Ritual in the Dark

PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE

His room felt cold, and somehow unoccupied. He lit the gas under the kettle, and lay down on the bed, his eyes closed. It was a quarter past seven; it had taken him just over an hour to walk from Paddington. He felt weak and tired, but curiously at peace. He wondered whether Nunne would find the note he had left on the pillow; he had seen no one as he left the house.

In the room underneath a radio was playing. He heard a man's voice call: What have you done with the plug off my electric razor? The sky outside the window was heavy with rain clouds and dawn. It was the first time for many months that he had been awake so early, and the sensation brought a certain freshness with it, and the thought of charladies in the Mile End Road catching City buses and of men in overalls carrying lunch tins. The rain clouds hung low, like smoke.

He made tea and sat on the bed to drink it, covering his knees with the eiderdown.

The room was chilly, even with the gas fire burning. He read till he heard the eight o'clock pips from the radio below.

He met the German girl on his way back from the bathroom. She said:

There's a letter on the table for you.

Oh, thanks.

The neat handwriting on the envelope was strange to him, but he recognised the heading on the notepaper. The typed message read:

There is something I would like to talk to you about. Could you ring me when you receive this, please? Gertrude Quincey.

The first-floor tenant, carrying a briefcase, pushed past him, saying irritably:

Excuse me. Sorme moved automatically, staring at the two lines of type, frowning with the effort to guess what Miss Quincey could want. He pulled a handful of change out of his pocket, and found four pennies. As the number began to ring, he experienced a sudden misgiving about the earliness of the hour.

A woman's voice said: Hello?

Gertrude?

Who is it?

Gerard Sorme.

Hello, Gerard! This is Caroline.

Hello, sweet. What are you doing there?

Having breakfast right at this moment.

Where's your aunt?

In the garden. Hold on a moment and I'll get her…

Wait. Don't go yet. When am I going to see you?

That's up to you.

Could you make it tomorrow night?

I… Here comes Aunt Gertrude.

He heard her say:

It's Gerard, Aunt.

Miss Quincey's voice said:

Hello, Gerard.

I've just got your letter.

Yes. I'm glad you rang. When will you be free to come over?

Her voice was as detached as a receptionist's making an appointment.

When you like… more or less.

Could you come today for lunch?

I expect so. Is it anything very important?

I'll explain when I see you.

All right. See you then. By the way…

Yes?

Will there be anyone else there?

No.

Ah… well, see you later. Bye-bye.

He hung up, feeling slightly foolish. He had half suspected it might be to meet some Jehovah's Witness colleague.

The girl came past him, carrying an armful of sheets. She said: You're up early today.

I'm reforming. The clean, healthy life.

He locked the door of his room behind him, and lay on the bed. He felt suddenly very tired. The idea of lunch with Miss Quincey did not appeal to him, nor the thought that Oliver Glasp was coming for supper. He would have to buy food and wine, to go to the bank, to sweep and tidy his room.

Still thinking about it, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, it was half past twelve. For a moment he could not think what time it was, or what he was doing there. His head was still thick with sleep. When he remembered the lunch appointment he felt no inclination to get up. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. The gas fire still burned; the room was airless. Sitting there, he noticed something white sticking under the door. He crossed the room, walking heavily, like a drunken man, and picked it up. On the back of a torn Woodbine packet someone had written: Miss Denbigh phoned. She will come tomorrow evening.

In the bathroom he plunged his face into a bowl of cold water and blew vigorously, to clear his head. He stripped to the waist and washed, then changed his shirt and trousers and hurried out of the house. It was five minutes to one. He felt light-headed, as if he had just risen from a six weeks' spell in a hospital bed. He resented the daylight and the noise of traffic. Something inside him wanted to shrink into a tight ball. At the bank he withdrew five pounds, but only after the cashier had pointed out that he had forgotten to sign the cheque.

He rang her doorbell with a sharp jab of his thumb, feeling unreasonably irritated with her for laying claim to his time. As soon as he saw her the tension disappeared. She smiled happily at him:

Hello, Gerard. I've just rung your lodgings to see if you'd forgotten to come.

I'm awfully sorry. I fell asleep and didn't wake up till half an hour ago.

That's all right. Take your coat off. Are you on your bicycle? Sit down. A glass of sherry?

No, thanks. I think I'd better lay off it for today.

Why?

I feel fragile. I was up late last night.

With Austin?

Yes.

He wondered about the meaning of the look she gave him. She said:

Well, sit down, anyhow. I'll bring you some soup in a moment.

The radio was relaying a concert. He closed his eyes, listening to the Mozart concerto, and wished he was at home and in bed. He remembered Caroline, but the thought of having her in his room gave him no pleasure. It only brought the reflection that he would have to change the sheets on his bed, which would mean cycling to the laundry. His thoughts switched to Nunne, and his dream of the night before; it seemed meaningless. He felt irritated with them all, with Miss Quincey, Austin, Caroline, Glasp.

He thought, with closed eyes: What have I to do with the bloody fools? The resentment brought a longing for solitude, and a vague wish for some intenser form of existence.

Soup?

Thanks. Aren't you eating?

In a moment. I've had my soup. Do you want a tray?

No, thanks. I'll go to the table.

