Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER THREE

The voice at the other end of the line said:

Newsdesk.

Is Mr Payne there, please?

Speaking.

Hello, Bill. This is Gerard.

Hello, old boy! How's it go?

Listen, Bill. Something rather odd's just happened in this place I'm living in. The police have just tried to arrest an old man as a suspect for the Whitechapel murders.

Has any other newspaper got on to it yet?

Not as far as I know.

What happened?

He barricaded his door and set fire to the room.

Christ! What happened then?

They broke the door down. He's in hospital now suffering from burns.

Hold on… All right, give me the address. It's Colindale, isn't it?

No. I've moved to Kentish Town.

Good. That's fine. Do you think you could get down here?

To the office?

Yes. No. To Joe's in Carmelite Street. You remember that cafe we went to with

Gret?

OK. I'll get there right away. See you in half an hour.

Wait. Hold on. Give me the address, and we'll send a man there right away.

All right, but would you do me a favour? Don't mention my name. The landlady might resent it. Get your man to say he found out from the police, or one of the neighbours tipped your office. OK?

OK. Give me the address.

He walked back quickly, his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. The November sky looked cold and marble-grey.

He leaned the bicycle against the window of the cafe in Carmelite Street, and locked the back wheel. The road was being repaired, and the noise of the pneumatic drill filled the air with vibrations that drowned the noise of machines from the printing works opposite. The cafe was beginning to fill with the lunch-hour crowd. There was no sign of Payne in either of the two rooms. He took off his raincoat, and placed it on an empty corner table to reserve it, then went to the counter to order. When he came back to the table a man was sitting there. Sorme said without enthusiasm: Hello, Bobby. The man said:

I'm well, Gerard. How're you? Ah hope ye don't mind if I sit down?

The watery eyes regarded him with anxiety. He said:

No. I'm waiting for Bill Payne.

That's all right. Ah'll go when he comes. Well, you're looking well, m'boy.

Sorme looked across at the tired, unshaven face, and repented his brusqueness.

The Scotsman looked as if he hadn't eaten or slept for several days. He said:

Can I offer you a cup of tea?

No thank ye, Gerard. Ah've just had one. But Ah'll tell ye what you could do.

Ah'm expirin' for want of a smoke, and Ah've only a threepenny piece to ma name. Could ye lend me a couple of bob — or a shillin'd do.

Sorme said embarrassedly: I dunno. I suppose so.

He pulled out the wallet, and, removing a folded ten-shilling note, handed it to Robert Drummond.

If you can change that, you can have two bob.

Thanks, man. Ye're savin' ma life.

Sorme looked at his watch; it was half past twelve. Drummond came back, and dropped four florins in front of him. He held out the open packet of Woodbines. Sorme shook his head.

Thanks, I don't.

Ye're lucky.

Sorme noticed the trembling of the hand that lit the cigarette.

The Scotsman sat down, and sighed a cloud of smoke. He detached a shred of tobacco from his lower lip; his eyes closed:

Aahh! My first today.

His eyes opened, and looked directly at Sorme for the first time.

Well, lad, what've ye been doin' since I saw ye last?

Nothing much. Tell me, Bobby, do you know anything about these Whitechapel murders?

Only what ah've read in the papers. Why, do you?

No. Until yesterday. I'd never even heard of them. I never read the papers.

Drummond said: Did I ever tell ye about the murder I got involved in in Glasgow?

No.

Well. Ah wasn't exac'ly involved. But the girl livin' in the room next to me got strangled one night. And the funny thing was, I haird her cry out. And I just lay there and did nothing.

Why?

Why? It's hard to say.

He stared, brooding, over his second cigarette. The woman called: One liver and chips. Sorme collected it from the counter and paid. When he sat down, the Scotsman said slowly:

Yes, I can tell ye why. Have ye ever wanted something badly — wanted it a lot more than it's worth?

Occasionally, Sorme said. He shook tomato ketchup on to the plate.

She was a shapely girl, y'understand, not pretty. An' she didn't have regular men friends, as far as I could make out, but she wasn't a hardened virgin either. Men sometimes stayed overnight — not always the same man, y'see? And it was a temptation- to knock on her door one night on some excuse and say: How about it, ma dear? An' I don't think she'd have refused — I don't think so.

