Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER SIX

Sorry I'm so late.

Come in. Where have you been? Have you eaten?

Yes, thanks. I ate this afternoon with Oliver. I stayed and talked to him. He was pretty shaken up.

The fire was still burning in the sitting-room. The hands of the electric clock showed ten-fifteen. She touched his hand, and said:

Oh dear, you are cold. Come and get warm. Would you like a drink?

No, thanks. I've been drinking with Oliver.

He sat opposite the fire, and stretched out his legs towards it. Miss Quincey started to build it up with small nuggets of coal, using a glove that lay across the fender.

Is he all right now?

Yes. He's calmer, at any rate.

Have they examined the child yet?

No. That's the trouble. She's disappeared. When we got back to Oliver's room, the police had been there already. Oliver says they probably suspect him of murdering her to keep her quiet!

How silly!

Oh yes. He wasn't really serious. They probably suspected him of hiding her. Anyway, she's a little fool to run away like this. It makes it look worse for Oliver — as if she's got something to be afraid of. When we came out of the cafe Oliver saw one of her schoolfriends and persuaded her to go and call for Christine — to see if she'd come back. She hadn't, of course, and then he started to get really upset.

I'm not surprised, with a murderer at large in Whitechapel.

Haven't you heard? He's been caught.

No. When?

Don't you listen to the radio? He was arrested this morning. At least a man was arrested, and apparently he confessed later.

Good! Thank heavens for that.

I'm not so sure it's an advantage for Oliver. If the Whitechapel police had still got the murders to worry about, they might pay less attention to a drunken prison warder.

Quite. But where does Oliver think the child might be hiding?

Oh, anywhere. She only disappeared this morning. She might have spent the morning in Petticoat Lane market, or in the docks. She's probably back home now — unless she's staying overnight with a friend. Or she may go to Oliver's.

I hope so. I wouldn't like to think of her wandering around on a night like this.

As if to emphasise the words, there was a sound of rain on the window. Sorme went to the window and peered out; nothing was visible in the darkness.

Have you left your bicycle outside?

No. I came by train.

It's just as well. Would you like something to eat? I'm just having something myself.

Thanks.

He leaned against the refrigerator, watching her slice a joint of ham. The wine he had drunk with Glasp had made him feel sleepy. He asked her:

Have you heard from Austin recently?

No, not for several days.

I don't know where he's gone to. I've been trying to contact him for the last two days.

He may be at the Leatherhead cottage. He often goes there for weekends.

Ah, of course!

She glanced at him doubtfully.

Have you… have you spoken to him since you talked to me…

She left the sentence unfinished. Sorme said:

I had lunch with him on Saturday.

Yes.

She sounded uninterested. He took the plate with sandwiches, and went back into the other room. The rain was now beating steadily on the windows. He unfolded the paper napkin, and helped himself to a sandwich, then looked at her, smiling. She said:

I've been thinking about Austin ever since the other night. It seems a pity that he hasn't any close relatives who could… talk to him about it. There's no one who knows him well enough to be quite open with him.

What could they do, anyway?

She lowered her sandwich instead of biting it, regarding him steadily. She said:

They might persuade him to see a doctor.

That's true. On the other hand, he might feel they just didn't understand, and tell them to go to hell.

That wouldn't matter. If someone is dying of a disease, you don't ask them if they want to be cured.

Austin's not dying. And I don't think homosexuality qualifies as a disease.

He could sense a frustration growing up in her; her eyes flickered with irritation.

But he ought to have a chance to lead a normal existence. He'll inherit a great deal of money and property. He should have a son to pass it on to. He should have a chance to marry and settle down.

He said patiently:

I can see your point. But I doubt whether Austin wants to settle down. And I can't imagine him as a husband! Besides, why should you want to alter his life? He isn't unhappy — at least, not for that reason. What would you say if Austin suddenly wanted you to see a doctor to cure you of religion?

Oh, don't be silly, Gerard!

