Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER FOUR

Through the glass panel he saw the kitchen door was open; her voice was speaking to someone.

It looks as if she's got a visitor.

F- it, Glasp said. We should have rung.

Shall we go?

Miss Quincey came out of the kitchen. She called:

Is anybody there?

Sorme rang the bell. She said:

Gerard! Oh, hello, Oliver!

She stood there, looking with surprise from one to the other, holding the door. Sorme felt the awkwardness.

We… just thought we'd come in and say hello. We happened to be over this way…

I've got Brother Robbins here for supper. But come in…

Sorme said hastily:

Er, no… didn't realise it'd be inconvenient. We won't come in now… I don't want to interrupt…

She seemed to recover her self-possession.

That's all right. Come in for a few minutes, anyway. I'm making a cup of tea.

Sorme thought hard for some reason to get away; without looking at Glasp, he knew he was doing the same. Nothing occurred to him. He said lamely:

Well, thanks. But we won't stay long. We're meeting someone in half an hour…

Glasp followed him into the hall. He had not spoken so far. Miss Quincey said:

It's nice to see you again, Oliver. It's a very long time. Take your coat off. Oliver, I think you've met Brother Robbins.

Brother Robbins heaved himself out of an easy chair, and advanced with an over-cordial smile. As Miss Quincey introduced them, he shook their hands with a tight, moist handclasp. Sorme found himself thinking: My God, Dale Carnegie standing for President; the fruity, slightly Cockney voice poured warmth and a smell of onions over him.

I've told you about Gerard, Miss Quincey said.

I'm most delighted to meet you, Brother Robbins said.

At first glance, he struck Sorme as a curious combination of a well-to-do grocer and a shady bookmaker. He was a foot shorter than Sorme, with a fleshy face and pot belly. His clothes looked slightly rumpled and grease-stained, but his shirt collar was immaculately starched, and an old school tie looked newly washed and ironed. Sorme conceived an immediate and keen dislike for him.

You're the young man who's thinking of joining us? Brother Robbins said.

Sorme looked with surprise at Miss Quincey. She interposed:

I don't think he's made up his mind yet!

Ah no. Quite.

Brother Robbins sat down again. Glasp stood there, looking sulky and out of place. Brother Robbins suddenly caught his eye, and said:

And I've heard you are too, Mr Gasp.

Glasp.

Ah… I beg your pardon. You paint, don't you?

Yes.

Miss Quincey said: Will you both have tea?

Er… no thanks, Sorme said. Not for me.

Nor me, Glasp said.

Sorme followed her into the kitchen. He said:

I think we'd better go…

All right. But stay a few minutes. You don't want poor Brother Robbins to think he has the plague.

All right.

Won't you have some tea?

We've been drinking beer.

Oh… I'm afraid I can't offer you beer. Not while Brother Robbins is here.

Would he disapprove?

Miss Quincey hesitated; she said:

Perhaps he wouldn't. I don't know. Do you want beer?

Sorme's inclination was to refuse; she had phrased the question in a way that made it difficult to accept. This irritated him, striking him as a challenge. He said:

I'd prefer it to tea.

Then perhaps you'd ask Oliver if he'd like beer.

Glasp was scowling at the carpet as he came in. Sorme said:

Gertrude says there's some beer if you'd prefer it.

Glasp shook his head.

No? I'm having beer.

He looked at Brother Robbins, and asked politely:

I hope you don't object.

Brother Robbins seemed to accept the question as natural, as if he was an old lady in a railway carriage being asked if she minds cigar smoke. He said genially:

Oh, not at all. Not in the least.

For you, Oliver?

Glasp said, with a bad grace: OK.

Sorme returned in a few moments with two lager glasses of light ale, ice-cold from the refrigerator. He was thirsty after the walk up the hill, and drank as much as he could before his throat froze. Brother Robbins asked:

Do you two drink a lot?

Sorme sensed that Glasp was about to make a rude retort. He said hastily:

No, not a lot. We don't get together very often. Do you drink?

No. But not because I disapprove of it. I just don't like the taste.

Something in his manner stung Sorme to irritation. Brother Robbins was speaking with the elaborate courtesy of a prison visitor: he managed to imply that beer drinking was a particularly squalid vice which he was too broad minded to condemn. Sorme emptied his glass defiantly and went into the kitchen for another bottle. Miss Quincey said, with a sort of horror:

You've drunk that already?

I was thirsty. May I?

He helped himself from the refrigerator. When he turned round, he met a worried and reproachful look; she seemed to suspect that he intended to start a drunken brawl. He said pointedly:

We'll go in a minute.

Oh no! Don't think that! I just don't want… Stay as long as you like.

Thanks.

He went back, taking the bottle.

Glasp was answering some question in an indistinguishable mumble. Brother Robbins looked relieved to see Sorme again. He said:

Let me see — you were a Roman Catholic, weren't you?

No.

Church of England?

No. I'm an existentialist.

Yes? But er… I meant… religion.

I know. That's what I meant.

Oh. I don't think I've come across that sect. Is it a new one?

Not really.

Who was the founder?

A Dane named Kierkegaard.

And do they believe in the redeeming power of Jesus Christ?

Kierkegaard did, certainly.

Ah, but did he also believe in Luther's justification by faith?

Oh no! He always attacked the established Church. He thought men ought to live like Christ instead of relying on the Church…

Good! Then he was on the right path! The trouble with most people today is that they don't realise the importance of obeying the laws of God. They think it's enough just to accept them. They don't seem to realise that the Bible has given us a strict code of conduct to cover every aspect of our lives.

Sorme nodded ponderously. His silence seemed to encourage Brother Robbins; he leaned forward, and switched on his Dale Carnegie smile again.

You ought to come to our Bible classes. I'm sure you'd enjoy them.

I'm sure I would, Sorme said insincerely.

Abruptly, Glasp spoke; he was sitting up and glowering belligerently at Brother Robbins.

Is it true you people expect the end of the world any day now?

Brother Robbins turned to Glasp, and smiled winningly, as if Glasp had just paid him a compliment.

It is. Not, of course, any day. The Book of the Revelation indicates that it will be within the next thirty years.

And that everyone in the world will be destroyed except the Jehovah's Witnesses?

The Bible tells us so.

Glasp gave a contemptuous grunt and relaxed into his chair. In spite of his dislike of Brother Robbins, Sorme immediately reacted in his favour. He said quickly:

Is all this in the Bible?

