Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER FIVE

She yielded immediately, and with no sign of surprise. When he tried to press her backwards on to the settee, she pushed him away gently, saying: Not here. Someone might come. He asked: Where then? She smiled, and nodded towards the bedroom.

Before she was through the door, she had begun to pull her dress over her head. He slammed the door and locked it. He said happily:

My god, sweet, you've got a superb body.

Someone hit the door behind him, banging it hard. He was surprised; there had been no one in that room a moment before. She looked alarmed, and reached for her slip, which she had thrown on to the bed. The knock came again. He said:

Never mind that. Let's hurry before…

The knocking became more insistent, and he became aware of the voice shouting:

Telephone for you. The dream dissolved; he sat up dizzily in bed, and looked at his watch. He shouted:

OK. Thanks very much.

Carlotte's steps retreated down the stairs. He pulled on his dressing-gown, thrusting his feet into slippers. The dream became an unreality, and was forgotten before he had had time to dwell on it.

The front door stood wide open; he closed it before picking up the phone. The operator's voice asked: Mr Sorme?

Speaking.

A personal call for you from Switzerland.

He said: Blimey, again?

Beg your pardon?

Nothing. Put it through, please.

Gerard? Is that you?

Yes.

Have you been yet?

He let the annoyance sound in his voice:

No. I've only just got out of bed!

Oh I'm terribly sorry! Did I wake you?

Yes. But never mind. Was that all you rang me for?

Normally he would have apologised for the inconvenience he had accidentally caused, but sleepiness made him irritable. Nunne's voice said:

No. Can you hear me well?

Yes, perfectly.

Gerard… I want you to do me rather a favour. Would you?

Yes. What is it?

I'd like you to go to my room, and collect something for me, and take it back to your own room. Would you?

All right. But will the porter let me in?

Yes. But it's not my usual room… It's not my flat I'm talking about. I want you to go to another address. Have you got a pencil?

He groped in the pocket of the dressing-gown, and found the cheap ball-pen he usually kept there. His address book was not with it, but there was a chocolate wrapper, which he tore open.

All right. I've got a pencil. Go ahead.

The address is twenty-three Canning Place. That's Kensington, off Palace Gate.

Have you got that?

Yes. Twenty-three. What do you want me to do?

There's a man called Vannet in charge of the house. He's a friend of mine. Ask for him, and he'll let you into my room.

Will he?

Yes. I'm going to phone him now.

All right. What then?

When you get into my room, you'll see some clothes in a corner near the fireplace.

I want you to pack them in a bag, and bring them away with you. But don't let Gerald Vannet see you, will you? Make sure he isn't in the room. And whatever you do, don't tell him why you're going there. I'll tell him you want to collect an address I've left behind.

All right?

Yes. But why all the secrecy?

I'll explain to you later. But keep the clothes in your room, and don't tell anyone, will you?

All right. Anything else?

Yes. There may be some books lying around the room. Take them and put them back on the bookshelf, will you? And make sure Vannet isn't hanging around to watch you. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, as if you intend to stay half the day.

Would you do that?

All right.

And take a taxi. I'll give you the money when I see you. Or, better still, ring Silver Cabs, and quote the number of my account. It's seven two three. Ask for Jakey.

That doesn't matter. I'll cycle.

No, don't do that. Ring for a taxi. I wouldn't be happy otherwise. Will you do that?

All right.

Listen, Gerard. I'm sorry to be such a nuisance. But there's no one else I'd trust.

Don't forget. Please don't mention it to anyone — especially Vannet. Will you?

No. All right. And you still want me to send you that telegram?

Yes, please. If you would.

When shall I see you?

Probably tomorrow. I'm not sure. But probably.

OK, Austin. Look forward to seeing you…

Carlotte passed him on the stairs. She said: Your friend must be very rich, to telephone from Switzerland.

I'm afraid he is. Eccentric, too.

In his own room, he lit the gas fire and put the kettle on to boil. He climbed back into the still-warm bed, and listened to the hiss of gas, the water simmering. He closed his eyes, and thought of Austin. Very rich. More money than sense. Looks as if he might be a damned nuisance. I wonder why all the secrecy? Can't tell. Queers get odd ideas. Maybe he has to keep it a secret that he's queer? Not likely. Most of them advertise it. Trusts me?

Why? Perhaps because I know no one else in his circle.

His thoughts flowed into a dream. Austin was lying behind a barrier of stones on top of a mountain; he was pointing towards a house in the valley, and saying, 'Don't show yourself. He has sharp eyes. Lie flat.' They were in Switzerland. Behind them, on a small plateau, stood Austin's aeroplane; it looked like the Spitfire that had stood by the gate of the RAF camp where he had been stationed for his National Service.

He woke up and saw that the kettle was boiling. He made himself tea and got back into bed to drink it, still wearing the dressing-gown. He reached out for the nearest book in the bookcase. It was The Trial of George Chapman. He sipped the tea, looking with morbid interest at the face of the sadistic poisoner, the powerful jaw and deep-set eyes. The face looked scarred.

He asked the cabman: You're Jakey?

Yes, sir. But you're not Mr Nunne, though!

No. I'm not. Mr Nunne phoned me from Switzerland an hour ago and asked me to do some errands for him. Do you know his address?

Yes, sir, but I'm not sure it's all right me takin' you when you're not Mr Nunne. It's his account, you see…

Yes, but he's in Switzerland. He's only just phoned me. He gave me his account number.

Yes, but I don't know that, do I?

Sorme said irritably: He told me to ask for you because you wouldn't make difficulties!

The man said gloomily: All right, jump in. I'll risk it.

Sorme got into the cab swearing under his breath. It annoyed and affronted him to be regarded with suspicion. As the taxi moved off, he began to feel better. It had been a long time since he had travelled by taxi. It gave him a sensation of carelessness and relaxation. He placed his feet on the leather bag he had brought to pack Austin's clothes in, and stared with pleasure at the traffic. He remembered Caroline, and again felt contented and pleased with himself. It was not a frequent sensation; a degree of self-criticism and analysis that accompanied everything he thought made it rare. His thoughts tended to be logical and verbal, like telepathic communication or writing; intuition played only a small part in his mental processes. When tired, he hated this tendency to carry on mental conversations with himself, but was unable to stop it. Now he thought happily: I have tried to avoid complications. But they come all the same. I have tried to simplify my life, to concentrate on the only thing that's important. And the simplicity destroys my ability to concentrate. And now things are happening that should make things worse, and instead I feel certain and confident again.

He felt a sense of disappointment when the taxi drew up opposite Great Portland Street Station. The driver asked:

Is that the lot?

No. I've got two more errands to do. Would you wait?

The man said resignedly: Right y'are, guv.