But if it's so important to marry and settle down, why aren't you married?

Her face coloured; for a moment, he expected a snub. She swallowed the remains of a sandwich, and said in a level voice:

That isn't the same thing at all.

Looking at her face, he felt a curious impulse of tenderness; she was right; it was not the same thing at all. The idea of being frank with her about Austin came to him, but he dismissed it immediately. Instead he said:

All right… If you like, I'll talk to Austin about it — tactfully. But I doubt whether it would have an effect.

A kind of hopelessness came into her eyes. She said:

Perhaps you're right. Perhaps it isn't my business. I'm fond of Austin. He's the only person in the family that I ever cared for much.

He said gently:

You can't take the responsibility for other people, you know. The best you can do is to offer help when it's needed.

But supposing Austin needs help?

Don't you see, Gertrude, you can only help when you understand fully? Your temperament's too different from Austin's to do any good.

Why do you say that? Do you suppose I've never felt like Austin?

He said:

I don't know. Have you?

I've wanted to let all my impulses loose. I suppose most people have. Austin's been lucky. He's always had the money to go where he likes and do what he likes, and no one has tried to interfere with him. In another sense he's been unlucky, because he's had too much freedom. But he's really a good person. He could never destroy the good in him, no matter what he did.

You're probably right. But don't you see? The fact that you've wanted to let your own impulses loose doesn't mean you understand Austin's impulses.

Do you understand them?

I… don't know. I think perhaps I do.

Then explain them to me.

He stared into the fire, feeling no desire to talk. The evening with Glasp had tired him. Aware of the persistence of her eyes, he said finally:

It's a feeling of being at a total loose end… having no sense of purpose or motive — a feeling of being disinherited. As if your existence was meaningless. And then sometimes you get a glimpse of an insight — a feeling that human existence is meaningless, but that you've got to give it meaning. And then you suddenly feel that you've got to stop living like a bad actor in a second-rate play. Somehow, you've got to start living properly. Well, human existence is mostly taboos, laws and rules. So the first thing to do — if you want to start living all the way down — is to break the laws and rules. That's the way you feel about it. And it just depends which laws and rules you feel like breaking. A man with a neurosis about being socially underprivileged might try to rob a bank or throw a bomb at the House of Lords. But most men suffer from a feeling of being sexually underprivileged, so it's more likely to break out in that direction…

He checked the impulse to say more. She waited for him to go on; then, after a moment, said sadly:

He doesn't realise there are other ways of… living fully. I wish I could teach him.

The resignation in her voice stirred an obscure pity in him; he found himself wishing she was sitting beside him on the settee, where he could touch her. Immediately, he felt a distrust of his own impulse, remembering the last time he had tried to touch her. He stood up, saying:

I'm afraid I'd belter go… Excuse me a moment.

In the bathroom, he opened the window and looked out towards the Heath; the rain fell steadily. Drops of water ran down his face. The washbasin was half full of clothes soaking in soapy water; he leaned over the bath and washed his hands under the hot tap. He sat on the edge of the bath to dry his hands, taking pleasure in the warmth and softness of the towel, surprised by the curious happiness that rose in him, the feeling of expectancy.

She was still sitting in front of the fire. Something in her pose, the crossed knees, the shoe that hung loosely on the small foot, made her seem very young. He said:

What time does the train go from Hampstead?

I'm not sure. They go earlier on Sundays. It might have gone by now.

I'd better hurry.

You can't go yet. You'll be soaked. Hadn't you better stay here?

He asked with surprise:

All night, you mean?

You… could if you wanted to.

What about your reputation with the neighbours?

She looked away from his smile:

It's none of their business, is it?

Well… thanks very much. Where would I sleep?

Down here. Or in Caroline's room. I'm afraid you'll have to make do with Caroline's sheets if you sleep in there…

That's fine. I don't mind at all.

I put them on last time she came here. They ought to be clean. Would you rather sleep upstairs?

I don't mind. Whichever is least trouble…

I'll go and turn the fire on.