Certainly it is. The evidence is quite plain. The Bible says that the devil came down to earth in 1914, and that from that day forward, the world has belonged to him. And can you doubt it when you look around at the world? The threat of war everywhere, crime and evil reaching a new high level. Look at these murders in the East End. Look at what the Russians are doing in Hungary. Look at the H-bomb tests. The world has gone mad, because it belongs to the devil now. That is why the flock of Christ is persecuted. It is all just as the Bible predicted. The Apocalypse of St John makes it quite plain. It predicts that men will try to improve things, but it is too late. 'And he opened the pit of the abyss, and a smoke ascended out of the pit as the smoke of a great furnace, and the sun and the air were darkened by the smoke of the pit.'

He leaned forward to declaim the quotation. When he raised it to intone, his voice had a foghorn quality; it reminded Sorme of one of his uncles who used to recite 'The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck' at Christmas parties. Before he could comment, Brother Robbins had swept on:

Nothing can stop the dominion of evil in the world because the world belongs to the old evil one now. They might pass this Bill to stop hanging. They might persuade Russia to put an end to the Cold War. But nothing will stop the world from hurtling towards the Last Judgment.

He paused for a moment, passed a hand over his forehead. He wiped his damp fingers on the arm of the chair. Sorme said:

You sound pretty gloomy.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Glasp smile. He kept his own face stiff and grave in case Brother Robbins should feel he was being mocked.

Gloomy! No, I'm not gloomy. We are not pessimists. We go on joyfully, certain of eternal life. When the battle of Armageddon is over we shall all live on a paradise earth for ever.

This earth?

Certainly. This earth, but transfigured and made into a heaven.

But only after the battle's been won?

Of course.

Supposing your side doesn't win the battle?

That is impossible. God is all-powerful. We must win.

Sorme said: In that case, there's not much credit in winning, is there? It should be a walkover.

You don't understand, Brother Robbins said gravely.

Sorme saw the suspicion that nickered in his eyes for a moment. He said hastily:

Don't think I'm just heckling you. I'd like to know.

Then you should read your Bible. And I'm sure Sister Quincey would lend you some of our books and tracts.

Glasp said abruptly: We ought to go.

Brother Robbins turned a stern face on him. He said:

You should be more like your friend here and take a serious interest in serious questions. God is not mocked!

For a moment, Sorme thought Glasp intended to ignore the comment; he scowled and hunched his shoulders, his forehead wrinkling into creases. Then he said shortly:

I'd need to be a bloody moron to fall for that crap.

Miss Quincey came into the room as he spoke. She looked as if her worst fears had been confirmed, and as if she now expected Glasp to urinate on the carpet. She said:

Oliver! I shall have to ask you to go if you're rude!

Brother Robbiris said equably:

No no, my dear. There's no point in doing that. If he doesn't believe, you won't make him believe by turning him away.

Then he ought to apologise. That wasn't polite.

Glasp said sullenly and sarcastically:

Oh no. It's not polite when I say what I think! It's OK for him to ram his opinions down everybody's throat. I'm damned if I don't believe it, but I'm not allowed any beliefs of my own. Just because he's got no sense of reality, I'm rude if I contradict him.

Miss Quincey took this unexpectedly well. She said:

It's you who lack a sense of reality, Oliver. Every great truth sounds fantastic. You think the truth has to be commonplace and ordinary, but you're wrong. It's you who are tied down by your sense of reality…

Sorme could see that Glasp was becoming more irritable and inarticulate as she spoke; he had a foreboding that Glasp would shout some obscenity and stamp out of the house. He intervened quickly:

I don't quite agree with you, Gertrude. I don't think Oliver rejects your beliefs because he prefers everyday reality. In fact, I think that every artist has the same kind of dreams — an earth turned into heaven, men made into immortals. On the other hand, it seems like wishful thinking to suppose it'll happen tomorrow week. We both believe that if you want to change the world into a paradise, you've got to do it yourself.

Brother Robbins had stood up as he spoke; now he extended his arms, as if inviting Sorme and Glasp to be embraced.

But my dear man, you're one of us. You want the same things. It's only a question of the means, and we can show you the way.

I agree it's a question of means, Sorme said cautiously. We ought to discuss it more fully some time.

They were all standing, looking at one another. Miss Quincey was obviously nervous about Glasp; as Sorme started to say: I'm afraid we'll have to… Brother Robbins interrupted with enthusiasm:

Why not now? I am always glad to discuss these things. Can anything be of greater importance?

We have to see someone, Sorme said, looking at his watch. But any other time I'd be glad…

To bridge an awkward lapse in the conversation he looked at Glasp, saying: Ready, Oliver?

Glasp muttered something, and turned his back on them. Sorme said:

Er… delighted to'v met you. Goo'bye. 'Bye, Gertrude.

He hurried after Glasp, catching him up at the front door. Miss Quincey came after him, touching his shoulder. She said quickly:

Come back tomorrow, Gerard.

All right. I want to talk to you.

From the darkness outside Glasp called suddenly:

Goodnight, Gertrude.

She looked surprised, then called calmly:

Goodnight, Oliver.

She added quickly, to Sorme:

Ask him to come again — when I'm alone.

OK. Goodnight.

She had been keeping her voice low, her face close to him. Seeing that Brother Robbins and Glasp were both out of sight, Sorme bent quickly and kissed her. She stepped back a pace, looked quickly behind her towards the lounge, then said coolly: Goodnight.

She closed the door behind him; he went into the darkness, thinking: All women have a talent for intrigue.

Glasp was standing by the gates. Sorme said:

How d'you feel?

OK.

Gertrude told me to ask you to go back some time — when he's not there.

Glasp grunted. Sorme said:

Don't you like her either?

Oh, she's OK… Must be a bloody fool, though. Swallow that balls.

I wonder how far she does?

All the way, Glasp said with disgust.

They were passing the telephone kiosk at the end of Well Walk; Sorme said:

Do you mind if I try and phone Austin again?

No.

The telephonist's voice told him that Nunne was still not home, and asked if she could take a message, Sorme said:

No; it's not important. I just wanted to ask him to come to a party.

This evening?

Yes.

If you'd like to leave the address, I'll give it to him when he comes in.

After a moment's hesitation, Sorme gave his own address, reflecting that Glasp's presence gave him a reason for speaking of a party, in case he was ever forced to justify the call.

Not in yet? Glasp said:

No.

What are you going to do about him?

I don't know. Warn him in some way.

There's not much danger.

Why do you say that?

Because a crime committed a long time ago in Hamburg won't be easy to pin on him.

Sorme realised with surprise that Glasp had not yet connected Nunne with the Whitechapel murders. For some reason, he had taken it for granted that Glasp knew. He rejected the idea of mentioning it now, remembering Glasp's outburst at supper a few nights before, and suspecting suddenly that Glasp was capable of betraying Nunne to the police. He said:

I hope you're right.

You worry more about Austin than he does about you.

Why? Do you think he dislikes me?

No. But he's the heartless type. He doesn't give a damn about anybody really.

On Haverstock Hill again, Sorme said:

What about another drink?

