. All poetry and philosophy were contained in the certainty.

To defeat the drowsiness, he switched on the gramophone, and put a record of Sibelius on the turntable. The first notes of the symphony intensified the insight, an awareness of his past. The sensation reminded him of his dream of Nunne in the brothel, and Nunne made him think of Nijinsky. It was all that Nijinsky had ever meant to him, concentrated into one emotion. It was belief; belief in himself, and in life, and in God. He felt like saying: I accept life. I accept everything.

He thought, with a kind of blank wonderment: I have recovered it. I have recovered my subjectivity. If I could live like this all the time, I'd never doubt again.

Unreality. Unreality is loss of subjectivity. For five years I have lived in an unreal city. Now it is my city.

It was becoming more difficult to bear the insight. He made a mental act of turning from it, closing his perceptions. A sort of cool darkness supervened. As the first movement of the symphony came to an end, he reached out and turned it off, then lay down.

Before sleeping, he set the alarm for half past four, remembering Caroline. He felt exhausted and purified, and the thought of seeing her was pleasant.

When he woke, the fire was out. The winter afternoon was already turning dark. It was not yet half past four. He reached out for the clock and pressed in the switch that would prevent the alarm from ringing, then got out of bed and switched on the light. He took the new trousers out of the wardrobe and put them on; the knees of the other pair were still damp. As he was transferring his money into the new ones, and searching for a shilling for the gas, he sneezed. It cleared his head. He filled a cup with cold water, drank it down without lowering it from his lips. It dissipated the last of the drowsiness. The mood of certainty had still not disappeared. He put on his jacket, took his heavy overcoat from the wardrobe, and went downstairs. There was a winter smell in the air, a mixture of smoke, coldness and dusk. He walked down Great College Street, past the lighted shop windows, and found it necessary to suppress a desire to run and laugh aloud.

When he let himself back into the room, it was a quarter to six. The shops had been crowded with late Friday shoppers, and hung with banners with the inscription 'Shop Early for Christmas'. He stood the two bottles of white wine on the windowsill, near the open window. For the next quarter of an hour he swept the room, dusted the books, and re-made the bed with clean sheets. He collected together the greasy plates, still unwashed from the supper of the previous night, and the cups and glasses and took these up to the kitchen. While the kettle boiled, he read the evening paper, sitting at the enamel-topped table. The front page dealt with the letters received by the police, and quoted both of them in full. There was a photograph of one of them with the caption: Do you recognise this writing? The writing itself was an illiterate scrawl, with two blots, but no visible fingerprints. The first letter read:

Dear Boss, So the police are looking high and low for me are they? They'll have to look bloody hard to find old kiddo, because he's allergic to flatties. But he'll keep you all entertained with more saucy work if you don't try to rush him. Next time, he'll clip off the ladies' ears and send them to you. I'm not a commie, so don't let the sods take credit for my risks, your faithful servant: Leather Apron. P.S. Please keep this letter back til I can do some more work.

The second letter was shorter:

Dear Boss, I was not kidding when I promised some more work. Got interupted on both jobs, so couldn't get the ears. Will send later. I got some of the real red stuff to write this but it went thick. Thanks for keeping back my first letter, your faithful servant: Leather Apron.

The report stated that both letters were written in red ink, and that both were free from fingerprints.

Hello, Gerard!

The voice from the bottom of the stairs startled him. As she came up, he said:

Blimey, sweet, you nearly gave me heart failure!

Sorry.

He put his arms round the heavy overcoat and kissed her, then lifted the large collar and pressed it against her ears, kissing her cold nose and eyelids. She said: Mmm! You need a shave!

I know. I'm just about to have one.

Can I help you cook?

No thank you, sweet. You can go and sit in front of the fire and play yourself some music.

As her lips brushed past his cheek, she whispered:

I don't have to go home tonight. I've told mummy I'm staying at an all-night party.

Good.

She asked: Why are you smiling?

At what Gertrude'd think if she found out…

The neon lights at Camden Town gave him a sense of well-being. He walked with his arm around her, and was suspicious of the pleasure he took in feeling her next to him.

He could never cease to be conscious of her inexperience, of the fact that she was nearly ten years his junior.

She said: Darling, I feel horribly drunk.

That's all right. You can sleep it off.

Will your landlady mind, do you think?

She won't know. Nobody need know if you leave fairly late.

He felt a kind of pity for her. Her inexperience made her offer herself with no reservations; it was pleasant and a little frightening.