He felt she was glad to get out of the room. He wondered if the thought of offering him Caroline's bed had suddenly struck her with embarrassment, recognising its meaning as a symbol of vicarious intimacy. After a moment's hesitation, he followed her upstairs.

She was changing the pillow-case as he came into the room; the bedclothes were pulled back to air. The bars of the electric fire were warming to redness. He picked up a nylon nightdress that had slipped down the bottom of the bed, asking:

Is this Caroline's?

She snatched it from him, and dropped it into a drawer.

No. It's one of mine that she borrowed.

She went out of the room, saying:

I'll get you a hot-water bottle.

He looked down at the photograph of Caroline, and experienced a feeling that was not unlike guilt. With surprise, he realised he was a little in love with Caroline. It was an unexpected recognition; the feeling seemed to have developed retrospectively since he had last seen her. At the time, he had been aware of nothing but a certain amused tenderness, and the gratitude that is a response to a woman's offer of her body.

Miss Quincey came in while he was still looking at it. She asked:

Do you like Caroline?

Of course. She's very sweet.

She dropped the hot-water bottle into the bed and adjusted the sheets. She said suddenly:

I'd forgotten that I'd left the washbasin next door half full of clothes. I was starting to wash them when you arrived. So I'd better finish them now. Do you want to go to bed yet?

Er… no, not especially. Why?

I think I shall go soon. I'm rather tired.

He followed her out of the room, sensing a tension in her. He wondered if she was regretting asking him to stay. She asked:

Would you like some hot chocolate before I go to bed? I shall make some for myself.

Thanks. I'd like some.

She went into the bedroom; he heard the lock click. He stared at the door, shaking his head. Her changes of mood baffled him. He went downstairs slowly, toying with the idea of leaving, then abandoned it; she had already prepared the room.

In the sitting-room, he helped himself to a sweet martini, and lay down on the settee, unlacing his shoes. He ate the remaining ham sandwich, and stared at the moving shadows on the ceiling. He remembered Miss Quincey's face as she had talked about Austin, and experienced again a protective warmth. He thought with amusement: This family has a talent for inspiring affection. But they are all weak: Austin, Caroline, Gertrude. They need people.

Strange, the element of love that has nothing to do with sex. I feel it for Austin, for Caroline. For Gertrude too. Less, perhaps, for Gertrude. Why is it supposed to be impossible to love more than one person?

Still thinking about it, he fell into a light doze, lulled by the sound of running water from overhead.

He woke up suddenly and half sat up. A moment later Gertrude Quincey came into the room, carrying a cup and saucer. She was wearing a blue dressing-gown, belted at the waist, and carpet slippers. Her hair was hanging loosely down her back; there was more of it than he realised. Without makeup, her face looked pale.

What time is it?

After midnight.

I've been asleep.

I know. I came in just now. I'm going to bed.

Wait. Don't go yet.

She had set the cup down beside the settee. He reached out and took her hand before she could move away, and pulled it gently.

It felt cold and slim. As she sat down, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. She made no movement to resist

You're cold.

I know. I always get cold after a bath.

He tried to pull her down beside him, his hand on her waist. She resisted for a moment, then stood up. She said:

I've left my chocolate outside.

He listened as she went into the kitchen, then returned carrying her own cup. As she sat down beside him again, he felt a shock of pleasure. He had been certain she would sit in the armchair. He said:

Put your feet on.

No.

Please.

No, Gerard.

He pulled at her waist, causing her to overbalance; as her body rested against him, he repeated:

Please.

She swung her feet up beside him, tugging at the bottom of the dressing-gown. Immediately, he pulled her closer and bent to kiss her. Her face turned away, and his lips met her neck. The flesh was cold. He made no attempt to force her, glad to feel her pressed against him, the coldness warming against his face. He kissed her ear and the side of her face, stroking the long hair with his free hand. She shivered against him, then seemed to die. Her eyes were closed. He reached out for the car rug that hung over the back of the settee, and pulled it over them, then lay beside her, closing his eyes, the satisfaction running through him in a faint tremor. In the darkness behind his closed lids he forgot she lay beside him, feeling a total evacuation of thoughts and impulses that left nothing but his body's comfort. She had made no movement; only her breathing indicated she was alive. He was already half asleep when she stirred. She sat up, saying:

We'd better drink this.

