Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER THREE

She insisted that he stay in bed while she made tea. The thought that she might be seen walking around in his dressing-gown alarmed him, but her pleasure was so obvious that he could not bring himself to stop her. He sat up in bed, trying to read, but with only half his attention on the book, listening for the noise of Callet moving around in the next room or Carlotte cleaning the stairs. Caroline was in the bathroom. A few moments later she came out and mounted the stairs; at the same time he heard other footsteps on the lower flight. As she came into the room, he asked:

Who was it?

Who was what?

That.

The noise of footsteps passed his door, and went on up the next flight. She said:

I don't know. I didn't notice.

Probably Carlotte going to clean the old man's room. Unless it's a new tenant.

Footsteps sounded across the floor above them. He said:

You look sweet in that dressing-gown. It needs to be a foot shorter.

She sat on the edge of the bed and kissed him. Even without makeup, and with her hair uncombed, her face looked pink and childlike.

How do you feel this morning?

Sore. Otherwise fine.

Tired?

No. I'll get back into bed if you like!

He pulled her shoulders back on to the bed, and kissed her. There was a heavy thump from overhead. Sorme looked at the ceiling, saying:

Are you there, truepenny?

There was a grinding noise, as of an armchair being moved on castors. Caroline said:

I expect it's the girl tidying the room. Let me up. I'll make the tea.

He watched her as she stopped on the hearthrug, spooning tea into the two pint thermos, and tried to observe the emotions she aroused in him. He was glad he had slept with her; he was glad he knew her body now; but that was all. There was no deeper satisfaction, no assuaged hunger. It was something he could not define. It worried him. The experience had left almost nothing except a slight physical tiredness. He thought: What do I want anyway? What do all men want? The need is universal. Caroline…

She was getting dressed now, standing naked on the hearthrug in front of the gas fire, slipping into her clothes without self-consciousness. She is a natural mistress. Or wife. Same thing, I suppose. Wants a husband. Thinks she's in love.

But I don't want to be a husband. Nice little hubby, good dog.

I am too many people. Need to express myself. With her body under mine. How else? Watching the dawn rise over Yamdrok Tso or Sadiya. Why not Islington or the Welsh Harp?

… from Islington to Marybone

To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood,

Were builded over with pillars of gold;

And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.

Could never kill. Life delights in life. I have too much. Too comfortable. Need a battle to fight.

The press studs at the waist of her skirt engaged with a snap of metal. She poured tea into two mugs through a strainer. She said:

I wish we could go away somewhere. For a long time… It'd be nice to live together, wouldn't it?

He said, smiling: Why not? You could move in here.

What about your landlady? What about mummy and daddy? What about Aunt Gertrude? And what about Austin?

Well, what about Austin?

He'd be jealous.

I doubt it…

As he was about to take the tea from her, someone knocked on the door. He said softly:

Oh blimey!

He jumped out of bed, and snatched his dressing-gown from the back of the chair, afraid the door would open before he could reach it. He was tying the cord as he opened it; Carlotte said:

There's someone on the phone for you…

Oh, thanks…

She leaned towards him:

And I'm afraid…

She gestured with her head towards the stairs. He stared at her without comprehension.

What?

She said, in a conspiratorial hiss:

He is back!

Who? Not the old man?

She nodded. He was divided between indignant incredulity, and a fear that she might look into his room and see Caroline. He said:

Oh blimey… I'd better answer that phone…

She nodded sympathetically, smiling. Her smile was more friendly and intimate than he had known it before; it increased his alarm in case Caroline appeared behind him. He mumbled:

I'll get my slippers… and closed the door. He raised his finger to his lips to signal Caroline to be silent, and found his slippers. He caught Carlotte half way down the stairs.

Does Mrs Miller know he's back?

Oh yes. She sent him.

She must be mad! Doesn't she care if he sets fire to the place?

The girl turned and looked at him; her eyes were curiously mocking. Her face distorted into a strange grimace that gave it a devilish appearance. She said softly:

She has increased his rent!

Before he could reply, she had run down the flight of stairs into the basement, and left him staring at the phone that lay on the hall table.

Hello?

Hello, Gerard. Austin…

Oh hello. How are you?

I'm OK. Look, can you have lunch with me today?

I… yes, I expect so. Any special reason?

Yes. I want you to meet two friends of mine…

Who are they?

American writers.

Anyone I know?

Probably not. They're both young. I think you'll find them interesting. They belong to a group called the Chicago rebels. Can you get over here about midday? We'll have a drink, then go to Soho. OK?

OK. Thanks. By the way, I didn't say thanks for the other night…

For making you sick, you mean?

No, but… you were very sweet.

Not at all, old boy. See you later. OK?

He returned upstairs, feeling how totally unpredictable Nunne could be. The last time he had phoned he sounded like a spoiled child; now he sounded like a protective older brother.

Who was it?

Austin.

Speak of the devil!

He wanted me to go for lunch. But if you're free for lunch, I can put him off…

No, don't worry, darling. I ought to be getting home, otherwise mummy and daddy might start trying to phone the friend I'm supposed to have stayed with last night!