The first mouthful of tomato soup brought a keen pleasure that made him want to laugh. His stomach relaxed with gratitude, and an inner peace passed over him like a wind, giving a sense of some secret glimpsed and recognised. Miss Quincey asked:

Do you mind coming to eat in the kitchen? When you've finished your soup, of course.

Thanks.

The kitchen was warm; the windows were obscured by a mist of condensed steam. The concert was still audible through an extension loudspeaker above the table.

I hope you like kidneys? It's kidney pie.

He swallowed the first mouthful, and found it good. He said:

When are you going to tell me why you wanted me to come?

Afterwards.

He looked at her, hearing the hurried note of a repressed anxiety in her voice. He said:

All right.

She ate without raising her eyes. The brown woollen dress she was wearing moulded itself to her figure, and had the effect of making him aware that her face seemed older than her body. She looked up suddenly and caught him staring at her. She said critically:

You don't look at all well.

I feel all right.

It was true; there was only still the fatigue, a desire to close his eyes and retreat from the necessity of focusing his attention.

Where were you last night?

At some club…

What club?

Just a night club.

You shouldn't let Austin drag you to clubs.

No.

He suffers from a permanent state of boredom. You ought to know that.

I expect you're right.

A voice from the loudspeaker announced that the last item on the programme would be the Prokofiev fifth symphony. Sorme said: Good. My favourite symphony. Will it go up louder?

He wanted an excuse for finishing the meal without further talk. Miss Quincey obediently reached out and turned up the volume, then ate without speaking. He experienced a sudden flash of affection for her, looking at her averted face, feeling an intuition that she would be easy to hurt.

When he finished eating, she asked: Fruit?

No, thanks. I'm full. I enjoyed it.

Good.

He tried to frame some compliment about her cooking, but gave up the effort.

Watching her fill the kettle, he reflected gloomily that her cooking had given her a right to lecture him. It would also be impossible, after such a meal, to refuse to attend at least one of her Bible classes. He had come to the conclusion that this was what she wanted to talk to him about.

Would you like to listen to the music in the other room? I'll bring in coffee in a moment.

When she came in twenty minutes later he was asleep in front of the electric fire.

On the radio someone was giving a talk on gardening. He woke up as she switched it off.

The noise of rain on the windows became audible; the wind was blowing it in flurries. He said ruefully:

I'm afraid I'm a rotten guest. I can hardly keep awake.

He sugared the coffee from the bowl she held out.

What happened last night?

Oh, I drank too much… and got sick.

Is that all?

He glanced at her in surprise.

Yes. What else did you think?

I don't know.

He could not see her face clearly as she sat down; the half light of the December afternoon filled the room with shadows. He watched her, waiting for her to speak, and finding it difficult to keep his eyelids from dropping. The silence lengthened. She asked finally:

Do you mind if I ask some rather frank questions?

No. Go ahead.

He could feel rather than see her hesitation. A suspicion took shape, and sparked across his mind.

How well do you know Austin?

He said honestly: I don't know. Why?

She began to stir her coffee quickly and nervously, now staring into his face. He said:

What is it you think I ought to know about Austin?

When she spoke, her voice was slightly breathless. It made him feel as if she was looking down from a height that frightened her.

Do you… know why Austin has never married?

He sat up in the chair, the suspicion expanding into a startled incredulity. He answered quickly:

I expect he doesn't like girls.

He watched her, now completely awake, sensing what was about to come, and feeling no desire to help her. He wanted to see how she would manage it. She asked, after a silence:

Do you understand me?

I'm not sure. What are you asking me?

I… it's very difficult for me…

Well, how about coming right out with it? Who's been talking to you about Austin?

You mustn't mention this to him.

No.

Well… Brother Robbins.

What on earth does he know?

She seemed glad to be back on solid ground again.

He has to do a lot of social work — door to door. And when he met Austin for the first time — two weeks ago — he thought he'd seen him somewhere. He didn't tell me at the time, but he made enquiries…

Yes.

… and found that Austin is quite well known in certain circles that are… known to the police.

Criminals?

Oh no!

Irritated into impatience, Sorme said bluntly:

You mean homosexuals?

She said weakly:

Yes.

Your Brother Robbins sounds like a silly gossip, Sorme said curtly.

Oh no. He thought I ought…

Her voice tailed off; the effort to get it all out had made it tremble noticeably. She asked finally:

It is true, then?

Yes.

And you've known all the time?

Most of it. But what does it matter?

She was looking at him steadily now, and he could sense the confusion of feelings that was trying to find expression. He said:

Let me answer the question that's in your mind. I'm not homosexual myself.

She said, blushing:

I knew that.

Did you? How?

I… you…

It made him wonder suddenly if she had noticed his speculative looks at her figure. But she went on, with a kind of hopelessness in her voice: Perhaps I didn't know. I just assumed.

His hostility dissolved in the face of her bewilderment. He would have liked to put his arms around her. He said:

Look here, there's no sense in getting excited about it. I've known about it since I first met Austin, but it didn't worry me. After all, it's his own business. I like him because… well, we're both writers, we've got a lot in common. And… he's a nice person.

But… don't you think it matters?

Do you mean, do I think it's wicked? No, not especially. I'm glad I'm not homosexual myself, but after all it's a matter of taste. I know that some people seem to be homosexual out of sheer worthlessness. But others seem to be born like it…

He was remembering, as he talked, the impatience that he'd felt last time he had been here, his irritation in the face of her self-assurance. Now the self-assurance had collapsed, and he felt no better about it. The reversal was too complete.