Good idea.

I know a pub.

The public bar was crowded; they went around to the saloon bar and found it less full.

Same again?

Please.

Grab those seats in the corner. I'll bring them over.

The episode at Gertrude Quincey's had destroyed the feeling of ease and the rising warmth; it began to return when he had drunk half the pint of bitter. Glasp said:

What were we talking about?

Austin.

Oh yes. Let's skip him. He doesn't matter.

All right.

Glasp was smiling, as if at some secret joke. Sorme looked at him enquiringly, raising his eyebrows. Glasp said:

What about Gertrude?

What about her?

You having an affair with her?

Oh, you saw that, did you?

You didn't try to hide it. With the light behind you.

Well, the answer's no. I like provoking her.

That was provocation, was it?

Pretty well. Just fun.

Am I being nosey?

No! There's nothing secret about it. It's a sort of joke.

You've done it before, like?

Well, yes. Just to provoke.

Glasp sipped at his beer; he had a manner of launching questions suddenly, as if hoping to take by surprise, and Sorme guessed another was coming. It came a moment later.

Do you want to sleep with her?

Sorme considered this carefully. In fact, the idea had ceased to interest him since sleeping with Caroline. He said carefully:

I don't think I do… I don't know.

Well, either you do or you don't.

No. It's not as simple as that. In a sense, I want to sleep with every woman indiscriminately, you know… When I hear about someone being given the freedom of the City of London, I sometimes think how nice it'd be if someone could grant you the freedom of all the women in the world. Just anybody. You produce an engraved scroll with a golden key on it, and say 'My name is Sorme; come back to my room…' Splendid idea.

Glasp said, laughing:

The sentiments of a sex maniac.

No. Not really!

No. I'm only joking.

But really, I think there's an element of truth there.

I'm sure there is.

Do you know those lines of Blake about the lion lying down with the lamb? Something about the golden age. That's the root of it, you know. We live in a fallen world, and we dream of a golden age when there was no such thing as frustration. All men turned into gods because they can do what they like. That's why I find it hard to condemn Austin, no matter what he's done. There shouldn't be such a thing as sexual perversion… but then, maybe there shouldn't be such a thing as sex either. It's all part of a fall. You know Tolstoy's idea that nobody ought to have sex, except to beget children? That's logical. Either all sex is natural, or it's unnatural. There's no dividing line between normal sex and perversion.

He was aware as he spoke that it sounded illogical; Glasp was listening with his lower lip thrust out, an expression of distrust on his face. He made a conscious effort to sound more reasonable:

Put it like this. If I'm attracted by a girl, I know damn well it's not entirely a desire to sleep with her. If I'm curious to know what she's like in bed, it's more a desire to break down the barriers between human beings, not a desire to penetrate her. And if it gets to the point of bed, the chances are that I shan't want her any more. It's the same with Gertrude. There's something about that icy virgin attitude that provokes me. But I don't think it's a desire to have Gertrude for a mistress.

He observed an answering glow of sympathy in Glasp this time, but the need to catch his intuitions in words was too strong to allow him to stop and wait for Glasp's response. He felt a sense of complete wellbeing as he emptied his glass and set it down, leaning forward, aware of ideas straining to be expressed.

Have you ever been in a room with two women who've been your mistress? And when you look from one to the other, there's no curiosity about either. If either of them uncrosses her legs you don't bother to look to see how high the skirt goes. They form a small group, cut off from all the rest of womankind. You might desire them, but the curiosity's gone. Well, what I feel about Gertrude is curiosity, not desire. So I can't really say whether I want to sleep with her or not. Have another?

Glasp had finished his beer; he was looking around the room with an expression of distaste. He said:

Too many people. What about moving?

The room had been filling since they came in; now there were no seats left, and a group of people stood within a few feet of them, laughing noisily. Sorme said:

Most pubs in London'll be like this on a Saturday night. We could go back to my room.

What's the time? Eight o'clock. All right, if you like.

He filled the washbowl with hot water, then plunged his hands into it and leaned forward on them, suddenly tired. Through the half open door of the bathroom, he heard the phone ringing, and tensed automatically, waiting to be called. When the ringing stopped and no one shouted his name he dried his hands, thinking tiredly: People. How can I escape people? It was a sudden disgust, a reaction to the excitement of the afternoon and now the sensation of knowing Glasp with a sympathetic insight. It was the feeling of winning a game, the sensation of an increasing interior power, an energy for which he could find no immediate outlet.

Glasp was stretched in the armchair, his feet on the stool. On the turntable of the gramophone the first side of Prokoviev's fifth symphony was coming to an end. Two full quarts of beer stood on the table.

Shall I turn it over?

No. I'd rather talk.

Glasp held out the beer glass, tilting it as Sorme poured the brown ale. Sorme said:

You look pleased with yourself.

Do I?

There's a contented expression on your face.

Maybe, Glasp said.

Sorme relaxed in the other chair, raising his slippered feet on to the footstool; Glasp moved his own stockinged feet to make room. Sorme noted with interest that he was wearing a new pair of nylon socks. Glasp said:

Listen, Gerard. Has it struck you that Austin could be the Whitechapel killer?

Sorme kept his eyes fixed on his slippers, careful to show no surprise. He said finally:

Hmmmm. Perhaps. Not very likely, though.

You think not?

I don't think it's very likely. Seriously. Do you?

I think it's possible. We know Austin is a sadist. We suspect he killed someone in Hamburg.

Yes, but…

What?

We also know Austin. Can you look at him and connect him with the murders? I can't.

Glasp held his beer glass on a level with his nose and frowned at it.

Neither can I. That proves nothing. You know Austin is a sadist. Can you imagine him beating anyone with a whip?

No…

Yet he probably does.

Well, even so, these murders are heterosexual and he's queer. Why should he choose women?

Easier to pick up in Whitechapel.

All right. Second, why choose Whitechapel, where he's more likely to get caught every time he commits a crime? Why not move around London? And, third, why on earth should it be Austin, with several million other people living in London?

Glasp looked at him steadily.

You don't want it to be Austin, do you?

Sorme shrugged.

I don't know. I like Austin, but that wouldn't stop me from looking the facts in the face if they really pointed to him.

Glasp said: Anyway, you needn't worry. I wouldn't give him away to the police, even if I knew he did them.

No?

Anyway, you can bet they've got an eye on him now. If he's suspected of this Hamburg murder, he's a natural suspect for Whitechapel.

I suppose so. I don't understand the way these things work.

You don't understand sadism, anyway, do you?

Sorme asked curiously:

What makes you say that?

You're not the type.

No? What type am I?

Glasp said, shrugging:

You're like me. Not particularly interested in sex.

Blimey! Do you really think so?

Glasp grinned.