He pulled her to him and kissed her. Her mouth tasted of warm tea. It was a luxury to feel her warmth pressed against him; a sensation like electricity ran through his chest and thighs. As she pressed herself closer, her left arm disengaged itself from his neck, and the hand groped inside the dressing-gown. He said thickly:

What a silly thing to do… getting dressed.

He pulled open the press studs at the waist of her skirt, and unzipped it. Helping her with the buttons at the back of the blouse, he noticed that his tea was untouched.

He made love very gently, aware of the tension in her, the fear of being hurt.

They lay side by side, looking at the ceiling. He said:

That old bleeder's back upstairs.

Are you sure?

Afraid so.

He raised on one elbow, and tasted his lukewarm tea. She said:

I'll make you some more.

Don't bother… You know, I think I'll ask Austin if he doesn't know of a flat. His father owns half Marylebone. I don't think I can stand this old sod for another week. It'd wreck me.

Someone knocked on the door, startling him. He whispered to Caroline: Ssshh! and slipped out of bed, reaching for the gown.

He expected to see Carlotte. It was the old man. His eyes looked less watery; he was wearing a tweed suit that seemed to be of good quality, and a clean shirt. He smiled shyly:

I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but do you happen to have a match?

His voice was clear and firm. Sorme groped in the dressing-gown pocket, and handed him a box.

Thank you… but I won't take the box…

That's all right. It's nearly empty.

The old man smiled at him, as if they had some secret reason for liking one another, and dropped the matches in his pocket. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Sorme said:

I… hope you're… better now.

I am. Thank you.

As if Sorme's words had decided him, he turned and walked away. As Sorme started to close the door, he turned round, smiling apologetically.

Perhaps you'd like to see the morning paper?

He pulled a folded newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to Sorme, then disappeared hastily, as if afraid of having committed an indiscretion.

Sorme went back into the room, opening the paper. The headlines read: HUSBAND ARRESTED FOR GREENWICH MURDER.

Who was it?

Him. He jerked his chin at the ceiling.

He sounded all right.

Oh, he does. He is all right till he gets drunk. Which he is for about twenty-three hours a day.

He stood at the table, reading the front page. She was dressing again. He said:

So he didn't move after all.

Who?

The Whitechapel killer.

As he was pulling on his shoes, she said suddenly:

You ought to buy a flat in Whitechapel. I bet the value of property's gone down since these murders.

That's a very clever remark, sweet.

Don't you think?

Why not? Or perhaps Austin and his father are in this together — Austin doing the murders and his father buying the property at cut prices.

She said, grimacing: But I shouldn't think Austin would murder women, would he?

I don't know. I'll ask him when I see him.

He arrived at Albany Street half an hour late. The doorman said:

Ah, Mr Nunne's waiting for you, sir. You haven't brought the other two gentlemen with you, then?

No. No sign of them?

They hadn't arrived five minutes ago, when Mr Nunne rang down.

Nunne opened the door. Sorme said immediately:

I'm sorry I'm late.

That's all right. They haven't arrived yet either. How are you, Gerard? You look tired.

Too much writing, I expect.

Whisky?

Thanks. By the way, Austin, I meant to ask you when we were alone… Do you know of any unfurnished flats or rooms around here?

For you?

Yes. I'm thinking of changing.

But my dear boy, you're always changing.

I know. Do you remember that old man I told you about?

Yes. Is he out of hospital?

Sorme nodded.

He arrived this morning. So I expect I'll get no sleep until he has another accident.

Nunne sat in the armchair, and lit a cigarette.

There are always ways and means, aren't there?

Seeing Sorme's puzzled look, he said:

We might arrange a little accident, don't you think?

Are you serious?

Quite. For instance…

The buzzer sounded. Nunne crossed to the door. Alone for a moment, Sorme stared at the bars of the fire, and wondered what new aspect of his personality Nunne was preparing to spring on him. He heard a loud American voice say:

Hiya, man! Good to see ya.

They came into the room, followed by Nunne. Nunne said:

That's Gerard Sorme. Gerard, this is Cal Teschmeyer and Rudi James.

The short, Italianate-looking man said affably:

Hiya, Gerard. How're ya?

His friend reached over the back of the chair, patted Sorme on the shoulder, and said in a deep, pleasant voice:

Glad t'meetcha, man.

He flopped into the armchair that Nunne had vacated, letting his arms fall limply over the sides. He had a long, hollow face, with three days' growth of blond stubble on the chin. Like his companion, he wore a leather jacket, with a brightly coloured shirt underneath. The Italian-looking man sat beside Sorme on the divan, saying:

What d'they call you — Jerry?

You can if you like.

Good. I'm Cal and he's Jimmy.

Nunne asked from the sideboard:

What will you have?

Any bourbon?

Yes.

Jimmy turned round in his chair, and peered into the drink cabinet. He whistled shrilly.

Hey, dig that crazy man! He's got a dozen bottles of the stuff in there! We struck lucky, son. Yoohoo!

He sprang up, loped over to Nunne, and seized a bottle with both hands, kissing it fondly. He said throatily:

Boy, am I glad to see you!

Cal asked Sorme:

You a writer?

Sorme said, shrugging: Nothing worth talking about. What do you write?

Novels. Jimmy there writes poetry. He founded his own school…

Aw, can it! Jimmy said.