He forced himself into a sitting position and took the cup from her. He drank it propped on one elbow, his shoulder against the cushion. It was lukewarm, and he drank it quickly. Neither spoke. As she took his cup, he lay down again; a moment later, she joined him. This time, she made no attempt to avoid his mouth as he kissed her. The thin lips excited him; he pressed them open slightly, breathing deeply. She was completely passive. His rising excitement brought a reaction of caution; he relaxed deliberately, and lay beside her again, pulling her against him. His left palm was flat against her back, enjoying the sensuous feel of the jaeger fabric that enclosed her body. The pleasure was a tension in him that resisted time; it was enough to feel her there. For a moment, his consciousness expanded and became complete, aware of his past, present and future as a unity, beyond self-doubt. When he looked at her face he knew she was not thinking, was deliberately refusing to think. He lay there watching the fire sink lower, and the hand of the electric clock moving from half past twelve to one o'clock. Although she made no movement, he knew she was not asleep. He began to feel the desire to sleep in himself. He said softly:

Let's go to bed.

For a moment she lay still, then stirred and pulled her legs clear of the blanket. He let her go out of the room first, then stood up and stretched. The empty cups were on the rug; he picked them up and placed them on the table. Then he went out of the living-room, turning off the light. As he passed Caroline's room, he went in and turned off the electric fire.

Her door was closed. It opened when he pushed it; the room was in darkness. From the bed, her voice said:

Please go away, Gerard.

He said gently:

Don't be silly.

He undressed in the darkness, and climbed into bed beside her. She was wearing a thin nightgown, like the one he had seen in Caroline's room; its contact with his naked flesh was a shock that destroyed his calm. His hand felt the curve of her thigh, over the buttock; he began to kiss her. When she pulled away, he said:

Wouldn't you have been disappointed if I'd slept in Caroline's room?

Her voice was a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard:

I didn't want this to happen. I didn't think when I invited you…

I know you didn't. But just now, when I came up? Did you still want me to sleep in Caroline's bed?

I… don't know.

He recognised the voice of a woman refusing to think. He started to take the nightdress off.

No, please. You mustn't.

Let me take it off. I want you naked.

You… can't. It's never happened before.

All right, I won't. But let me take it off.

She moved her body to allow him to free it, and he dropped it on to the floor. As he felt her body against him he knew nothing could stop it. In spite of her fear and his promise it would happen, and their bodies knew it. He felt her yielding, becoming passive against him, as he moved.

The dawn was showing through the curtains. He looked at her through the grey light and saw her eyes were open.

How do you feel, sweet?

Still alive.

Why, did you think it would kill you?

For a while, yes.

He kissed her, and experienced a pressure of tenderness that took him by surprise. He looked down at her face, the hair spread loosely against the pillow. He said:

It's a funny thing…

What?

I think… I'm a little in love with you.

She said: Good.

Her arms closed around him, pressing him against her; he kissed her cheek, and the hair above her ear. He said:

It's so silly, sweet. What are we going to do?

What do you want to do?

Stay like this for six months. Just like this.

You can't. You'd get cramp.

I know. And you'd get tired. And I'd lose my hair. What do you want to do?

She kissed his ear, caressing the stubble on his jaw with her left hand.

Whatever you want to do.

Don't you feel… guilty about… what's happened?

No.

What do you think Brother Robbins'd say?

I don't care.

He let her warmth draw him down, feeling the tenderness that was a kind of annihilation. It was like kissing her for the first time. The night had made her into a different person. He said into her ear:

It's a funny thing… it's never been like this before.

Hasn't it? How is it different?