Sorme asked, through a mouthful of liver: Why didn't you?

He shrugged, stubbing out the cigarette:

I can't say. Ah was younger then… shy.

He looked at Sorme and smiled suddenly. It was a curiously candid smile.

But on the night it happened, I haird her cry out, and thought she was having a nightmare. I thought: Why not now? an' got halfway to the door. Then I started to sweat and shake. I'd thought about it so long, I wasn't prepared to get it so suddenly. So I lay in bed, feelin' ma heart thumpin' and tryin' to work up the courage. Then I haird someone movin' about, and thought: She can't sleep… But I didn't go. And the next day, they found her strangled.

Did they ever catch him?

Yes. They caught him. He was a soldier. He'd killed her for the three pounds she had in her handbag.

Sorme said: Ugh, what a swine. Poor girl.

Here's Bill, the Scotsman said.

Sorme turned around as Payne came into the room. He waved to him. Drummond stood up, saying:

I'll leave you.

Sorme said: If you don't stop chain-smoking, you'll need another packet in half an hour.

Ye're right, Gerard. Thanks for the loan.

The hand, unwashed, covered with light ginger hairs, pressed Sorme's forearm.

Payne called from the counter:

Tea for both of you?

Not for me. Ah'm just goin'. G'bye, m'dear.

Goodbye, Sorme said.

Payne brought the two teas over. He said:

What did he want?

Nothing. Just to talk.

Talk? Didn't he put the bite on you?

Only for two bob.

I knew it. He usually tries to tap me when he sees me. That's how I knew he'd bitten you already.

You look ill, Sorme said.

Payne's face was bloodless. It was a thin face, with a clean-cut profile and cleft chin. When he was tired, his skin took on the greenish tint of the albumen of a boiled duck egg.

I am. I'm half dead with sleepiness. I've done two shifts running. The other man's away with 'flu.

Did you send a reporter?

Yes, he's on his way there now. I told him the story came from the police. Tell me what happened.

Sorme repeated the story, beginning with the bottle-throwing incident. Payne drank his tea slowly, and listened without interrupting. He asked:

Do you know which hospital they took him to?

No idea.

Never mind. We can soon check on that. It sounds interesting. You say he was trying to destroy something — papers? That sounds as if the police might have a line on him. But I doubt whether he's the man they want.

Why?

He was a small man, you say. The pathologist's report says that the girl was stabbed by a tall man. They can tell from the angle of the wound.

I never read the papers. Tell me all you know about this case.

Nobody knows much. Only what the headlines say.

Yes, but I haven't even read the headlines. I'd never heard of this murder case until the other day.

You ought to read the papers, you know, Gerard. No writer can afford not to.

I suppose so, Sorme said dubiously. He finished his tea and stared ruminatively at the caked sugar in the bottom. He said:

Tell me about these murders.

Haven't you read anything at all?

Only about this girl on Friday. Where was she killed?

Somewhere in Whitechapel. I wasn't on the newsdesk Friday night.

He was looking past Sorme's head towards the door. He waved suddenly, calling: Martin.

He told Sorme: Here's the man who can tell you. He was on one of the murders.

The tall, raincoated man waved from the counter. Payne moved across to the inner chair to make room for him as he crossed the room. He said:

You know Martin Mason, don't you, Gerard?

I didn't, Sorme said. How d'you do?

The man had a thin, beaky face, with bird-like eyes. The shoulders were narrow and stooped. He nodded briefly at Sorme, carefully placing his hat under the chair.

Martin, Gerard wants to know about these murders. Give him the gen.

Doesn't he read the papers?

No, Sorme said patiently, not unless I can't help it.

Nonconformist, eh? Mason said. He had a smooth, nasal voice, with no tone variation; the kind of voice that seems perfectly adapted for sneering.

Sorme smiled to disguise his distaste; he said:

I heard you were on one of these murders?

I was, Mason said, stirring his tea. What do you want to know about it?

Which one?

The third — Catherine Eddowes.