He opened the front door softly, and sent her in first. As they were mounting the first flight of steps, the telephone started to ring. He said, groaning: Oh, Christ, if that's Austin I'll have kittens… Go on up to my room, sweet. I'll answer it.

He said: Hello?

Could I speak to Carlotte, please?

I'll get her for you.

He called into the basement: Carlotte! He went back up the stairs, muttering underneath his breath: Thank God!

She was lying on the bed, still wearing her overcoat. She said:

Oh, sweet, I feel so drunk…

Well, sit up! It makes you feel drunker when you lie down.

Does it?

He collected the greasy plates off the table, and the two empty hock bottles, and took them to the kitchen. He scraped the plates into the wastebin, then placed them in the bowl. He felt too sleepy to go to the bathroom for hot water.

When he got back to the room she was in bed. He felt disappointed; he had hoped to watch her undressing. Her clothes lay across the chair. She lay with her back to him, her face buried in the pillow. He smiled at the blonde head that was almost completely concealed by the sheets; there was something endearing and childlike in her complete lack of any attempt at feminine mystery. Within a few seconds he was in bed beside her, his bare arms encountering the nakedness of her shoulders with a physical shock.

He had been right in supposing her sleepiness would not withstand the strangeness of sleeping with a man for the first time. She turned over immediately, and put her arms around his neck. Exultation bubbled up in him; he remembered the frustration on the boat, and later on her bed at Gertrude Quincey's, and his suspicion that something might prevent him from ever feeling her naked body beside him in bed. It was not true, and the realisation seemed to involve some more general truth that he was too excited to examine. A phrase from the Sibelius third symphony came into his head, and combined with the pleasure that rose in him as he touched her breast. They lay there in the dark, not speaking, only exploring one another's bodies. At that moment, he felt a desire to engulf her, to absorb her completely. She stopped him as he moved his weight across her.

Is it… will it be safe, sweet? I don't want a baby yet!

It'll be all right… don't worry…

He felt her tense under him. He said:

Bite my shoulder if it hurts. Don't worry.

Oh sweet… it… it hurts… oh, it does hurt. Stop it, please.

Her loins tensed, and she writhed away from him. He was not disappointed; on the contrary, he was delighted that he continued to want her, that he had not experienced the usual lurch of the stomach and paralysis of desire, the feeling that it had all been a mistake. He said gently:

Don't get so tense, sweet.

I can't help it. God, does it hurt all girls as much as this?

I expect so.

Have you ever… done it before?

Yes… but let's not talk about it.

I don't mind, really I don't. I wouldn't like you to be a virgin too.

She suddenly began to giggle.

God, imagine what it must be like when the man's a virgin too..!!!

They recognised that in the Middle Ages. You know about the droit de seigneur?

No. What is it?

I suspect it was to prevent women from having their first marital experience with an inexperienced husband. The lord of the manor — who was assumed to be an accomplished lover — would sleep with the wife of his tenant on the first night, and take her maidenhead.

Did they really do that?

He had been speaking with the deliberate intention of relaxing her, and he could feel the success of the attempt.

I'm not sure that the custom doesn't still exist in some countries.

He started to kiss her again, and felt her response immediately. As he started to move his weight, he said softly:

Try to help me this time. Relax.

I do try, really. I just can't help it. That's right, sweet: it's soothing. I'm sorry I'm not very good, Gerard.

Don't be silly.

I am. I suppose you'd much rather be in bed… ooh, sweet, careful… oh, it hurts.

I…

She pressed her clenched teeth against his shoulder, then suddenly wriggled away.

I'm sorry, sweet… I can't. It hurts.

Lie still. Don't worry.

He heard a clock somewhere strike three, as he stared into the darkness. He suspected she had just fallen asleep; her breathing was quiet. He now felt no sexual excitement, and no sense of strangeness in her presence. He lay on his back, and remembered previous occasions like this, and the violence of unresolved feeling, forgotten the next morning, but revealing in its upsurge areas of himself that he had never explored. He remembered the girl on the Embankment whose dress had blown over her head, the fever of lust, and thought: perhaps that's all sex is… a fever. A cheat. If it had been Caroline, I'd have felt the same lust. Yet she lies here, and I take it calmly. Is it a confidence trick? Supposing I succeeded next time I tried. What would be the difference?