…which our friend and sympathetic mentor Professor Trilling…

Sonofabitch! Jimmy shouted.

…referred to as the diarrhoea school of poetry!

He began to laugh; it was a high laugh that lurched and squeaked; somehow it reminded Sorme of an old car on a bumpy road. Jimmy said vengefully:

Yeah, and ya know what Time Magazine said about his last novel…?

Nunne handed him a tumbler half full of whisky. He seized it, sniffed it ecstatically, and poured it down his throat immediately. He said affectionately:

Aust'n, I love ya. Ya got what it takes.

He allowed Nunne to pour more whisky, saying with mock belligerence:

Who cares what the bastards say? Like Omar Khayyam said, 'the dogs bark but the caravan rolls on'.

Nunne handed Cal a glass, asking gravely:

Have you boys been drinking already?

Oh, he's not drunk, Cal said. He's always like this. Ain't ya, daddy-o? He's been talking all night.

What about? Sorme asked.

Oh, God or something.

Jimmy asked: Where d'you keep your records?

In there.

Cal said: Somebody told him about Merejkovsky or something, how these Russians used to sit up all night, and when somebody yawned, they'd say…

Jimmy shouted: Hey, wait, lemme tell it. Listen! They'd argue all night, these guys, and when somebody suggested hitting the sack, do you know what they'd say? 'We can't sleep yet. We haven't decided if God exists.'

He gave a high whoop of delight, and turned back to the record cabinet. A moment later, he said with admiration:

Hey, man, get this! Miles Davis and Dizzie and — wow! — a whole album of Bird. Can we play some?

Nunne said cautiously:

Don't you think we should go and eat first? It's after one.

Just one, Jimmy said. Just one side of Bird. We can grease later.

Gal asked Sorme: Do you dig bop?

I…

Before he could answer, the gramophone drowned his voice. Jimmy lay back on the floor and kicked his feet in the air: he shouted: 'Bells, daddy-o!'

Cal leaned over, and shouted in Sorme's ear:

You a jazz fan?

I don't know much. I like Bix Beiderbecke.

Great! Cal shouted. He gestured at Jimmy. He don't. Thinks it's square stuff.

Sorme glanced cautiously at his watch, wondering how soon he could get away. The noise and strange language struck him as deliberate exhibitionism. He looked up, and caught Nunne regarding him with amused interest: the brown eyes were as soft as an animal's and as sardonic and caressing as a heathen god. For a moment Sorme felt again the curious awe and submission that he had felt before in Nunne's presence; the sense of being with someone of a different species. Nunne closed his eyes and relaxed in the chair.

As the record came to an end, Jimmy sat up. He said sadly:

That gone cat Charlie. He killed himself.

He looked across at Sorme, and Sorme was struck by his sincerity. He asked: What happened to him?

Cal said briefly: Booze and hop.

Little fat guy, Jimmy said. As sweet as they come, but temperamental. We used to know him, on the West coast.

Nunne switched off the gramophone. He said:

Let's go and eat. I'm ravenous.

Sorme followed them out of the room. Jimmy walked with a shambling gait that was almost ape-like. Sorme wondered what Cal meant by 'booze and hop': he presumed 'hop' was another word for 'bebop'; the idea of a short, fat man dancing himself to death struck him as curiously depressing.

The two Americans stopped talking during the meal; they ate voraciously, giving Sorme the impression they hadn't eaten for days. But when Nunne asked casually, Hungry? Cal said:

I ate a big breakfast. That always makes me eat like hell for the rest of the day.

They drank the wine like beer, in long pulls. Jimmy said abruptly:

Trouble with British writers, you don't kick enough.

Kick who? Sorme asked.

Anybody. F'rinstance — what you writing now?

A novel.

About what?

A sexual killer.

They looked impressed. Cal said:

That's a good subject. Why d'you want to write about it?

To make money.

Well, why not, Jimmy said. 'S a good reason.

He looked puzzled. Nunne said, smiling:

He's pulling your leg.

Jimmy smiled, broadly and candidly:

Oh yeah? Well, it's still a good reason. But seriously, you really writing about a sex killer?

Yes.

Cal leaned forward.

Do you know any?

Certainly, Sorme said. Several. Me and Austin, to begin with. Perhaps you and Jimmy. I don't know.

He's right, Jimmy said unexpectedly. He's got you there, Cal. You don't need to know one. It could be anybody.

Is that what you're gettin' at? Cal asked.

Suppressing a strong desire to get up and leave, Sorme said:

No. Not really.

What, then?

He decided to make the best of it; after a moment's thought, he said:

I want to isolate the modern sense of dispossession. The sense of being left in the cold. Of not having enough of life. Do you know what I mean?

Do we! Cal said.

Jimmy said excitedly: Sure, I know what you mean. Like a guy I knew in S.F., spent most of his life in reformatories and gaols, and you couldn't hold him still. His favourite diversion was landing his girl friends with babies. That way he felt he was making the best of it. That boy wanted to eat and drink his freedom… anything for kicks; he had to keep moving, doing things, drinking, smoking tea, laying sweeties. That boy wanted a past to look back on next time he landed in gaol.

