Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER SEVEN

Pale December sunlight made him sweat as he cycled along Leadenhall Street.

The traffic in the City was heavy. He was aware that it irritated drivers of cars when he was able to steer in the narrow lane between a line of stationary traffic and the pavement, and it pleased him to do it. When cycling, he felt that the driver of every car was a personal enemy.

The mental activity of the previous night had left a feeling of freshness, and he felt no irritation towards the traffic. When a woman stepped off the pavement in front of him, forcing him to brake sharply, he only smiled at her and shook his head in remonstrance; he guessed her to be a foreigner from the fact that she was looking left instead of right.

It was shortly after nine-thirty when he stopped in Aldgate High Street. He leaned the bicycle against the wall outside the Lyons Corner House, and locked the back wheel.

The self-service bar was almost empty. He bought tea and two toasted buns, and sat at a table near the window. A middle-aged woman wearing a pink smock collected dirty cups off the table. He returned her smile, and felt as he did so a sense of anticipation that was like convalescence. The whole cafe with its food smells, the workman opposite reading the Daily Express, the heavy traffic in the street outside, all touched some mechanism of nostalgia in him. It felt like waking from a long sleep. He took the leather-bound notebook from his pocket, and wrote in it: 'Whitechapel, December 1st. I qualify as a modern Faust. Shut up in a room, thinking too much. Enter Austin Mephistopheles, twisting the waxed ends of his moustache… But who is Gretchen?'

He stopped writing, reflecting that Caroline or Gertrude might easily see the notebook. He had been about to elaborate the question. Instead, he wrote: 'Like Mephistopheles, Austin sells me love or life. My side of the bargain is still obscure.'

On the opposite side of the road a barrel organ began to play, tinnily, each note jangling like a rusty can dropped from a height. It aroused in him a memory that was also a sense of smell and colour. For a moment, it eluded him, then returned: the City office, the smell of ledgers, and the French tobacco of the belligerent Scottish clerk who lived at Southend. The last time he had heard it played, Man coeur s'ouvre a ta voix, had been on the Thursday afternoon, five years before, when he had walked out of the office without giving notice, the solicitor's letter carefully folded in his wallet, and had stepped into the traffic and sunlight of Bishopsgate, still dazed by the feeling of relief.

The memory reconstructed itself with a detail of sense and feeling that he found surprising; it revived the hot afternoon smell of dust and motor exhaust, and the damp smell of the entry below the office where he kept his bicycle. For a moment, he considered walking through Houndsditch to look at the office building again, then dismissed the idea, recalling the boredom and self-contempt that had accumulated there over a year.

Almost immediately the sense of reconciliation disappeared. He had remembered the pink cheeks and the wispy blond moustache of the Scottish clerk, and the memory stirred shame and anger. The Scotsman had professed a violent anti-Semitism: he referred to Hampstead and Golder's Green as Abrahamstead and Goldstein's Green. His arguments with Sorme had always finished with mutual declarations of contempt, leaving behind a taste of futility. These arguments, and an abortive affair with the office girl, were all that stood out in Sorme's memory of the year in the office. The girl's name was Marilyn; she was plump, not particularly attractive, and came from Stepney Green. But she was given to wearing semi-transparent dresses, with very little underneath them.

When she bent over the filing cabinet, the outline of her pants showed clearly through the fabric, and the three clerks stared surreptitiously until she straightened up. Finally, he invited her out to the theatre and took her drinking afterwards. Later the same evening, in the Victoria Park, he knew with certainty that he did not want to possess her, that his desire had been an illusion born of boredom and the sexy innuendo of office conversation. She had probably assumed it was chivalry that had made him gently pull down her skirt after she had raised it. He was glad, three days later, to leave the office without seeing her, and contemptuous of himself for being glad.

The recollection left him feeling uncomfortable and ashamed. He finished the toasted buns and went out.

He walked the bicycle along the pavement as far as Middlesex Street, then mounted and rode slowly towards Bishopsgate. He dismissed the memories, and thought deliberately of Caroline and Gertrude; immediately he began to feel better. In Widegate Street he stared with interest at a pregnant woman who pushed a battered pram loaded with washing, and felt the release of some inner tension of smell and colour, a renewal of the excitement. He turned into Spitalfields Market and dismounted; it was impossible to ride among the people who crowded the narrow space between parked lorries and the market building. Almost immediately a man in shirtsleeves swung a net-bag of cabbage off a lorry, missing Sorme's head by a fraction. The man grinned, saying: Watch yer loaf!

Sorme grinned back, halting for a moment to avoid a trolley loaded with potato sacks.

The inner warmth was like being drunk, but without the sense of limitation.

On the corner of Brushfield Street, he stopped to consult the London atlas he carried in his saddlebag. The traffic in Commercial Street was an unbroken stream, filling the air with vibrations and the smell of diesel exhausts.

The pavement of Durward Street was barely two feet wide; the roofs, windowsills and kerbstones formed a perspective of unbroken parallel lines from one end of the road to the other. The street was deserted.

He stopped before number twelve. The brown paint on the front door had been weathered into scales.

He stood there, in front of the window, hoping to hear some movement from inside the house that would relieve his hesitation. Now he was on the point of knocking, he remembered Nunne's comments about Glasp, and the warning of the Hungarian priest.

He tried to think of the words with which he would introduce himself. Finally, he rapped loudly, and waited.

A window opened above his head. He stood back to look, hoping it would be Glasp. It was the window of the house next door. A woman asked him:

Did you want Mrs Greenberg, or the lodger?

A man called Glasp, Sorme said. He felt embarrassed, as if some guilty secret was being exposed to the whole street.