You think you are. But you're not. Try to understand what I mean. Austin's a sensualist. He's not a man of ideas. Nothing really interests him but what he can see and touch.

Oh, I dunno. I wouldn't say he has no ideas.

He hasn't. Perhaps he makes an effort because he's talking to you. If he ever got really used to you, he'd stop making the effort.

Yes, but… there's a kind of innocence about Austin. You don't understand.

Oh yes I do. There's a kind of innocence about sensuality. It doesn't have to leer and drool. But it just doesn't get off the ground. The most sensual man I ever knew was a collector of knives and daggers. He wrote several monographs on the subject — known as the leading authority of Europe. Not an idea in his head, but the most amazing collection of facts about daggers.

Sorme said dubiously:

I see what you mean.

He was feeling vaguely hungry. From the cupboard he took a half loaf of bread, some Spanish onions, and a polythene bag containing Gruyere cheese. He said:

Help yourself if you're hungry.

He cut an irregular chunk of bread from the side of the loaf and plastered butter on it. Glasp said:

That's a good idea.

As he sawed at the loaf, he said:

Don't get the wrong ideas about Austin. He's no soul-mate. He's all right, but if you get entangled with him, he'll suffocate you.

I know that. But I think you misjudge him. He misjudges you too.

Does he? What does he say about me?

Sorme hesitated, calculating the effect of complete frankness; a desire to provoke a reaction urged him to speak. He said casually:

Oh, he thinks you have some… sexual peculiarities.

Naturally, Glasp said contemptuously. He'd have to.

Sorme said, laughing:

Oh, I agree. They always want to pin it on other people…

What does he think… I'm addicted to? Men, boys or animals?

Neither. Little girls.

The effect was greater than he had anticipated. Glasp laid down the knife on the plate, staring incredulously.

He what?

Sorme ignored his excitement; he said:

Oh, you know what it's like…

He said that? Tell me exactly what he said.

As he spoke, Sorme heard someone outside his door; for a moment, he expected to see Nunne's face; then the key turned in the next room, and he heard the Frenchman open his own door. His heart pounding, he said quickly:

Oh, to do Austin justice, he was only reporting something he'd heard.

Are you sure?

Quite sure. Two Americans thought they'd known you in London several years ago. But after all, it might easily have been someone else. Or they might have said it for effect.

Glasp said slowly:

Well I'll be damned!

He emptied his beer glass, and refilled it; then sat hunched forward in the chair, staring into the fire. Something in the crouched tenseness of his body made Sorme aware that he was experiencing an inner upheaval that he was unwilling to show. Sorme's heart was still beating heavily from the noise outside the door. He said:

Look. Why don't we skip the subject? I'm sorry I told you.

But didn't he say any more than that?

Nothing.

Glasp said slowly:

These bloody queers amaze me.

Why?

They're interested in nothing but personalities. If I'd painted the greatest portrait since Rembrandt, it wouldn't interest him unless he thought I'd had an affair with the sitter.

This time, Sorme made no effort to contradict him. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he could suggest going out. The thought of Nunne arriving soddenly worried him. He said lightly:

I don't see why you let it bother you. I only told you to amuse you. I don't take Austin seriously.

Glasp looked at him, frowning.

But why did he say it? Where did he get the idea? You didn't tell him about that picture of a girl in my room?

No.

He felt acutely uncomfortable; he had seen the picture of the girl while Glasp was out of the room, and found the idea of lying about it disagreeable. He said:

I've told you, anyway. He got the idea from two Americans. I can vouch for it. I've met them.

Glasp shrugged irritably. He said:

Well, I don't give a damn, anyway. But I bet what you like he's seen me around with the girl in that picture, or been told about it.

Sorme said untruthfully:

I can't remember the picture, anyway. I doubt whether Austin knows about it.

Glasp subsided into silence, wolfing huge mouthfuls of bread with Spanish onion; the muscles of his jaw stood out as he chewed and swallowed. Somewhere below, a door slammed; again, Sorme wondered if Nunne had arrived. He said:

You know, I'm pretty sure you're wrong about Austin…

Glasp said:

Would you suppose I've got a taste for twelve-year-old girls?

I… well, I presume not. But quite honestly, it wouldn't particularly shock me if you had. Girls can often look quite adult at twelve.

Glasp said gloomily:

This one doesn't. She looks about nine.

Yes but… Look here, Oliver. I don't want to pry into your private life. Let's drop the subject, shall we?

Does it embarrass you?

No, but…

Well, it doesn't embarrass me either. I don't mind talking about it.

Sorme wondered if Glasp was slightly drunk: the assertiveness was blurred and heavy sounding. He said:

OK, if you want to, let's talk about it. Who is this girl, anyway?

Glasp emptied the quart flask of beer into his glass with deliberation, then screwed its cap on and placed it carefully on the floor. He said:

Her name's Christine.

To cover the awkwardness he was feeling, Sorme opened the second quart of beer and filled his glass. He felt a certain absurdity in the conversation; Glasp was, after all, under no compulsion to tell him about the girl; this seemed somehow the wrong moment and the wrong way in which to talk about her. He noticed that the gas fire was beginning to go out, and searched his small change for shillings, glad to have something to do, waiting for Glasp to go on. When he spoke finally, there was no trace of drunkenness in his voice. He said seriously:

You know, Gerard, it makes my blood boil when somebody like Austin gets nosey about my affairs. I never did anything to him, did I? I live on my own out there. I don't ask people to take notice of me. I avoid people because I don't enjoy playing the game. Do you know what I mean?

The social game, you mean?

I mean the personal game. You see…

Looking at him, Sorme could almost watch the words trying to force their way out; he found himself leaning forward, concentrating to help Glasp.

If you get involved with people, you've got to stick to the rules. It's like going to a public school or joining a posh club. If you want the advantages, you have to stick to the rules. Well, I'd rather not join the club. I'll do without the advantages. It's like exhibiting. If you exhibit your work, you put yourself at the mercy of a lot of half-witted bastards who don't know paint from shit. But it's no good complaining about not being understood. If you put your work on show it's like asking people to look at it. And if they make stupid comments, you've got nothing to complain about, because you asked them. Well, so I don't exhibit. Then if somebody makes a stupid comment about my work I've got a right to fetch him a backhander across the mouth and say: Shut your f-ing noise; nobody asked you.

It was coming now, and Glasp was talking like a machine, his face flushed, unaware of the breadcrumb stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was also a pleasure in his eyes, an astonishment that his feelings were really changing themselves into words and coming out.

It's the same with people. If you need people, you've got to persuade them to accept you on the level you want. It's OK for somebody like Picasso. Everybody accepts him, anyway, so he goes his own way. Do you see what I mean? But if you want to do good work, it costs more effort than it's worth to make them accept you…

I know just what you mean, Sorme said. It's happened to me many times. Just before I gave up work, I used to work in an office with a Scottish clerk who had a terrific chip on his shoulder. He knew I wanted to be a writer, and he used to enjoy getting at me — telling me I was a bloody intellectual and out of touch with reality.