She would be my 'mistress', that's all, a symbol of my domination, of success. But would there be any revelations as I made love to her? Would I feel curiously renewed, brushed by a sort of immortality? What about all the D. H. Lawrence stuff? No, he was a fool and a fraud. It can be good, but never that good. Never in its own right. Only as a part of your bigger aims. The orgasm is just raw energy, light and heat. What makes it important are the ideals it illuminates.

She sat up suddenly. He asked:

What is it?

I want to go downstairs… I'll put my overcoat on…

Take my bicycle lamp. It's on the bookcase.

He stretched out in the bed. It was a wide single bed, big enough for two, but it was a luxurious sensation to have it to himself for a moment. The room was not dark. He could see the outline of her clothes on the chair. By reaching out his hand, he could feel the silkiness of the slip between his finger and thumb. It reminded him of a train journey from Liverpool to London; across the gangway sat two schoolgirls, both about fourteen, dressed for the holidays and travelling with large suitcases. One of them was exceptionally slim, and wore a brown tweed skirt; this had slipped about two inches above her knees, showing the elaborately embroidered hem of a nylon petticoat. Her stockings — obviously new for the occasion — were sheer hose. He suspected she was a little proud of the embroidered hem of the slip, for she made only two perfunctory attempts to pull down her skirt in the course of a four-hour journey. At first he had tried to ignore the sight, feeling slightly ashamed of the desire that rose in his throat. He tried staring out of the window, and allowed his imagination to toy with the idea of holding her in his arms. Finally, he had possessed her so completely in imagination that it caused a shock of surprise to look at her — and at the tantalising area of embroidered nylon — and to realise she was still a stranger. Once she met his eyes, and looked away, blushing.

What amazed him was that she still made no attempt to conceal the lacework that hinted at bedrooms and surrender. At Paddington, he seized his bags and rushed along the platform, possessed by a sudden conviction that she would catch the same bus, sit opposite him again for a further half hour, and print her image indestructibly in his brain.

But he never saw her again.

If it had been she who was sleeping with him now, whose clothes lay on the chair beside the bed, no fulfilment could ever reproduce the intensity of travelling opposite her from Liverpool to London. It was somehow a cheat, a desire without an object.

Caroline came back into the room; her body was cool as it encountered his. He began to kiss her hard, delighting in the instantaneous reflex of desire that pressed her body against him. This time he made no sudden moves to alarm her, only caressing her as she lay by his side, kissing the hardening nipples. As her body recovered its warmth, her arms tightened around him; the tension in her muscles suggested that she was trying to force their bodies to interpenetrate by physical pressure. His own desire was lagging behind the excitement that constricted her breathing. He allowed himself to be led by her, moving across her, responding as her hands fumbled to adjust their position. He heard her breathe: 'Now', and knew it was successful, encountering warmth where before there had been only resistance. She moaned suddenly: Oh God, it hurts… He felt the sharpness of her teeth on his lower lips as the resistance of her loins disappeared. She said: Lie still… still… Don't move.

He lay there, obediently, his face buried in the pillow, feeling her relax under him.

He felt no sexual excitement; there had been no pleasure in the act; now he felt only the detached pleasure of an accomplishment. When he stirred, accidentally, she said instantly: Don't move!

Some time later he had began to doze, lying in the same position, when she woke him by movements. He had relaxed completely; now, as he began to feel desire, she said: Oh God, it still hurts.

Never mind, sweet. It worked.

She said, in his ear: Yes. I'm not a virgin any more, am I? It's really worked.

Oh… please stop moving, sweet. Please…

He felt her tense underneath him, concentrate on the pain; this time he ignored her, and kept on moving. When her hips began to move rhythmically, he knew it was all right. Abruptly, he knew it was not a cheat. What was happening now was realler than any of his thoughts about sex, more real than anything except pain: it was an intimation of the reason behind the tireless continuity of life. He felt astonished at his own stupidity for not realising it before. He wanted to make a vow: to accept always, only accept, accept anything, embrace everything with the certainty that all things would yield like this, an engulfing pleasure. Her body was curved up to him, her teeth on his lips, her nails in his back. The light threatened to hurt him, to burn and shatter as it flooded from his loins and stomach and brain.

When their bodies were relaxed, still throbbing, like two cars standing by the roadside after a long race, he asked her: What happened, sweet?

I don't know. It hurt horribly. And I just concentrated — ever so hard — on the pain, just thought of nothing else. Then the pain went, and I was enjoying it.