The lodger. He won't be long, the woman said. He usually goes out about this time for breakfast. I don't know which cafe he goes to.

It doesn't matter. I'll call back later.

The window slammed again. He noticed the curtains of the house opposite stir as someone looked out at him. He cycled back along the street, irritated with himself, and with the woman next door for not minding her own business. Her effect had been to make him feel an intruder.

At the end of the street, he dismounted, and leaned the bicycle against the wall, under the No Entry sign. The idea of looking for Glasp in the local cafes did not appeal to him. He looked at his watch, and decided to take a walk round the neighbourhood. It had been a long time since he walked round Whitechapel, thinking of the Jack the Ripper murders. Now, while the mood of receptivity was still on him, the prospect pleased him.

He locked the bicycle, binding the chain twice around the wheel.

Opposite the end of Durward Street was the shell of a theatre, with broken rafters and fire-blackened walls exposed. He stood, staring across at it, experiencing a desire to climb the wooden fence that hid the lower story, to pick his way across the rotten floorboards, and smell the odour of damp and decay that came from heaps of rubble. It was almost a physical craving. It puzzled him. Things were happening inside him that he found difficult to understand. It felt as if his nerves had been disconnected, then reconnected in a different order, generating new appetites and a new sensibility. He turned and walked along Vallance Road, away from the main road. He picked his way carefully across the bomb site, taking care to avoid treading on rusty barrel-hoops. Across the street, an empty school building looked as desolate as the ruined theatre; on its walls, whitewashed letters two feet high stated: Union will get rid of the Reds. At both ends of the inscription was a symbol of a lightning bolt in a circle. He crossed the road past the school, on to another strip of waste ground bordered by empty houses and stumps of broken walls, and paused for a moment to look in the windowless aperture of a disintegrating building. The floor was covered with rubble, old newspapers nibbled by mice, a torn pink brassiere. A narrow stairway, still intact, curved around the opposite wall. As he looked, a mouse ran out from among the newspapers, and disappeared into a hole in the skirting board. Someone had pointed out this house to him before; in 1943, the body of a Finnish sailor had been found on the upper floor by some children playing hide-and-seek; he had been robbed and left to die, battered by a brick swung in a silk stocking.

The house next door was still occupied; the front door stood open, and the smell of frying sausages came from it. Outside the door, a baby lay asleep in a pram.

He wandered, without aim, through the littered streets. In Hanbury Street, the new blocks of flats and the children's playground looked incongruous. He stopped again outside the barber's shop at number 29. In the yard behind the shop, the third of the Ripper's killings had taken place. He had once seen a photograph of it, taken immediately after the murders; it looked completely unchanged by the intervening seventy years. The barber looked up from shaving a customer as Sorme paused by the door. He said:

Hello. Long time no see.

Sorme said: How are you?

Fine. Never see you in here for haircuts these days.

I don't live around here now.

At the end of Hanbury Street he found himself facing Spitalfields Market again.

As he passed the Wren church, an old man came out of the public lavatory, muttering: Tanner for a cup o' tea?

Sorme fumbled in his pocket, turning his eyes away from the dewdrop that hung on the end of the man's nose. The clawed, dry-skinned hand took the two threepenny pieces; the man glanced around quickly to see if any policeman had observed him. His hand rested on Sorme's sleeve. Uncertain of what was being demanded of him, Sorme looked into the watery blue eyes. The man's voice was an indistinguishable mumble; he pointed to his feet, on which he wore grubby plimsolls. Sorme assumed he was asking for more money, and started to grope for loose change. He stopped when he caught the words:… lived here for close on seventy years.

Seventy years?

That's right. Near seventy years… I been 'ere.

He brushed at his nose with the cuff of his overcoat, and dislodged the transparent drop. Another formed immediately. Sorme averted his eyes. The overcoat was so long that its hem dragged on the pavement. He said politely:

You don't look that old.

Oh yers. Seventy-three, and worked every day of my life till I 'ad the trouble.

Sorme realised that the man was not drunk; he was talking to dispel loneliness, or perhaps out of gratitude for the sixpence. His words were scarcely distinguishable. Sorme said:

You must have been alive at the time of the Jack the Ripper murders.

Eh? Jack the Ripper? Yers. I can tell you something about that. He done his last murder over there…

The bent hand gestured in the direction of the market building. Sorme said:

Miller's Court?

That's right. Over there, it used to be. Before they built the market. Used to be Dorset Street. I know, 'cause I used to do a paper round at the time.

Sorme said with surprise:

How old were you?

'Ow old? Lemme see…

The watery eyes concentrated. The transparent drop fell on to the pavement. He said finally:

Why, I was ten at the time, just ten.

Sorme calculated quickly. Eighteen eighty-eight to nineteen fifty-six — sixty-eight years. He said:

And you say you're seventy-three?

That's right. Seventy-three. Seventy-four next April. And I used to take the mornin' papers to Miller's Court. Then one mornin' I goes there, and there's a crowd round the door. And a copper says: She won't want no more papers 'ere, sonny. Don't you go bringin' any more papers 'ere. An that's 'ow I know she'd been murdered. That was Jack the Ripper.

Sorme looked at his watch, saying:

Amazing! Well, I must go now. Goodbye…

The old man raised a hand in salute as he turned away. Sorme turned into Fournier Street, thinking: Either he's five years older than he thinks, or he's lying. He walked hurriedly now, taking the shortest route back to the place where he had left the bicycle.

He unlocked the wheel, unwinding the chain from around it, swearing when he got grease from the spokes on his fingers. He wiped them clean on his handkerchief, then walked the bicycle back along Durward Street. Up to the point where the street divided it was a one-way street, and a policeman stood on the opposite corner.

