Ritual in the Dark (33 page)

But I don’t want to be a husband. Nice little hubby, good dog.

I am too many people. Need to express myself. With her body under mine. How else? Watching the dawn rise over Yamdrok Tso or Sadiya. Why not Islington or the Welsh Harp?

. . . from Islington to Marybone

To Primrose Hill and Saint John’s Wood,

Were builded over with pillars of gold;

And there Jerusalem’s pillars stood.

Could never kill. Life delights in life. I have too much. Too comfortable. Need a battle to fight.

The press studs at the waist of her skirt engaged with a snap of metal. She poured tea into two mugs through a strainer. She said:

I wish we could go away somewhere. For a long time. . . It’d be nice to live together, wouldn’t it?

He said, smiling: Why not? You could move in here.

What about your landlady? What about mummy and daddy? What about Aunt Gertrude? And what about Austin?

Well, what about Austin?

He’d be jealous.

I doubt it. . .

As he was about to take the tea from her, someone knocked on the door. He said softly:

Oh blimey!

He jumped out of bed, and snatched his dressing-gown from the back of the chair, afraid the door would open before he could reach it. He was tying the cord as he opened it; Carlotte said:

There’s someone on the phone for you. . .

Oh, thanks. . .

She leaned towards him:

And I’m afraid. . .

She gestured with her head towards the stairs. He stared at her without comprehension.

What?

She said, in a conspiratorial hiss:

He is back!

Who? Not the old man?

She nodded. He was divided between indignant incredulity, and a fear that she might look into his room and see Caroline. He said:

Oh blimey. . . I’d better answer that phone. . .

She nodded sympathetically, smiling. Her smile was more friendly and intimate than he had known it before; it increased his alarm in case Caroline appeared behind him. He mumbled:

I’ll get my slippers. . .

and closed the door. He raised his finger to his lips to signal Caroline to be silent, and found his slippers. He caught Carlotte half way down the stairs.

Does Mrs Miller know he’s back?

Oh yes. She sent him.

She must be mad! Doesn’t she care if he sets fire to the place?

The girl turned and looked at him; her eyes were curiously mocking. Her face distorted into a strange grimace that gave it a devilish appearance. She said softly:

She has increased his rent!

Before he could reply, she had run down the flight of stairs into the basement, and left him staring at the phone that lay on the hall table.

Hello?

Hello, Gerard. Austin. . .

Oh hello. How are you?

I’m OK. Look, can you have lunch with me today?

I.
         
. . yes, I expect so. Any special reason?

Yes. I want you to meet two friends of mine. . .

Who are they?

American writers.

Anyone I know?

Probably not. They’re both young. I think you’ll find them interesting. They belong to a group called the Chicago rebels. Can you get over here about midday? We’ll have a drink, then go to Soho. OK?

OK. Thanks. By the way, I didn’t say thanks for the other night. . .

For making you sick, you mean?

No, but. . . you were very sweet.

Not at all, old boy. See you later. OK?

He returned upstairs, feeling how totally unpredictable Nunne could be. The last time he had phoned he sounded like a spoiled child; now he sounded like a protective older brother.

Who was it?

Austin.

Speak of the devil!

He wanted me to go for lunch. But if you’re free for lunch, I can put him off. . .

No, don’t worry, darling. I ought to be getting home, otherwise mummy and daddy might start trying to phone the friend I’m supposed to have stayed with last night!

He pulled her to him and kissed her. Her mouth tasted of warm tea. It was a luxury to feel her warmth pressed against him; a sensation like electricity ran through his chest and thighs. As she pressed herself closer, her left arm disengaged itself from his neck, and the hand groped inside the dressing-gown. He said thickly:

What a silly thing to do. . . getting dressed.

He pulled open the press studs at the waist of her skirt, and unzipped it. Helping her with the buttons at the back of the blouse, he noticed that his tea was untouched.

He made love very gently, aware of the tension in her, the fear of being hurt.

They lay side by side, looking at the ceiling. He said:

That old bleeder’s back upstairs.

Are you sure?

Afraid so.

He raised on one elbow, and tasted his lukewarm tea. She said:

I’ll make you some more.