You should have belted him one, Glasp said.

I felt like it. But what was the good? He'd just succeeded in getting under my skin. I think he had some sort of inferiority complex — he stuttered badly. But I had to put up with him because he sat next to me. I used to feel the same as you — a feeling of outrage that he should criticise me. I felt like saying: You're a bloody fool. I don't want to know you. Unfortunately, I couldn't help knowing him, and I couldn't help talking to him and working with him…

Glasp said bitterly:

Well, that's how I feel about Austin Nunne. Except that I did say to him 'You're a bloody fool. I don't want to know you.' And still I can't get away from his stupidities.

Sorme said: But wouldn't you feel differently if your work made you famous?

Of course. Because then I shouldn't have to argue with the fools. I could leave that to my admirers. Look at this man tonight — Brother whatsisname at Gertrude's. I could see he was a bloody fool and there was no point in exchanging two words with him. So I didn't. That's how it's supposed to be.

Sorme said guiltily:

You know, you're being a bit unfair to Austin about this matter of the girl. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know anything about her.

But you said he had…

Two Americans said it, Sorme said firmly. And they weren't sure it was you.

Glasp said irritably:

Austin's a fool, anyway.

Sorme said, smiling:

I wondered why you looked so fierce when I first introduced myself to you as a friend of Austin's.

It was about the worst thing you could say. But when I talked to you I found I liked you.

Thanks.

Shall I tell you why?

Sorme nodded. Glasp said:

You've got a job of your own to do. You don't waste time like Austin.

Sorme said, shrugging:

I waste too much.

Not like Austin. You know, something goes wrong with a man who wastes time. He starts to go rotten. You can almost smell him. Don't you feel that about Austin?

No. I don't feel he's very different from me.

You'll find out, Glasp said.

He sank deeper into the chair, bending his knees above the footstool, saying meditatively:

I'll introduce you to Christine some time. You'll like her. She's a talented child.

Does she paint?

A little. I'm trying to teach her. She has a lot of talent… more than me.

Seriously?

Seriously. I'm not talented; I have to work like hell for all my effects. She does it easily.

How old is she? Nine, did you say?

No, twelve. She looks nine, though.

How did you meet her?

In rather an odd way. One day, I was standing outside a bookshop in the Mile End Road looking through the sixpenny case, and this little girl stood at the side of me. She kept looking at an old leather covered autograph book — years old, the pages discoloured, but for some reason unused. And I could see she wanted this thing. When I looked inside it, I saw it was more expensive than the other books — not much — a shilling or one and six. And she kept putting it back and looking at other books, then taking out this thing again. I began to wonder if she intended to pinch it. But she didn't. She finally put it back, and walked off. Well, I'd found a couple of books I wanted, and I'd just sold some woodcuts to a shop, so I took the autograph book and bought it with the other two. Well, when I got outside she was already about half a mile away, so I ran after her, caught her up, and gave her the book.

Sorme asked, laughing:

What did she do?

She just took it, and stared at me. I felt a bit silly about buying it, so I turned and walked away. And that was that. Neither of us spoke.

What a strange thing to do!

Oh, I dunno. It was just an impulse, you know.

But how did you get to know her?

That happened later. I saw her a couple of times in the street, and guessed she must live near me. But I wasn't really curious, you know… Anyway, one day I was walking past the cinema in the Commercial Road — it was a Saturday afternoon and there was a queue of kids outside. And she came running out of the queue and said hello. Then she went belting back into the queue before I could say anything. Then about two days later I met her as I came out of a bread shop in Vallance Road, and she walked along with me. I felt a bit embarrassed — you know, I hate asking kids how old they are and what they do at school and all that stuff — I remember how it used to bore me when I was a kid. But it's difficult to think of much else to say. Anyway, she asked me what I did, and I said I was a painter. She said 'Oh!' not very interested — she thought I meant a painter and decorator. Then when I said I painted pictures she got very interested. I could almost see her building romantic daydreams about a real artist. Well, she had to go home that day, but I said I'd show her my pictures some time, and the next day I found her outside my house at about four in the afternoon, so I asked her in. She was funny. She looked both ways to see no one was watching, then dashed through the doorway like a jack rabbit. And I showed her my pictures, and gave her a cup of tea, and told her to come in any time she liked. She was obviously pretty shy… Well, the next Saturday afternoon, she turned up and insisted on watching me paint. Her parents thought she'd gone to the threepenny rush again… And that was how I got to know her.

She sounds charming, Sorme said. Was she really romantic about being an artist?

Oh yes. I found out that she'd developed a grand passion. I met her one day with some school friend, and she blushed like mad. And the following Saturday afternoon I started to pump her about it, and finally got her to admit that she'd told her friend that I'd asked her to marry me when she was sixteen!

Sorme said, laughing:

Well, why not?

Glasp shrugged:

Well, it's a possibility, I suppose — she has only three years to go. She's nearly thirteen.

Sorme said with astonishment:

Are you that interested?

I… You don't understand. You see, she comes from a big family — she's got seven brothers and sisters. They used to sleep four in a bed once. And her father's a warder in Brixton gaol — an absolutely bloody moron who spends all he can on booze. She's got an elder sister who's married. She married a Pole, and they live next door. And when the Pole comes home drunk and tries to beat his wife, she goes next door and sleeps with Christine and her other sister in a single bed… She sleeps down the other end. And I saw her mother once — a poor, wrecked old thing with terrific sagging breasts and no teeth. She can't be more than fifty, and she looks seventy. That's the sort of background she comes from. She wants to study at art school — she's brilliant enough to get a scholarship — but her parents wouldn't even dream of it. Her mother told her that art students are no better than prostitutes. And, anyway, they want her to go to work when she leaves school and bring in a few shillings a week until she marries. Her family have lived in slums for generations. They don't want to do anything better.

That's stupid. Can't you persuade them?

Not a hope. Christine daren't even let them know she still sees me. I had a fight with her father once.

Blimey! How?

Glasp shrugged, then shook himself, grimacing, as if rejecting an unpleasant memory.

He's a drunk, a blustering stupid drunk. Christine's brother saw us in a cafe and told her parents. They gave her a thrashing and made her promise not to see me again. Luckily, we spotted the brother when he saw us, and I was able to warn Christine not to tell her parents everything — to say she'd only met me once or twice in the Whitechapel Art Gallery. Otherwise she might have told them about posing for me and had the skin beaten off her. Anyway, the next day I was passing a pub in Hanbury Street when her father came out and started to yell at me.