I thought it was the second, Payne said.

No. That was the Spanish dancer, Juanita Miller. Jimmy and Sam covered that.

Superb woman.

What about the other case? Sorme said. Did you see her?

Yes, but only later, in the morgue. And she was all covered up. She wasn't much to look at. Little, middle-aged woman.

Sorme asked: Was it a sex crime?

They can't tell.

Why not?

She was a prostitute.

What about the other women?

Same, Mason said. He smiled, like a conjurer bringing off a trick. Sorme found his dislike concentrating on the blotchy, beak-like nose.

The Spanish girl wasn't, Payne objected.

She wasn't much better, Mason said, glaring. She slept with so many men they couldn't even check up.

Tell me, Sorme said. Is it quite definite that they were all committed by the same man?

Not certain, Mason said. Juanita Miller and Catherine Eddowes were both knifed. But it wasn't the same knife. The knife was found by the body in both cases. In one case a Boy Scout's bowie-knife, in the other a little kitchen affair. But the really surprising feature is that the murderer must have got blood on him, yet he probably returned through London in the early hours of the morning.

Not so difficult, Payne said. London is fairly deserted then.

Sorme said: There could be three explanations of that. He might have been a local man, and not had far to go. He might have had a car. Or he might have carried a coat over his arm which he dropped while he killed the girl, and put it on afterwards to conceal the blood.

Oh, there are more explanations than that, Mason said. We published a letter from someone who thought he might have escaped through the sewers.

Impossible, Payne said.

I think so too, Mason said. But until they catch him, no one can know definitely, can they?

His eyes rested meditatively on Sorme. He asked abruptly, as if trying to take Sorme by surprise:

Why do you want to know?

Sorme glanced at Payne. Payne said:

It's all right. He works for us.

It's like that, is it? Mason said.

Not exactly. It's just that… well, I've been drawn within their orbit, as it were.

He turned to Mason to explain:

The police tried to question an old man about the murders in the place where I live, and he barricaded himself in his room and set it on fire.

Have they any idea why?

No. I think he's a little cracked.

Or he might not be… Mason said.

Oh, I think so.

You could be right. But I'll tell you one thing. The police must have a pretty good reason for announcing that they think the four murders were committed by the same man.

It's just not good policy. It centres the public interest on the idea of the Killer at Large, and then people start writing letters to The Times and asking questions in Parliament about the efficiency of the police. They must have some reason for risking it.

What's your theory? Payne asked.

That they have a good idea who the man is. And they want him to feel that the net is closing. To scare him into giving himself away.

Perhaps, Payne said.

Can you think of any other reason?

Payne said, shaking his head:

If they had an idea of who he was, they'd close the net quietly. They'd watch him and wait for him to try it again. Sexual killers always try it again.

Sorme said: This girl — the one you saw.

The middle-aged woman, you mean? Catherine Eddowes?

Yes. How was she killed?

I've told you. Knifed.

But how? Cut-throat, or stabbed in the heart, or what?

They counted nearly sixty wounds.

Mason smiled. He obviously took pleasure in Sorme's shocked expression.

He must be a maniac! What about the other murders?

Mason drew deeply on his cigarette, smiling.

Less spectacular.

They need to be, Sorme said.

Mason turned to Payne:

Have you heard these rumours about Janet and Ken?

Which one? I heard about his wife screaming at Janet over the phone.

Sorme stood up.

I think I'll go, Bill. You two want to talk shop.

OK, Gerard. I've got to get back in a minute anyway. We'll probably be sending you a cheque soon.

That'd be useful, Sorme said. He shook hands with Mason. See you soon.

Bye-bye, Gerard.

He stopped at the counter to pay for the meal. Outside, the noise of the pneumatic drill was deafening. He unlocked the bicycle, and wheeled it on the pavement to Fleet Street. He stood there, hesitating whether to go towards the Aldwych or Blackfriars.