Before he had advanced more than a few yards into Durward Street, he noticed the old woman who came towards him from the other end of the street. She was carrying a half loaf of bread under her arm, clutched against a baggy cardigan of purple wool. She stopped, and inserted a key in a door. He rested his right foot on the pedal of the bicycle and scooted the dozen or so yards between them, arriving behind her as she pushed open the door. He said: Excuse me…

She went on into the house, without looking round. He guessed her to be deaf, and reached out to touch her shoulder. She turned, looking startled. He said loudly:

Does Mr Glasp live here, please?

The tired, red-rimmed eyes looked blankly at him. He repeated the question. She turned and waved her hand towards the stairs, with a gesture of complete indifference.

She said:

Yes. 'E's in. Go on up.

He felt doubtful, looking into the dark room that smelt of age and Victorian furniture. He shouted: Upstairs?

But she had turned away, and was already halfway across the room, leaving him to close the door behind him. At the other side of the room, she said over her shoulder:

'E might be asleep.

Sorme went cautiously up the stairs, leaning forward and groping, feeling bare wooden boards, partly covered with worn linoleum. He stumbled near the top, and swore softly. The landing was in complete darkness. There was a strong smell of paraffin. As he stood there, peering into the dark, a door on his right opened. A man's voice said: Hello. Who is it?

He said: Mr Glasp?

That's right. The voice had a faint Yorkshire accent.

My name is Gerard Sorme. I saw some of your work yesterday, and wanted to meet you.

You a painter?

No, a writer.

You'd better come on in, the voice said ungraciously. I haven't much time.

I won't keep you long…

He felt slightly bewildered; he was unprepared for coming face to face with Glasp so suddenly. He would have liked to be allowed a few minutes to decide what to say.

Glasp's tone led him to feel that the meeting would be short.

Glasp said: Take a seat.

The room was large. It seemed to have been made by knocking down a wall, and running two rooms into one. It had an irregular L-shape, and could be entered by two doors, one in each arm of the L. The only furniture was an old-fashioned single bed with brass rails, a stool and a small table. There were many canvases leaning around the walls.

In front of the window stood an easel of the type used in schoolrooms, with another canvas on it. Sorme sat on the stool, near the window, in a position from which he could see the whole room. A black paraffin stove was burning at the side of the stool; automatically he warmed his hands over it.

Glasp said: Well, what can I do for you?

His tone was blunt and irritable. He stood, leaning against the end of the bed, a tall, bony man with a mop of shaggy red hair and an unshaven chin. His blue polo-necked sweater was stiff with paint-stains.

Sorme said apologetically: Look here, I know it's rather an imposition just to come and introduce myself to you like this. But if you feel I'm wasting your time just say so, and I'll go.

Glasp looked surprised, but in no way disarmed; he said ponderously:

How do I know whether you're wasting my time until I know what you want?

Feeling at a disadvantage, Sorme said:

I don't want anything — except to meet you. I saw two of your canvases yesterday and liked them.

Glasp said, with a touch of sarcasm:

I expect you have a busy time. If you go and call on every painter when you take a fancy to one of his pictures.

Sorme declined to be offended by his tone. He said:

In this case, 'like' is the wrong word. I thought the pictures completely extraordinary.

Still Glasp's face registered no pleasure; if anything, a shade of mistrust passed over it. He said:

May I ask where you saw them?

In a basement flat belonging to Austin Nunne…

Oh, you're a friend of Austin's, are you?

There was no mistaking the tone of sarcasm now.

Yes.

A patron of the arts, so to speak?

No, Sorme said steadily, controlling the irritation. I don't buy pictures. I can't afford to. I just thought I'd like to meet you.

He made his voice level, preparing to stand up and walk out of the room. He was beginning to resent Glasp's tone, and was annoyed with himself for placing himself in a position where Glasp could regard him as an intruder.

Glasp picked up a blue-and-white-striped mug from the floor, and began to sip from it. He sat on the edge of the bed, saying:

Well, I'll be candid with you. I live here because I don't like meeting people. Also, of course, because it's cheap. But mainly because I don't like people much…

Why?

Why don't I like people? For the same reason I don't like the smell of rum or China tea, I expect.

Sorme was trying hard to sum him up. The masked resentment in Glasp's tone inclined him to regard him as a paranoiac. His inclination to walk out was curbed only by a dislike of feeling completely defeated. He decided to make another effort. Smiling with deliberate amiability, he said:

As a matter of fact, both Austin and Father Rakosi advised me not to call on you.

Why?

They seemed to have the idea you'd be rude.

Glasp grunted, and took another swallow from the mug. Sorme stood up. He said:

Well, you've a perfect right to be left to yourself. I'll leave you.

Glasp was staring into the mug, which he held between both hands in his lap. He did not move. He said:

What did you want to see me about?

Sorme felt again the inadequacy of his reasons. He said:

I thought you might be able to tell me something about Austin.

Glasp looked up at him; he said grinning:

Why, do you want to blackmail him?

No.

You queer?

No.

Then why?

His manner was no longer pointedly hostile; it was detached and noncommittal.

Sorme sensed that his curiosity was aroused. He said reasonably:

Look here, you're making things rather deliberately awkward for me, aren't you? I liked your canvases. I wanted to meet you. I also knew you'd been a friend of Austin's and Austin also interests me. But if you hate meeting people, and you don't feel like discussing Austin, just say so. I can go.

Glasp looked at him; his expression was speculative and cool, like that of a man about to buy something which he wishes to devalue.