Are people really born like it?

Of course! Didn't you know?

No, I… I never met anyone like it before. Do you think Austin was always like that?

I should think it likely. I don't know him well enough. What sort of a child was he? Was he a mother's pet?

Oh yes, very much. But why?

Oh, it could have something to do with it.

He began to talk, as detachedly as possible, about statistics of homosexuality, factors of childhood influence, of sex hormones, trying to see her face in the half light.

She listened without interrupting. When he paused, waiting for her to speak, she asked abruptly:

Could he be cured?

I don't know. It's rather late. Probably he doesn't want to be cured. Besides, that's not necessarily Austin's real problem. He accepts it, yet something still worries him.

What do you think?

I don't know. Many homosexuals lead quite ordinary lives. They sometimes settle down with a boy friend, and live like any married couple.

Don't people notice?

Sometimes. But there's nothing very strange about two men sharing a flat.

But you think Austin feels guilty about it?

No. There's just something about him that makes him nervous and restless. I don't know what it is. Something torments him. Whatever it is, it drives him into this lone-wolf attitude. I don't think he could ever live with anyone.

She said with astonishment:

I should hope not! What would his poor parents think?

He said, smiling:

That's another question I can't answer. I can only tell you what any doctor or psychiatrist would tell you — that it's not necessarily a matter of moral turpitude.

She said hesitantly:

The Bible forbids it…

No doubt it does. The Bible forbids fornication and a lot of other things that go on all the time. That doesn't make them right!

No, you're right; it doesn't. But men and women can get married and legalise it.

Homosexuals can't. So what can be done?

She sat, staring into the red bars of the fire. The only sound in the room was the drumming of rain. Sorme stared out into the garden; from where he was sitting he could see his bicycle, covered with the yellow cycling cape. Under the dead sky the lawn, sprinkled with rotting leaves, looked as forbidding as a no-man's-land. The darkness and rain aroused in him a sensation of comfort. Looking at Miss Quincey, he considered the possibility of kissing her, just to see how she would react. She gave him the impression that she was confronting a problem that she was incapable of grasping, and that now nothing would surprise her. She asked:

Couldn't we persuade him to see a psychiatrist? Just on the off-chance of getting a cure?

You could try.

I wonder if his parents suspect? But no, they couldn't…

They might.

She was almost talking to herself; he replied only for the sake of politeness. She said:

He was always a strange child. He had a cruel streak.

Sorme asked with interest:

Did he? How?

Not real cruelty; just a sort of impulsive thing…

How?

He once pushed the gardener's boy off the roof of the shed, and broke his arm.

And he had a curious dislike of dolls.

Was he often cruel?

Not often, no. But he had a sort of… dark side to his character. He'd go into sulks for days on end and refuse to be coaxed out of them. He could never keep toys for more than a few hours — he had to break them. And he didn't get on with other children because he sometimes tried to hurt them or break their toys. It was the same kind of thing as his dislike of dolls.

Whose dolls?

Any little girl's. He once smashed a beautiful doll that belonged to his cousin Jane — an enormous doll that came from Austria. He smashed it with a hammer. He broke all my dolls…

You played with dolls? Sorme asked, smiling.

Not then. But I had dolls that lay around in some old cupboard. Austin discovered them and tore them to pieces.

He sounds quite a delinquent!

Oh no! He wasn't like that all the time. It was just occasionally — a demon seemed to get into him. And when that happened, he became a different person.

But why do you think he smashed dolls?

I don't know. He gets bored so easily. And when he gets bored, I think he has an impulse to do something violent. He's quite capable of asking you to pack a bag and go off to the other side of the world with him…

He has!

What did you say?

I refused. I've other things to do.

Good. You must be very firm with him. You could be a good influence on him… if you don't let him lead you along his own paths.

He won't lead me any further than I want to go!

She seemed to read another threat in this. She asked doubtfully:

Don't you think it might be better if you stopped seeing him?

What should I do instead? Come and see you?

He said it teasingly; to his surprise, she answered with gravity:

You could if you wanted to.

He stared at her, trying hard to see the expression on her face. He said:

I'd enjoy that.

But what are we going to do about Austin?

I don't understand you. There's nothing we can do. Anyway, I'm afraid I ought to go now.

Right NOW? It's still raining.

I… I wanted to get a bath. I feel like a haystack. And I've got to cook supper for someone later. Excuse me.

He stood up and went out of the room.

As he came out of the bathroom, she called:

By the way, Gerard?

Yes?

Wouldn't you rather have a bath here?

No, really, thanks…

Her suggestion embarrassed him for some reason.

Is it easy to get a bath where you live? Is there always hot water?

There's a geyser — you put a bob in it…

When he thought of the bathroom, with its door panelled in brown glass and the deep, old-fashioned bath that could be filled with infinite slowness from the temperamental water heater, he began to feel that Miss Quincey's suggestion had much to be said for it. She said:

It sounds ridiculously troublesome. It would be so much easier here.

Would it be any trouble?

None whatever.