A man in a red uniform came to meet him as soon as he came out of the revolving door into the hallway.

Can I help you, sir?

Sorme said: Good morning. Mr Nunne asked me to call and find out if there are any messages for him.

The man's manner became perceptibly more respectful.

Hold on a moment, sir. I'll ask the telephone girl. I won't keep you a moment, sir.

Thanks.

He turned as he was hurrying away, to say:

Would you like to take a seat, sir?

Thank you.

They were deep, comfortable armchairs, as in a hotel lounge. In the bowl of the potted palm that stood beside the chair there were several cigarette butts. The lift descended as he sat there. He watched with curiosity the white-moustached old man and the young girl in furs who stepped out of it. Both had the air of unconscious grace and poise that comes from never having to think about money. There was no envy in his contemplation of them: only an almost proprietary kind of affection. He felt that no real barrier existed between themselves and him; on the contrary, he had a strange sense of advantage over them. The girl took the old man's arm and squeezed it. He thought: She is either his mistress or his daughter. Or granddaughter. He looked at them friendlily as they went out of the revolving door, then transferred his attention to the reflection of himself in the mirror opposite. He was mildly surprised that he felt no envy for Nunne and his way of life. He examined the awareness, and realised that it was based on a sense of belief in himself and of confidence in his own powers that was always latent in him, yet which only rarely became conscious. He smiled to himself, and said softly, Delusions of grandeur and distinct paranoiac traits; the patient Sorme should be kept under observation…

The man came back. He said:

I've got a few phone messages, sir. People who want him to ring them back.

Thanks. Nothing else? No one has been here enquiring about him?

Enquiring? No, sir. Why, sir, is he expecting someone?

I think so. It doesn't matter. Can I have the phone messages? He's phoning me from Switzerland this evening.

Certainly, sir. The girl's copying them out now. She won't be a moment.

Thanks.

He crossed to the mirror and looked at himself closely. The leather bands around the cuffs of his jackets showed below the sleeves of the overcoat. The grey whipcord trousers looked baggy; one of the turn-ups was hanging down. He thought: I must buy more trousers and get my hair cut. I look a wreck.

In the taxi he glanced at the two sheets of paper headed 'Phone Message'. The messages were written neatly with a ballpoint pen; they were dated from the previous Friday. 'Will you ring Mr Beaumont before ten this evening?' 'Major Dennis will not be able to join Mr Nunne for dinner on Wednesday.' He looked through the rest, then folded the papers and put them in his wallet. They told him nothing more of Nunne. Nunne was becoming increasingly the centre of his curiosity.

The sight of the Post Office at Netting Hill Gate reminded him of the telegram; he tapped on the glass, and asked the driver to stop at the next Post Office. He had forgotten what Nunne had asked him to say in the telegram; after consideration, he worded it simply: No enquiries, and signed it: Gerard.

The driver asked: What number, sir?

Is this Canning Place?

Yes.

Would you mind driving to the end of the street and waiting for me there? I shall be about ten minutes.

The end? Right.

He noted the surprise in the driver's voice, and was about to explain; then he felt irritated with his own embarrassment, reflecting that it was none of the man's business anyway. He stepped out of the cab, saying:

I shall want to return to Camden Town afterwards.

Afraid I'll have to keep the clock tickin', sir.

Right you are.

Number twenty-three was half way down the street. It was a tall, Victorian house with steps leading up to the front door. When he pressed the bell labelled 'Vannet', a voice spoke from a circle of wire gauze above the bell-pushes:

Hello. Who is it?

He addressed the wire gauze:

My name is Sorme. Austin Nunne asked me to call.

Oh yes.

The door clicked open. The voice said:

It's the second door on your right.

He went into the badly lit hallway, closing the door behind him. The door was inscribed: Gerald Vannet, in white plastic letters. When he knocked, the voice called: Come in.

The man was levering himself out of an easy chair as he came into the room. He was six inches shorter than Sorme. He wore a loose green tee-shirt with a silk muffler underneath it. The flannel trousers had a knife-edge crease. Well, I'm delighted to meet you! You're Mr Sorme. Austin rang up about an hour ago. Won't you have a drink?

His voice was a neighing drawl, on an almost soprano note.

Sorme said uncertainly: That's very kind of you… He was thinking of the taxi.

You're not in a hurry, are you? Austin said you might want to spend an hour or two here. You haven't got a taxi waiting, or anything?

Sorme's immediate inclination was to admit that he had, until he recollected Nunne's insistence on secrecy. He said quickly:

No. I'm not in a hurry.

Lovely. Do sit down. I'm afraid the room's in a bit of a mess. I've not been up long. We had a party last night. What will you drink? Whisky, or gin and martini? I'm afraid I've nothing else except a little wine.

Gin and martini then, please.

Sweet or dry?

The room was stuffily warm, with two electric fires burning. It was a large and very comfortable bed-sitter. The carpeting was a plain fawn colour, and looked as if it had only just been hoovered. Nothing in the room suggested a party, or the untidiness associated with late rising. Sorme took his gin and Italian, and sat on the bed. Vannet stretched himself out on a piece of furniture that combined armchair and divan, with curves moulded to his body. He smiled at Sorme over the top of his glass, and then drank as though toasting some secret that they shared. He said:

I may say, it isn't like Austin to send his… friends along to see me. You are a fairly new friend, aren't you?

Fairly, Sorme said.

Vannet grinned, and took another sip of whisky, managing to imply that his tact would forbid further questioning. He said blandly:

I manage to meet all Austin's friends sooner or later. Where'd you meet him — the Balalaika?

No. What is it?

Ah! I can see you haven't known him for long! You'll see the Balalaika soon, no doubt.

What is it?

Oh, it's a… well, a sort of a… It's a club.

He simpered over his glass.

I see, Sorme said. I shall look forward to going there.

You ought to go tomorrow. Wednesday's drag night. World-famous female impersonators! Oh, my dear!

He said this with a nasal Cockney accent, fluttering his hand stiffly from the wrist.

I'll ask Austin — if he's back, Sorme said.

Are you expecting him?

I'm not sure.

A pair of china blue eyes regarded him penetratingly for a moment, then dropped coyly. Vannet said:

Well, if you want to see it, and Austin's not back, I could probably get you in…

That's kind of you! But I can see it some other time.

That's what you think! You don't think they do it every week, do you? They have to arrange it. Then they pass the word around quietly. So the police don't get wind of it.

They don't intend to be raided, don't you see, dear? Don't mind me calling you dear. It doesn't mean anything… But if you'd like to see it, I'd be delighted…

Sorme grunted, and nodded noncommittally. Vannet stared wistfully into his glass, and asked:

Is Austin in Switzerland alone?

As far as I know. Why?