He reached out and took a palette from the table and began to clean it with a table knife. Without raising his face from it, he said:

I can't tell you much about Austin. I never knew him well, and never liked him much. Why does he interest you… if you're not queer?

For the same reason that you do, I suppose.

What have I got in common with Austin?

Sorme felt the need to say something convincing, and could think of nothing to say. He plunged with the first words that came into his head:

From your canvases, I should say… a certain quality of fanaticism.

He saw at once that he had said the right thing. Glasp said:

And you think Austin is a fanatic? He never struck me that way, I must say.

It's difficult to explain. I don't know him well enough yet. But I suspect it's there.

And why does it interest you?

That's also difficult to explain. I always liked the idea of living alone. I used to think about entering a monastery…

Glasp interrupted him: You're not a Catholic?

No.

And why didn't you'go through with the monastery idea?

I saw no point. Besides I wasn't sure that I'd enjoy being a monk. I doubt whether the aims of a community of monks would be the same as mine.

And what were yours?

Sorme looked at him, and felt himself relaxing under the unconcealed interest that Glasp showed. He said:

I don't know… I suppose I wanted to see visions.

Glasp stood up. He said: And what happened?

Nothing much. For a year I read Plotinus and St Francis de Sales and the rest… but I felt something was missing. I began to feel my imagination had gone dead. I began to think I needed sex and human intercourse. So I made a few friends, and got involved with a couple of girls for a very short time. It didn't help much. I didn't want that either. I began to think I'd simply lost all desire to stay alive. I felt sick of books, and sick of people…

I know the feeling, Glasp said.

He had begun to squeeze tubes of paint on to the palette. He took a brush from the jam jar that stood on the windowsill, and began to paint. He said quietly:

I've been through all this myself. There's only one remedy… Work.

He waved the brush at Sorme. Sorme said:

That's OK if you know what you want to do. I didn't.

You say didn't. Do you feel different now?

Well… yes. I met Austin a week ago — barely that. In many ways, I feel sorry for him. He's like me too. But… I can't explain. But suddenly, I begin to feel that something important's happening to me. A sort of daylight's coming through.

Glasp said:

But why Austin? I think that's what you literary gents call an anticlimax!

Sorme said: I don't know. He strikes me as being oddly like me…

Glasp said: Does he? There was disbelief in his voice.

Yes. Did you ever go to that flat of his in Queen's Gate?

I didn't know he had a flat in Queen's Gate.

I went yesterday. It surprised me. It looked like something out of Edgar Allan Poe. Black velvet curtains. A cabinet of liqueurs. The work of de Sade and Masoch. And your pictures…

Glasp said with surprise: So that's where you saw them? Well…

He was smiling as he went on painting. He said:

This is a new side to Austin's character. Glasp and de Sade, eh? The two paintings he bought from me…

He had some Japanese prints signed OG as well.

They're Korean. I copied them from a set in the British Museum.

He painted silently for a moment, then stood back to look at the effect. He said, without looking at Sorme:

All the same, I don't see much in common in your tastes…

No. But… there's a similarity of aim. Except…

Except what?

I sometimes wonder if it's just a matter of enterprise. I don't share his tastes, but I admire the wish to experiment. It seems a good thing in itself…

You mean chasing little boys?

No, I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking of the sadism.

Glasp stopped painting to stare at him.

Is he? I didn't know that.

Didn't you? I thought you knew him very well.

No. Glasp went on painting. Not well at all, apparently. How did you find out?

He told me so. Father Carruthers knows about it too.

What sort of practices?

Glasp's Yorkshire accent suddenly became more noticeable. His attention seemed to be focused on the canvas. Sorme said:

I don't know. Nothing spectacular, I suppose. Probably wallops his boy friends.

In the other room, a kettle that stood on a gas ring began to send up a jet of steam; the water bubbled out on to the bare floorboards. Sorme went over to it and lifted it off the gas ring. Glasp said:

Cup o' tea?

Please.

Glasp laid the palette on the table, and replaced the brushes in the jam jar.

What I don't understand is this idea of yours that you're like Austin. From what you tell me, you don't seem to have anything in common.

No? I think there's a lot in common. We're both dissatisfied. We're both experimenters. Only he seems to have carried his experiments rather further than I've ever dreamed of.

Glasp was washing out an aluminium teapot at the sink in the other room. He said:

No? You mean you'd like to wallop your girl friends?

Sorme said, laughing: No. I'm sure I wouldn't. All the same…

And why did you want to meet me? Did you think I might be another?

Another what?

Bloke that goes in for experiments?

I thought you might be.

Glasp said, smiling: I suppose you're right. Where do we go from there?

Nowhere, probably, Sorme said. He took the mug of tea and spooned sugar into it.

He noticed that when Glasp smiled his forehead twitched and contracted; it seemed to be an involuntary nervous spasm. Glasp saw him noticing it. To distract his attention, Sorme said:

You have big hands. Like Austin.

Glasp sugared his tea and stirred it. His hands were large and ugly, with big knuckles; they looked faintly grimy, networked with lines of paint dust that had sunk into the pores. He said: Les mains de Troppmann.

Who?

Troppmann. Don't you know about him? Jean Baptiste Troppmann, the multiple killer.

No. Who did he kill?

A whole family. About eight people.

What on earth for?

Money. He made a few hundred francs out of it. He had enormous hands. They still call big hands 'mains de Troppmann' in some parts of France. I expect it ran in his family, and the surname came from it. Too much hand.

Was he a sadist?

I don't think so. Just homosexual, with an obsession about making money.

The tea was hot and strong. Glasp stood his on the window-sill, and went on painting. Sorme asked him:

Are you interested in murder?