Finally, remembering that his landlady might be in the house, he decided against returning to his room, and went towards Farringdon Street. His stomach felt watery and rebellious. It was the talk of murder. It had settled on his senses like a film of soot from a smoking lamp, coating them with a greyness of depression. He noticed also that he cycled with less confidence. The depression brought a sense of his body's betrayal. He stared up Ludgate Hill at St Paul's, thinking: London in November has no daylight. Only dusk. And London in July has too much daylight. Unreal, or too real.

The newsvendor's placard read: SEARCH FOR MANIAC KILLER. He turned towards Rosebery Avenue. Why should I care? Poor sod probably a paranoiac. Bored and confused. Kills as a protest. Stop the world. I wanna get off.

The grey front of the Rosebery Avenue hostel had a pumice-stone quality that chilled the skin, like water. He rang the bell; behind him, the bicycle suddenly fell on to the pavement, the rear wheel spinning. He was leaning it against the wall again when the door was opened. He said:

Hi, Robin! How are you?

Gerard! Good heavens, what are you doing here?

The thin, damp hands clasped his. Robin Maunsell pulled him gently over the threshold.

I was just passing, Sorme said. Is it a bad time to call?

No, of course not. Do come in. Have you had lunch?

Yes, thanks.

How lovely to see you.

He peered into Sorme's face, smiling. Sorme withdrew his hand, feeling the pleasure that he had experienced tensing and congealing. Maunsell threw open a glass-panelled door, and led the way into the room, the cassock round his feet making the gentle, swishing noise of a gown.

You'll have a cup of tea, won't you?

Thanks. Yes, I'd love one.

Light the fire while I go and see about it.

Sorme groped in his pocket for matches; finding none, he wandered automatically towards the bookcase and scanned the titles. All were volumes of theology by writers he had never heard of. The windows of the room were of frosted glass, and overlooked the street. Vague silhouettes of people rippled past.

Haven't you lit the fire?

Sorry, I've no matches.

Oh, silly!

Maunsell produced matches from the pocket of his habit; kneeling, he lit the gas fire.

Let me take your overcoat. Do sit down. How are you? And how's your disgraceful sex life?

Sorme said, grinning:

You take a brotherly interest in my sins.

Of course; I wouldn't like to see you damned. But I dare say you'd like to be damned, wouldn't you?

I am, Sorme said. We all are.

Oh, I hope not.

He sat in the armchair with prim suddenness, clasping his hands in his lap. Sorme said:

I think you commit my sins vicariously, Robin.

Oh dear no. I'd really absolutely loathe to live your sort of life, really! But do tell me. How's — er… thingermerjig — the one you were going to bed with the last time I saw you?

Sorme stared at the fire; he said solemnly:

Dead. She died of tetanus on top of St Vitus's dance.

Really? I'm sorry… Oh, but you're joking! Aren't you? No, be serious. If you don't want to tell me about your love life, let's talk of something else.

I came to talk of something else, as a matter of fact. Tell me about Father Carruthers.

Why? Where have you heard of him?

A friend told me about him. Chap called Austin Nunne. Do you know him?

No. There's a Mrs Nunne who comes here. Perhaps he's some relation?

Her son. Austin suggested I should talk to Father Carruthers. What do you think?

What about?

I'd just like to meet him, that's all. He sounds interesting.

He is. Terribly clever. He's written several books. He's written a life of Chehov, and a book on Dante. He's writing a book on Marcel at the moment.

Could I meet him, do you think?

Well, yes, it shouldn't be difficult to arrange. But listen, will you promise me something? Well, never mind… I'll go and see about that tea.

Sorme stopped himself from crossing to the bookshelf, knowing there was nothing to read. He was beginning to regret coming. He had forgotten how irritating Robin Maunsell could be. The idea of speaking to Father Carruthers had also lost its attraction, for some reason. He yawned.

The door opened, and a young priest looked in. He said:

Ah, excuse me. You are waiting for someone?

He spoke with a foreign accent that Sorme did not recognise.

I wanted to see Father Carruthers, Sorme said.

I think he is asleep. I will go and see.

Sorme started to say: Don't bother… but the door closed again. A moment later, someone kicked the door. Sorme opened it for Maunsell, who carried a loaded tray.

Good boy. It's lovely to see you again, Gerard. But you've got a terrible pallor.

Have you been overworking?