Oh, I'm not prying. But he had his eye on a rather nice little dish at the Balalaika on Friday.

Friday, Sorme said.

Yes… why? It was Friday, wasn't it? Yes, I remember.

I was with him on Friday evening, Sorme explained. But he left me before midnight.

Oh, this was well after midnight. He was looking far gone… Cigarette?

No, thanks. Tell me, do you own all this house?

Yes, why? You looking for a room?

Again, the look was suggestive and coy. Sorme finished the martini.

No. I've only just moved into a room. Camden Town. But it seems a most impressive place. With all the gadgets.

Thank you. You touch me on my weak spot. This place is my pride. I own two more — in Highgate and Islington — but my heart belongs to twenty-three Canning Place.

Another drink?'

No, thanks. I ought to get a move on.

An instinct told him that a second drink would mean at least another hour of conversation.

No. Perhaps you're right. It wouldn't improve your studies.

A buzzer sounded suddenly in the room, making Sorme jump. Vannet picked up a small microphone that stood by the chair, and flicked a switch. He said tartly:

Bugger off. I've got a visitor.

He smiled at Sorme, and pressed the switch again. A complaining voice said:

I don't want to get you out of bed. I want Frankie.

He's not here. He went hours ago.

When? the voice demanded through the microphone.

When? Don't ask me. I'm not his bloody mother. Hours ago. Do you want to come in for a drink?

No, thank you! Not after that! He's got to meet this producer chap at one. You've no idea…?

Yes, I have. Try flat seven — Dilly's.

Oh, you awkward bastard. Why didn't you say so?

Vannet put the microphone down. He said:

Useful little things, these. They save my poor old feet. Not to mention the tenant on the top floor. Where were we?

You were saying something about my studies. I didn't quite follow you.

Oh yes. Austin said to leave you down there so you could study, or something.

I shan't be there long. I only want to look something up.

Oh. Pity. I was hoping you'd be here for lunch.

No. I must get back, I'm afraid.

He stood up to emphasise his intention of leaving. Vannet heaved himself regretfully off the curved armchair. He said:

Oh well, if you have to go.

Sorme was afraid he had offended him, but the intimacy of Vannet's smile as he opened the door reassured him:

I'll hope to see you again. And if you do want a room…

He led the way across the hall, and opened the front door. Sorme asked:

What about Austin's flat?

That's in the basement, Vannet said. Sorme caught a glint of amusement in his eyes, and guessed that Vannet had been curious as to whether he had been here before.

He followed him out into the street and through the gate in the area railings.

A glance at the end of the street showed him the taxi still waiting there.

It's quite self-contained, Vannet said. You can't get into it from the house.

I see.

Vannet opened the front door. Immediately, a smell of some perfume met them; Sorme recognised it; it was the perfume of the Diaghilev exhibition, Mitsouko.

After you. The door is to your left.

The room was in complete darkness. He groped for the switch. A soft pink light came on, showing a room that was similar to Vannet's bed-sitter. The air smelt of strong tobacco. Sorme looked into its corners, but saw no clothes. He set the leather grip down on the table.

This is it, Vannet said. There's another room through there. I'll leave you now.

Make sure you slam the door as you go out. Enjoy yourself.

Thank you.

Vannet held out his hand. He said softly, almost pleadingly:

And if you'd like another drink, or a bite to eat, come into my place when you leave.

Thanks, Sorme said uncomfortably. But I don't think I'll accept this time. Perhaps another day…

Bye-bye… I don't even know your Christian name.

Gerard.

It's like mine — Gerald! Ah, well. Bye-bye, Gerard.

Goodbye. Thanks for the drink.

Come again!

The front door closed noisily. Sorme crossed the room immediately and opened the other door. The smell of Mitsouko was suddenly stronger. He switched on a light.

Four wall-lights came on, filling the room with a blue glow.

It was smaller than the other room. The walls were almost completely hidden by velvet curtains that stretched from floor to ceiling. The hangings were black; they contrasted with the carpet and divan, which were wine-red. He said aloud: Christ! Shades of Edgar Poe! He suddenly felt grateful to Vannet for leaving him alone; it relieved him of any necessity to comment on the room. He sat on the divan-bed, and stared around.

The room repelled and attracted him. He looked up at the ceiling, which had been painted night-blue. He stood up to stare more closely at the pictures that were spaced along the walls between the hangings. Two were Gauguins; they looked like originals or skilful copies. On either side of these were spaced four obscene drawings, signed and titled in a Chinese or Japanese script; these seemed to have been sketched with a fine brush dipped in Indian ink. One showed a naked giant of a man, with a proportionately large member, landing from a raft on a beach; across the beach hordes of laughing women rush to meet him. Its companion-picture showed the same man leaving the island, shrunken and withered, while the women tear their hair and wail. The other two drawings showed the same giant performing feats of strength: in one case, shattering a copper vessel with the immense member; in the other, holding off hordes of armed bandits by using it as a club.

He observed that all four drawings bore in the bottom left-hand corner the minute letters: OG.

He slid aside the plain-glass doors of the bookcase. The bottom shelf was devoted to an edition of the Marquis de Sade. He took down a volume of Les 120 Journees de Sodome, and observed that the title page bore no publisher's imprint. The other shelves contained volumes in French and German, uniformly bound in blue leather with silver lettering, and copies of limited editions of Petronius, Apuleius and Sappho, all lavishly illustrated. Finally, the top shelf contained several works on medicine and psychology, with volumes of Bloch, Stekel, Krafft-Ebing and Hirschfeld. The French and German volumes seemed to be mostly of nineteenth-century romantic writers. He opened the volume of Lautreamont, and found it thick with dust. Some of its pages were uncut.

He returned to the other room and investigated its doors. One was a clothes cupboard; the other led to a large kitchen in which everything seemed new, although when he looked more closely he realised from the undisturbed dust that no one had used it for a long time. Beyond the kitchen was a bathroom, in which the smell of Mitsouko was overpowering; it came from the bath, where the fragments of a large bottle were scattered. He pulled out the plug and turned on the tap; after a few moments, the water flowed hot, and clouds of scented steam rose around him. From the size of the fragments, he judged that the bottle must have held at least half a pint.

From somewhere above his head, he heard the sound of a telephone ringing. It reminded him of the reason he was in Nunne's flat. He turned off the tap and returned to the bedroom. At first sight, he could see no sign of the clothes Nunne had mentioned.

Then he tried looking behind the hangings, and found them immediately. They were lying beside the fireplace, which had been sealed up with black-painted hardboard. At the top of the heap lay a pair of women's stockings. It seemed to be a complete women's outfit. He was surprised; he had expected that the clothes would be Nunne's own.