How did he recognise you?

Oh, he'd seen me around, and I'd seen him — they only live five hundred yards away, round the corner.

What was he shouting about?

Stupid lies… filthy lies. If a quarter of it had been true, he could have had me thrown in gaol for ten years. I didn't know what to do… I didn't want him to get Christine into any more trouble. So I tried soothing him. That only made him worse. He was half drunk. He grabbed my collar and started shouting in my face — shooting spit and beer all over me. I told him to let go and he just shouted louder. So I jerked my knee into his crotch, and hit him in the face.

Sorme exclaimed: Christ! He found it hard to imagine Glasp hitting anyone.

Then luckily a policeman came along and threatened to throw us both inside, so we broke it up and separated pretty quickly. The Whitechapel police don't stand much nonsense — they're a rough crowd. I half expected him to start telling the policeman I'd seduced his daughter, but he didn't. He just slunk off. I was pretty shaken…

Did he take it out on Christine?

No, that's the odd thing. She came round the next day and told me about it. She'd been in the kitchen when he came in, and he started to yell about taking her to a doctor to get evidence against me. Then her mother flew into a rage and threatened to leave him if he tried anything of the sort. And later her mother questioned her about me — wanted to know if anything had ever happened with me, and, of course, Christine denied it, and her mother believed her.

Sorme listened gravely, nodding, wondering how to phrase the question that was forming and anxious not to let it appear on his face. He said:

But even if he'd taken her, nothing would have come of it?

Nothing… except gossip, probably. That'd be bad enough. If it came out that she'd posed for me it might cause trouble.

Did she pose often?

Oh yes… I drew her the first time she came. But not in the nude, of course.

Then why should there be trouble?

Because later on she started posing naked for me.

Ah… that's difficult. Did she want to?

Oh yes. At first she was shy. Then one day she fell in the brook in Victoria Park and got soaked. Her mother'd threatened to whip her if she played near water again, so she came around to me to get dry. She got into bed while I made a fire — it was a summer evening — and stayed there till her clothes were dry. Well, I persuaded her to pose sitting in front of the fire, and made a good sketch of her with the firelight behind her — one of the best things I ever did. After that she often posed.

Sorme said:

I can't help feeling you're playing with fire. Her father doesn't sound the kind who'd forget a quarrel.

Glasp said hopelessly:

I know. What can I do? Stop seeing her?

Well… that's up to you, of course. Would it make a big difference if you stopped seeing her for a few months — just to let things cool down?

Of course.

But you've done a lot for her. You've shown her a different way of life. She won't change now.

Glasp grimaced, shrugging:

I'm not so sure. Two of her sisters work in a hosiery factory. That's what her family want her to do. Besides, it's a pretty awful environment to fight against.

It must be a bit of a slum with seven kids.

It is. Sacking on the floor instead of mats, and boxes instead of chairs. And they're considered pretty well off because they live in a thirty-bob-a-week Council flat.

But as you say, she'll be sixteen in a few years' time, and you can take her out of it…

To what? My three pounds ten a week?

It'd be luxury after what she's been used to.

That's… not the point. It's not that I want to marry her. That'd only be a way of getting her legally outside her parents' grasp. That's what matters.

Sorme stretched in the chair, oppressed by the heat. He said slowly:

There could be other ways of doing that. Get someone to agree to act as guardian to her and send her to art school. Someone like Gertrude. If her parents could be persuaded…

Gertrude! Glasp said. That'd be out of the frying-pan into the fire!

Would it?

Glasp leaned forward, staring hard at Sorme; his forehead was twitching again, giving the thin face a slightly insane expression. He said:

You don't understand. I don't want someone else to get her. I don't want other people to keep getting in the way.

The intensity in his voice and the twitching forehead produced a curiously unpleasant impression on Sorme. He made his voice casual, saying:

Yes, I see your point. But you said you didn't particularly want to marry her.

And why should I? Glasp said; there was something strained and irritable about his vehemence. What would that give me, except a legal right to sleep with her?

Oh, a lot…

Glasp interrupted:

But I don't want to sleep with her. I don't even want to touch her. I'm not a bloody pervert. Don't you see? I just want her. I want her more than I've ever wanted anything…

He leaned back, his shoulders slumping; Sorme could almost feel the exhaustion that surrounded him like a grey air. He said soothingly:

That's OK. You've nothing to worry about, have you? You're not likely to lose her. And she's lucky she met you. What have you got to worry about?

Glasp said tiredly:

Not much. Not much at all.

Sorme stood up. He said:

Look here, I've got to go downstairs. Why don't we go out and get a last drink before the pubs close?

Glasp's voice sounded dead.

I don't want another drink. It's time I went back, anyway.

Just as you like…

Going down the stairs, he experienced a feeling of revolt about Glasp and his problems, a sudden understanding that Glasp's mind was no more like his own than Nunne's was, that his intellect was driven by emotions working at steam-heat; the stuffy heat of the room seemed like a physical counterpart of the climate of Glasp's mind. He breathed deeply and gratefully the cold air of the bathroom, smelling of damp plaster and escaping gas from the Ascot, thinking irritably: He needs something to love like the rest of us, but it couldn't be a kitten or a puppy or even a woman, it had to be an under-age girl, so the emotions can work up a nice pressure. And one day the boiler bursts.

He was glad Glasp had decided to leave; his sudden exhaustion had communicated itself to Sorme.

Across the waste ground he could see the light in his room; it puzzled him. He could remember switching it off. As he opened the front door, he thought suddenly: Damnation, Austin, and was glad he had seen Glasp on to the escalator at Camden Town Underground. Mounting the flight of stairs to his room, he saw the open door, and the straw basket that leaned against the doorjamb. It was full of empty beer bottles. He pushed open the door, prepared to say: Hello, Austin.

The old man stood on the rug, his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a neat black suit with a collar and tie. He smiled apologetically at Sorme.

Sorme stood there, in the doorway, unwilling to advance into the room, feeling a choked rage rising in his throat. The old man smiled nervously. Sorme said:

What do you want?

I'm… very sorry to disturb you. I found your door open… I… do hope I'm not intruding.

His politeness softened Sorme, but only to the extent of soothing the desire to be rude. He felt outraged by the invasion of his privacy. He said coldly:

I'd rather you didn't come into my room in my absence.

As he spoke, he made a mental note to lock the door and window whenever he went out.

The old man continued to smile, fidgeting with his hands in the region of the neatly buttoned waistcoat. He pointed at the empty beer bottle on the floor, and said:

I wonder if you require this?

Sorme stared at him blankly.

What?

Your bottle? Perhaps you have more in your cupboard? If you're anxious to get rid of them, I'd be glad to take them away.