Well — in that case, thank you…

As he undressed, he imagined that Gertrude Quincey had become his mistress, and that he was living here. For some reason, it was very easy to imagine. Except, of course, for Caroline… Caroline was a problem. He thought about it as he released himself cautiously into the warm water. Five years of celibacy, of partial boredom, of the unsuccessful attempt to harvest his own solitude. Then abruptly involvement, too many people, and two potential mistresses. Caroline offered herself with curious frankness. It was the kind of thing one imagined might happen in daydreams; when it happened, it was almost impossible to resist. Yet in many ways Gertrude was the more attractive of the two. The challenge was greater.

He helped himself to bath salts from the row on the window-sill; they smelt of lemon. As he replaced the jar, he heard a sound of singing. He listened carefully, and realised it was Miss Quincey. A moment later she stopped. He sat there, straining his ears to catch the sound above the noise of water refilling the hot tank. It was difficult to imagine Miss Quincey singing to herself, especially after their conversation.

As he dried himself, he could hear her moving about in the room next door. This was the room Caroline slept in. He combed his wet hair, humming a theme from the Prokofiev symphony, and wondered how he could get to know more about Gertrude Quincey.

He opened the door and stepped out on to the landing. He could hear her now in the room at the end of the passageway. He moved towards it, treading softly on the thick carpet.

She said: Oh, you startled me!

Sorry.

How do you feel now?

Fine. Much better.

She finished spreading the counterpane, and pulled it into position. As she turned, he seized her around the waist and lifted her off the ground, doing a single turn with her before setting her down. He said:

I should bath more often.

The feeling of her body excited him. Her cheeks were flushed. She said:

I'm glad you feel better.

He found it difficult not to reach out for her again. Before he could make up his mind, she went out of the door, saying:

Come along. You shouldn't be in here.

Why not?

Because it's my bedroom.

That's no reason.

She said: People wouldn't like it.

He followed her down the stairs.

People won't know, will they? And it's none of their business, anyway.

Perhaps not.

She went ahead of him into the kitchen. He had begun to feel as if he was pursuing her, so he restrained himself from following her, and went instead into the sitting-room. There he sat trying to read a newspaper, while his thoughts recurred constantly to the feeling of holding her, and to the fact that she had made no protest. The uncertainty made him restless; he began to feel annoyed with himself. A moment later she opened the hatch between the kitchen and the sitting-room, asking:

Would you like a cup of tea before you go?

Er… thanks. What are you doing now?

Washing up.

Can I help?

No, thank you. There's almost nothing.

He went into the kitchen, and found her at the sink, wearing a plastic apron. She said:

You needn't have come…

No?

He came up behind her, and put his arms around her waist from behind, saying:

I wanted to. After that superb meal…

Stop it, Gerard!

She made no attempt to push his arms away. He lowered his face until his chin rested against the top of her head.

Do you object?

Of course I object. Do stop it, please.

He released her, and picked up a tea towel.

Does it make you angry to be touched?

No… but it's rather pointless, isn't it?

Her tone was not encouraging, but he had already made his decision. He said cheerfully:

Oh, I don't know. I must admit I enjoy it.

Don't be silly.

Why silly?

Just because I invite you to lunch you don't have to flirt with me.

He took the last fork from her, and dried it.

Tell me, Gertrude… These Jehovah's Witnesses who come here.. don't they ever flirt with you? I mean the men, of course.

They're mostly married.

Hmmm. What about this artistic set?

What artistic set?

Austin told me you have a lot of arty-crafty people around.

She looked at him with surprise:

I don't know what he's talking about. I know one or two people in Hampstead — a retired colonel, a publisher's reader.

He suspected that she was trying to keep the conversation deliberately casual. The kettle was already boiling; she started to make tea. He asked:

And do you object to being flirted with?

Don't be silly.

That's no answer.

She snapped suddenly:

No, I don't mind. But it's rather pointless, isn't it?

I don't know.

He was sitting on the edge of the table. As she turned he tried to take hold of her again. She twisted away and pushed his arms down.

Do stop it, Gerard! I really don't know what's making you behave like this.

He said, laughing:

Half an hour ago you thought I might be homosexual!

I didn't! That's untrue! I never thought so for a single moment.

Good. So long as I'm sure.

She poured milk from the bottle into the jug with an indignant jerk of her wrist. The milk shot over the rim of the jug and splashed on the tray. She said: Oh really, Gerard!

He was on the point of saying 'It's your own fault!' when she turned on him suddenly. To his surprise, he saw she was on the point of tears. She said: Do please stop it!

All right… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.

He had started to suspect that she was secretly enjoying his attempts to flirt with her; her distress bewildered him. He turned and went into the other room, and dropped on to the settee. Her attitude was not entirely a disadvantage. At least it helped in some ways to destroy the formality that had made him so irritable last time he came. He picked up the newspaper and tried to concentrate. The article he began to read stated that people use three times as many facial muscles in frowning as in smiling, and that therefore one saves energy by smiling. He folded the paper and hurled it at the armchair opposite and scowled into the bars of the fire, wondering what to say to her when she came in. She was a long time bringing the tea. He began to wonder if she wanted him to go without seeing her. A moment later she came in, pushing the trolley.

I'm sorry I've been so long.

He said automatically: You haven't.

He watched her pouring the tea without speaking. When she handed him his cup, he said:

I really don't understand you.

She sugared her own tea without looking at him.