He opened the leather grip, and tried to push them inside in a bundle. They were too bulky; he had to fold them, and place them in one by one. There was a black raincoat with a torn lining, and a shabby navy blue skirt. The stockings were of good quality nylon, but the rest of the underclothes were evidently not new. Finally, there was a pair of black suede shoes; one of the high heels was broken off and missing. He packed these on top, and closed the grip.

The thought of the waiting taxi worried him; he had no desire to leave the flat immediately. Finally, he went out and dismissed it, telling the man that he was being delayed. He felt guilty as he watched it drive away, but the guilt gave way to a sense of relief and relaxation as he closed the front door behind him. Excitement produced a watery sensation in the bowels.

In the sitting-room he switched on the electric fire, and knelt, warming himself at it for a moment. Then he crossed to the sideboard and opened the cupboard. It contained an array of liqueur bottles, mostly full or half full. With a sense of having the whole day to spare, he took them out one by one and sniffed them. Some he knew; most of them he had never heard of, or only seen on the shelves behind bars. He found a shelf of glasses in the other cupboard, and proceeded to line up a dozen along the sideboard, and pour a drop of liqueur into each. He pulled up a chair to the sideboard, and tasted each glass in turn: the Calvados, Chartreuse, Benedictine, anisette, maraschine, allasch. In some cases the taste was so agreeable that he poured more into the glass. After ten minutes he realised that he was becoming slightly drunk. There were still bottles untasted. He decided to leave them until later. The room was becoming warm; he removed his coat and flung it over an armchair. He said aloud: You lucky bastard, Austin. He returned to the other room, and was glad of its relative coolness.

When he pulled at the curtains, he realised that they moved on rollers; if necessary, they could be drawn to cover the walls of the room completely. He drew them back until they were all bunched in corners of the room. It made little difference to the appearance of the walls. They were painted black. A door in the corner was also painted black. The space where the window had been was boarded over like the fireplace; from the other side of the room, it looked like a continuation of the wall. The wall at the far end of the room, which had been completely covered by curtains, had two paintings hung on it. One showed a man in evening dress walking along a busy street; he was leading a pig by a length of blue ribbon; in the middle of his forehead was an enormous eye. The other showed a man in shirtsleeves, lying on his back under an apple tree in moonlight.

The fruit and leaves of the tree were painted in deep greens and reds and blues; they possessed a misty and lyrical quality that contrasted with the completely yellow figure under the tree. The titles of both pictures were painted at the bottom of the canvases; Les Amours Jaunes, and, Self-portrait by Moonlight. Both were signed: Glasp, and dated 1948.

The other door led into a small closet, whose back wall was lined with bookshelves. He switched on the light to look through them, and found them disappointing. There were many standard works of English literature, and some volumes which he guessed to be Nunne's college text books. There were several children's books; when he idly took down The Bumper Book for Boys he found a signature: Austin Nunne 1935, inside the cover. An abridged edition of Frazer's Golden Bough seemed to have been given as a school prize in 1940; it had evidently been thoroughly read; the text was covered with pencil-marks. It fell open at an early page as he leafed through it. He turned to the light to read a quotation marked in red ink:

'The notion of a man-god, or of a human being endowed with divine or supernatural powers, belongs essentially to that early period of religious history in which gods and men are still viewed as beings of much the same order, and before they are divided by the impassable gulf which, to later thought, opens out between them.'

He carried the book into the bedroom, and sat on the divan to read it. A curious sense of Nunne's presence was beginning to grow in him. Once he looked up startled, expecting to see Nunne standing in the doorway, looking at him. He said aloud: I am yesterday, today and tomorrow, and I have the power to be born a second time. The sound of his voice released his tension, but left a sense of disquiet that puzzled him. He felt as if something unpleasant was about to happen, a sensation like the end of a nightmare. Then he noticed the grip, standing beside the fireplace. The disquiet was connected with the women's clothes he had packed. As he tried to analyse it, he remembered that Nunne had asked him to return any open books that might be lying around to their shelves. He could not recollect having seen any. For some reason this worried him. He went into the other room and looked around, finding none. In the bedroom he pulled aside all the curtains, and peered between the divan and the wall.

Finally, he raised the edge of the divan cover and looked in the three-inch space between its bottom and the floor. A book lay open, face downwards on the carpet. Its title was: Criminology, Its Background and Techniques. He turned it over, and found himself looking at a photograph of a woman with her throat cut. The caption under the picture read: Note defensive wounds on hands. He dropped the book on the bed, feeling sick, and went out to the kitchen.

There, the daylight made him feel better. He ran the tap, and stared at the water that ran in a smooth stream. It soothed him. The room he had left seemed in some way unclean; he felt no desire to go into it again. It was the first time he had seen a photograph of a violent death; it seemed to taint the air he breathed with tangible disgust.

He felt almost as though he had discovered a mutilated body in Nunne's cupboard.

He told himself that the disgust was stupid, that he had no right to be shocked by physical violence. After a while he returned to the bedroom, and made himself take up the book again. This time the photograph made less impact on him. He sat on the bed with a sense of bravado, and looked through the book. It seemed to be a well-documented textbook for the use of the American police. A whole chapter dealt with stolen cars, with photographs of the marks made by tyres on mud; another dealt with fingerprints and footprints. It was the final chapters of the book which examined causes of death and identification of the dead, that contained most of the photographs of violence. He found himself turning the pages with a tension that was like being prepared for a physical blow.

He made himself read the captions before he looked at the photographs: when he had finished looking through these, he returned the book to the top shelf, among the volumes on forensic medicine. Still standing on the divan, leaning against the wall for balance, he opened some of these, and glanced into them. The photographs had ceased to shock him; he felt only a heaviness of continual disgust in his stomach. When he lowered his eyes to the shelf underneath, containing Mallarme, Nerval, de L'Isle-Adam, Schopenhauer, he experienced a sense of unreality. It seemed to him that these men had known nothing of the reality of death when they wrote, that somehow the photographs made nonsense of the obsession with sin in de Sade and Baudelaire.

As he stood there, his feelings seemed to black out, like a sudden breakdown in a film; for a moment, he was overpowered by a sense of his own absurdity. It was the vastation that had come to him on the previous Sunday in the night. It was as if he was watching something over which he had no control, and that terrified him. He sat down on the divan. The feeling began to disappear. He tried to capture it, feeling strongly that he must outface it and examine it. It disappeared completely.

He became aware of the coldness of the room. He sat there, scowling into space, trying to analyse the fear. It was difficult, but he was certain it had to do with his own identity. He thought about the words that had come into his mind as he had stood there.

Absurd. Arbitrary. He said aloud: It is because I might be anyone or anything. Or not exist at all. But if I didn't exist… I. Exist. They mean the same thing.