Can you imagine me working?

Oh yes. You're not the ornamental type at all. You ought to work. Why don't you take a job?

Why should I?

You wouldn't get so bored. And you do get bored, don't you?

Yes, I get bored.

Then you should take a job.

Maunsell poured milk into the cups from the china jug, and sugared them.

Why should I take a job? All right, I get bored. What does that prove? That I don't know what to do with my time. And what do you suggest? Waste it by working. It's not logical. By the way, before I forget… someone popped his head round the door and asked me who I wanted to see. And I said Father Carruthers, and he went off to see.

Priest with a foreign accent, very young.

Ah, Father Rakosi. He's a Hungarian refugee. You are silly.

Anyway, he said Father Carruthers would be asleep.

I expect he will be. He doesn't often get up, you know. He suffers from some obscure stomach complaint. But you ought not to have let Father Rakosi go off to see.

Why?

Well, I was going to see.

Oh, sorry. He'd gone before I could stop him. Would you pass the sugar, please?

Someone tapped on the door. The Hungarian priest came in again. He looked surprised to see Maunsell.

Excuse me… I thought you were waiting to see Father Carruthers?

I'm sorry… Sorme began.

Maunsell said: Is he awake?

Yes. He says he can see people for the next hour.

You'd better go up, Gerard. We can have a talk afterwards.

The priest smiled, nodded at them, and went out. Sorme called: Thank you.

You are silly, Gerard. Why didn't you wait for me?

Sorry. I didn't realise he'd arrange it so quickly.

Oh, never mind. You'd better go up now.

I can drink my tea here, can't I?

No, you hadn't better. Take it up with you. Come on. I'll show you the way.

Sorme followed him up the thickly carpeted stairs. On the first landing, a blue plaster madonna stood in a niche, her hands raised in blessing. Maunsell knocked gently on the door at the end of the corridor. He pushed it open and allowed Sorme to pass in.

This is Gerard Sorme, father. He's a friend of Mrs Nunne.

The priest was sitting up in bed, surrounded by white pillows. He wore a nightgown of some coarse blue material. Maunsell closed the door, and left them alone together.

Not Mrs Nunne, Sorme said. Her son.

Ah, Austin. I haven't seen him for a long time. How is he? Do sit down.

His face struck Sorme as one of the ugliest he had ever seen; without actually being deformed, it was crudely and gratuitously ugly, with the strong lines of a gargoyle.

The jaw was too big; it would have had the effect of overbalancing the face if it had not been for the forehead, which also jutted, and had a sharp, vertical crease down the middle, as if someone had hit him with a crowbar. The large nose was slightly flattened; the mouth was wide, and spread across the face like a fissure. The eyes were small, almost colourless. If a lamp had been suspended overhead, they would have disappeared completely in the shadow of his brows. Sorme tried hard to remember where he had seen the face before, or where he had seen one like it. Then he remembered: the bust of Charley Peace in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud's. The thought made him smile. The priest smiled back friendlily. He seated himself in the armchair near the fire, saying:

Austin's fine, father. He suggested that I should come and see you.

What did you say your name was?

Sorme, father, Gerard Sorme.

Sorme? Sorme… I know the name. It's a rare name, isn't it?

I've never met anyone else with it, outside my family…

The priest held up his hand to silence him. The furrow in the brow might have been an incision. For a few seconds, he frowned, concentrating.

Ah, I remember! Father Grey of Campion House. Did you ever know him, by any chance?

Sorme felt unaccountably guilty; he said:

Yes, I did. He instructed me once.

Good! the priest said. He was smiling happily again. I don't often forget a name.

Yes… Father Grey talked to me about you once. Why did you give up instruction?

I… I… I didn't get on with Father Grey to begin with.

Why not?

He seemed to want to convince me that Catholics were decent blokes after all.

You know the sort of thing? Beef-eating, beer-drinking RAF padre style. And he had no time for mysticism. He spent three instruction periods convincing me that St Peter was really the first Pope. I got fed-up.

The priest said sympathetically:

I understand. Father Grey isn't everyone's idea of a Catholic… which is no doubt just as well.