I don't understand you!

You really find it repellent to be touched?

Of course I don't! It's just that… it's silly to start behaving like that.

Like what? he said, determined to be uncooperative.

I'd rather talk… as we did the other night… about sensible things.

He said reasonably: I like talking with you too.

Then let's go on like that!

But I also like touching you. It gives me pleasure.

He could feel her uncertainty, and he pressed the advantage. He leaned forward, smiling at her, and said:

Even the other night, when we were talking, I kept thinking how pleasant it'd be to put my arms round your waist.

She dropped her eyes to the cup.

But why?

Because I find you very attractive.

She looked into his face seriously; her impatience had vanished. She said:

But it's silly, Gerard!

Why?

Because… What could come of it?

He shrugged: I don't know.

Nothing. Nothing at all. I'd like to be your friend — but you're a great deal younger than I am…

He decided abruptly to force the issue.

You'd like me to stop coming here?

No, of course I wouldn't! I like to talk to you. I think… I think that you're a serious person and you're searching for something.. and I'd like to help you find it.

Because I'm older than you and… I've been through it myself.. and I could help you… But we ought to be serious about it.

He said, shrugging:

In that case, there's not much more to say.

Why?

He finished drinking his tea. He felt that the conversation had reached its natural conclusion, and that there was no point in going on. He said bluntly and dogmatically: I've been alone for five years now. I can go on being alone for another five, or for another fifty if it comes to that. I don't need helping and never have. I like seeing you, but if you're going to start drawing lines and setting limits, I'd rather chuck it all.

He set his cup back on the tray. She asked: More?

He looked at his watch, saying:

No, thanks. I'd better go.

She said quietly: Let's not quarrel.

All right.

It made no difference to his feeling of having reached an end. She said: Have another cup of tea.

All right.

She poured it, and handed it to him. He drank it in silence. She began to speak, hesitantly:

I know you've been alone. I don't want to… try to interfere. You've got so used to the feeling of having to fight the battle alone that you've become suspicious of other people. You've become hardened to them. But I know you're not really hard… I know you've a lot of sensitivity… Perhaps you're really afraid of being hurt… Her tendency to use phrases like 'searching for something' and 'fight the battle' made him wince inwardly, and increased his impatience. He began to wonder if she saw his attempts to flirt with her as some kind of complicated defence against her. He interrupted her: My desire to steer clear of your Jehovah's Witnesses isn't a fear of being hurt. It's a fear of being bored.

For a moment, he wondered if he'd gone too far. But her face showed no sign of offence. She said reasonably:

I haven't tried to make you meet them, have I?

No. That's true.

He stood up. I'm afraid I'll have to go.

Her face was troubled as she looked at him; he could tell that she was trying to gauge how far he was impatient with her. She said hesitantly:

You do understand, don't you?

Yes, I understand.

You won't speak to Austin…?

No.

She followed him out into the hall. He buttoned his raincoat and belted it, then extracted the beret from the pocket. The silence hung between them, the silence in which there would normally have been thanks and disclaimers, vague arrangements to meet again. The situation seemed so full of latent comedy, of which she was completely unaware, that he found it difficult not to smile. As he opened the door, she said: Goodbye, Gerard.

Bye-bye,

He turned to her, took her by the waist, and pulled her to him. He felt her stiffen for a moment, then give way. She moved her face slightly so that his lips touched her cheek. He held them there for a moment, feeling the warmth of triumph stir, then released her. He turned away from her and went out of the door without looking back. He walked cautiously across the wet lawn in case he slipped and spoiled the exit.

As the bicycle free-wheeled down East Heath Road, he experienced a pure elation. He said aloud: You bloody fool. It's time you grew up!

The church clock chimed four as he passed the Chalk Farm Underground. The sight of the grocer's shops reminded him that he still had to buy food for Glasp. He bought a half pound of gammon and four tins of vegetables, and packed them in his saddlebag. As he was about to ride off again he noticed the headline of the evening paper inside the station. He dropped

twopence halfpenny into the tin and took one. The bold type read: HAS KILLER MOVED TO GREENWICH?

Aware of the unease that moved his bowels, he leaned against the wall, reading it.

'The body of a young woman was found in a disused warehouse near Greenwich Reach this morning. Early this afternoon she was identified by her husband as Doris Elizabeth Marr, twenty-five-year-old housewife of Albury Street, Deptford. The husband, Reginald Marr, 26, who works nights in a Deptford laundry, told police that his wife had set out at ten last night to visit her mother in Woolwich…'

His eyes travelled to the bottom of the column: 'The people south of the river are asking themselves the question: Has the Whitechapel killer decided to move?'

A peculiarly unpleasant sensation touched him with disgust: it was a hot, sticky feeling in the area of his stomach.

At Kentish Town station he bought the other two evening papers and stuffed them in a roll into his pocket. Somehow, the feeling of disgust affected the satisfaction he felt whenever he thought of Gertrude Quincey. He found it difficult to understand the sense of foreboding the news report produced.

Back in his room, he sat on the bed and read all three accounts of the murder carefully. One of them carried a full-length article with a diagram of the site of the murder; the writer asked how a married woman had been lured so far off her normal route from Deptford to Woolwich, and seemed inclined to doubt whether the murderer was the Whitechapel killer.