It… feels as though I'm in love with you.

Good.

You keep saying 'good'. Is it all that good?

She nodded, her face against his hair, her body moving gently. He said:

You know, Thomas Mann said the words of the marriage service are nonsense: These two shall be one flesh. Because sex depends on strangeness, on curiosity. But it's not true. Two people can become one flesh…

You ought to stop philosophising, Gerard.

He said, laughing:

I expect you're right.

He lay beside her, his arm around her shoulders, looking at the ceiling.

Tell me something, sweet.

What?

Why didn't it ever happen before? To you, I mean.

I don't know. It just didn't.

Didn't you ever want it to?

It wasn't that. It was… Oh, let's not talk about it now.

All right.

It's not that I don't want you to know. But not now.

All right.

I'll tell you some time. It's not that I want to hide anything.

No. You wouldn't have anything to hide, anyway. You're not the type.

Neither are you.

He said:

Hmm. I don't know about that. There are one or two embarrassing episodes…

They wouldn't worry me.

I'm not so sure. One of them would.

Why?

Oh, never mind…

Does it concern me? If it doesn't, I don't want to know.

Well, it does, in a way.

She lay perfectly still. She asked:

It's not Austin, is it?

Austin? Why should…? You don't think… No! Is that what you mean?

I'm sorry. I know it's silly.

He kissed her face, laughing.

Poor sweet! You think you've got a sexual gymnast?

No. I didn't think that. But how can it concern me if it isn't Austin?

She pulled away to look at his face. She said suddenly:

It isn't Caroline, is it?

He found it difficult to answer immediately. She repeated: Is it?

I'm afraid it is.

Oh Gerard! But… you only met her a week ago.

I know.

But… what happened? Surely… it can't have developed far in a week?

We have, haven't we?

Do you mean…? Have you?

I'm afraid I have.

But when? And how? How did it happen?

He pulled away from her, propping himself on his elbow, where he could see her face. He said tiredly:

My sweet, it's no good asking me how it happens. She's a pretty girl. On the first evening I took her out, she told me she'd like me to become her lover… I didn't object. I suppose it's very wicked, but I didn't feel like being virtuous…

She lay there, looking at him. Her eyes seemed unusually large, and her lips very full. She asked:

Are you in love with her?

He gave the answer she wanted:

No.

Is she in love with you?

I don't suppose so. She may be infatuated with me. But next week it'll be some actor or writer.

She said slowly:

I don't know quite what to say… So, you're Caroline's lover as well as mine?

I was Caroline's lover, technically speaking.

And you've decided not to be any more?

He said firmly:

Now listen, sweet. Let's get this clear. I've told you this because it's no good keeping it a secret. Anyway, I'd rather you knew. If you want to throw me out and tell me never to come back… well, I'd expect it. Would you rather I hadn't told you?

No. I suppose I'd have to know eventually. But what do you want me to do now?

He lay down again, pulling the blanket over his shoulder.

I don't know, sweet. You'd better think about it.

He stared out of the window, then at the dressing-table that was clearly visible in the dawn light. After a moment, she said:

I don't understand Caroline. Does she often do things like this?

No. At least, she hasn't… gone quite so far.

But… she asked you to become her lover?

Don't put all the blame on her. It takes two to climb into bed. Anyway, there's no point in making excuses. I'm afraid it's happened now.

When she did not reply, he turned over and looked at her; immediately, he had to restrain an impulse to put his arms round her. He said:

Well… am I thrown out?

Do you want to be?

No.

She smiled at him; it was sad and brief.

Then I don't suppose you are.

He leaned over and kissed her eyelid, and tasted the salt on the lashes. He said:

Poor sweet. I'm sorry, I really am. But… what are we going to do?

About what?

Well, about Caroline. I'm supposed to see her tonight. And, anyway, what ought I to do about her? I shall have to stop seeing her. But you can see the difficulties.

Do you want to stop seeing her?

Yes.

She laughed suddenly.