He began to walk up and down the room, thinking in words, as if talking. It was elusive. I. My own. The legitimate me recognises nothing as its own. All is alien. Even existence. I must disown existence too. If I exist, I am trapped.

A new idea came to him. Limitedness. I don't want limits. It is limits that are alien to me. The universe, space, time, being. Nothing must be limited. I am god. I am yesterday and today. I am the god Tem, maker of heaven, creator of things which are. If I am not, life is meaningless.

He took down a volume on forensic medicine, and stared at a photograph of a man who had been killed in a railway accident. It failed to revive the vastation. The death in the book no longer represented reality. Like Baudelaire and de Sade, it was still two moves away from reality.

After washing and drying the liqueur glasses, he walked to Kensington High

Street and caught the tube. He was glad of the lunch-hour crowds. Silence and the sense of uncertainty had left him tired.

The Scotswoman opened the door; when she saw him, her face tightened. He said quickly:

The father is expecting me.

He was. It's time for his rest now.

He was irritated by her manner, but repressed the resentment, saying politely:

I'm sorry. I'll come back again another day.

She hesitated, then stood back and opened the door:

Come on inside, an' I'll see how he feels.

He said quietly: Thank you. He kept his voice lowered in case Maunsell was downstairs; he had no particular wish to see him at the moment. The woman went upstairs without bothering to show him into the waiting-room. He was glad she didn't waste words. When he approached the glass-panelled door, he heard a murmur of voices from outside. He stood in the dark hallway, leaning against the banister. The woman appeared on the stairs, beckoning him up.

He can't spare more'n a few moments. He should be asleep. He's been at it all day.

I won't keep him long, Sorme promised.

As soon as he encountered the faint disinfectant smell in the corridor, he was reminded of his talk on the previous day; a feeling of anticipation came over him as he reached the door. It disappeared immediately when he saw the priest, the curiously ugly face above the pyjama jacket; instead, he experienced the same slight disappointment he had felt on first meeting him.

Father Carruthers was sitting in the armchair by the fire. A plaid rug and an eiderdown were wrapped around the lower half of his body.

Come and sit down. How are you?

Sorme laid the raincoat on the bed, and sat in the other armchair.

I'm fine, father. I'm expecting Austin back today or tomorrow.

Good. You've heard from him?

He's phoned me twice since yesterday.

The priest grunted, and regarded him steadily. Sorme realised what he was thinking. He said:

They weren't just social calls. He seems to have something on his mind. Has he always been inclined to get excited over nothing, father?

In what way?

Well… being strange and secretive. Acting like a conspirator. I'm a little worried…

I've never known it. In what way is he strange?

Sorme told the story of the phone calls, and ended by describing the flat. While he talked he was aware of having the priest's complete attention. The priest asked finally:

I would like to know your exact reason for speaking to me of all this.

The question embarrassed Sorme. He considered his answer carefully. He said slowly:

Austin fascinates me. And I don't fully know why he fascinates me. And… well, I like him. Do you see?

He said this almost defiantly, because he could think of no other way of expressing it. The priest smiled, and the ugliness dissolved in the benevolence that flickered at Sorme.

I understand.

Besides… that flat of his… it made me feel I know him a lot better. And that I want to know him a lot better.

The priest closed his eyes. He talked with his face turned towards the fire, as if talking to himself.

What you tell me of this flat is new to me. And to some extent it is a surprise to me. But, after all, there is perhaps no reason to be surprised. It probably explains why Austin stopped coming here. Romanticism is a dubious refuge, but it is not a dangerous one. And no one remains in it for a long time.

Sorme interrupted: You think he'll come to the Catholic Church eventually?

I think that it is not impossible.

Sorme considered this, staring into the fire. The eyes in the white, invalid's face remained closed. He said:

Romanticism… I see your point. That accounts for de L'Isle-Adam and Huysmans and the rest. But what about the crime photographs? And de Sade.

You have answered yourself. De Sade — another romantic. Sadistic pictures…

I don't know that they were sadistic. They were just revolting.

For the sadist, the revolting causes pleasure.

Is Austin a sadist, father?

He asked the question quickly, and without thinking. Almost immediately he wondered if he had gone too far. The priest's eyes opened and regarded him; the voice said calmly:

Shall we say… he has tendencies…

Sorme said bluntly:

Look here, father. If you think I'm talking out of turn, tell me so flatly. I don't want to pry.

The priest said, smiling:

Yesterday, I hardly knew you. Today, you know a great deal more about Austin, and I know you a little better. I think we can speak frankly.

Sorme felt relieved; the removal of the ambiguity made him more relaxed. He smiled broadly:

Thank you, father. That's kind of you. You see, I do feel a sort of tentative responsibility for Austin. I felt rather touched when he said I was the only person he could trust.

Quite.

But I don't understand at all. Those women's clothes, for instance…

Where are they now?

Sorme said with sudden alarm: I left them downstairs in the hallway.

That doesn't matter. They'll be quite safe.

Sorme scowled at the palms of his hands. He said hesitantly:

Father, I'm going to tell you what I've got on my mind, and if you think it's tosh, just tell me so.

I will.

Well, look here, it's like this… Yesterday morning, two policemen tried to interview an old man in the house where I live… about the East End murders. Now I'm sure they had no special reason — no real suspicions of him. He was just an odd sort of crank, and perhaps he's been in some sort of trouble with them before for a sexual offence, and he's probably one of dozens they'd interview. Now Austin's asked me to get some women's clothes out of his flat. Supposing he's expecting the police to want to interview him about the murders? Supposing he's known to them as a man with sadistic tendencies? Does that make sense?

The priest said:

You don't seriously think that Austin might be involved in these murders?

Good lord, no! Of course not. But the police wouldn't leave any stone unturned, would they? And the clothes belong to a woman. What do you think?

It is possible… it is possible. But that would not explain Austin's secrecy.

Why not? It might. Anyway, perhaps he is in some sort of trouble. After all, a man with perversions can land in trouble pretty easily. Perhaps it isn't the police he's worried about. It could be that someone's blackmailing him…

He stopped, with a sense that such speculation was futile. The priest's eyes nicked up to his face and were lowered again.

You may be right, but the best way to find out is to wait until Austin comes back, and ask him. It is not at all improbable that the police might question him in connection with the Whitechapel murders — if he is known to them as a sexual invert. In cases of sadistic murder they spread their net very wide. They have to, since there is no other way.

How do you mean, father?

In the average murder, someone has a motive, and it is simply a matter of finding it. In a sexual crime — unless the criminal is caught in the act — the police have nothing to go on. I was in Dusseldorf at the time of the Kurten murders. The number of suspects the police interviewed over three years ran into hundreds of thousands. So it is not at all impossible that Austin may be one of those questioned.