It was still only four-thirty; Glasp was not expected for another two hours. When he closed his eyes, the image of Gertrude Quincey's face came to him, the mouth soft, the eyes slightly frightened. It was the way a woman might look before she grasped the intention behind the violence of the man who intended to kill her. He tried hard to dismiss her face, and watched it re-form every time he closed his eyes. His whole body lurched with pity and repugnance; he reached out for the bookcase, and took the first book his fingers met; it was Merton's Seven Story Mountain. He started to read, but found it hard to concentrate. Finally, he laid the book on the floor, and closed his eyes again.

There was nothing at first. The sleep was clear, without images. Then he began to see it: in the half darkness, in a warehouse, an animal like a crab; something flat with prehensile claws. He was aware of nothing else; only the crablike creature, moving silently into the half light; moving strangely, obliquely, but with intention, entirely itself, possessed by an urge that was its identity, entire unification of its being in one desire, one lust, a certainty. It was not a man; it was what was inside a man as he waited.

He heard someone knocking on the door downstairs as he peeled the potatoes. He called: Hello.

Glasp's voice said: Ah, I'm in the right place!

Good. Come on up. I'm just starting to cook supper.

Glasp stepped cautiously up the stairs, lowering his head as he came to the bend.

Sorme finished slicing the potatoes, and poured them into the seething nut oil in the chip pan. Glasp picked up an old newspaper from the table and scanned the front page with perfunctory interest; he sat with his feet thrust out, his shoulders against the wall. His face looked as pale and unshaven as on the previous day. Sorme noticed that his socks were of different colours. He said: I see that the Whitechapel murderer seems to have changed his field of activity…

What?

Haven't you seen the papers?

No.

A woman in Greenwich has been assaulted and killed. The police seem to think it's the same man…

Greenwich? Glasp said. I don't believe it. It can't be the same man.

Why not? What makes you think he's sticking to Spitalfields?

Glasp shrugged.

I don't know. But he's stuck pretty close so far, hasn't he?

Yes. But surely that's a good reason for moving? Whitechapel'll soon be too hot to hold him. What makes you think he'd want to stay there? Do you think he's looking for something in Whitechapel?

Glasp said:

Now, I don't know, do I? Your guess is as good as mine. I heard a bloke today who seemed to think it was the Fascists out to terrorise the Jews.

Where did you hear that?

Oh, some bloke up on a platform this morning. Communist.

But were any of the victims Jewish?

I dunno. I don't think so.

But you don't think this Greenwich murder is the same man?

Glasp said impatiently:

Oh now don't ask me! I don't know.

Sorme sensed that his impatience was not intended to be offensive, and he suppressed the twinge of irritation it produced. He had decided that the apparent rudeness in Glasp's manner was only the result of too much living alone. He said: I hope he's caught. I'd like to find out who he is.

Glasp looked up at him; he said ironically:

I dare say a lot of people feel like that.

Like what?

They want him caught to satisfy their curiosity. Not because he's killing women.

Sorme said seriously:

I dare say you're right. After all, how can anyone really identify himself with an East End prostitute? Most people probably feel that the murderer needs as much pity as his victims. At least he's doing something that most men are capable of…

Do you think most men are?

I think so. We're still animals with sudden and violent appetites. I can't count the number of times I've passed a woman in the street and wished I could get her in the dark.

Haven't you?

I suppose so. But that's a long way from rape. I'd like to see the man caught because he's a menace in the part where I live. Tomorrow it might be somebody I know.

Glasp's northern accent had become more noticeable. Something in his tone impressed Sorme with its seriousness. He said: I suppose you're right. That's another reason for hoping he's moved to Greenwich.

What difference does it make? Wherever he moves, lives get wasted. People have to die, just because a man's something worse than a man, a dirty animal, something that only thinks of his own pleasure, with no moral sense.

Glasp's tone was so irritable and belligerent that Sorme decided to drop the subject. He made a mental note to raise it again later, when his guest was in a better mood. He said:

Well, let's hope he's caught soon. Shall we go downstairs? These chips'll take another ten minutes.

He opened the bottle of red wine and poured into two tumblers.

Glasp smacked his lips, saying:

This is good stuff. Very nice. What is it?

He picked up the bottle and looked at the label. Sorme said:

I like wine — when I can afford it.

You can say that again. I haven't been able to afford anything but Spanish hogwash for five years.

I'll leave you for a while. Look through my books. Or there are records there if you like music.

He opened the door, and walked into Caroline, who had her hand raised to knock. He said:

Hello, sweet! I didn't expect you.

I haven't come to stay; don't worry.

She was already in the room. Sorme said:

You two don't know one another, do you? Oliver Glasp. Caroline Denbigh.

Caroline said:

Oh, you're the famous Oliver Glasp! I've met you somewhere before, haven't I?

Glasp was staring at her, wearing an odd, sulky expression. He said:

I don't know.

The accent became broad, as deliberate as that of a Yorkshire comedian. Looking at Caroline, Sorme found it impossible to imagine why Glasp should seem displeased.

She was wearing a fur coat, with a fur hood that almost covered her face. The face, under the fringe of blonde hair, was as pink and round as a doll's. He said: Have a glass of wine, sweet?

Ooh, rather!

She pulled back the hood to take her first sip of wine. She was wearing black gloves. Sorme said:

I've got to go and cook some chips. Come on up to the kitchen with me.