Sometimes.

When?

Glasp said, with an odd smile: Crime runs in our family… in a sense.

Sorme said, grinning:

You come from a famous line of burglars?

Not quite. He grinned back at Sorme over the teamug; his forehead twitched again. As far as I know, our connection with it was always indirect. I had a great aunt who was the last victim of Jack the Ripper. My mother once had a meal with Landru in Paris. And my great-grandfather knew Charley Peace.

Did your mother know it was Landru?

No. She knew nothing about him. He said he was an engineer named Cuchet, and tried to get her to come away with him for the weekend. She recognised his photograph a few months later when he was arrested. She said he'd behaved like a perfect gentleman…

Amazing!

Some people are attracted by crime. Others seem to attract it. My family attract it.

You notice that, as soon as I settle in Whitechapel, a crime wave begins? That's in the family tradition.

Sorme looked at him closely. He sensed an underlying seriousness. For the first time, he was aware of an element of strain in Glasp; it came out also in the twitching forehead. He asked:

Are you serious about the aunt who was a victim of Jack the Ripper?

Quite serious. The last victim.

The woman who was killed in the room in Miller's Court?

No. There was another one. She was killed under a lamppost in Castle Alley. That was Great-aunt Sally McKenzie. I don't know much about her except she seems to have been the black sheep of the family.

I've never heard of that one…

He began to wonder whether Glasp was inventing the whole story. He said, smiling:

You seem to come from a family of victims.

That's right. All victims. Unconscious masochists. Except me. I'm a conscious masochist.

Are you?

Glasp smiled at his look of surprise. He said:

Not in Austin's sense. I don't go in for that.

Sorme moved the stool closer to the wall, so that he could lean back on it as he watched Glasp. There was something jerky and emphatic in the way Glasp painted, an intentness in his concentration on the canvas, that made Sorme think of a fencer. He said: I won't stay here talking any longer. It's probably just putting you off your work.

That's all right, Glasp said.

Sorme watched him, unspeaking for about five minutes. He said:

Would you mind if I had a look at some of the paintings in there?

Again he sensed Glasp's hesitation. He was on the point of saying: It doesn't matter… when Glasp said: Go ahead. But don't talk about them.

All right.

He went into the other room and looked at the canvases leaning against the walls.

The first thing that struck him was that their colours were harsher than in the canvases he had seen in Nunne's flat. The greens and blues, the dream-technique that showed the influence of Chagall, had disappeared. Here the drawing was crude and violent; it accentuated the discordance of the primary colours that seemed to have been applied straight from the tube. Most of them were nature studies: trees, a clump of irises, a wall overgrown with lichens; there was a painting of iron railings, with a street lamp that was painted without romanticism, or even an attempt at atmosphere. The canvases occupied the whole of one wall of the room.

On the far side of the fireplace, in a wide recess, hung an enormous, half finished canvas. It was at least four times as big as anything else in the room, being about six feet deep by four broad. At first glance he took it to be a Crucifixion. It showed a man nailed to a cross, and suspended from an open window. The cross appeared to be supported by several chains, and a pulley was visible through the window. One of the man's hands, pierced by a nail, hung by his side.

Sorme repressed the temptation to ask what it represented. He stood back, staring at it. As he stood there, he heard Glasp leave his painting and go out of the room.

The painting of the crucified man was high on the wall. Below it, leaning in the recess, were a number of canvases, stacked against one another. The topmost one showed the enormous frightened face of a boy. Behind his head, in the top left-hand corner, stood a chest of drawers, with three drawers pulled out, and what looked like some pink female undergarment hanging from the top drawer. From behind the boy's head protruded a bare arm, as of someone lying face downward on the floor. Sorme pulled the canvas forward, and glanced at the one behind it. This seemed to be in Glasp's earlier manner. It was a beautifully delicate painting of a naked girl. She looked about ten years old. She was standing in front of a fireplace, holding out a handkerchief to dry in both hands. Her arms and legs were thin, and the whole body had an air of undernourishment, yet Glasp had managed to utilise her thinness, to blend it with the orange firelight and the blue shadows of the room, to convey a sense of gentleness and nostalgia. Sorme found it curiously moving; he would have liked to take it from among the other canvases and stand it where he could study it better. Before he had decided to do this he heard the noise of a lavatory cistern flushing next door. He pulled the painting forward and glanced at the one behind it. It was another still life, with harsh colours and angular drawing. He let the canvases fall back into place, and turned to look at a study of a cornfield that leaned against the wall next to the sink. Glasp came back into the other room. He said:

Well?

You've certainly changed your manner, haven't you?

I hope so. Do you like these?

Very much. They're quite violently impressive. You ought to have an exhibition.

Can't be bothered. They're all bloody crooks. It's all string-pulling and arsehole-crawling.

Glasp came over and stood beside him. Sorme said:

What's this?

He pointed to the crucified man.

That's Matthew Lovatt. Classic case of attempted suicide.

When?

Oh. I'm not sure when. He was a shoemaker of Geneva some time in the eighteenth century. He got an obsession about wanting to die on a cross, like Christ. He made three attempts, all failures. The third time, he fixed up a sort of pulley in his bedroom, which overlooked the market place, and attached the cross so it could be lowered out of the window. His main problem was how to nail himself to the cross. He could nail his feet, and one of his hands, but the other hand puzzled him. He finally solved it by boring a hole in the cross, and piercing one of his hands with a nail beforehand. He then used the pierced hand to wield the hammer to nail his feet and the other hand. Having done that, he released the pulley, and let the cross shoot out of the window, over the market place. Unfortunately, he was too weak by that time to insert the nail in the hole he'd bored for it — so he hung there.

