Ritual in the Dark (35 page)

Can they?

I.
         
. . think so. I can, anyway. I think many people have a permanent feeling of being sexually underprivileged. But I’d have to think about it. It’s not easy.

Do you think of yourself as sexually underprivileged?

Yes, but that’s only the negative side of it. I think it’s a kind of vision. . . of complete fullness of life that underlies it. After all, the sexual impulse isn’t so important. I sometimes wish I could outgrow sex altogether. . . I know that sounds odd, but it’s true.

It doesn’t sound at all odd, especially not to me. A man doesn’t have to be a saint to rise above sex. A great many scientists and mathematicians have done it, and a large proportion of the philosophers.

I know, father, I know. But it’s not as simple as that. You can’t just decide to exchange sex for the life of the mind or whatever it is. I used to have a Freudian friend whose favourite phrase was ‘Everybody’s neurotic’. I used to think he was a fool, but I’m beginning to see his point. What’s a neurosis, after all? It’s a pocket of unfulfilled desire—any kind of desire. And human beings work on unfulfilled desires—there’s nothing else.

Except habit.

Yes; but habit only keeps us living. Desire keeps us moving forward. And we all want to keep moving, so we all cultivate our desires. You know something, father. I’ve been so confused for the past five years because I didn’t want enough. I thought I could live off Plato and Beethoven, and found I couldn’t. But it’s not because there’s anything wrong with Plato or Beethoven. It’s me—I’m not ready for them. But don’t you see, father, I shouldn’t be aware of sexual problems if I hadn’t tried to leave them behind. And I’m sure it’s the same with Austin. If he’s a sadist, it’s because he’s torn in two. I don’t know Austin as a sadist. I know him as a rather generous dilettante who likes ballet and music and philosophy. I think it’s the same with him as with me. You know, father, Shaw said we judge an artist by his highest moments and a criminal by his lowest. But what happens when a man’s a mixture of the two? You can’t sentence the criminal half to death and let the artist go free, can you? Especially when you know he wouldn’t be a criminal if he wasn’t an artist.

You think the criminal should be allowed to kill other human beings?

No, father. God forbid! I just think that. . .

He felt suddenly deflated. He finished lamely:

. . . it’s more important to cure him than punish him.

I agree. The problem with Austin is whether he’s curable. . .

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter past four. Sorme said:

I’d better go. I’ll try to find Austin.

Be careful, Gerard. You don’t want to be sent to prison as an accessory.

No, father.

The priest said, smiling:

Not to mention me.

I promise.

Before you go. . . would you mind asking Father Rakosi if there’s anyone waiting for me downstairs?

All right, father.

He met the Scotswoman as he opened the door. She said:

The man’s gone. He waited ten minutes, then said he was going for a walk.

The priest said: Good. I’m tired. Could I have a cup of tea, Mrs Doughty?

Sorme went out into the rain and the falling dusk, feeling a stifled impatience with his sense of unreality. He felt as if he had just been acting in a play.

He half recognised the man who was approaching him across the road; a moment later, he saw it was Glasp.

Hi, Oliver! Where are you going to?

He sensed immediately a certain moroseness in Glasp’s manner. Glasp said:

I was waiting for you.

There was a suggestion of a threat in his voice, that Sorme failed to understand.

How did you know I was here?

That woman told me. I was waiting to see Father Carruthers.

I see! That was you, was it? Well, what are you going to do now?

Glasp hesitated. Sorme looked at him closely, puzzled. Glasp said:

I didn’t know you were a close friend of Father Carruthers.

I’m not. But I’ve seen him several times.

They stood on the edge of the pavement. Sorme laid a hand on Glasp’s arm.

Come and have a cup of tea. We can’t stand here in this downpour.

Glasp accompanied him into Farringdon Road without speaking. They walked to the café where Sorme had been with Stein. Glasp was wearing the most threadbare and shabby overcoat Sorme had ever seen, and it was soaked with rain. He was also hatless; his red hair clung to his skull and forehead in strands; the rain made it look deep brown.