You really are silly. Why on earth did it have to be my niece?

I'm sorry, sweet, I really am…

Supposing you changed your room? Moved up to Hampstead? I know a room…

I couldn't do that. It'd seem like cowardice. The only alternative I can think of is to write to her and say I've gone abroad.

Why not? You could go to Paris or Rome for a few weeks. She'll find somebody else while you're away.

Oh, I wouldn't really go abroad. I couldn't afford that. But I could go home for a few months — to Yorkshire. I wouldn't feel so bad if I'd really gone far away.

She said hesitantly.

If you like… we could go to Paris. For Christmas and the New Year. And even then, we needn't come back here. I know a cottage in the Lake District…

He bent over her and kissed her.

Don't be silly. I wouldn't take your money.

Why not? If you were married to me you'd take it…

She stopped suddenly. For a moment, he hardly noticed; her nearness was sending excitement through him, radiating from the hand that could feel the smoothness of her thigh. He said:

Do you want me to marry you?

She shook her head.

I don't care. I want to do whatever you want to…

You're sweet… But that's no answer.

But we can leave London, Gerard. Why can't we do that?

He resisted the impulse to embrace her again, moving his body away from her. He said:

I'll tell you the main reason, sweet. I couldn't walk out on Austin.

What has Austin go to do with it?

I… can't explain.

But… I don't understand. Is Austin in some sort of trouble?

He looked at her puzzled face, and felt again her basic uncertainty of him. He said:

Listen, sweet, let's get up and make some coffee. And I'll try to explain to you. But let me think about it for a while.

Without speaking, she slipped out of the bed; he stared with admiration at the slim, firm body as she moved across the room. She snatched the dressing-gown from the hook on the door, and bent to switch on the electric fire. Then he was alone, listening to the rain that had started to drum gently on the windows.

He rolled over, and felt the warm area left by her body; it evoked a feeling of warmth and pity. He threw back the bedclothes and stepped on to the carpet. The air was cold; he pulled on his shirt hurriedly, standing near the fire, thinking: Am I in love with her? Is it possible after one night?

He belted his trousers, then stopped, warming his hands and knees. That's the trouble with being self-divided. You can never tell. I feel as if I'm in love with her now. What about tomorrow?

Caroline. She's sweet, but it's not the same. She's bound to know about Gertrude eventually. Anyway, it wouldn't be wise to tie up with Gertrude permanently. In ten years' time, she'll be nearly fifty; I still under forty.

He stared at the photograph of her on the dressing-table; she was in nurse's uniform, and looked about ten years younger. The eyes had the same expression he had noticed earlier in bed; they were wise and somehow startled. He thought: But I'm in love with her. Right now. Even if it only lasts until tomorrow.

The kitchen felt warm; the coffee percolator was bubbling on the stove. He bent over her and kissed her forehead. Her skin was clear and healthy; he was glad of that. He said:

You look like Lorelei with your hair down your back.

I don't feel like Lorelei.

She laughed, and ran her fingers through her hair.

How do you feel?

Strange. I'm not used to sitting in my dressing-gown in front of a man.

That's OK. You look superb. You look even better naked.

No. I don't.

He pulled back the dressing-gown, and kissed the tip of her breast.

You do. You've got a wonderful body. Like… a young girl.

He stopped himself on the point of saying: Like a sixteen-year-old. But she noticed the hesitation, and smiled at him, her eyes suddenly mischievous. He said, laughing:

I think you're a thought reader.

I don't have to be… with you.

He said:

Don't you really care… about Caroline?

Of course I care. I'd rather it hadn't happened. But it's no use wishing it hadn't happened. And anyway… it's in the past now, isn't it?

He put his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him as she went past. He said:

Yes. And I don't care.

She placed a coffee cup in front of him, and poured hot milk into it, catching the skin in a strainer.

But what about Austin?

Ah yes… Austin.

He waited until she was seated opposite, pouring the coffee.