Abruptly Sorme understood. He pulled open the cupboard and saw the empty pint bottles on the floor. He had no doubt that the old man had already looked. He said irritably:

Yes, do take them… There aren't many.

Ah, that's really very kind of you! Very kind.

The old man stopped and gathered up the three pint bottles, and the empty quart from the rug. Sorme watched him closely, wondering if he was drunk again. His speech had a clarity and precision it had lacked the last time Sorme had talked with him. He was wearing patent-leather shoes with a high polish. Sorme said:

I suppose you know that it's after ten-thirty. The pubs'll be closed.

The old man was standing by the door, inserting the bottles carefully in the straw bag. He looked up, frowning.

Ten-thirty? No.

He fumbled in the pocket of the waistcoat, then seemed to remember something. He said:

But… but my clock says nine-thirty.

I'm afraid it's wrong.

Oh dear…

He stood there, looking at Sorme, as if it lay in Sorme's power to solve his problem. For a moment, Sorme felt ashamed of the irritable satisfaction he had experienced in pointing out the time. He said:

I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow.

The old man said with dismay:

Oh no. I can't do that!

He came forward to the table again, and took a handful of money out of his pocket. He laid this on the corner of the table and began to count it. Sorme could see three half-crowns and some coppers. He said:

Look here, don't you think you'd better count that in your own room?

The old man glanced at him reproachfully, and went on counting. Then he looked up, and asked simply:

Can you lend me twenty-two and six?

No. I'm afraid I can't.

I'd return it.

I'm sure you would. Anyway, the pubs are all closed…

I know. But I know where I can buy gin. Are you sure you couldn't lend me twenty-two and six?

I'm afraid not.

The old man said tremulously:

Oh dear… I wonder if the French gentleman next door could?

He knocked on the door of Callet's room. It was impossible for Sorme to close his own door with the bag leaning against the jamb. He turned to the fireplace and made a face of despair at himself in the mirror. There was no reply from Callet's room. Sorme was certain he was inside; probably he had heard the old man's voice and decided to keep quiet. The old man knocked again. Sorme found the spectacle irritating; he went downstairs to the bathroom and locked the door. After a few moments, he heard the old man come downstairs. He flushed the toilet and went up again. Before going into his room, he removed the bag from the doorway, and leaned it against the wall outside. He locked his door, and flung himself into the armchair, thinking: I'll leave this bloody place and find somewhere else. That old swine ought to be in an institution.

As he listened, a knock sounded on the door. He started in his chair. He called: Who is it?

The old man's voice said: May I speak to you?

Sighing, he crossed to the door and unlocked it. The old man said:

I really must beg your pardon for intruding like this. I knov it's unforgivable, but… I really must get twenty-two and six from somewhere.

Sorme said wearily:

I'm sorry, I can't help you.

The old man looked around, as if suspicious of an eavesdropper. His face took on a cunning expression. He advanced on Sorme, pushing him into the room, then said in a whisper:

I can tell you something that would interest you.

For a moment, Sorme was on the point of saying: I'm sure you couldn't, and pushing the old man out. He was prevented by an innate dislike of rudeness and a certainty that the old man would only begin knocking on the door again. The old man raised a finger at Sorme, and regarded him with a knowing, slightly reproachful expression. He said:

I'm not mistaken in supposing you are a man with a strong interest in religion?

Why?

Ah, you're suspicious, and quite rightly so. Not many people have a right to speak of religion. But I have. Now, let me tell you something that will surprise you. I can open your third eye for you.

He leaned forward and hissed the last sentence in Sorme's face and Sorme was able to observe that there was no alcohol on his breath. He retreated a step, and said:

I'm afraid I haven't got a third eye.

Aha! You think you haven't. You don't know. I thought you weren't one of the initiated. But you have honesty. You have honesty, or I wouldn't speak to you. Do you know what the third eye is?

He was speaking rapidly now, perhaps sensing Sorme's increasing desire to throw him out. Sorme shook his head.

Your third eye is your mystical eye. You have two eyes to show you appearances, but your mystical eye can show you into the heart of things. I see you have Blake and Boehme on your bookshelves. Well, they could see with the third eye. I can see with my third eye — at least, I could until I started to drink. It only requires a very simple operation to do it… if the subject is ready, of course. But I can sense you're ready. Now, wouldn't you like to have a third eye?

Sorme, interested in spite of himself, said dubiously: I suppose so.

Good, the old man said. Then we can arrange it. How much would you consider the operation worth? Two pounds?

Sorme could not refrain from smiling. He said:

You want me to pay, do you?

The old man said simply: I need the money.

Sorme said: I'm afraid I haven't got it.

Really? It's a unique opportunity. I couldn't make the offer at any other time — for instance, on Monday, after the banks open. My price would be much higher then.

He was peering up into Sorme's face with a childlike anxiety; it was almost as if he was play-acting. Sorme knew he was not play-acting, and that the only alternative was that he was insane. But the realisation caused him no alarm, or even excitement. He said apologetically:

I'm afraid I can't give you two pounds. I haven't two pounds to spare.

The old man said sadly:

Oh dear. Well, in that case…

He turned away from Sorme, staring at the doorknob. He said vaguely:

I wonder who could…?

He asked Sorme suddenly:

I suppose you don't happen to have a little gin hidden away?

I'm afraid not. Only some beer.

Mmmm. I haven't touched beer for years. But I suppose… in the absence of anything better. Well. Would you object if I drank a glass of your beer?

Sorme said:

Not at all. Take the bottle.

He snatched up the bottle from the table, and thrust it into the old man's hands. The old man took it dubiously. He said:

If you could lend me eight and ninepence I could buy a half bottle I suppose. But they wouldn't like it.

I'm sorry. I'm in the same position as you. I've no money to spare until I can go to the bank.

Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose I'd better have some beer. Have you a glass?

Sorme took a glass from the table and inverted it over the neck of the bottle. He said:

You might let me have the glass back some time.

Oh, I don't want to take it away.

He removed the glass, unscrewed the bottle, and carefully laid the stopper on the table. A feeling of comic resignation came over Sorme; he imagined Bill Payne in the room, watching with amusement and preparing an imitation of the old man's eager innocence and Sorme's baffled irritation. He sat down in the armchair, and stared at the old man as he poured beer. The old man caught his eye and smiled genially. He replaced the bottle on the table, screwed on the stopper, then came over and sat in the other armchair. He said:

Forgive me for not offering you some. But the bottle wasn't quite full to begin with, and I'm afraid I shan't have enough for myself. This is not selfishness, you understand, but ordinary self-preservation. Well, chin-chin, or whatever you young people say nowadays.

The military phrase sounded odd pattering over his lips. He drank the beer with an expression of distaste. When the glass was half empty, he lowered it, saying:

I'm afraid I wouldn't drink this by preference.