The café was warm, and almost empty. They sat near the window, where the steamed surface was like a wall between them and the gathering dusk. In normal circumstances, Glasp’s moroseness would have worried Sorme, but the excitement of his talk with the priest made him now indifferent to it. He drank his tea and thought about Nunne, wondering where he was now, trying to recollect any words or actions that might add weight to his suspicions.

He had almost emptied his cup before Glasp spoke:

What do you find to talk about with him?

With. . . ? Oh, Father Carruthers. Oh. . . various things. Nothing that would interest you.

No?

I don’t think so.

He had caught the suspicion in Glasp’s face. He said:

Why? Did you suppose we were talking about you?

Weren’t you?

No. Why on earth should we? You get some extraordinary ideas!

His tone was less restrained than his words; it implied: What makes you suppose we give a damn about you? Glasp coloured and drank a mouthful of tea in a gulp; Sorme immediately felt remorse. He said:

I’ve been talking over. . . some rather important subjects. . . I can’t be more explicit.

Austin, Glasp said. It was not a question but a statement.

Yes.

Glasp said abruptly:

I’m sorry if I got the wrong idea. But. . . I’ve had one or two doses of people getting officious about me. And Father Carruthers used to be a member of the Reform Oliver Society.

Not at all. Are you going to see him now?

No. I won’t go back.

Won’t he wonder where you are?

It doesn’t matter. He’s probably glad to escape a session. . .

What are you doing now?

Going back home.

Why don’t you come back with me? Have a meal and talk.

As he said it, he was almost certain Glasp would refuse. He was surprised to see Glasp hesitating, and the moment brought an intuition of his fundamental loneliness. Glasp said:

I’ve already had one meal with you.

There’s not much, Sorme said. But there’s enough for two, anyway. You may as well.

All right. Thanks.

The prospect of the ride in the Underground, with a change at Tottenham Court Road, so depressed him that he hailed a passing taxi as they came into Holborn. Glasp said:

You’re picking up Austin’s habits!

Sorme said: Never mind. I don’t want to mess about in this rain.

He repressed his own sense of rashness by reflecting that Austin had paid for his lunch, and probably saved the price of the taxi.

*
  
*
  
*

He left Glasp to make the tea, and went downstairs to phone Nunne. There was no reply from the flat; the girl on the switchboard asked if she could take a message. Sorme declined, and returned to his room. The thought that the line might be tapped brought a sense of danger, and the realisation that the call might easily be traced back to his own address. The memory of his hesitation, as he had waited for a reply, the uncertainty whether to warn Nunne that he had something urgent to tell him, constricted his throat with a sense of a close escape.

Glasp was not in the room when he returned. He drew the curtains, looking towards the lights of the Kentish Town Road, wondering if the police thought it worth while to keep a watch on him too. He sat in the armchair, and indulged in a fantasy in which he was arrested with Austin as an accessory before the fact. He imagined the Public Prosecutor describing his excursions with Nunne into Spitalfields, his acting as a decoy to lure a woman into some alleyway. He remembered suddenly that he had told Stein that his acquaintance with Nunne had been very short, and he was amused by the sense of relief that took him unaware. When Glasp came back into the room, he was startled, having completely forgotten about him. Glasp said:

Look here, what about skipping tea? Come and have a drink with me?

Sorme looked at the clock.

Well. . . all right. That’s a good idea.

He could sense that Glasp was concerned about accepting his hospitality for a second time in three days; this worried him. He had no wish to make Glasp feel under obligation to him; accepting a drink from Glasp seemed an opportunity to disperse the awkwardness. He touched Glasp’s overcoat, that hung on the back of the door, dripping water on the floor.

You’d better borrow my raincoat. We’ll put this in the kitchen to dry.

That’s all right. I’ve worn it wetter than that.

Yes, but. . . it’d better dry out. Come to think of it, I’ve got a plastic mac somewhere in here.

He rummaged in an unpacked cardboard box in the bottom of the wardrobe, and found the macintosh, tied in a tight parcel. Glasp sat huddled over the fire, his knees apart, steam rising from his trousers. He had combed his hair; it was slicked back in a glossy wave, looking brilliantined. He said:

That’s one advantage of being a writer—it’s easier to keep a small room warm. The only way to keep warm in that barn of mine is to stay in bed.