Well, I'm afraid Austin's likely to be in trouble with the police.

Why? What has he done?

He spooned sugar into the cup, staring at the tablecloth. It was difficult to express it gently.

Well… you remember you told me once that he liked smashing dolls as a child?

Yes.

Why do you think he did that?

I… don't know. A lot of boys don't like dolls. They think they're silly. It's a sort of expression of contempt.

Perhaps. But, you see, Austin also has periodic urges to break things. Or hurt things. It's called sadism.

Sadism!

Her coffee slopped into the saucer. She set the cup down, staring at him. He said quickly:

Oh, don't get upset. It may not be as bad as you think. But the point is… well, that he's known to the police as a sadist.

But how? Why?

He said, shrugging:

Because he probably mixes with people who don't mind being beaten for money. And these people are known to the police. Anyway, to cut it short, he'd be an automatic suspect in a case like these recent Whitechapel murders. So would thousands of others, of course.

But… the man's been arrested, you said.

I know. And if he's the right man, there's an end of it. But he may not be.

I… don't understand. Austin wouldn't harm anyone. He couldn't be a murderer. Could he?

I know. I agree. But he's got himself into a rather nasty position. If he was sensible, he'd leave the country for a year. I don't know what kind of trouble he's in. I think that perhaps he's being blackmailed.

What makes you think that?

He told her in detail about the phone call from Switzerland, the basement flat and the night club. Watching her face, he found himself admiring her. After the first shock her face became calm, and she listened quietly, drinking her coffee. When he mentioned Stein and the Hamburg incident, she interrupted:

But that's stupid: he went into a monastery in Germany! Surely they don't think…

My sweet, it's not Austin they suspect in particular. As Stein pointed out, the police have to check on thousands of suspects in a case like this. Stein was involved in the Kurten murder case in Dusseldorf, and the police interviewed a fantastic number of people over three years — I forget the figure, but it was something like half a million. And there's probably a great deal more sadism about today than you realise. What do you suppose happened to all the guards in places like Belsen and Auschwitz? They weren't all tried as war criminals — or even five per cent of them. I've talked to men who went through the German prison camps — men in the French Resistance — and I gather it happened everywhere. They weren't all sadists, of course. But movements like Nazism incubate sadism. Whereas in England it breaks out as the occasional sex crime or act of violence.

He was being deliberately abstract to reassure her, sensing that her fear was fear of the unknown, the unexplainable. She said:

But surely… it's not like that with Austin? He's just not that kind of a person.

Sorme said:

Ah, you may be right there. It's rather difficult to explain. There are probably two types of sadism.

He crossed to the kitchen window, and rubbed away the steam; the sight of the trees in the rain brought a sensation of happiness.

I think that with some people sadism is just an expression of animalism. They feel no responsibility to other people. Psychopathic criminals. But I think it could be just an expression of conflict.

How?

He did not look round; he had no desire to see her face and feel her need to be convinced. He said:

For example, I find that I'm tending to grow up sexually. You know there's an old Army saying: A standing tool has no conscience. I suppose that's where men differ from women. Sex is a raw, physical appetite for them as well as a way of expressing love. It's the sense of life-purpose in a man, the need to turn every attractive woman into a mother of his children. Whereas, for a woman, sexual intercourse is a climax of lovemaking, an expression of tenderness, not an end in itself. Well, I find myself reacting to sex like a woman. If the most beautiful girl in London climbed into my bed and said, 'Come and get me', I'd fail. I can't make love like a machine.

She said, with a touch of irony:

I'm glad to hear it.

But that's only because the sense of purpose in me is becoming stronger, and therefore more selective. Don't you see? An animal mates and produces children instinctively. And a great many human beings do the same. But in some men there's a need to feel more conscious about it all. They oppose the instinct that ties them to a particular woman. Their sexual desire isn't directed at a particular woman, but at all women. Individual women excite such a man less than the idea of women in general. And that's the dangerous point where he could become the sexual criminal. His sense of purpose is higher than that of most men, but his instincts are still an animal's. If he can grow beyond that stage, he'll go back to the need for one person, and the sense of purpose passes beyond sex. It can become sublimated in a need to become an artist, a philosopher, a social reformer. But until that happens he's caught between two stools. His sense of purpose makes a fanatic of him, and his appetites can't soar above sex. Do you understand me?