He turned to Nunne, saying:

Didj'ever read Thomas Wolfe? There was a dispossessed man for you… 'Scuse me, man, I just gotta go to the can. Where they keep it in this place?

Nunne directed him; they watched the two of them crossing the room together, talking excitedly, attracting attention from most other diners in the room. Nunne said:

What do you think of them?

They tire me out. I'd like to get home.

Really? You're being very antisocial today. And they like you. I can tell.

I like them. But they don't know how to make conversation. There's no attempt to get in tune. They just fire questions and comments at you like a machine-gun. And they seem to imagine that it's all getting them somewhere interesting. I couldn't resist talking about dispossession. They're about the worst examples I've ever seen.

You're being a little premature, you know. Cal has some rather interesting views on mysticism. He became a Mohammedan a few years ago… By the way, are you serious about writing this novel?

No. I invented it on the spur of the moment. You can't talk seriously about your work like that, at five seconds' notice.

Nunne said reprovingly:

You're not sufficiently interested in people, you know, Gerard. I've noticed it in you before.

Maybe, Sorme said noncommittally. The Americans were returning, Jimmy walking with the exaggerated ape-slouch, and still talking and gesturing. As soon as Jimmy sat down, he asked:

D'you ever try Yoga?

Not seriously, Sorme said.

Pity. You ought to try that. Cal used to practise it — the soofi method, it was called. I used to know a guy here in London who did it too… boy, he was really whacky, used to shoot himself full of coke, then sit like a screwball on his can for days.

Sorme began to scrape at the label of the empty wine bottle with his fingernail, wondering how to excuse himself quickly. He was feeling the beginning of a mental exhaustion that interfered with his digestion. Before he could invent a reason for leaving, he caught a name, and looked up quickly:

Did you say Glasp?

Yeah. You know him?

Oliver Glasp, the painter?

Jimmy said: I dunno whether this guy painted, and I can't remember his first name. But he was a real screwball.

It could be the same one, Sorme said. It's an unusual name.

Could be. This was five years ago. He was a bit of a pervert, too.

Was he? How?

Oh, he had a thing about little girls… always talking about them. We all reckoned he'd finish up in stir.

Could it be Oliver? Sorme asked Nunne.

I doubt it. By the way, Gerard, you ought to go soon if you're supposed to be taking a phone call at half past two.

Sorme looked at him with gratitude. He said:

Yes, I suppose I ought. I'm sorry to have to leave.

Let's meet again afterwards, Jimmy said. I'd like to talk some more about this dispossession idea.

I can't make it today, I'm afraid… but Austin could arrange it easily…

To his surprise, they both stood up and shook hands with polite formality when he left. He hurried out into Greek Street with a sense of relief. It had begun to rain.

He walked into the rain, his coat collar turned up, oblivious of the people who hurried past him on the narrow pavements. A Negro woman tried to accost him at the junction of Shaftesbury Avenue; he smiled vaguely at her and walked on. Something worried him; he wished Nunne was still there. On a sudden impulse, he turned into a phone box. The Hungarian priest answered the phone. Sorme gave his name and asked if Father Carruthers was free. A few minutes later, the priest returned, and said that Father Carruthers would be free until four o'clock. Sorme looked at his watch. It was after three. He said:

Thank you very much. I'll come over now.

On the bus, travelling down Holborn, he wondered what he wanted to say to the priest. It was some compulsion to unravel a knot; but his ideas about what he was unravelling were uncertain. He was balanced on the edge of an excitement that refused to be denned.

The Hungarian priest took him up, and left him at the end of the corridor. Father Carruthers was sitting in front of the fire, wearing a dressing-gown over pyjamas. Sorme was pleased by the warmth of his grip as he shook hands: he was secretly afraid of boring the old man.

I'm glad you came, Gerard. Sit down.

When Sorme was seated, and before he could speak further, the priest leaned forward, saying:

Did Stein ask you any questions yesterday?

Yes. We went and had a cup of coffee…

Who suggested that?

He did.

The priest looked grave.

And he asked you about Austin?

Why, yes. How did you know?

The priest ignored him. He was staring past Sorme's head out of the window. Something in his face kept Sorme silent; it was an expression he would never have associated with the priest, a mixture of power and concentration with detached regret, a summary. The silence lengthened. Glancing cautiously at his wristwatch, Sorme noticed it was almost twenty to four. The priest looked at him; he seemed to have come to a decision. He said quietly:

I think you are a reliable person, aren't you, Gerard?

I hope so, father.

The priest's tone was clear and businesslike.

In my profession, I am often obliged to make decisions that contravene the law — or, rather, ignore it. I have to work upon the assumption that individual souls are of value. The law judges a man by what he has done: I have to judge him by what he is. Do you understand?

Sorme nodded.

What I am going to tell you now will place us both in that position…

He was silent: Sorme waited, with a foreboding. He anticipated what the priest was going to say and prepared himself for it.

On Thursday night, Franz Stein received information from the Hamburg police that gave him reason to suppose that Austin might be the Whitechapel murderer.

He stopped. Sorme sat there, surprised by his own calm. He asked finally:

Will they arrest him?

Not yet.

Why?

They have no evidence. It would be very difficult to find evidence at this stage. He is being watched all the time.