Glasp gestured at the canvas, where the naked man hung like a deflated Petrouchka. Sorme said:

Did he die?

No. They got him down, and he lived to be eighty or so. Never made the attempt again, either.

Will you finish it?

Oh yes. When I have time…

What about this one?

He pointed to the face of the boy.

Glasp said, shrugging:

I don't like that. It was supposed to be Heirens, the Chicago killer.

I've never heard of him. Who was he?

A seventeen-year-old boy. He used to climb in through windows and steal women's underwear. When the women interrupted him, he killed them. On the wall, over one victim, he scrawled in lipstick: For God's sake catch me before I kill again.

Sorme pulled a face. He said:

It's a pretty ghastly subject for a painting. Don't you think it's a little morbid?

Of course. The condition itself is morbid.

He turned and went back into the other room. Sorme said:

What about the canvases behind this one? May I look?

Glasp turned round; he said sharply:

No. I'd rather you didn't. I don't like them.

Sorme followed him. His tea was still on the stool, half finished. He drank it in one draught. He felt that it was awkward to try and express his admiration for Glasp's paintings; Glasp had so obviously conditioned himself not to care about praise or blame.

He said finally:

Thanks for letting me see them.

That's OK.

Uncertain what to add, Sorme allowed his eyes to wander around the room. They stopped at a reproduction of Van Gogh hung over the bed. It was hung in a position where he had not been able to see it from his place on the stool.

You admire Van Gogh?

Glasp said: Yes.

He turned round and looked at the reproduction. It was badly lit, being on the same wall as the window, opposite the door.

Glasp said: That's my idea of a great painting.

Why do you think so?

For the same reason that my Matthew Lovatt and William Heirens are failures.

That thing's more than a painting — it's the tragedy of Van Gogh observing his own tragedy. In my pictures, you need to know all about Lovatt and Heirens to get the full impact of the painting… it's literary painting. In that, it's all there. You don't need to know that Van Gogh cut off his own ear. The title's enough: Self-portrait, the man with his ear cut off. That's what painting should be. That's why my painting's so lousy. That picture of Corbiere leading a pig on a ribbon… you saw it, didn't you? Austin liked it.

He would…

Sorme interrupted him:

I don't agree. I think you're being unfair to yourself. Your Corbiere picture has a terrific impact even if you've never heard of Corbiere. The same goes for your Lovatt and Heirens.

Glasp broke in before he could go on; his voice was impatient:

Thanks. I'm glad you like them…

Sorme decided to drop the subject.

Look here, I'll leave you. Thanks for putting up with me.

Glasp said mechanically: Not at all.

Sorme went to the door. He said:

Why not come over and have a meal with me? I'd like a chance to talk to you.

As he spoke, he was certain Glasp would refuse. But Glasp said:

Thanks, I'd like to. Where do you live?

Camden Town. Change at Moorgate from here. Could you make it this week?

I suppose so.

What's today?… Wednesday. Tomorrow or Friday would be fine.

Glasp stopped painting. He said, after a pause:

Yes, that's all right. Which day?

Friday? I'll give you my address.

He sat on the bed to write in his notebook, drawing a map to show the route from Kentish Town Underground to his lodging. He tore it out, and left it on the pillow. As an afterthought, he added his phone number.

Make it around six, if that's OK by you, then?

OK, Glasp said. He did not look up from his painting.

The stairway was completely black. He groped his way to the stairhead cautiously. The smell of paraffin was strong on the stairs; he discovered why when he stepped in a pool of it on the floorboards, and almost pitched down the stairs.

The uniformed man at the door of the Reading Room smiled and nodded as he went past. He loosened his collar and unbuttoned his jacket; cycling had made him warm.

A woman wearing what looked like Victorian bathing costume was walking in front of him. She pushed through the door and allowed it to swing in his face. He caught it with his foot.

The grey-suited, studious-looking man who stood inside the information counter smiled at him:

Hello there. It's a long time since I saw you.

Hi, Ronnie. How's it go?

The woman looked sharply over her shoulder, as if she suspected them of talking about her. Sorme followed her with his eyes, then commented:

The old witch seems to be in a filthy temper. She tried to knock me out with the door.

Yes. She's been like it for two days. Somebody started a quarrel with her the other day about occupying two desks, and she hit him with her umbrella. She's been glaring at everybody ever since.

Sorme said, chuckling: I wish I'd seen it!

Where have you been recently?

Oh, changing my lodging, and various other things. But look here, Ronnie, can you help me? I want to consult some books on sadism.

Rather a jump from mystical theology, isn't it?

Sorme said cautiously:

It's just an idea for my novel. Thought I'd introduce a sadist.

I see. Well, there's the obvious stuff — Krafft-Ebing and Stekel and that kind of thing. How's that?

It's a beginning. Surely there must be lots of others?

Oh yes. But a lot of it would be in foreign languages in medical journals. You'd have to consult the bibliography in one of the standard works — Bloch or somebody…

Have a look in the subject catalogue under psychology. Would you like me to have a look?

Please. These damn catalogues confuse me. I'll go and find a seat.

He left his raincoat over the back of a chair, and placed two reference books on the table to prevent anyone from taking it. In the downstairs lavatory he washed his hands and face in hot water, and returned to the Reading Room feeling cooler. There was no one behind the information desk, but on his own table he found a pile of catalogues with slips of paper stuck in to mark the places. He spent a further quarter of an hour tracking down the books in the author catalogues, and making out request tickets for them. He handed them in, then took his raincoat and left the Museum. He was beginning to feel hungry again.