I… think so. But… I don't see how it could lead to hurting people. If it's a higher kind of purpose…

Because of the conflict. The man begins to detest himself, and the disgust expresses itself as cruelty. Only in some people, of course. In others — Oliver, for instance — the disgust would turn against himself. He might try to hurt himself. Or simply turn to drink or drugs.

Even so… a man who kills can't feel this sense of purpose you talk about.

Why? Don't forget, it's an attempt to resolve a conflict. Let me give you an example. One of the major feelings sexual intercourse arouses in me is a sense of my own inadequacy. For a few seconds, my memories are all intensified, my vision widens. And then it disappears. And I realise that my chief enemy is my own body. I live in the present all the time. And time dilutes my memory. I learn something today, and by tomorrow it's been washed away like footprints on a sandy beach. The present closes me in. Well, if I was a different type of person I might identify this frustration with sex. The resistance of the physical world might enrage me. I see a pretty twelve-year-old-girl in the street and know I can never satisfy the desire she arouses. The physical world frustrates me and my own body betrays me. And one night, I meet the girl in a lonely street and try to rape her. She struggles, and I strangle her. Do you see what I mean? The crime becomes a gesture of disgust, an act of defiance, but it could spring out of a deeper perception than most men possess… If I was a healthy farm labourer with a wife and ten kids, I might not feel that sense of inadequacy.

She shook her head.

I can see what you mean… but somehow I don't feel it. Although I think you're right about Austin. He is looking for something, and he isn't mature enough to know what it is. I know he's self-divided. But I can't imagine him hurting anyone.

Perhaps you're right. Perhaps he wouldn't.

But why do you want to see him now? Why do you want to stay in London? What can you do?

I don't know. I'd like to see him and talk to him. He doesn't know the police suspect him of the Hamburg murder.

Are you sure?

I think so.

Don't you think it might have been the police he was worried about when he rang you from Switzerland?

I don't know. He said it was 'rather an unpleasant man'. I assumed it was blackmail of some sort.

Didn't you ask him?

No. What could I do, except advise him to go to the police? And that doesn't seem the right thing to do at this juncture. But I think he ought to be persuaded to leave England now, while the going's good.

She looked into his face, biting her lip. She asked suddenly:

Do you think he could be the man who did these things in Whitechapel?

No. Of course not.

He said it immediately, allowing himself no time to think. But he knew it was not as simple as that. The Austin he knew and the Austin Gertrude knew were two different men. The Austin he had met in the Diaghilev exhibition was a man who was capable of inflicting pain. Later he had changed, but the change was a reaction to Sorme; it sprang from admiration. He remembered the expression on Nunne's face as he had looked at the photograph of the girl outside the Cinerama theatre. That was an Austin whom Gertrude had never met. He said:

All the same, I'd like to talk to him… frankly. He ought to be warned. Do you think he might be at Leatherhead?

Perhaps. We could go and see.

No. You mustn't come. I'd have to be alone.

All right. But I could drive you down there.

When?

Today. But we'd better phone Albany Street first.

Good. That's fine. And could we go and see Oliver on the way? I'd like to make sure he's OK.

All right.

She stood up.

I'll go and get dressed.

He came to the door, and pulled her to him.

Poor darling. A lot's happened to you in twelve hours, hasn't it? How do you feel?

She smiled briefly.

Bewildered.

He tilted her face by tugging gently at her hair, and kissed her; her lips parted, and she relaxed against him. His hand moved inside the dressing-gown. He said softly:

Don't worry. It's going to be all right.

She shuddered suddenly, pressing against him; a sense of mystery and exaltation rose in him.