And is he… the killer?

He could be.

The questions piled up in him, obstructing one another like a cumulative accident on an arterial highway; he felt them escaping in the confusion. The priest watched him without speaking. Sorme said:

He's not insane. I'm certain he's not insane.

I don't know.

But… is it sense? Do you… do you know what the Hamburg report said?

Yes. He is well known to the prostitutes who cater for sadists. And he is suspected of murder.

Murder?

Of a young male prostitute. There is no definite evidence. He is one of a dozen suspects.

Sorme said with sudden indignation:

But hell, father…! That's no reason to suspect a man… of mass murder, I mean, is it? Is that all? Is there anything else?

No, that's all.

But in that case, it's not so serious. Austin might be one of a hundred suspects. And he has one great fact in his favour. He's queer. You say he's suspected of killing a male prostitute. Surely that…

Quite. The evidence is slim. But there is evidence. If Austin is the murderer… and it is just possible, after all… if he is the killer, then he stands no chance of escaping detection now. The police are clever. They know there is no point in alarming him. If they had any evidence at all, they'd make an arrest. As it is, they will watch him to see if he provides evidence. If he drove to Whitechapel tonight and walked around the streets — even if he did nothing more- they might arrest him.

After a silence, Sorme asked:

Suppose he is the killer… what'd happen to him if they caught him?

The priest said softly, with precision:

They would hang him.

Are you sure, father?

Quite sure.

No chance of Broadmoor?

None whatever. Even if he was declared insane, he would be hanged. He has no past record of mental instability — no periods in asylums, or past convictions that might be interpreted as pathological. They would have to hang him, as they hanged Heath and Haigh and Christie — because the newspapers have headlined the murders until there is a widespread neurosis about them.

Sorme knew suddenly, without needing to ask, why the ' priest had confided in him. He felt an urgency of anger rising in him, a protest against the unreasonableness of it all, the stupidity and unfairness that was a force of nature, not a human failing, and was therefore somehow unchallengeable. He asked quietly.

What am I to do, father?

That is difficult. I want to ask you one thing: please do not tell Austin. There are other ways. If you see him often…

I've just had lunch with him!

Good. Well, there are ways. You might pretend to notice that you are being followed. You might invent someone who has asked you questions about Austin. But if you tell him, and he is finally caught and tried for murder, then you are an accessory. Do you understand?

I see… You think he might tell?

He would, eventually. Sooner or later, he would feel the need to confess fully. I am assuming now that he might be the murderer.

Sorme said:

Father… I promise I won't tell him outright

Good.

But… I dunno quite how to put it… have you any idea of whether it's likely… of whether Austin might be…?

The priest shrugged.

How can I tell? I haven't seen Austin for a long time.

His reply left Sorme baffled; he could feel himself become inarticulate as he tried to explain himself. He said:

But I don't think it's likely, you know! It's just not likely!

Why?

Because… well, because one's friends don't usually turn out to be murderers, I suppose.

The priest smiled.

Mine have.

Really?

On two occasions. However, that's beside the point. After all, it can hardly come as a surprise to you that Austin should be suspected. You have spoken to me about your own suspicions.

Yes… but I think I know him better since then. He's mixed up, I know. He's almost the original crazy mixed-up kid. But he's also gentle and good tempered and generous. These qualities just don't go with a killer.

The priest said:

And yet you showed no surprise when I told you of the Hamburg murder. Were you certain that was not Austin either?

I… I don't know. I don't think… it's likely. But… well, how can I tell? I don't know the circumstances. It's possible. A foreign city, an attempt to con him or rob him in the night… and Austin's enormously strong, I'd guess. It could happen and still not mean a thing…

And supposing it was not like that? Supposing it was ordinary sadistic murder? How would you feel about it then?

I don't know, but it wouldn't necessarily make any difference. I'd still want to know why before I decided. I mean I'd want to get inside Austin's skin and feel as he did when he… did it.

Why?

Because… you can't judge anything otherwise. Besides, it's not so hard to understand. Sometimes you don't really do things — another part of you does them, and you're only a spectator. I could put myself in the skin of a sadist all right.

Could you?

I… think so.

Have you ever caused suffering… physical suffering?

I suppose so. I used to kill chickens at Christmas when I was a boy. But I didn't particularly enjoy doing it. And I once drowned a mouse that I found in my waste bucket, and poured boiling water on it as it swam around. But that was because I was afraid it'd take hours to die. I wouldn't do that now.

Why?

It'd make me feel sick. Besides, there's an instinct in me that hates killing.

The priest said quietly and conclusively:

Then you could not place yourself in the mind of a sadist, could you?

That doesn't follow. A sadist's a sexual killer, isn't he? That makes it different. Most people can sympathise to some extent with a sex crime.

Can they?

I… think so. I can, anyway. I think many people have a permanent feeling of being sexually underprivileged. But I'd have to think about it. It's not easy.

Do you think of yourself as sexually underprivileged?

Yes, but that's only the negative side of it. I think it's a kind of vision… of complete fullness of life that underlies it. After all, the sexual impulse isn't so important. I sometimes wish I could outgrow sex altogether… I know that sounds odd, but it's true.