In a pub in the Charing Cross Road he ate a beef sandwich and drank a pint of bitter. It was still only a quarter to one. He had no expectation of his books arriving before two o'clock. He spent the next hour wandering around the secondhand bookshops, and bought finally a copy of the first volume of The World as Will and Idea. It was an old copy, with a badly torn binding. He felt pleased with himself as he walked back to the Museum; he had wanted it for years, but had been deterred by the price of new volumes.

The books had arrived when he came back. The Reading Room was crowded now the lunch hour was over. It felt more hot and stuffy than before. He removed his raincoat and jacket and settled down to looking through the ten volumes that formed a rampart between his own desk and that of the man sitting on his right.

An hour later, the warmth was making him sleepy. He pushed away the volume on the Dusseldorf murders and stretched his arms and legs. He decided to go down to the lavatory and wash his face again.

As soon as he stood up he saw Nunne. He was walking towards the central desk, carrying a pile of books. Sorme stood there and watched him as he pushed the books across the counter to the assistant. At that moment, as if feeling Sorme's eyes, he turned round. Immediately he grinned and waved. Sorme waved back, and went over to him.

Gerard! What on earth are you doing here?

Reading.

How extraordinary! How long have you been here?

Since twelve-thirty.

So have I. How lovely to see you. Are you ready to leave yet? Let's go and have some tea.

Sorme was about to agree, then remembered the books. If he handed them in while Nunne was with him, Nunne would be certain to see the titles. He had no wish to let Nunne learn of his curiosity. He said:

Well… no, not just yet. I'd like to finish my book.

What is it?

A life of St Teresa of Lisieux. I want to finish it today. Look, why don't I meet you in about half an hour somewhere?

Sorry — I have to see an editor before five. What are you doing this evening?

Nothing.

Then shall I call around for you about seven? We can go and have a drink.

All right. That's fine.

He returned to his books feeling slightly guilty. There was something almost childlike about Nunne. The spontaneous way in which he had accepted Sorme intensified the guilt. Sorme was charmed and flattered by it, and ruled out the possibility that it might be purely homosexual. He found it difficult to go on reading about Kurten without feeling, illogically, that he was betraying Nunne. He read on for another quarter of an hour, then returned the books to the counter. He folded the request tickets and put them in his wallet. On his way out of the Reading Room, the librarian said:

You off, Gerard?

Hello, Ronnie. Thanks for the catalogues.

You found the books you wanted?

He said, grimacing:

Yes, thanks. I found them pretty repulsive.

I'm not surprised. Do you still intend to use a sadist in your novel?

I think so. But I don't think I'll model him on any of those people. They all seem to be subhuman.

What else did you expect?

He walked the bicycle down Coptic Street, looking into the teashops he passed in the hope of seeing Nunne. Finally, he leaned it against the plate-glass window of the Lyons Corner House and glanced inside. Nunne was not there either. For some reason he felt irritated with himself; his meeting with Nunne left him with a feeling of anticipation.

The idea of cycling back to his lodging seemed an anticlimax. He turned into Bloomsbury Street, trying to imagine his room, to evoke its atmosphere and appearance, in order to decide whether he wanted to return there. He decided abruptly that he didn't.

Then he remembered Miss Quincey's invitation to call on her. It was half past three; still early enough to drop in for tea. At Camden Town station he crossed the traffic lights instead of turning right for Kentish Town. Halfway up Haverstock Hill he dismounted and pushed the bicycle. He felt too hot, too irritated by traffic, to exert himself to the extent of pedalling further.

At the corner of the Vale of Health he stared after the girl who was walking away from him, up the hill; there was something familiar about her. He pulled the three-speed lever into bottom gear and cycled after her. Before he was ten yards behind her he was certain of his recognition. He called:

Hi, Caroline!

She turned round.

Hello, there! Gerard! What are you doing here?

I was going to call on Gertrude.

She's not in. I've just been.

What are you doing here?

I'm staying overnight. I just took the afternoon off. You do look hot.

He outbreathed deeply, and balanced the bicycle against the kerbstone.

I am. Bloody hot. Where are you going to now?

To have a cup of tea in the cafe. Are you any good at climbing?

Fairly. Why?

Because you could climb over Aunt Gertrude's back gate and see if her spare key's there. She usually keeps it in the gardening shed.

All right. Let's go and see.

He took her hand as they walked into the Vale of Health; she immediately detached it.

You hadn't better. Aunt might come up behind us in the car.

Would it matter?

Not to me. But there's no need for her to know more than she has to.

He glanced at her, struck by a note of hardness and common sense in her voice.

She kissed her lips at him, smiling.

He leaned his bicycle against the wall of the house. She pointed to the tall wooden fence with a gate in it.

Can you climb it?

I expect so.

He leaned the bicycle against the fence and stood on the crossbar. He was able to swing himself astride the gate, and clamber down into the back garden. She called: Is the gardening shed locked?

He tried the door.

No.

Good. Open up.

He unbolted the gate for her. She went into the shed, and emerged a moment later with a key. Sorme looked around the back garden; it was the first time he had seen it in daylight. There were tall hedges on either side and a concrete path that wound across a lawn to some apple trees at the far end. In the centre of each lawn were two big circular flower beds. He said:

Will she mind? I mean, will she mind us breaking in like this?

Oh no. She's expecting me, anyway. Come on in.

She unlocked the back door. He said:

She's damn' lucky to have such a place.

Why don't you try proposing to her? You might move in.

Don't be silly.

He removed his raincoat and hung it at the bottom of the stairs. She was filling the kettle and setting it on the gas. She said:

I'm not. I would if I was a man.

Sorme came behind her, and slid his arms around her waist.