Sorme grinned, waiting. The pale, blue-grey eyes contemplated him steadily. The priest said, smiling:

Well, you keep coming back, don't you? Why?

Sorme frowned, shrugging. It was difficult to find an answer. The soft voice pressed him:

Do you think you'll become a Catholic one of these days?

I may, I suppose.

But do you expect to?

No, not really, father. I don't mean it's impossible…

Quite. But have you no idea what you're looking for?

No, father, not really.

None at all?

Well, I suppose I have some idea…

Can you tell me?

Well… I suppose I hope to find somebody I can talk to.

What about?

I shan't know until I find somebody I can talk to.

He felt the answer was silly, and was irritated with himself. The priest's eyes rested on him calmly, as if completing an examination whose last stages consisted simply in looking at Sorme. He felt a desire to get up and go away. The priest asked suddenly: Do you know Austin well?

Not well. I met him for the first time on Friday. I haven't seen him since.

How did you meet him?

In the Diaghilev exhibition. I talked to him.

You spoke first?

No, he did. We talked about Nijinsky. Then we went off and had a meal together.

And then what?

Then I went home. And he went home. Why are you asking me this, father?

Only curiosity.

Irritation rose in him, looking at the undisturbed face; it was an odd sense of shame about the incident, considered in retrospect, that frayed his nerves. He said bluntly: Are you wondering whether anything else happened between us? Because I'd rather you asked me frankly.

The priest shrugged slightly.

Did anything else happen?

No.

It doesn't interest me particularly, you understand. What you tell me is completely your own affair. I have no wish to force your confidence. But, as you can guess, I know Austin very well indeed.

Sorme caught up the unspoken meaning instantly.

Quite. Which is why I'd prefer you to ask me anything you want to know quite frankly. I don't know Austin at all well. We just ate a meal together and talked. But I don't share his… tastes. Any of them.

The priest inclined his head.

I like your frankness. Then tell me: When Austin spoke to you and you went off together, did you have any idea of his… sexual peculiarities?

I guessed he was homosexual. That worried me a little. But I didn't feel he was just picking me up.

Did he tell you later that he was homosexual?

No.

I see. And did he speak of anything else?

Sorme stared hard at him, failing to understand.

Anything else? What else?

I see. I was simply curious.

Sorme could see that the priest wanted to drop the subject, but his curiosity was touched.

Do you mean he has other sexual peculiarities?

That is not for me to say, is it?

Sorme stared hard at him for a moment, then said: I see.

The priest smiled immediately.

Please don't think I'm snubbing you. But as you probably know, Austin came to me a year ago with certain problems of his own. Now he sends you along, and, naturally, I wonder whether yours are of the same nature. But I cannot talk about Austin's problems.

He can do that himself if he wants to. Presumably you're here to talk about yourself, not about Austin?

Sorme said embarrassedly:

I dunno that I've got anything that could be called a problem, father.

Well, no. That is not necessary, I agree. What kind of work do you do?

I write.

For a living?

No. I've got a small allowance. Just enough to live on.

You're very lucky! What do you write?

A novel, at present…

Do you take any interest in politics, at all?

He said with surprise:

None whatever.

Do you ever go to church?

I often go into churches — preferably when there's nobody else there.

Do you have any friends to discuss your ideas with?

Not really…

The priest smiled at him; the deep eyes were transformed when he was amused.

Their good humour made Sorme feel completely at ease. He said:

You're rather a difficult case, aren't you?

Why, father?

You do nothing at all. Except write. That leaves an immense amount of time and opportunity for introspection. Then you go to see a priest in the same way that a man who never takes any exercise goes to see a doctor. Have you ever thought of seeing a psychologist?

The tone of banter made the words seem casual, but Sorme sensed their seriousness. He said:

Why should I? I'm not suffering from any illness. Besides, I suspect all psychologists of being fools and quacks. I don't think there's anything wrong with me.

Nothing that's not wrong with all the human race, anyway.

Then why do you want to speak to a priest?

Sorme contemplated the grotesque, gnome's face, and groped for an answer. He said finally:

Not because I think I'm ill, anyway.