Sorme said, smiling: Or me… or anybody else?

Quite.

Sorme stood up. He said:

Look, father, I'm not going to keep you any longer. I know you're supposed to be resting. Thanks for listening to me. I had to talk to somebody about it or bust.

You were right to come to me. But some time you must come here to talk about yourself.

Thank you, father.

One more thing. I have a friend — a German doctor — who is working with Scotland Yard. When you have talked to Austin — if you think he needs help — get him to contact me. Dr Stein might be able to save some trouble.

Thanks, father. I'll do that.

He picked up his coat, and opened the door. As he did so, he remembered a question he had forgotten to ask:

By the way, father, do you know a painter named Glasp?

Yes.

Austin has some paintings by him on his walls. How old is he?

I… I'm not sure. About twenty-six or so.

Twenty-six? He must be very talented. Two of the paintings are dated nineteen forty-eight. That means he'd be about seventeen when he did them.

He is very talented — or he was. He is also very poor, and he's been in a mental home twice. Perhaps Austin will introduce you to him.

Do you know where he lives, by any chance?

I'm afraid not. I haven't seen him for some years. Father Rakosi may have his address. Austin is sure to.

He's a Catholic?

Yes.

The door opened as he stood with his hand on the knob. It was the Scotswoman.

Time for your rest, father.

Sorme said:

I'll come again soon, if I may, father. Goodbye.

Goodbye.

In the hall, he encountered the Hungarian priest. He said:

Pardon me, Father Carruthers said you might know the address of a painter called Glasp.

Yes. Do you want it?

If it's no trouble, please.

Wait just a moment. I can get it for you.

He went into a room next to the waiting-room; a moment later, he reappeared with a notebook:

It is number twelve Durward Street.

Sorme wrote it down in his own address book. He asked:

Where is it?

East one, Whitechapel.

Do you know his Christian name?

The priest looked surprised:

You do not know him?

No. I've seen some of his paintings. I thought I might go and see him some time.

I see. You will not find him sociable. His name is Oliver. He is not easy to talk to.

Sorme slipped his address book into his pocket.

Thank you, father. Maybe I'll write him a letter. Good afternoon.

Outside, he looked around automatically for his bicycle, until he remembered he had travelled by Underground. He walked towards Chancery Lane station, swinging the leather grip. Glasp's Christian name had confirmed his suspicion that the obscene drawings had been sketched by him: they were initialled O.G. But this in itself meant nothing. It was only another fragment of the jigsaw puzzle that fitted around Nunne.

He had thought so much about Nunne that Nunne's reality was becoming shadowy. He thought: I am negative. That's the trouble. I am negative, and I am interested in Nunne because he is positive. I am like a stagnant pond. And Nunne is a stone that has disturbed the scum.

He walked towards Kingsway, and the mood of gloom and self-irritation deepened. He was aware that, to some extent, this was because he had not eaten since breakfast. The faint intoxication induced by the liqueurs was beginning to wear off too.

In the Underground he came close to falling asleep. He wiped the tears out of his eyes with his handkerchief, and immediately yawned again.

Tired. That's the trouble. I'll eat and sleep when I… oh, damnation.

He remembered Caroline, and that he was due to meet her in two hours. The thought depressed him. He considered phoning her and telling her that he couldn't make it, but the idea troubled him even more than the thought of being at Leicester Square by six o'clock. Finally, he left the tram at Camden Town, and went to a ready-made tailors to buy trousers.

Before he had been with her for a quarter of an hour he realised he liked her, that he was going to enjoy the evening. There was no kind of constraint between them. He observed that this was because she took him for granted, as if it was the tenth time he had taken her out and not the first. She treated him casually, like an intimate of long standing.

It was something he had noticed also in Austin's manner.

The restaurant was in a basement in the King's Road: it was entered through a coffee bar. Half a dozen voices called her name as soon as they came in, and a bearded youth, wearing a duffle-coat, flung his arms around her and kissed her, crying:

Alloa, me luv, it's grand ter see yer!

She introduced him to Sorme, saying: This is Frank. He's playing Verlaine in the play we're doing.

The young man had a plump, immature face; his beard was scanty and silky.

Sorme found it hard to imagine anyone less like Verlaine. The youth said: Howdy, pardner? Ah hope you ain't a fightin' man, 'cause ah ain't brought ma six shooters. Coffee for both of you?

We're having a meal downstairs, Caroline said. We may see you afterwards.

Come to the party. It's on the bomb site opposite the art school. Bring a bottle of wine.

We might do that, she said. They pushed their way through the crowd of youths and girls who lined the counter and the high stools along the walls. Sorme heard someone say:

There's Miss Beddable for Nineteen Fifty-eight.

The downstairs was divided into two halves by a lattice screen, and lit by table lamps made from Chianti bottles. When an olive-skinned waiter hurried towards them, he expected him to address Caroline by her Christian name. But he only said:

Table for two, sir?

The menu cards were enormous, almost as large as a sheet of newspaper.

Some of this stuff's rather expensive.

Don't worry. I robbed my money box this morning.

She surveyed the menu, and asked finally:

Do you like escargots?

He admitted that he had never tried them.

Let's both have some. Do you like garlic?

Love it.

Good. Shall we be pigs and have a dozen each?

When the snails arrived, she instructed him in the use of the small tongs, and insisted that he drink the melted butter from the shell, after the soft, black body had been extracted and eaten. They had another gin and lime, followed by a bottle of hock. He began to feel relaxed and slightly irresponsible. He admitted to her:

I wasn't looking forward to this evening at all.

No. Why not?

I was a little nervous that we wouldn't get along. Do you know something? I haven't taken a girl out for the past five years.

Good Heavens! What did you do? Take a monastic vow?

No. Just stayed in my room, mostly. Or in the British Museum Reading Room.

But why? You're not shy…

No. I was looking for something… if you see what I mean.

She asked, smiling: For what?

The roast chicken arrived, and gave him time to consider his answer. He said finally:

The same thing Rimbaud was looking for. A vision.

She said immediately: I've been trying to read a book about him, but it's full of French quotations. He wanted to derange his senses or something, didn't he?

Yes.

Did you try that?

No. I tried some disciplines. But nothing happened.

And what do you intend to try now?

Funnily enough, I'm closer to it now than ever before. Do you know what a catalyst is?

No.

It's a thing that causes a chemical reaction without getting altered itself. You make sulphuric acid gas by heating oxygen and sulphur dioxide. But you have to heat them over platinised asbestos. Otherwise nothing happens. But the platinised asbestos doesn't change. Well, Austin has been like platinised asbestos for me. I had a lot of elements inside me that didn't mix. I had a lot of knowledge that didn't mean anything to me. Since I met him last Friday, I've started feeling alive for the first time in years.