It doesn't sound at all odd, especially not to me. A man doesn't have to be a saint to rise above sex. A great many scientists and mathematicians have done it, and a large proportion of the philosophers.

I know, father, I know. But it's not as simple as that. You can't just decide to exchange sex for the life of the mind or whatever it is. I used to have a Freudian friend whose favourite phrase was 'Everybody's neurotic'. I used to think he was a fool, but I'm beginning to see his point. What's a neurosis, after all? It's a pocket of unfulfilled desire — any kind of desire. And human beings work on unfulfilled desires — there's nothing else.

Except habit.

Yes; but habit only keeps us living. Desire keeps us moving forward. And we all want to keep moving, so we all cultivate our desires. You know something, father. I've been so confused for the past five years because I didn't want enough. I thought I could live off Plato and Beethoven, and found I couldn't. But it's not because there's anything wrong with Plato or Beethoven. It's me — I'm not ready for them. But don't you see, father, I shouldn't be aware of sexual problems if I hadn't tried to leave them behind. And I'm sure it's the same with Austin. If he's a sadist, it's because he's torn in two. I don't know Austin as a sadist. I know him as a rather generous dilettante who likes ballet and music and philosophy. I think it's the same with him as with me. You know, father, Shaw said we judge an artist by his highest moments and a criminal by his lowest. But what happens when a man's a mixture of the two? You can't sentence the criminal half to death and let the artist go free, can you? Especially when you know he wouldn't be a criminal if he wasn't an artist.

You think the criminal should be allowed to kill other human beings?

No, father. God forbid! I just think that…

He felt suddenly deflated. He finished lamely:

…it's more important to cure him than punish him.

I agree. The problem with Austin is whether he's curable…

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter past four. Sorme said:

I'd better go. I'll try to find Austin.

Be careful, Gerard. You don't want to be sent to prison as an accessory.

No, father.

The priest said, smiling:

Not to mention me.

I promise.

Before you go… would you mind asking Father Rakosi if there's anyone waiting for me downstairs?

All right, father.

He met the Scotswoman as he opened the door. She said:

The man's gone. He waited ten minutes, then said he was going for a walk.

The priest said: Good. I'm tired. Could I have a cup of tea, Mrs Doughty?

Sorme went out into the rain and the falling dusk, feeling a stifled impatience with his sense of unreality. He felt as if he had just been acting in a play.

He half recognised the man who was approaching him across the road; a moment later, he saw it was Glasp.

Hi, Oliver! Where are you going to?

He sensed immediately a certain moroseness in Glasp's manner. Glasp said:

I was waiting for you.

There was a suggestion of a threat in his voice, that Sorme failed to understand.

How did you know I was here?

That woman told me. I was waiting to see Father Carruthers.

I see! That was you, was it? Well, what are you going to do now?

Glasp hesitated. Sorme looked at him closely, puzzled. Glasp said:

I didn't know you were a close friend of Father Carruthers.

I'm not. But I've seen him several times.

They stood on the edge of the pavement. Sorme laid a hand on Glasp's arm.

Come and have a cup of tea. We can't stand here in this downpour.

Glasp accompanied him into Farringdon Road without speaking. They walked to the cafe where Sorme had been with Stein. Glasp was wearing the most threadbare and shabby overcoat Sorme had ever seen, and it was soaked with rain. He was also hatless; his red hair clung to his skull and forehead in strands; the rain made it look deep brown.

The cafe was warm, and almost empty. They sat near the window, where the steamed surface was like a wall between them and the gathering dusk. In normal circumstances, Glasp's moroseness would have worried Sorme, but the excitement of his talk with the priest made him now indifferent to it. He drank his tea and thought about Nunne, wondering where he was now, trying to recollect any words or actions that might add weight to his suspicions.

He had almost emptied his cup before Glasp spoke:

What do you find to talk about with him?

With…? Oh, Father Carruthers. Oh… various things. Nothing that would interest you.

No?

I don't think so.

He had caught the suspicion in Glasp's face. He said:

Why? Did you suppose we were talking about you?

Weren't you?

No. Why on earth should we? You get some extraordinary ideas!

His tone was less restrained than his words; it implied: What makes you suppose we give a damn about you? Glasp coloured and drank a mouthful of tea in a gulp; Sorme immediately felt remorse. He said:

I've been talking over… some rather important subjects… I can't be more explicit.

Austin, Glasp said. It was not a question but a statement.

Yes.

Glasp said abruptly:

I'm sorry if I got the wrong idea. But… I've had one or two doses of people getting officious about me. And Father Carruthers used to be a member of the Reform Oliver Society.

Not at all. Are you going to see him now?

No. I won't go back.

Won't he wonder where you are?

It doesn't matter. He's probably glad to escape a session…

What are you doing now?

Going back home.

Why don't you come back with me? Have a meal and talk.

As he said it, he was almost certain Glasp would refuse. He was surprised to see Glasp hesitating, and the moment brought an intuition of his fundamental loneliness. Glasp said:

I've already had one meal with you.

There's not much, Sorme said. But there's enough for two, anyway. You may as well.

All right. Thanks.

The prospect of the ride in the Underground, with a change at Tottenham Court Road, so depressed him that he hailed a passing taxi as they came into Holborn. Glasp said:

You're picking up Austin's habits!