When they were alone in the kitchen, she said:

I don't think he likes me much.

Oh, I don't know. His manner's always a bit gruff. He's all right when you get to know him.

Isn't it hot up here?

Take your coat off.

No, pet. I won't stay. I'm just on my way to rehearsal and I thought I'd come and say hello. It doesn't start till eight. I wanted to make sure you hadn't got any other women.

Where have you come from?

Aunt Gertrude's. I'm sleeping there tonight.

Oh yes. How is she?

She's all right. What did she want to see you about?

Austin.

Oh yes!

Why, what did you think…?

Oh, I don't know. She wants to get you into her Jehovah's Witnesses.

How do you know?

Oh, it's pretty obvious. What did she want to know about Austin?

She's found out he's queer. I think she wanted to know if I was.

And what did you say?

I tossed her vigorously on the bed and made her think I was a goat in disguise.

Don't be silly! What did you say?

Oh, nothing… I just tried to make her see that there'd be no point in giving Austin a lecture on the laws of Moses. She took it rather well, on the whole.

Tell me about it. In detail.

He gave her an account of his conversation with Miss Quincey while he fried the gammon, stopping at the point where he had a bath. She said:

She looked a bit upset when I came home. I wondered what had been going on!

What time was that?

Oh, about four.

He shook the chips in their wire basket until the brown ones came to the top, then immersed them again in the boiling fat. He said:

Does she know you're here?

No. I've got a feeling she'd be jealous.

Why? Do you think she's after me?

I shouldn't think so!

Why, then?

Because she discovered you before I did. I think she wants you for her Bible class.

Hmmm.

She had laid her coat over the kitchen chair. She was wearing a plain red dress, with a band of fur round the neck. He bent and kissed her, and felt the coldness of her lips which gave way immediately to the inside of her mouth. The familiar reaction of desire came over him; as she stood against him, he cupped her buttocks in his hands and strained her thighs tight against him. He said, laughing: Bed?

Not now. There's someone in your room!

There won't be tomorrow night.

You'll have to wait till tomorrow then, won't you?

He experienced a lurch of delight at her frankness. He said:

You could come back later tonight…

I couldn't. Aunt Gertrude'd get suspicious. Then I'd have to go home to Wimbledon every night…

The saucepan lid began to jar softly as the steam forced it open. He released her with regret and turned back to the cooking. She said:

You know, I've met that man somewhere before…

Where?

I don't know. Let me think. St Martin's… St Martin's…

The Art School?

No, I… It's something to… Ah, I remember. The amusement arcade. In the Charing Cross Road. That's where I saw him.

That doesn't sound like Oliver!

Yes, it was. I'm sure. He was with a little girl, and he started a row about one of the machines — it didn't work, or something. He was wearing a dirty old duffle coat.

What was the girl like?

I don't know. I didn't really notice her. Quite a little girl — about ten or eleven, I'd say.

Attractive?

What, at that age! You don't think he likes them that young, do you?

I shouldn't think so. But I saw a painting he did of a little girl — might be the same one.

He turned and peered down the stairs, wondering if their voices were audible to Glasp, and decided not. She asked:

What's the time, Gerard?

Ten past seven.

I'd better be off.

Wouldn't you like some supper?

No, thanks. I've had tea.

He took the warm plates from under the grill and used the fish slice to put the bacon on them; he shook the fat out of the chips, and poured them from the wire basket on to the plates. Caroline said approvingly:

Mmmmm! You're quite a good cook. If we ever got married, you'd be useful.

He asked:

Do you want to get married?

She rubbed her head against his shoulder.

I wouldn't mind being married to you.

What! On less than a week's acquaintance?

As he turned to face her, she put both her arms round his neck; she said softly, defensively:

I don't need to know you for a long time. I know what you're like already.

Do you? What am I like?

Well, you're good tempered… and one day you'll make a huge success.

Hmm. I dunno about the good temper.

She pulled his face down to her. When he had kissed her, she said:

Shall I tell you something? I decided to make a beeline for you the first time I met you at Aunt Gertrude's. I shouldn't really tell you that, should I?

Why not?

It might make you feel chased.

I am chaste.

Not that chaste, silly! I mean it might make you feel you're being chased.

I'm that too.

I know you are. Does it worry you?

Not in the least. Look, sweet, I've got to take Oliver his dinner. Come and have some more wine.

No. I haven't finished this yet. Anyway, I don't want to go in there again. I'll say goodbye now. Don't come down.

As he kissed her, she pressed herself against him. He was certain she was aware of the rising need in him, yet her body clung to him, infusing its warmth. When she had gone he inhaled deeply, then expelled the air in a long sigh. He felt an ache across his chest and back, as if someone had beaten him with some padded object. The desire throbbed in him, subsiding.

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

Oaaaaah! I was bloody hungry!

Sorme said smiling: Good.

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

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

That's right.

It's here.

Glasp swallowed, cleared his throat, then read:

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

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

The trial of George Chapman.

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

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

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

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

Why?

Oh, enough money to do as you like.

Haven't you?

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

Does he take all your paintings?

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

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

Not much.

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

Why don't you finish it?

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

What?

Oh… the inspiration, I expect.

Is that all?

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

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

Such as?