She asked, pouting:

Don't I come in anywhere?

Of course you do. If it hadn't been for Austin, I wouldn't have met you, would I?

How did you meet Austin?

He told her while he ate. He was still telling her after the meal, when they went upstairs for coffee. Half way up the stairs, she stopped and turned her head towards him, whispering:

You know, I'm a little tipsy.

She swayed backwards slightly, and he put both hands around her waist to steady her. She gripped them in hers for a moment and pulled them tight, then released them. He was feeling too well-fed and somnolent to be excited by the gesture, but it increased the sense of comfort and certainty he felt with her. As they drank coffee, she asked suddenly: Do you think Gertrude's attractive?

He stared hard at his cup, and said critically:

Yes… she's attractive.

But not your type? she prompted him.

No… It's not that. It's the simplicity of the way she sees things. She puzzles me.

Puzzles you? Why on earth should she puzzle you?

She's either brilliantly dishonest or so primitively simple-minded that I can't even conceive of it. Mind, I can understand people being simple Bible Christians, and thinking the Bible's the beginning and end of everything. But she doesn't strike me as having that type of mind. You'd think she'd read Virginia Woolf, and patronise the local young writers.

She does!

Yes… I suppose she does. Do you know anything about her life before she came to live in Hampstead?

No. Mummy's never talked about her. But she did drop something once when I wasn't supposed to be listening. There mas a man once.

And what happened?

I don't know, really. Why are you so interested? Have you got designs on her?

You brought the subject up!

I expect I did. Anyway, I think she's got designs on you.

On my salvation, you mean.

Well… She's rather lonely up there. That's why I go up to stay some nights. I think she'd like it if you went up there more often.

Hasn't she any other close friends?

No. She used to see rather a lot of a painter once. But that stopped…

You mean she had an affair?

Oh no. He was half her age. A man named Glasp.

Oliver Glasp?

Yes, why?

I've heard of him. A friend of Austin's, I think.

Yes. I think Austin took him there for the first time.

Why did he stop going there? Do you know?

Yes. He had some kind of a breakdown and went into a mental home. She never talked about it much, but I think they quarrelled as well.

They had both finished their coffee. He asked her:

Shall we go?

She slipped down off the stool, and picked up her gloves. He asked:

Where would you like to go now? Back into Soho for a drink?

I don't mind. Where would you?

Let's walk anyway. I've had too much to eat.

The night was cold and windless; there were no stars.

She asked:

Would you like to visit a couple of girl friends of mine? They live on a boat on Chelsea reach.

How do we get there?

It's a ten-minute walk.

Shall we buy some wine to take?

That's a good idea. I don't suppose they'll have anything to drink. They're both actresses, but they're out of work at the moment.

They bought a bottle of hock at a wine shop, and walked on past the town hall. A hundred yards further on they could see the glow of a bonfire.

That'd be the party Frankie mentioned. We don't want to go, do we?

I don't.

The fire had been built on a piece of waste ground that was divided from the road by a low wall. The land itself was about ten feet below street level; it was reached through an entrance in the side street. The site was crowded with students, most of them holding bottles or glasses. A crowd of them were dragging a tree trunk across the fire. It was too big to lie flat; it formed a kind of bridge across the centre of the fire, supported at its far end by branches.

Let's go down for just a moment, Gerard?

Sorme trailed reluctantly behind her as she walked to the side street. There the ground sloped naturally on to the site. He asked with misgiving:

Do you know many of them?

A few. But we don't want to get involved. Let's just have a warm and then go.

Somewhere, a portable radio was playing dance music, but no one was attempting to dance. In the shadows, towards the wall, couples were stretched out on the grass. Most of the crowd stood around the fire in a wide circle. It was too hot to stand close. In the blaze, Sorme could distinguish an old sofa and the remains of a door. As they stood there, someone leapt over the tree trunk where it lay across the centre of the fire, and landed clumsily on the far side, sending up a shower of red sparks. A few students began to cheer spasmodically. The youth turned round and leapt back the other way, flinging his arms in the air and shrieking as he jumped. Sorme said, disgustedly: Bloody fool.

That's Ivor Fenner. I used to go out with him.

Sorme repressed an irritated comment and turned away, shrugging. She took his arm, saying:

Let's go.

As they came back on to street level, he said gloomily:

It all makes me feel as if I'm fifty. I detest students.

They're all right.

Individually, perhaps. En masse, they're loathsome.

Before they had walked more than fifty yards they heard a distant clang of bells.

The fire engine passed them and pulled up opposite the bomb site. Caroline said:

They're going to put it out. Let's watch.

When they reached the site the waste ground was already empty of students; they clustered around the walls, looking at the fire. Sorme and Caroline stood at the end of the wall, and watched the long, white jet of water that hissed across the grass and curved on to the fire. Immediately, clouds of steam rose, and the flames disappeared. The water hit the end of the tree trunk, and set it jerking across the grass. A groan went up from the students. Someone shouted:

Rotten spoil-sports!

The fire was out. It had taken less than three minutes.

As they walked away, Sorme found himself feeling ashamed of the irritation he had felt earlier; it was not that he sympathised with the students, but that he revolted automatically at the idea of the authority that could put an end to the party. She looked at his face as they passed under a streetlamp, and asked:

What are you annoyed about, Gerard?

He laughed, becoming aware suddenly that he had been scowling:

I'm not annoyed. I suppose I'm never satisfied.

How do you mean?

I disliked those students because they seemed a sloppy and undisciplined mob of adolescents. That makes me an authoritarian. But I detest the authorities when they stand about in uniforms and give orders. So I dare say I'm an anarchist. An authoritarian anarchist!

They had turned into Cheyne Walk. The breeze that came from the river was cold.

She turned up her collar, and pressed her head against his arm. They crossed to the wall that overlooked the river, and stopped to stare at the water. The lights from the Albert Bridge wavered up from the ink-coloured dark. He became aware that she was looking up at him. He bent to kiss the cold lips, and felt the tip of her nose icy against his face.

She said:

I don't care what you are.

There's no reason why you should. You don't have to live with me like I do.

She said stubbornly:

I wouldn't care if I had to live with you.

He kissed her again and wondered, as he did so, how many times before she had been kissed in the dark, and by how many men. He stopped himself before his speculation went further, but was not soon enough to stop a feeling of resentment towards her.

They crossed the bridge that led out to a landing-stage. From this, a narrow gangway of planks ran out along the side of the moored houseboats. He said:

I'd better go first. It's as black as your hat. Which boat is it?

The third along.

What do we do if they're not in?

We could wait for them. Or go home.

As he came level with the third boat, he observed that there were no lights on.