Don’t bother. . . You know, I think I’ll ask Austin if he doesn’t know of a flat. His father owns half Marylebone. I don’t think I can stand this old sod for another week. It’d wreck me.

Someone knocked on the door, startling him. He whispered to Caroline: Ssshh! and slipped out of bed, reaching for the gown.

He expected to see Carlotte. It was the old man. His eyes looked less watery; he was wearing a tweed suit that seemed to be of good quality, and a clean shirt. He smiled shyly:

I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but do you happen to have a match?

His voice was clear and firm. Sorme groped in the dressing-gown pocket, and handed him a box.

Thank you. . . but I won’t take the box. . .

That’s all right. It’s nearly empty.

The old man smiled at him, as if they had some secret reason for liking one another, and dropped the matches in his pocket. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Sorme said:

I.
         
. . hope you’re. . . better now.

I am. Thank you.

As if Sorme’s words had decided him, he turned and walked away. As Sorme started to close the door, he turned round, smiling apologetically.

Perhaps you’d like to see the morning paper?

He pulled a folded newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to Sorme, then disappeared hastily, as if afraid of having committed an indiscretion.

Sorme went back into the room, opening the paper. The headlines read:

HUSBAND ARRESTED FOR GREENWICH MURDER.

Who was it?

Him. He jerked his chin at the ceiling.

He sounded all right.

Oh, he does. He is all right till he gets drunk. Which he is for about twenty-three hours a day.

He stood at the table, reading the front page. She was dressing again. He said:

So he didn’t move after all.

Who?

The Whitechapel killer.

As he was pulling on his shoes, she said suddenly:

You ought to buy a flat in Whitechapel. I bet the value of property’s gone down since these murders.

That’s a very clever remark, sweet.

Don’t you think?

Why not? Or perhaps Austin and his father are in this together—Austin doing the murders and his father buying the property at cut prices.

She said, grimacing: But I shouldn’t think Austin would murder women, would he?

I don’t know. I’ll ask him when I see him.

*
  
*
  
*

He arrived at Albany Street half an hour late. The doorman said:

Ah, Mr Nunne’s waiting for you, sir. You haven’t brought the other two gentlemen with you, then?

No. No sign of them?

They hadn’t arrived five minutes ago, when Mr Nunne rang down.

Nunne opened the door. Sorme said immediately:

I’m sorry I’m late.

That’s all right. They haven’t arrived yet either. How are you, Gerard? You look tired.

Too much writing, I expect.

Whisky?

Thanks. By the way, Austin, I meant to ask you when we were alone. . . Do you know of any unfurnished flats or rooms around here?

For you?

Yes. I’m thinking of changing.

But my dear boy, you’re always changing.

I know. Do you remember that old man I told you about?

Yes. Is he out of hospital?

Sorme nodded.

He arrived this morning. So I expect I’ll get no sleep until he has another accident.

Nunne sat in the armchair, and lit a cigarette.

There are always ways and means, aren’t there?

Seeing Sorme’s puzzled look, he said:

We might arrange a little accident, don’t you think?

Are you serious?

Quite. For instance. . .

The buzzer sounded. Nunne crossed to the door. Alone for a moment, Sorme stared at the bars of the fire, and wondered what new aspect of his personality Nunne was preparing to spring on him. He heard a loud American voice say:

Hiya, man! Good to see ya.

They came into the room, followed by Nunne. Nunne said:

That’s Gerard Sorme. Gerard, this is Cal Teschmeyer and Rudi James.

The short, Italianate-looking man said affably:

Hiya, Gerard. How’re ya?

His friend reached over the back of the chair, patted Sorme on the shoulder, and said in a deep, pleasant voice:

Glad t’meetcha, man.

He flopped into the armchair that Nunne had vacated, letting his arms fall limply over the sides. He had a long, hollow face, with three days’ growth of blond stubble on the chin. Like his companion, he wore a leather jacket, with a brightly coloured shirt underneath. The Italian-looking man sat beside Sorme on the divan, saying:

What d’they call you—Jerry?

You can if you like.

Good. I’m Cal and he’s Jimmy.

Nunne asked from the sideboard:

What will you have?

Any bourbon?

Yes.