The priest laughed:

All right, we'll accept that. So you're not ill. But you feel you are frustrated, somehow. Is that it?

Yes. But not personally or sexually.

A sense of misunderstanding and failure to contact irritated Sorme. It was the assumption underlying their conversation that disturbed him: the assumption that there was something wrong with him.

When you say sexually, you mean physically?

Yes, I suppose so.

I see…

The priest nodded, staring at his interlaced hands.

Well, well. I can see why Father Grey was so puzzled by you. It's difficult to learn anything from you.

I'm sorry, father…

Let me try another question. What would you say is the centre of your interest in life? What do you really want?

The feeling of lack of contact became stronger; he had absolutely no inclination to try to express himself to the priest. While he was aware of the pale eyes watching him, he felt rebellious and annoyed. He made an effort to forget the priest and the vacuum that seemed to exist between them, to concentrate only on the ideas to be expressed. He stared into the fire, saying slowly:

I'd say all my life centres around an idea. An idea of a vision. I don't mean… the kind of vision the saints saw. Not that kind. Another sort.

Can you explain yourself more clearly?

I… I can give you an example of what I mean. Sometimes I wake up in the night with a sort of foreboding. Then I feel arbitrary. I feel somehow absurd. I feel, Who am I? And What am I doing here? I feel we take life too much for granted. We take our own existences for granted. But perhaps it's not natural to exist. It happened the other night.

You realise how much you normally take for granted, and feel a sudden terror in case you've no right to take anything for granted. Do you know what I mean, father?

He looked at Carruthers, and was immediately aware of having captured his attention. He began to feel better. The priest said:

I understand. Go on.

That's one aspect of it. Then there's another, that I think is completely different. A couple of months ago I picked up a girl in a cafe. I know her slightly — she studies at the Slade School. I went back and slept with her, and everything was fine. But the second night I slept with her, something odd happened. Quite suddenly, I didn't want her. I don't know quite why. I just lay there at the side of her, and felt a complete lack of desire to make love to her.

The priest said amiably:

That must have been embarrassing.

Yes. But that's the odd thing. I lay there feeling embarrassed, and wishing I could understand what was the matter. I felt ashamed and irritable. It wasn't that I didn't want the girl. It was some other feeling conflicting with it. So I lay there, trying to discover what the other emotion was. And suddenly I felt a tremendous excitement. It was so strong that I felt I'd never want to sleep again. It didn't correspond to anything in particular. It made me think about mathematics. I thought: I am lying here in the middle of London, with a population of three million people asleep around me, and a past that extends back to the time when the Romans built the city on a fever swamp… I can't explain what I felt. It was a sense of participation in everything. I wanted to live a million times more than anybody has ever lived. Do you know what I mean, father?

I think so.

It was an excitement, you see. I was suddenly aware of how many people and places there are outside myself.

But you just mentioned mathematics. Why mathematics?

Well… because I thought about mathematics. At least, I didn't begin thinking about mathematics. I was feeling irritated with the girl, and the idea that she wanted me to make love to her. Then I thought about something I'd read that day in a book on witchcraft. About a woman named Isobel Gowdie, who claimed she had sexual intercourse with demons while her husband was asleep beside her…

What made you think of that?

This girl I was sleeping with. She's a completely spoilt, neurotic girl, a nymphomaniac. I suddenly felt sick of her lukewarm little titivations, her everlasting sexual itch. She had sex for the same reason that she chain-smoked. Boredom. Then I remembered Isobel Gowdie. At least sex meant something to her. She wanted to be possessed by the devil. She was probably bored stiff on a Scottish farm in the middle of nowhere. So she invented demons and devils.

There was a light tap on the door. Sorme started violently. A woman wearing an apron came in.

Mr Bryce and Mr Jennings have arrived, father.

What, already? All right, ask them to wait just a moment, would you, please?

As she went out, Sorme stood up.

I'd better go, father.

Sit down again for a moment. They're early. They can wait. What you've been saying interests me very much. Have you ever spoken to anyone else about these things?

No, father.

I'd like you to come back and talk to me again. I'm not asking you because I think you need to talk to me — although perhaps you do. But what you say has a great deal of interest to me. Have you read my book on St John of the Cross?