It looks as though they're out. What now?

Let's go on board. The door might be open.

He clambered over the side of the boat, and helped her over. She asked:

Have you got any matches?

He found a match, and lit it. She pulled at a door, which opened.

Thank heavens! We can get in, anyway.

He followed her curiously. An electric light came on, revealing a small kitchen, with two Calor-gas cylinders standing beside a gas stove. She called:

Anyone home? Yoo hoo! Barbara! Madeleine!

He noticed a corkscrew hanging on a hook on the wall.

We can have some wine, anyway.

He tore off the lead foil, and opened the bottle. There were no glasses, but he found two china cups on a shelf. Caroline said:

Come on in here.

It was a small bed-sitting room, containing only a wide single bed and an armchair. It was barely six feet square.

This is Barbara's room. Madeleine's is next door, but that's smaller still.

Where do they eat?

In the kitchen.

And where do they receive visitors?

There's another room through there, but they're painting it at the moment.

He handed a cup half filled with wine. She asked:

What shall we drink to? Shall we drink to us?

To us.

He met her eyes as he lowered the cup; she turned her face up to be kissed. He could taste the wine on her lips. They still held the cups. She said:

I wonder what Aunt Gertrude'd say if she could see us now?

I dread to think.

He flung his coat over the armchair, and sat on the bed.

Do you think Barbara would mind if I sit on her bed?

Of course not. Move over.

What about my shoes?

Take them off.

He unlaced them and slipped them off, then moved over to the wall. She immediately lay down beside him and closed her eyes.

Don't you want your wine?

In a moment.

He bent over her, and allowed his lips to move over the soft and still cold skin of her face. She said softly:

That's nice.

Her fingertips touched around the back of his neck; her tongue darted between his lips. He straightened up, breathing deeply. We ought to stop, you know.

Had we?

Yes. Before it's impossible!

She opened her eyes and smiled at him:

I wouldn't mind you being my lover.

That's a highly immoral proposal!

It isn't. You'd be the first.

It's still immoral! Anyway, you're too young to have a lover.

That's silly. Of course I'm not. Anyway, I nearly had one a year ago.

What happened?

He asked me to go to Brighton for a weekend with him. And I said yes.

And did you?

No. I got a sore throat the day before and had to stay in bed.

He said, with mock severity:

That's a fine way to go on! I'm deeply shocked.

She levered herself into a sitting position, and reached out for her cup.

You're not really. Are you?

He asked curiously:

Was it that pimply moron who was leaping over the bonfire?

Ivor! Good lord, no! I wouldn't go to bed with him! No, this was an actor. He was thirty-five, and he'd been divorced twice. And for about three weeks I'd thought I'd go crazy about him. I thought I'd never be able to live without him.

But nothing happened?

No. We quarrelled after that weekend. Then he had to leave. His company went to Liverpool. So that was that.

He drank the rest of his wine, and began to laugh. She asked:

What is it?

Nothing. Just the contrast between you and your aunt.

She said emphatically:

God forbid I should ever be like her!

You won't be!

She put the cup down, and dropped her head on to the pillow: her lips pouted to be kissed. He said:

No. It's not good sense. I get blood pressure and an urge to undress you.

You can't. Not here. Barbara might come.

Let's lock the door?

You can't. It won't lock.

How do you know?

Barbara told me. When she has her boy friend here, they have to wedge the door with the armchair.

Won't she object if she comes in and finds us on her bed?

No! She's a sport. Anyway, we can hear her coming over the side. Then you can get into that chair and look respectable.

He kissed her again, and made no effort to repress the excitement that began to rise. She thrust out her lower lip as she kissed, so that he could taste the moistness and smoothness of its inside. After a few minutes he raised his face from her, and sat up. She asked:

What is it?

It's no good. I'll explode if we keep it up. Are you sure she's likely to be back soon?

I don't know. I don't know when she'll be back.

He started to put his shoes on.

Let's go now. We'll leave her the wine as a present.

Where do you want to go to?

Anywhere. Back to Soho. We can have a drink. It's only ten o'clock.

She stood up in her stockinged feet, and put her arms round his neck. He had to bend his shoulders to shorten himself by fifteen inches in order to reach her face. There was impatience now as he kissed her. He had accepted that nothing could come of it at the moment; further contact with her demanded that he put constraint on his impulses.

She seemed to sense this; she broke away gently, saying:

All right. Let's go.

After he had left her at Tottenham Court Road station he felt relaxed and satisfied.

He stared out of the window of the bus as it passed Goodge Street, and allowed his mind to dwell on the memory of her acquiescence. It was not that he suspected he might be falling in love with her; there seemed no likelihood of that. It was simply that he was charmed by her. She was too naive, her mental processes were all too obvious for him to take her seriously. There was no element of mystery or intoxication, neither had there been any sort of a struggle. Without preliminaries, she had allowed him to see that he excited her, that she would be willing to allow herself to become infatuated with him if he had no objection. He had no objection; the idea of becoming her lover was pleasant. It was as simple as a commercial transaction.

He yawned, and wiped the moisture out of his eyes with a handkerchief. The girl in front of him stood up and transferred a small white pekinese from her lap to the floor.

She was pretty and smartly dressed. He glanced at her and looked away, pleased by the indifference he felt. It struck him that he was hardly ever free of desire; at any hour of the day or night, the thought of a woman could disturb him and arouse the dissatisfaction of lust without an object. It was a luxury not to care.

It was a return of the sensation he had felt that morning, watching the girl get out of the lift: a sense of ease and power, a complete lack of envy. He could think of Nunne with complete detachment; not because he felt that Nunne's advantages were accidental or temporal; on the contrary, it seemed there was something in Nunne that made money and luxury inevitable. But, in itself, this was nothing to envy. In his mind, Nunne stood for physical existence, a direct sense of physical life. His natural background would be the spotless deck of a yacht in the Mediterranean, the whiteness of sunlight on snow near Trondheim; the rocks sticking out of a salmon fishing river in Galway. Sorme responded to these thoughts as he responded to Caroline; but underneath them, something oppressed him. There was a futility inherent in physical life that frightened him.

He had begun to feel the cold as he got off the bus at Prince of Wales Road. He shivered, tensing the muscles of his shoulders, and walked quickly across the road. The relaxation had disappeared, and he had begun to feel a sense of anticipation he could not account for. It began to take definite shape when he turned out of the Kentish Town Road, and noticed the Jaguar parked outside the house.

He looked on the hall table for letters or phone messages. A torn envelope read:

Mr Sorme: Mr Nunne rang. It was signed: C.

He saw the slit of light under his door before he opened it. The room was clouded with cigarette smoke. He said:

Hello, Austin. How long have you been here?