Jimmy turned round in his chair, and peered into the drink cabinet. He whistled shrilly.

Hey, dig that crazy man! He’s got a dozen bottles of the stuff in there! We struck lucky, son. Yoohoo!

He sprang up, loped over to Nunne, and seized a bottle with both hands, kissing it fondly. He said throatily:

Boy, am I glad to see you!

Cal asked Sorme:

You a writer?

Sorme said, shrugging: Nothing worth talking about. What do you write?

Novels. Jimmy there writes poetry. He founded his own school. . .

Aw, can it! Jimmy said.

. . . which our friend and sympathetic mentor Professor Trilling. . .

Sonofabitch! Jimmy shouted.

. . . referred to as the diarrhoea school of poetry!

He began to laugh; it was a high laugh that lurched and squeaked; somehow it reminded Sorme of an old car on a bumpy road. Jimmy said vengefully:

Yeah, and ya know what Time Magazine said about his last novel. . .?

Nunne handed him a tumbler half full of whisky. He seized it, sniffed it ecstatically, and poured it down his throat immediately. He said affectionately:

Aust’n, I love ya. Ya got what it takes.

He allowed Nunne to pour more whisky, saying with mock belligerence:

Who cares what the bastards say? Like Omar Khayyam said, ‘the dogs bark but the caravan rolls on’.

Nunne handed Cal a glass, asking gravely:

Have you boys been drinking already?

Oh, he’s not drunk, Cal said. He’s always like this. Ain’t ya, daddy-o? He’s been talking all night.

What about? Sorme asked.

Oh, God or something.

Jimmy asked: Where d’you keep your records?

In there.

Cal said: Somebody told him about Merejkovsky or something, how these Russians used to sit up all night, and when somebody yawned, they’d say. . .

Jimmy shouted: Hey, wait, lemme tell it. Listen! They’d argue all night, these guys, and when somebody suggested hitting the sack, do you know what they’d say? ‘We can’t sleep yet. We haven’t decided if God exists.’

He gave a high whoop of delight, and turned back to the record cabinet. A moment later, he said with admiration:

Hey, man, get this! Miles Davis and Dizzie and—wow! -- a whole album of Bird. Can we play some?

Nunne said cautiously:

Don’t you think we should go and eat first? It’s after one.

Just one, Jimmy said. Just one side of Bird. We can grease later.

Gal asked Sorme: Do you dig bop?

I.
         
. .

Before he could answer, the gramophone drowned his voice. Jimmy lay back on the floor and kicked his feet in the air: he shouted: ‘Bells, daddy-o!’

Cal leaned over, and shouted in Sorme’s ear:

You a jazz fan?

I don’t know much. I like Bix Beiderbecke.

Great! Cal shouted. He gestured at Jimmy. He don’t. Thinks it’s square stuff.

Sorme glanced cautiously at his watch, wondering how soon he could get away. The noise and strange language struck him as deliberate exhibitionism. He looked up, and caught Nunne regarding him with amused interest: the brown eyes were as soft as an animal’s and as sardonic and caressing as a heathen god. For a moment Sorme felt again the curious awe and submission that he had felt before in Nunne’s presence; the sense of being with someone of a different species. Nunne closed his eyes and relaxed in the chair.

As the record came to an end, Jimmy sat up. He said sadly:

That gone cat Charlie. He killed himself.

He looked across at Sorme, and Sorme was struck by his sincerity. He asked: What happened to him?

Cal said briefly: Booze and hop.

Little fat guy, Jimmy said. As sweet as they come, but temperamental. We used to know him, on the West coast.

Nunne switched off the gramophone. He said:

Let’s go and eat. I’m ravenous.

Sorme followed them out of the room. Jimmy walked with a shambling gait that was almost ape-like. Sorme wondered what Cal meant by ‘booze and hop’: he presumed ‘hop’ was another word for ‘bebop’; the idea of a short, fat man dancing himself to death struck him as curiously depressing.

The two Americans stopped talking during the meal; they ate voraciously, giving Sorme the impression they hadn’t eaten for days. But when Nunne asked casually, Hungry? Cal said:

I ate a big breakfast. That always makes me eat like hell for the rest of the day.