No, father.

It's over there, I think. Bottom shelf. Take it away with you, and look through it, if it doesn't bore you too much. The chapter on the vision of God should interest you particularly. These experiences you speak of… I'm inclined to think that they're the root of all visionary insights.

Sorme opened the glass doors of the bookcase, and found the slim, black-bound volume. The desire to get away had risen in him again, but this time it was for a different reason. He was suspicious of the relief he was beginning to feel in talking to the priest.

Can you come back tomorrow?

I think so, father.

Good. I'll expect you. Give Austin my regards if you see him.

He's in Switzerland at the moment.

He took the priest's outstretched hand, and was surprised at its warmth. The flesh looked desiccated and cold.

Tell Mrs Doughty to send the two men up, please.

Certainly. Goodbye, father.

Goodbye.

Outside the door he stood still for a few moments, frowning towards the plaster image of the Virgin at the end of the badly lit corridor. Then he recollected the copy of the book he still held, and slipped it absent-mindedly into his pocket. He walked slowly towards the stairhead, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. The housekeeper startled him by appearing suddenly from a doorway on his right. She asked curtly:

Is he ready now?

Yes. He says will you send them up.

He went quickly down the stairs. The street door stood open. He went out, groping for his bicycle clips. Behind him someone called: Hey, Gerard!

Hello, Robin! Sorry. I'd forgotten you.

You don't have to rush off, do you?

I have to go in a few minutes, he said untruthfully.

Well, come on in for a moment.

He followed Maunsell back into the reception-room. The fire was still burning. Maunsell closed the door by nudging it with his backside, asking:

Well, how did you get on with him?

Oh, fairly well.

Did you tell him about your disgraceful sex life?

A little. He talked about St John of the Cross. Then someone interrupted us.

He must have talked about St John of the Cross for a bloody long time! You've been gone half an hour.

I'm not keeping anything from you, really.

Aren't you? Really? All right, I'll believe you.

Tell me, Robin. You say you don't know Austin Nunne at all?

Not much. I've seen him a couple of times.

Oh. You don't know anything about him?

No. Not much anyway.

Do you know if he's queer?

Yes… I think so. Why? Don't you know?

Yes. I think he is. I just wondered…

Wait. I do know something. You mustn't tell anyone, though.

No, of course not.

I gather he's a bit of a sadist.

How did you gather that?

I overheard something Father Carruthers said to Dr Stein one day after Mrs Nunne had left.

What did he say — can you remember?

No. It was just an impression I got. I may be wrong. But for heaven's sake keep it to yourself. If anyone ever accused me of telling you, I'd deny it.

Of course. I won't tell anyone. Who's this Dr Stein?

Oh, a friend of Father Carruthers. They used to be at theological school together.

Stein's a psychiatrist. Why?

Nothing. I'm just very curious about Austin, and about anyone who's interested in him.

I see. You're not falling in love with him, are you?

For Christ's sake! Are you serious?

Well, I don't know. I'd say there's a definite touch of homosexuality in you. It'll burst out one day. Probably surprise you.

You really are a fool!

You see. I bet I'm right.

Garn! Maunsell said, chuckling:

You see… I bet I'm right. I've got to go.

You are a cow. When are you coming again?

Tomorrow probably. Father Carruthers asked me to look in again.

I say! He's taking you under his wing!

Maybe.

Well, come in early and see me first. Will you?

All right. I may not come at all. I'll phone first.

Good. I always answer the phone.

Sorme stood with his hand on the doorknob; he asked:

Can't you remember exactly what it was that Father Carruthers said to this man

Stein?

Maunsell looked alarmed:

No! For heaven's sake! Don't mention it to anyone. I may be wrong. He might easily have been talking about someone else.

Sorme realised that Maunsell regretted telling him; he said casually:

Don't worry. I'm not really interested. See you tomorrow.

All right. Come early.

Maunsell let him out of the door, saying: Bye-bye, my dear.

Sorme lifted his foot on to the crossbar of the bicycle to clip his trousers. He felt suddenly exhausted and discouraged.