No, Sorme said. He took care not to sound interrogative, for fear of provoking another explanation. The old man said pleasantly:

I find you likeable. What can I tell you to amuse you?

Sorme said gruffly: Nothing, thanks.

Let me see. Weren't you interested in Jack the Ripper?

Sorme was unable to conceal his surprise. He said:

I suppose so. Why?

I knew it. I know a great deal about you…

Sorme wondered if Carlotte had mentioned the subject. He determined not to be drawn out any further. He said:

I'm not particularly interested.

No? All the same, I think I can tell you one or two things that would interest you. How old would you say I am?

He stared at Sorme so persistently that he found it difficult to ignore the question. He said finally:

Seventy, maybe.

The old man's eyes glittered with delight. He reached for the beer bottle.

Wrong again. I'm eighty-nine.

Sorme said unbelievingly: Yes?

I can show you my birth certificate to prove it. I have it somewhere…

He clapped a hand to his coat over his heart, then said:

I thought I had it. It must be in the drawer. But this is beside the point. I'm assuming you disbelieve me, whereas, in fact, I am sure you don't. Is that not so?

Yes, Sorme said.

Thank you, sir. A man prefers to be trusted. Well, there you are. Eighty-nine. Born on the twenty-third of August, eighteen sixty-seven. I may add that my father was in diplomatic service in Cracow, where he knew Zeromski. My mother was Polish. Well… the gentleman who is known to the Press as Jack the Ripper was a close friend of my father's. His name was Sergei Pedachenko, and he came from the same village as Grigory Efimovitch Rasputin. In fact, he was a relative by law of Grigory Efimovitch. Together they grew up in Pokrovskoe in Tobolsk, although Sergei Fyodorovitch was several years his senior…

As he reclined in the armchair, gesturing with his left hand as he talked, the old man made Sorme think of an actor in some Turgenev play. The words flowed out like a speech learned by heart. When the old man paused to empty his glass, Sorme found himself wanting him to go on. The old man talked as he refilled the glass:

Well, Grigory Efimovitch and Sergei Fyodorovitch belonged to one of the raskolniki, that is to say, a heretical sect, known as the Khlysty. And the Khlysty believed in salvation through sin. You understand? A fine theological point, as you will recognise. The more one sins, the more one can repent. A verbal sophistry, you say? Not at all. Consider that many a man who is inclined to saintliness suffers from boredom, a sense of futility. Consider that it is better to feel yourself a sinner than to feel as if you have no identity. This is admittedly a human weakness, that a man has to dramatise himself into an identity or suffer stagnation. You and I, sir, know that man is a god. And yet he can do nothing to make himself into a god unless circumstances are kind enough to give him an opportunity to behave like one.

Sorme found himself listening with increasing amazement; a sense of unreality came over him. A fantasy shaped itself in his head, that the old man was really an angel in disguise, sent to bring home to him a sense of his own immaturity. The old man could evidently see the effect he was creating; something like a smirk formed in his eyes as he talked. He raised his finger in admonition:

This is the paradox of our nature, the result of original sin. A tree can be itself by standing still. A man becomes himself only by making a bonfire of his potentialities. In the light of action, he sees his reality as it disappears in a new persona. And…

He paused to take a long drink, then said vaguely:

Where were we?

Jack the Ripper.

Ah yes. My friend Pedachenko. Well, to make it brief, Sergei Fyodorovitch came to London to sin his way to salvation. He had read a book by Dostoevsky describing it as the most sordid capital in Europe. At the time, I was a boy of eighteen. He and I travelled together from Odessa. He brought with him an Austrian tailoress named Limberg, a woman of distinctly sadistic tendencies. They took rooms in Leman Street, and my friend embarked on his career of disembowelling. His mistress was always somewhere near carrying a cloak. When he had committed his crime, she would hand him the cloak: he would cover his bloodstained suit — he bought innumerable suits in the Petticoat Lane market — and together they would walk home arm in arm, like a respectable man and wife returning from a late evening with friends. On three occasions they were stopped by police when a mere glimpse of my friend's trousers would have given him to the hangman. On each occasion, they posed as a married couple and were allowed to proceed immediately. After his last murder, he sailed for America, where he became the proprietor of a brothel in New Orleans.

The old man emptied his second glass, and carefully filled it to the brim again, emptying the bottle.

Naturally, he was made very welcome on his return to Russia. He was appointed Archimandrite of the sect, and was generally regarded as something of a saint. He then began his career of repentance. His mistress Limberg had no taste for repentance and left Russia with another young man who hoped to emulate Sergei Fyodorovitch. My friend Pedachenko accompanied Grigory Efimovitch to St Petersburg, where he shared his extraordinary success for a number of years. They died within a year of one another — Rasputin in nineteen-sixteen, murdered by the bandit Yussupov, and Pedachenko in nineteen-seventeen, shot in the back by one of Kerensky's men.

The old man took a sip from the full glass, then stood up, holding it carefully. He said politely:

I shall now leave you, borrowing, if I may, your glass.

Sorme stared at him, unable to find words. The old man bowed slightly, saying gravely:

Goodnight.

He took the empty bottle, and went to the door. Sorme heard the bottle clink into the straw bag. A moment later, the old man returned, still holding the full glass. He said:

You are still certain you can't lend me eight and ninepence?

Sorme fumbled in his back pocket, and produced a crumpled ten-shilling note. He handed it to the old man without speaking. The old man bowed; he said formally:

Sir, you have saved my life. A thousand thanks.

He kissed the note, then backed out of the door. Sorme found his voice to say: Goodnight, as the door closed. The old man did not reply. He heard him mounting the next flight of stairs, the bottles clinking.

The tiredness had gone; he stood by the window, wondering what to do. A few minutes later, he heard the old man come downstairs again and go out of the house. After a moment's uncertainty, he went downstairs and rang Nunne's flat again. There was still no reply. He went and stood in the front doorway for a while, then returned to his room. It was too late to go back to Miss Quincey's and Caroline was on the other side of London. There was nothing for it but to go to bed.

He lay awake for two hours, thinking about the old man and about Austin. When he slept, the old man hovered in his dreams. Towards 2 am he went downstairs to the bathroom, and washed his hands and face in hot water. After that, he slept. There was no sound coming from the old man's room.

He woke again in the cold dawn, dreaming that Gertrude Quincey lay pressed against him. While he kept his eyes closed, he could feel her body against his relaxed limbs, her arms round his neck. She stopped being there when he woke up fully, but the memory was as clear as a physical experience. He stared at the paleing sky; in the clear light of speculation, the desire disappeared; it was possible only through the blurred outlines of sleep.

The sense of wellbeing expanded in him, a knowledge of increasing power; for a moment he felt glad of the world and the existence of everything in it. Then he fell asleep thinking about Caroline.