Sorme said, smiling: I don't know that I can explain them to you without your flying off the handle.

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

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

Oh, that's different…

Not entirely. Because I can see certain aspects of myself reflected in the murderer.

Can't you?

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

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

Why is that, do you think?

Glasp shrugged:

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

Not only that. Because they think they're going to get more than they really ever get. I once read a case of a youth who was driving a lorry, and passed a girl on a lonely road. He turned the lorry round, knocked her down, and raped her in the back of his lorry.

Then he dumped her body down a well and blew in the well with dynamite. They caught him eventually and electrocuted him.

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

Well, it served him right, didn't it?

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

I expect so.

Supposing he'd got away with it. What would you feel afterwards, looking back on it… even if you weren't afraid of detection? Wouldn't it be the stupid gap between your motive and what you actually got out of it? He sees a desirable girl on a lonely road.

Suddenly, she represents for him all the taboos and frustrations of his adolescence. He feels he ought to be allowed to possess her. You remember how, in Greek mythology, Zeus went around raping everybody — changed himself into a swan, a dove, a bull? He gave his sister Demeter a daughter, then raped the daughter too… Do you see what I mean? Well, he feels just that… the god's prerogative. He revolts against his limitations, he turns the lorry around… But he's not a god, and he lives in a state with laws, and the laws condemn him to death.

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

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

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

I know. But it's not true. He's probably a bloody bull-necked yokel who thinks of nothing but how many women he can screw behind the dance hall on a Saturday night.

When he rapes the girl, he doesn't feel any pity for knocking her down. He doesn't feel that, if he'd really wanted her, he could easily have made her acquaintance and seduced her without killing her. Her life doesn't mean anything to him, or the feelings of her family. It's all that balanced against one stupid lust, and he lets the lust win. Can you feel any sympathy after that?

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

Glasp interrupted: Sounds like ordinary sexual frustration!

I know. But what would have satisfied it? I suppose, if the girl had been alone, I might have made her acquaintance. I might have finally persuaded her to come to bed.

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

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

He said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it?

Someone calling, Glasp said.

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

Telephone! Mr Sorme.

He called: Thank you.

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

Hello?

Gerard? This is Austin.

Hello, Austin! How are you?

Very well, thanks. What are you doing now?

I've just finished supper…

Are you free?

No. Oliver Glasp's here.

Oh…

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

What is it?

Nothing. When is he going?

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

Oh.

Why? Did you want me to come over?

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

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

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

Sorme said, sighing:

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

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

On the point of yielding, Sorme thought of the prospect of getting to Albany

Street, and felt a sudden certainty that he didn't want to go. He said:

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

Nunne said, with scarcely concealed irritation:

Oh, all right!

Let's make it tomorrow, or some time.

I'll ring you again.

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

That was Austin.

Glasp said: Oh yes. What did he want?

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

Did he want to see you now?

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

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

I think you'll find Mr Nunne rather a demanding person before you've finished…

Yes?

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

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

You think he's weak?

Don't you?

I'm… not sure.

You'll find out, Glasp said.

He selected one of the records, saying:

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

Certainly. More wine?

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

You don't have to do that.

Nevertheless, I'd like to.

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

That's OK by me.

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

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

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

It's OK, Carlotte. I'll answer it.

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

Speaking!

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

Hello, old boy. Where are you?

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

What sort of a story?

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

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

All right. Well skip it then. We'd got a spare seat in the car if you wanted to come.

You know the photographer, Ted Billings?

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

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

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

As soon as he climbed into bed, he knew better. A tide of warmth caressed him.

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

He woke up and stared at the door. For a moment he was uncertain whether it was not the climax of some dream that had wakened him so abruptly. As he listened, he heard a murmur of a voice. He peered at the luminous dial of his watch in the dark: it looked like six o'clock. He turned over, and buried his face in the sheet. A moment later he heard footsteps on the stairs. He raised his head, listening. Someone knocked on his door. He called:

Yes?

The door opened slightly. A man's voice said:

Someone on the phone for you. You're Mr Sorme, aren't you?

Yes… thanks. My God… what an hour! I'm awfully sorry…

He pulled on his dressing-gown, and went outside. The man was going downstairs ahead of him. He was saying:

Phone's right opposite my door. He woke me up.

I'm really terribly sorry…

He was thinking: F that bloody Austin!

He said: I can't tell you how sorry I am…

Chap said it was an emergency…

He went towards the phone, thinking: I'll tell him he'll get me chucked out if he goes on like this… Six o'clock… bloody fool.

He snatched up the phone, and restrained an impulse to shout into it. He said, controlling his voice:

Hello?

Hello, Gerard. This is Bill Payne.

Bill! What do you want?

You told me to ring you if anything happened. There's been a double murder in Whitechapel…

His hair stirred, as if he had received an electric shock. For a moment he let the phone drop to his side, and heard Payne's voice talking in the distance. After a moment, he raised it again, and heard the voice:… that was an hour ago. So, if you want to get over you'd better come right away.

Where is it?

Mitre Street. It's on the left near Aldgate station. There's a little cafe about two doors away from the station. I'll meet you in there.

He said — OK. I'll be with you as soon as I can get over.

He replaced the phone and sat on the edge of the table. The cold made no difference. It seemed that the beating of his heart must be audible to everyone in the house.