He looked strangely lugubrious in the plastic raincoat; it accentuated the stoop of his shoulders.

Looking at him, Sorme felt surprised that he had ever regarded Glasp as formidable; he seemed defenceless. But there was something alien about his stringy ugliness; it was impossible to feel protective about him.

*
  
*
  
*

They were the first in the bar. In the grate, a fire was beginning to burn through. Glasp sat close to it, drinking a pint of bitter. But when Sorme suggested a game of darts he accepted without hesitation, and scored a double with his first dart. Sorme was inclined to accept it as a fluke, but was soon compelled to revise his opinion; Glasp threw the darts slowly and clumsily, with a cobra-like motion of the hand, but with a startling accuracy. When they sat down again, he had beaten Sorme three times. Sorme said:

Where did you learn to play like that?

In my teens. I haven’t played for years.

He emptied his pint, and banged it on the shelf. Sorme said: Another? Glasp looked surprised, and said: Oh, thanks. His mood had changed completely in twenty minutes, become relaxed and humorous. Sorme watched him emptying the second pint, and thought with amusement: When shall I ever learn? People are real. My mind likes creating patterns too much.

Glasp said: Perhaps I should have phoned the hostel.

He’ll understand. Anyway, he was very tired.

Glasp nodded.

He’s a good sort. I ought to see him more.

Sorme said: You said earlier that he used to be a member of the Oliver reform Society? What exactly did you mean?

Glasp said, smiling:

You mean, what did they want to reform me from?

Well, yes.

Nothing serious. They used to think I’d be the new Chagall.

Didn’t you?

It’s not that. I just. . . don’t like people having preconceived ideas about me. . . that I have to live up to. I’d rather be left alone.

Mmmmm. But what did you want to do when you were left alone?

That didn’t matter.

Sorme said meditatively:

I know what you mean. But it’s difficult, isn’t it? You feel as if you want nothing except to be alone. Then your own weakness betrays you. You get involved in a different way—involved with boredom and loneliness. You know, I feel ashamed of the fact that I feel better now because of Austin. It’s not a real superiority I feel over him. It’s an illusion, pure chance.

Glasp asked:

Is it pure chance that you’re not a sadist?

I.
         
. . think so.

No. When you read your volume on the Arran murder, do you feel it’s pure chance you’re not the killer?

Sorme thought about it. He said:

No. Because I wouldn’t murder a man for the sake of a few pounds as Laurie did.

You’d murder him for other reasons, though?

No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. I don’t possess any of the instinct that could make me sympathise with a murderer. I don’t think many people have. But everybody possesses a sexual urge. Why do you suppose the type of Sunday paper that specialises in sex crimes has such vast sales?

Glasp said:

Not sex crime alone. Any sort of crime. If you use that argument, you’ll have to admit that the readers of Sunday papers have a suppressed desire to be footpads and blackmailers and kleptomaniacs.

All right. What’s your conclusion?

Glasp did not reply immediately. The pub was beginning to fill up; a man was leaning across his shoulder to reach a pack of cards from the shelf. When the man was out of earshot, Glasp leaned forward. He said seriously:

I’ll tell you. You’re a fool to underrate yourself. You’re nothing like Austin, or like Gertrude Quincey, or any of these other people you get mixed up with. They just waste your time.

Sorme grimaced and shrugged.

I suppose they do. But they’ve got some value, for all that.

Not for you. For you, they’re just parasites.

Why parasites? It’s the other way round. They give me meals, and I do nothing.

Except give them your blood.

Perhaps.

You do, Glasp said emphatically. Why don’t you realise it? They don’t belong to the same species as you.

Or you? Sorme said, smiling.

For a moment, he thought Glasp was offended; his look was hard and enquiring. Then he said:

Well, you answer that one.

Sorme restrained his pleasure at the implied compliment. He said:

A sort of Nietzschean master and slave morality, eh?