I wouldn't mind if you lived here.

She leaned her head back, and let him kiss her mouth. He allowed his hands to rest against her, feeling the flatness of her thighs and the hard shapes of suspenders against them. She said:

Ooh, stop it! We ought to behave.

Why?

Aunt might come.

All right.

He stepped away from her, aware of a tenseness in his stomach at the warmth of the contact. She said softly:

I don't want you to stop.

Neither do I.

He pulled off his jacket, feeling suddenly tired. He said:

I'm going to wash. I feel a wreck.

In the bathroom, he stripped off his pullover and shirt, and washed his chest and neck with warm water. He leaned against the wall and yawned deeply. In the bedroom next door he could hear sounds as Caroline moved around. His shirt was damp with sweat. He tucked it into his trousers, then combed his hair, beginning to feel slightly better. He had washed his face with an almost dry sponge. Looking at it closely in the mirror, he saw he needed a shave.

Her bedroom door stood open. He said:

What are you doing?

Changing.

Can I come in?

She was wearing a flowered cotton dress. He stood behind her as she combed her hair, seated in front of the mirror.

Do you keep your clothes here?

Some of them. Old ones mostly.

This doesn't look old.

He leaned over her and allowed his lips to brush her ear. He said:

I should have come in a few minutes sooner.

She smiled at him from the mirror, then stood up. He tried to put his arms around her. She pushed them away.

No. Let's go down.

Why?

Aunt might come.

We'd hear the car.

The kettle should be boiling.

He turned her round and pulled her closer. She was wearing no shoes, and he had to bend to kiss her. She put both arms around his neck. If he had straightened up, she would have swung six inches off the floor. He felt the warmth of the out-thrust underlip, then the yielding as her lips parted. Her body was bent back in his arms. He said: You're too short.

She said, laughing:

You're too tall.

He pressed her waist close to him and lifted her off the ground.

I'd get a stiff neck if I had to keep bending down there!

He carried her two steps backwards, then lowered her against the bed. The backs of her knees pressed on the edge, and she allowed herself to be released on to it. She said plaintively:

Do behave yourself. She might come.

He lifted her legs and pushed them across the eiderdown, then lay down beside her and kissed her again. He felt the same excitement and tension as on the previous evening, and a sense of repetition. He also recognised instinctively that she was not as excited as he was, and kissed her more firmly, caressing her left breast with his free hand.

She stopped resisting, and allowed him to lie half way across her. When he stopped kissing her, she said:

You are naughty. We oughtn't…

He stopped the words by kissing her, and felt her tense under his weight, then relaxed and lay beside her, his face against the pillow. She said pleadingly:

It isn't the right place. Let me come and visit you. It's no good here.

He said: All right. The hoarseness of his voice surprised him. He cleared his throat, and looked at her face. Her chin looked sore, and he remembered that he needed a shave. She was lying with her cheek on her right arm, making no attempt to move, although he was no longer holding her. The wide hem of her skirt spread behind her across the counterpane. He slipped his left arm underneath her neck and pulled her to him again. She could feel his excitement, and he was aware of the beating of her heart as he kissed her. His right hand pressed into the back of her thigh, then moved up to her buttock, and felt the smoothness of her knickers against his fingertips. She said: Please not now, Gerard…

They both heard the noise of the car simultaneously. He said, groaning:

Oh, Christ, just my luck.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling down her dress. She glanced in the mirror and switched at her hair with her fingers. She looked at the expression of gloom and ferocity on his face, and bent to kiss him.

Come on. Get up. Let me tidy the bed.

He rolled off unwillingly, muttering. She said, laughing:

Stop scowling and go and make the tea.

They heard the sound of a car door slamming. He said:

I can't. I'm ready to rape the first girl I see. Even Gertrude.

I expect she'd be delighted!

She ran out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He went into the bathroom, and sat on the edge of the lavatory seat, staring at his feet. The excitement began to die out of his shoulders and thighs. He heard a key inserted in the front door, then the door opened.

Caroline's voice called:

Hello, aunt.

Miss Quincey said:

Hello, dear. How did you get in?

Gerard got the back door key.

Gerard…?

The voices retreated into the kitchen. He looked at himself in the mirror, and combed his hair. Then, to supply a reason for his presence upstairs, he pulled the lavatory chain. He made sure that his clothes were adjusted, then went downstairs.

Caroline was alone in the kitchen, pouring water into the teapot. When he looked enquiringly at her, she pointed towards the door. He went into the other room and found Miss Quincey taking several books out of a briefcase and arranging them in the bookcase.

She said brightly:

Hello, Gerard. What brought you here?

I was hoping we could have some tea together.

Was it important?

No… I've been at the British Museum this afternoon. I got tired of reading and thought I'd like to see you.

She finished arranging the books, and straightened up.

That was sweet of you. You should have rung. How long have you been here?

Oh, five minutes. I met Caroline at the end of the street…

She smiled at him.

Well, you'll have to come over some other afternoon. Would you like to stay for supper tonight?

What about your meeting?

You needn't come if you don't want to. You could take Caroline for a walk on the Heath. It'll be over by nine.

No. I'd like to, but I'm seeing Austin… Anyway, we couldn't really talk much, could we?…

She said cheerfully:

No. I expect you're right.

She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed it as she went past, smiling at him.

He wondered what had made her so good tempered. The slight sense of guilt about Caroline made him feel that, whatever the reason, he was exceptionally lucky.

When he heard her speaking to Caroline in the kitchen, he was glad he was seeing Austin later. It gave him no excuse to stay. With the two women together, in the same room, he experienced a draining sense of self-division, a feeling of being victimised.