Sorme said: Never mind. I don't want to mess about in this rain.

He repressed his own sense of rashness by reflecting that Austin had paid for his lunch, and probably saved the price of the taxi.

He left Glasp to make the tea, and went downstairs to phone Nunne. There was no reply from the flat; the girl on the switchboard asked if she could take a message. Sorme declined, and returned to his room. The thought that the line might be tapped brought a sense of danger, and the realisation that the call might easily be traced back to his own address. The memory of his hesitation, as he had waited for a reply, the uncertainty whether to warn Nunne that he had something urgent to tell him, constricted his throat with a sense of a close escape.

Glasp was not in the room when he returned. He drew the curtains, looking towards the lights of the Kentish Town Road, wondering if the police thought it worth while to keep a watch on him too. He sat in the armchair, and indulged in a fantasy in which he was arrested with Austin as an accessory before the fact. He imagined the Public Prosecutor describing his excursions with Nunne into Spitalfields, his acting as a decoy to lure a woman into some alleyway. He remembered suddenly that he had told Stein that his acquaintance with Nunne had been very short, and he was amused by the sense of relief that took him unaware. When Glasp came back into the room, he was startled, having completely forgotten about him. Glasp said:

Look here, what about skipping tea? Come and have a drink with me?

Sorme looked at the clock.

Well… all right. That's a good idea.

He could sense that Glasp was concerned about accepting his hospitality for a second time in three days; this worried him. He had no wish to make Glasp feel under obligation to him; accepting a drink from Glasp seemed an opportunity to disperse the awkwardness. He touched Glasp's overcoat, that hung on the back of the door, dripping water on the floor.

You'd better borrow my raincoat. We'll put this in the kitchen to dry.

That's all right. I've worn it wetter than that.

Yes, but… it'd better dry out. Come to think of it, I've got a plastic mac somewhere in here.

He rummaged in an unpacked cardboard box in the bottom of the wardrobe, and found the macintosh, tied in a tight parcel. Glasp sat huddled over the fire, his knees apart, steam rising from his trousers. He had combed his hair; it was slicked back in a glossy wave, looking brilliantined. He said:

That's one advantage of being a writer — it's easier to keep a small room warm. The only way to keep warm in that barn of mine is to stay in bed.

He looked strangely lugubrious in the plastic raincoat; it accentuated the stoop of his shoulders.

Looking at him, Sorme felt surprised that he had ever regarded Glasp as formidable; he seemed defenceless. But there was something alien about his stringy ugliness; it was impossible to feel protective about him.

They were the first in the bar. In the grate, a fire was beginning to burn through. Glasp sat close to it, drinking a pint of bitter. But when Sorme suggested a game of darts he accepted without hesitation, and scored a double with his first dart. Sorme was inclined to accept it as a fluke, but was soon compelled to revise his opinion; Glasp threw the darts slowly and clumsily, with a cobra-like motion of the hand, but with a startling accuracy. When they sat down again, he had beaten Sorme three times. Sorme said:

Where did you learn to play like that?

In my teens. I haven't played for years.

He emptied his pint, and banged it on the shelf. Sorme said: Another? Glasp looked surprised, and said: Oh, thanks. His mood had changed completely in twenty minutes, become relaxed and humorous. Sorme watched him emptying the second pint, and thought with amusement: When shall I ever learn? People are real. My mind likes creating patterns too much.

Glasp said: Perhaps I should have phoned the hostel.

He'll understand. Anyway, he was very tired.

Glasp nodded.

He's a good sort. I ought to see him more.

Sorme said: You said earlier that he used to be a member of the Oliver reform Society? What exactly did you mean?

Glasp said, smiling:

You mean, what did they want to reform me from?

Well, yes.

Nothing serious. They used to think I'd be the new Chagall.

Didn't you?

It's not that. I just… don't like people having preconceived ideas about me… that I have to live up to. I'd rather be left alone.

Mmmmm. But what did you want to do when you were left alone?

That didn't matter.

Sorme said meditatively:

I know what you mean. But it's difficult, isn't it? You feel as if you want nothing except to be alone. Then your own weakness betrays you. You get involved in a different way — involved with boredom and loneliness. You know, I feel ashamed of the fact that I feel better now because of Austin. It's not a real superiority I feel over him. It's an illusion, pure chance.

Glasp asked:

Is it pure chance that you're not a sadist?

I… think so.

No. When you read your volume on the Arran murder, do you feel it's pure chance you're not the killer?

Sorme thought about it. He said:

No. Because I wouldn't murder a man for the sake of a few pounds as Laurie did.

You'd murder him for other reasons, though?

No, of course not. That's not what I meant. I don't possess any of the instinct that could make me sympathise with a murderer. I don't think many people have. But everybody possesses a sexual urge. Why do you suppose the type of Sunday paper that specialises in sex crimes has such vast sales?

Glasp said:

Not sex crime alone. Any sort of crime. If you use that argument, you'll have to admit that the readers of Sunday papers have a suppressed desire to be footpads and blackmailers and kleptomaniacs.

All right. What's your conclusion?

Glasp did not reply immediately. The pub was beginning to fill up; a man was leaning across his shoulder to reach a pack of cards from the shelf. When the man was out of earshot, Glasp leaned forward. He said seriously:

I'll tell you. You're a fool to underrate yourself. You're nothing like Austin, or like Gertrude Quincey, or any of these other people you get mixed up with. They just waste your time.

Sorme grimaced and shrugged.

I suppose they do. But they've got some value, for all that.

Not for you. For you, they're just parasites.

Why parasites? It's the other way round. They give me meals, and I do nothing.

Except give them your blood.

Perhaps.

You do, Glasp said emphatically. Why don't you realise it? They don't belong to the same species as you.

Or you? Sorme said, smiling.

For a moment, he thought Glasp was offended; his look was hard and enquiring. Then he said:

Well, you answer that one.

Sorme restrained his pleasure at the implied compliment. He said:

A sort of Nietzschean master and slave morality, eh?

Why not, if it fits the facts? What's the point in imagining you're one of the mob if you're not? You're just a wolf pretending to be a sheep, that's all.

He emptied his glass. When Sorme tried to take it from him, he said: No, it's my turn. He crossed to the bar. Sorme stared at him. His glance fell on the plastic macintosh that lay over the chair, and he recalled Glasp standing in his room wearing it, his shoulders rounded, his face bloodless and alien, a man without vitality or direction. His veins were warmed by a secretion of excitement like anticipation, thinking: I wonder how many more there are in London? There might be enough to make a new age. Not Chicago rebels, but a generation with purpose. It's good to know Oliver. He's right about Austin. I'm sick of self-confessed weakness.

Glasp returned with two glasses. Sorme said:

What about finding something to eat?

All right. What about going up to see Gertrude?

Gertrude?

Why not?

Sorme stared at him in astonishment.

Are you serious?

Why not? It's only a ten-minute walk from here. We needn't stay. I'd like to say hello. It's a long time since I saw her.

All right. I know a pub in Hampstead where we could get something to eat.

Glasp emptied half of his pint in one draught. Sorme asked:

Did you and Gertrude ever quarrel?

No. Not really.

He stared into his glass; holding it between two palms, he looked like a clairvoyant gazing into a crystal ball. Then he went on:

I was pretty frank one night about her Jehovah's Witness stuff. I'm sorry now. She's all right. She's sweet.

I can't understand why she never married. She's not unattractive.

She got bitten once. Didn't you know?

I… I'd heard something about it. Caroline mentioned it.

Caroline? Oh, that blonde?

Sorme asked: Don't you approve of blondes?

Glasp said briefly: Not much.

Or sex of any kind?

That depends.

He emptied his glass, and stood up.

I'm going outside. You about ready to go?

Sorme had decided to phone her from Chalk Farm station, but a bus drew to a stop as they arrived, and they were on the lower deck, panting from the run, before he remembered. The sight of the Hampstead tube station brought a memory of Nunne. He said:

You know, Oliver, I'm worried about Austin.

Why?

He'll get himself into trouble.

That's his funeral.

Yes, but… the police suspect him of worse things than beating his boy friends.

How do you know?

Oh… I just happen to have found out.

They turned into Flask Walk; Glasp looked at him sideways as they passed under a lamp.

From Father Carruthers?

Yes.

How does he know?

I promised him not to let it go any further.

In that case, don't.

Sorme said: I suppose there's no harm in telling you. It doesn't make any difference now. Carruthers has a German friend called Franz Stein — a police pathologist. He told Father Carruthers about a letter he'd received from the Hamburg police. Austin was suspected of killing a male prostitute.

He did, Glasp said.

What? How do you know? Are you sure?

Pretty sure.

How long have you known?

I didn't know until you just told me. But I know it's true.

How?

He was trying hard to see Glasp's face, wondering how seriously to take him. He felt a premonition of disappointment, a suspicion that Glasp might prove to be a charlatan. Glasp's tone was matter-of-fact; it puzzled him.

When I first knew Austin, I used to dream he was a murderer. I had one particularly vivid dream… I was walking behind two men by the side of a river. Suddenly one of them hit the other with a weapon of some kind, and pushed him into the river. It was night, and I couldn't see their faces, but I knew that one of them was Austin, and the man he killed was a tramp of some kind. I woke up immediately… A few hours later, Austin came to see me. As soon as I saw him, I decided it was all nonsense. He just didn't look like the man in my dream…

Are your dreams accurate?

No. More often they're wrong. I've got a morbid sort of mind. It picks up chance impressions and magnifies them. It's the same process that works in my painting. When I was a boy, I once dreamed that a boy in our class was killed in a train accident. For years I was convinced he'd die in a train. But he's a married man now…

But you still think Austin really killed this man?

I… think… When you said it, I remembered my dream. Suddenly, I was certain. You see, sometimes my dreams are accurate…

How do you account for that?

I don't try. It just happens sometimes.

They had arrived at the gates of Miss Quincey's driveway. Sorme could see a light in the sitting-room. He said:

Good. She's in, anyway. We'll have to talk about this when we come out.

Glasp said indifferently: All right.

I'd better try and contact Austin too. He ought to be warned.

Glasp looked at him as he opened the gate. He asked casually:

Ought he?